Finnegan's Week (14 page)

“Mister Finnegan,” she said, holding out her hand, palm toward the floor.

He didn't know whether to shake it or kiss her ring, but he kept his killer gaze fixed on the bridge of her candy-colored eyeglasses. She wore an environmentally correct shirt grown from green organic cotton with no chemical dyes. Ditto for the jeans. Draped over the chair was a $600 jacket made from cork that was “shed from trees.”

“Hello,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

She motioned toward a rock-hard sofa, and she sat in a straight-back chair with her head a foot higher than his.

She studied him while Fin continued to dead-stare her. Then she said, “Orson tells me you're a real policeman?”

He showed a hint of a smile and said, “That should give me an advantage playing a contract killer, shouldn't it?” Then he lied and said, “I've known my share of hit men.”

“Have you really? Can you talk about it?”

Fin shifted on the sofa and cocked his head as if to say, “Sorry, you know how it is.”

She said, “We're thinking of changing the script so that our killer is actually a renegade FBI agent, or maybe a member of the CIA.”

Fin figured that would make it the 1,532nd TV show where an agent of the government is the bad guy. Because every member of the Hollywood Elite liked to claim that his phone had been tapped, or a hit squad had tailed him when he was: 1) a student during Vietnam, 2) making a movie about Chile, 3) investigating the Kennedy assassination.

That's what Fin was thinking, but what he said was, “What a great idea! And given my law enforcement experience, I'd be ideal for that role!”

“Orson sent me a list of your credits, Fin,” she said. “You haven't done much TV. And I didn't see
anything
in features.”

“I did some extra work in two features,” he said. “Did you see …”

She interrupted him to say, “Do you have formal training?”

“Well, not formal formal,” he said. “I've done a lotta stage work …”

“Locally?”

“Locally,” he said. “I mean, I'm not the type to move to Hollywood and join one of those actors' studios where you learn to imitate a ripe cantaloupe. I'm more of a
natural
actor.”

“Right,” she said. “Well, would you read this for me, please?”

She handed him a page of a script.
One
page. There was dialogue on the page involving three characters: Renfro, Skaggs and Gonzales.

“Which character?”

“Skaggs,” she said. “I think, Skaggs.”

He read the dialogue. “He's toast?” Fin looked from the dialogue to the co-executive producer.

“It's not a question,” she said. “You read it like a question.”

“Is this it?” he asked. “The dialogue?
One
line?
Two
words?”

She said, “Try it again. Remember, you're a … let's say a CIA man gone bad. You're referring to our hero who you've been contracted to kill. You're responding to Renfro who said, ‘Can you finish him?' And you say …”

“He's toast?” Fin asked.

“You did it again,” she said patiently. “You delivered your line as a question. It's
not
a question, Skaggs. I mean, Fin. It's a very definitive statement.”

Fin gathered himself, studied his dialogue, closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they were slits. “He's
toast
,” Fin said.

“Try it again.”

“
He's
toast,” Fin said.

“Once more.”

“He's … toast,” Fin said.

“That's close.”

“I can throw it away,” Fin offered. Then he threw it away, mumbling, “He's toast.”

“I'm not sure,” she said.

“I could play him as an Aussie,” Fin suggested. “I do Aussies.”

“No Aussies, no.”

“He's toast, mate!”

“I said no Aussies.”

“A Canadian, then! He's toast, eh?”

“That's enough. Thanks.”

“I can Bogart the line for you!” Fin said desperately. “I can put so goddamn much menace in it you'll hear background music from Alfred Hitchcock!”

“No, that's fine,” she said. “That was very good. Thank you, Fin. We'll be in touch.”

He stood when she did and took her dry hand in his clammy one. Then he asked, “Will the character be coming back? I mean, I was led to believe he'll get killed or
seem
to get killed but he'll come back?”

“We hope he'll come back,” she said. “We hope we're
all
coming back. We'll be in touch.”

As he was about to open the door, she said, “Fin, do you have a moment to advise me about something?”

“Sure,” he said.

She went to a desk that still had the rental-company sticker on one leg, and took out a clipped stack of parking citations.

“There's no place to park,” she explained. “And our production van's been collecting these. Would you know someone downtown who could … show us
consideration
and perhaps take care of these? After all, San Diego wants movie and TV companies to shoot down here. Would you be able to help us?”

Fin shook his head and said, “I could pay them for you, but I think I'd need to have a thirteen-show contract from the looks of that stack. Sorry, we can't fix tickets in this town.”

“Of course,” she said, and her smile melted like a snow cone on Ocean Beach.

“Does this mean
I'm
toast?” Fin asked bleakly.

“We'll be in touch,” she said with a papal gesture, closing the door behind him.

The snotty little receptionist couldn't have looked happier if she'd been masturbating to music. She knew he was toast.

Fin glanced at the eight-by-ten glossies on her desk, local male actors in their twenties. Each had at least a three-day stubble on his unlined boyish face. Each probably read his lines in a whispery voice, both wise and sensual.
Toast. Toast
!

“Guess you can't expect a job if you shave every day,” he muttered.

“Are you a cop?” the receptionist asked before he exited. “Are you a
real
cop?”

Fin felt used, defeated, humiliated,
old
. He said, “I ain't sure anymore, kid, but I got handcuffs older'n you.”

It had been a tough day for Bobbie Ann Doggett too. In the first place, it was hard getting Captain Fontaine, the deputy director of security, to give her permission to use investigative time for a theft that Naval Investigative Service was too busy to bother about.

“A dozen trucking companies and waste haulers?” the marine officer said doubtfully. “And
no
leads of any kind?”

“But I don't have much going on, sir,” she told him. “And this is a pretty big felony. We now think there might be as many as fifteen hundred pairs stolen. Maybe a lot more.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, “but just work on it when you can spare the time. Make it your
hobby
for a week or two. And don't tie up the Chevy all day. The boss might need the car.”

“Okay, Captain, thanks,” she said, noticing that her civilian counterparts rolled their eyes at each other.

She knew what they were thinking: a dozen trucking crews to check out? And every trucker a thief. Good luck, Bad Dog.

The hauling companies that were located outside San Diego County would have to be contacted by telephone; not that they were any less likely to be the perpetrators, but there was only so much she could do with a clueless case. Seven of the contractors whose rigs had been at or near the warehouse during the period in question
were
in San Diego County. Just to see how it would go, she decided to do the first one as a cold interview, without a preliminary phone call.

Zimmer Transport was owned by Roger (call me Speed) Zimmer, who was highly amused and delighted to be questioned by a detective from the navy, particularly by a female detective. In the past he'd always been contacted by San Diego P.D. detectives who were
never
cute little blondes. Speed Zimmer loved how she filled out that white cotton blouse, and he asked right away if she'd like to take off her jacket on such a warm day.

It was a teal-colored, wool-blend melton blazer with deep lapels. She'd shopped for three days until she found one on sale for $39. Bobbie was wearing stone-washed jeans, but she never wore jeans without dressing them up with a blazer, and with a no-nonsense cotton shirt, and mid-heel pumps.

Speed Zimmer thought she was adorable. Bobbie Ann Doggett thought the fat old creep was
gross
, especially when, after she asked to interview the truckers who'd been to the quayside warehouse, he said, “Sure, sure, but lemme ask, do you dig Paula Abdul? I'm tryin to get tickets to a concert in L.A. and I'd hate to go alone.”

“Sorry,
sir,
” Bobbie said. “I think I'll be too busy for the rest of the year helping N.I.S. investigate people who sexually harass women.”

That caused Speed to call his truckers into the office. Bobbie figured he only knew about Paula Abdul from that Diet Coke commercial. Speed Zimmer reeked of Polo cologne, which always smelled to her like chocolate gone rancid.

When she finally got to talk to each trucker, Bobbie found one surly and one confused. They were both capable of stealing anything, but they were so stupid she felt sure they'd be
wearing
the stolen shoes, since their own looked like something a dock worker in Guam wouldn't be caught dead in.

The dumber of the two spotted the bulge of the .45 automatic under her jacket, and asked, “Do you carry a
loaded
gun? I mean, being a girl and all?”

She remained only long enough to see that no other employee was wearing flight-deck shoes.

At the next stop of the day no one tried to take her to concerts or ask questions about her sidearm, but the owner of Haulright Vans had gone on vacation and the shift foreman didn't have the faintest idea who'd made the run to North Island.

And so it went all afternoon. She didn't want to go back to the office and confess to her co-workers that they were right about the waste of time, so she didn't return to the base until 4:45
P.M.,
after they'd gone home.

That evening, Bobbie Ann Doggett soaked in the bathtub and thought about giving up on the shoe investigation, but she was convinced that just about any hauler she'd encounter would feel so confident or be so stupid that he'd wear, or sell to a coworker, a pair of black, steel-toe, high-top, nonskid U.S. Navy shoes. She decided to visit as many of the trucking companies as possible just to have a look at everyone's
feet
.

C
HAPTER
12

A
fter Bobbie had her eggs, toast and orange juice the next morning, and after she'd studied the list of truckers she was going to try to contact, she decided to wear a skirt instead of jeans with her blazer. Maybe a more businesslike look would help discourage rock concert invitations, but actually, she wouldn't mind seeing Paula Abdul if somebody halfway acceptable had asked her.

Until the month before Bobbie had gone home on leave she'd been kept pretty busy by a neighbor whom she'd met through her landlady. The guy was a paving contractor, older than Bobbie, but still in his thirties, and recently separated from his wife. A guy in that state of utter turmoil where he continually waffled between reconciliation and divorce.

He'd finally kissed off Bobbie by telling her that for the sake of the children he had to go back home. As they
all
did eventually, every married or separated guy she'd ever dated. They always got that message across, apparently thinking it was unique, that they were only staying with or returning to a wife “for the sake of the children.” It got very boring.

After the paving contractor had reconciled, Bobbie missed the weekly dinner date, the box seat at Jack Murphy Stadium, and the pretty good sex. The contractor had a nice sense of humor, and she'd actually enjoyed him as a friend and companion. Bobbie believed that she'd learned sooner than most women her age that young guys were selfish lovers, yet she'd never had the chance to go to bed with a man over forty.

One of the women on her last ship had a boyfriend sixty-three years old, and she claimed that he was so adept sexually, he could just “talk her off.” The trouble with young sailors was, they didn't talk at all; they just rutted like buffaloes. Bobbie wasn't sure about a guy sixty-three, but if she met an older guy she liked she'd be very curious, no doubt about it.

The third waste hauler on her list was Reggie's Truck Line. She didn't get to the company in Mira Mesa until 10:30
A.M.,
discovering that Reggie was a cop-hater who wasn't anxious to cooperate with anyone connected to law enforcement. And he complained to her that he'd been unable to get navy contracts, except for the one job in question, because of ethnic contractors who were beating him out. After twenty minutes of bitching about how Americans were losing out to spies, spades, and slopeheads, he grudgingly gave Bobbie permission to interview the employees who'd made a pickup at North Island.

The first was a Mexican national, fifty years old. His partner was a Honduran, about the same age. Neither spoke English, so Reggie had to supply Bobbie with a bilingual secretary from his office. Both truckers were so intimidated they could hardly talk. The Honduran wore tennis shoes with soles that flipflopped when he walked. The Mexican wore huaraches with soles made of truck tires. Bobbie felt sure that they
hadn't
stolen the flight-deck shoes.

After having a burger for lunch, Bobbie noted that the next contractor on the list was Green Earth Hauling and Disposal in Chula Vista. When she got there she found that it was one of the larger hauling companies. There was a yard behind the building that encompassed a square block, and the whole property was surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. In this type of business it was more to protect the public from the product than the other way around.