Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (13 page)

I was waiting for him by his car.

“The room number?” I said.

He smiled and held out his hand. “The ten bucks?”

I gave it to him.

“1723,” he said, and walked off to deliver the pizza.

I went into the hotel, walked straight to the elevator, and took it up to the seventeenth floor. There was a middle-aged woman just walking out of room 1718, and I fiddled with a nonexistent shoelace—I gave up shoes with laces years ago—until she was on the elevator and the doors slid shut behind her.

Then I knocked on the door of 1723.

“Who is there?” said a heavily accented voice.

“Room service,” I replied.

“We didn't order no room service.”

“Compliments of the hotel,” I said.

The door opened a few seconds later, and I walked into the room, hands in the air.

“Howdy, gents,” I said. “Who's Joe and who's Jim?”

“Paxton!” growled the closer one, pulling a gun out of its shoulder holster.

“I'm not armed,” I said. “I'm just here to talk.”

The closer guy kept the gun on me while the other walked over and patted me down.

“Clean,” he announced.

The gun stayed trained on me.

“Nice room you've got,” I said.

“Cut the billshit, Paxton,” said the one with the gun.

“That's
bull
shit,” I corrected him. “You'll get the hang of the lingo in a few more weeks.”

“We ain't staying in this stinking town a few more weeks.”

“You know where the money is?” I asked.

They just glared at me.

“Neither do I,” I said. “And if we're going to hinder each other, it may very well take a few more weeks than necessary. Now,” I added, “which one is which, and no Joe Smith bullshit.”

“You go to hell. We are the Smith brothers, and you cannot prove otherwise.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who's Joe and who's Jim?”

“Just talk, Paxton,” said the farther one. “The fact that we haven't killed you yet doesn't mean we won't.”

“Okay,” I said. “You're looking for the money. I'm looking for the money. Our friend from Chicago is looking for the money. The widow is looking for the money.”

“Get to the point.”

“The police have your brother in jail. They'll be letting him out, of course, but they know who you are, if not your real names, they know why you're here, and they know what you do for a living. They'll be watching every move you make.” I paused in case they had anything to say, but they kept silent. “They know what our friend from Chicago has done, who he works for, and what he's here for, and they're watching him, too.” Still no comments. “They know the widow doesn't have the money, they know she wants it, and they'll be watching her too.” I stared at them. “I'm the only one they're not watching. If I get the money they think I'll be turning it over to them for a reward. I'm the only one who is free and clear to look for it without police harassment. Am I getting through to you yet?”

“I'll say it once more,” said the farther one. “Get to the point.”

“The point is if you guys are going to tail me every minute of the day, and the cops are tailing you, they'll know the second I get the money—and believe me, there are a lot more of them than there are of you, and they all have guns. In fact, if you keep following me, I'll just stop looking for it for a year or two. Unlike you, my boss didn't send me to get the money, because I don't have a boss. Am I getting through to you?”

They exchanged glances.

“If you come up with the money and we're
not
following you, how will we know you have it, and how will we get our hands on it?”

“The insurance company is offering a five percent finder's fee,” I lied. “Offer me ten percent, and I'm working for you.”

“We must discuss it.”

“I'll wait,” I said.

“With our . . . brother.”

“He should be out sometime tomorrow. Will he know where to find you?”

“We have meeting places.”

“All right,” I said. “We don't know if my phone is bugged, so here's the deal: if you're not on my tail tomorrow or the next day, we have a deal. If I spot you, the deal's off and it's every man for himself.” I paused. “And before you think of killing me, just ask yourself who is better equipped to find it: three Bolivians who don't speak the language very well, at least one of whom will be watched by the cops, or a private eye who knows the city inside out and does this kind of thing all the time.”

The closer one nodded his head. “You will know tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” I said. Then: “Do you mind if I use your john? I had lot to drink at dinner.”

They frowned. “John?” said one.

“Bathroom,” I replied. “Toilet.”

He nodded, and I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. Then I took out the glass and soap dish I'd purchased on the way back from dinner, placed them on the sink, transferred the soap from the old dish to the new, and then wrapped the old glass and dish in Kleenex and stuck them in my coat pocket. I was just about to exit the room when I remembered to flush the toilet so they could hear it.

I walked to the door under their watchful eyes.

“Good night, Joe. Good night, Jim. My best to Sam.”

“Shut up,” said the closer one.

“Whatever you say,” I replied, walking out into the corridor. I made my way to the elevator, and a moment later was walking through the elegant lobby to the front door.

I walked the two blocks to my car, paid the dollar fee for under an hour, which was probably nine bucks less than parking and a tip would have cost at the hotel, and drove straight to police headquarters.

Jim Simmons had gone home, but Bill Calhoun, who'd drawn the night shift this month, was sitting there at the next desk.

“Hi, Eli,” he said, looking up. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Bill,” I said. “I brought you a present.”

“Me?” he said, surprised.

“The Cincinnati Police Department,” I answered, pulling out the tissue-wrapped glass and dish and placing them on Jim's desk.

“What have we got here?” he asked, standing up and walking over.

“If we're lucky,” I said, “if either of the Bolivians had a drink of water or adjusted the soap dish, we'll have some fingerprints so you can find out who they really are. I can't imagine there aren't some warrants out for their arrest, either in Bolivia or somewhere in South America. Once you get an ID, check with Interpol, and maybe we can put these guys on ice until someone with a grudge against them takes 'em off your hands.”

“Will do,” he promised.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I got home. I could lie to killers just like Sam Spade could lie to Joel Cairo and the Fat Man, and thanks to a brilliant piece of acting I didn't have to look over my shoulder every few minutes while I was hunting for the diamonds.

“Shove over,” I said to Marlowe as I plopped down on the couch and hit the remote. “You're dealing with a genius here.”

He gave me a look that said:
Okay, genius, what do you know about the diamonds that you didn't know five seconds after Sorrentino told you about them?

If there is a quicker way to kill a proud, happy, boastful mood than a sober, unimpressed dog that doesn't know he's supposed to worship you, I don't know what it is.

13.

“You did
what
?” demanded Sorrentino as we were sitting across a table from each other, waiting for our beef sandwiches in a Texas Roadhouse toward the center of town.

“I found out where they were staying and I paid them a little visit,” I repeated.

“Those guys are
shooters
, Eli! They could have killed you!”

I shook my head. “I walked in with my hands up, I didn't have a gun, and shooting me eliminates the only guy who knows Cincinnati from looking for the diamonds.”

“Even so.”

“They were never going to shoot me last night.” I paused and then smiled. “Today, maybe . . .”

“What the hell did you do?”

I told him.

“And?” he said.

“I heard from Simmons this morning. They got a print off the glass. They should have a name to go with it by tomorrow at the latest. And once they do, he's out of here. And poor old Sam Smith has probably already been given a ticket back to Bolivia.”

“Even if you're right, which I doubt, that still leaves one . . . and one is all it takes.”

“Fine,” I said. “Bolivia has a shooter, I've got one.”

He frowned. “I won't risk my life for you, Eli.”

“I won't risk mine for you either, if push comes to shove,” I told him. “But will you risk it for ten million in diamonds?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. I can't cash 'em in where I'm headed.”

“Maybe you won't wind up there,” I said. “Save a detective's life and even the scorecard.”

Suddenly he grinned. “You make that deal with a lot of enforcers, do you? No wonder you're still alive.”

The waitress arrived with our sandwiches.

“Thanks, honey,” said Sorrentino. “Can you get me some mustard, please?”

“What kind?” she asked.

“The yellow stuff.”

She nodded, walked to another table, picked up a jar, and brought it back to him.

“Thanks,” said Sorrentino. Then: “Anyone ever tell you you have beautiful eyes?”

“Not since breakfast,” she said in bored tones, heading off to the kitchen.

“I got to work on my timing,” he said with a smile.

“And your line, and your manner, and—”

“It works in Chicago,” he said defensively.

“They know who you are and who you work for in Chicago,” I pointed out.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Now where were we?”

“We were about to figure out our next move,” I said. “I think I've gotten our friends from Bolivia off our backs, at least for a while, but we still have to find the diamonds.”

“Your fences still haven't heard a thing?”

I shook my head. “When you think about it, it's not exactly surprising. If you stole ten diamonds worth a million apiece, would
you
try to dump them less than a week later?”

“Not in the same town, that's for sure,” he said.

“Well, there's your work for the next week,” I said. “Check with every fence who's big enough to handle them in every city where your family has connections.”

“We've
been
checking on it. We'll keep on checking.” He paused. “What about you?”

“Diamonds that valuable, it stands to reason Palanto had them insured,” I said. “If I can get a look at the policy, maybe there's something in the description that can help us, or at least alert the fences we're in touch with.”

“You think Velma'll give it to you?” he said dubiously.

“Who knows?” I said. “It's worth a try.” Suddenly I smiled. “She sure as hell won't give it to
you
.”

“That's for goddamned sure,” he said, smiling back.

“Okay,” I said. “Let's finish our sandwiches and get to work.”

“When do we meet next?” he asked.

“Tomorrow for lunch. What do you have a taste for?”

“I know it ain't fancy, but I've kinda developed a taste for this Cincinnati chili,” he said. “It's strange, because it isn't really chili at all.”

“It's the best junk food ever made. If they'd just called it something else, it'd be in every town in America.”

“And it's just here?”

“Here, and a couple of Florida towns where a bunch of Cincinnatians retired to.”

“Okay,” he said. “I've probably driven past thirty Skyline and Gold Star chili joints. Which one do we meet at?”

“Where are you staying?”

“A Holiday Inn a couple of miles north of here.”

He gave me the address.

“There's a Skyline about half a mile up the road from you. Noon?”

“Yeah, that'll be fine.”

We finished, he grabbed the check again (not that I reached for it), and then we were on our way, him to keep checking on major out-of-state fences, me to the Grandin Road area.

I almost didn't recognize the Pepperidge Tudor, because for the first time there weren't any cop cars in the driveway. I pulled into the drive, parked, walked up to the door, and rang the buzzer. There was no answer, so I waited a minute and rang again.

Finally the door opened. I half-expected a butler or a maid, but it was Velma herself, wearing a bright-red satin pantsuit.

“
You!
” she hissed.

“Hi, Velma,” I said, stepping inside before she could slam the door in my face. “I hope Fluffy's doing well?”

“You don't care about the fucking cat any more than I do.”

“Just being polite,” I said. “Nice set of widow's weeds.”

“We buried the bastard yesterday. How long do you think I have to wear that shit?”

“Do you talk like this to your bridge club, Velma?”

“Just say what you have to say and get the hell out of my house,” said Velma. “And it's Mrs. Pepperidge to you.”

“All right,” I said. “I'm here because we're both after the same thing—the cat's collar.”

She stared at me coldly. “It's just a collar. It has a great sentimental value to me.”

“It's got great value to just about anyone,” I said. “That's what we have to talk about.”

She glared at me. “What do you think makes it worth anything to anyone but me?”

“A bunch of twenty-carat diamonds,” I said. “How does that stack up against sentimental value?”

She stared at me for another moment, then sighed deeply.

“All right,” she said. “Come on in. But wipe your feet first.”