Lizardskin (43 page)

Beau walked down into the darkness away from the doorway, looking for some other hole in the defenses. The wall ran almost up to the roof of the warehouse. The whole construction looked as if it were a complete enclosure
inside
the warehouse. It was riveted and welded and looked like a strongbox.

Jimmy said that two companies were using part of the warehouse for cold storage. The machine on the roof sounded like a compressor, and the warm walls could mean good insulation and an efficient refrigeration unit.

Farwest Beef and Dairy, and Kellerman Cold Haulers.

Never heard of them.

Or had he?

Farwest Beef and Dairy sounded familiar. God knew why.
Hell, he was getting to that age when
everything
sounded familiar, every face looked like someone he had seen before, and every story sounded like every other story. He heard footsteps and scuffling and came back up to the light. Jimmy was making his way across the hall, carrying a clipboard.

“You’re supposed to stay where I leave you, sir. Can’t have any unescorted people around the place. Insurance, you know?”

“Yeah, Jimmy. Sorry. You get the sheet?”

He nodded and handed it to Beau.

The corporation that owned the warehouse was called Merced Industries, with an address in Visalia, California. Under the letterhead, there was a computer printout of the seven companies that had leased space in the facility at 220 Ditman. No addresses were shown for the companies, just a list of their regular employees and other people allowed access to their leased areas.

Pomodoro had eight people, most of them truckers, and one fork-truck operator. No names rang any bells with Beau. Kellerman Cold Haulers and Farwest listed their employees jointly. A total of eleven people, six men and five women. Not one familiar name. No Earl Black Elk.

United Fruit showed one man, a driver, who apparently carried his own key and hadn’t shown up since last month.

Sunkist, the Idaho Food Corporation, and Armour Meats had no one regularly employed at 220 Ditman.

“See, I told you,” said Jimmy. “Place is dead now.”

“How often is this list updated?”

“Anytime the people change. I gotta have an up-to-date list. Intertec’d have my nuts if anybody got in here who wasn’t supposed to.”

“Why?”

Jimmy went blank, his pale blue eyes squinting. “Why what?”

“Why would Intertec have your nuts? There’s nothing here but sugar, and the only fully occupied bay has Fort Knox in it.”

“That’s the cold-storage unit. Belongs to Farwest. Anyway, they hired me to keep this place tight, and that’s what I do.”

“Intertec pretty strict about security here?”

“They got me here, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” said Beau. “I see what you mean. You have a key for this cooler here?”

“Nah. Farwest leased the whole section, built this cold room themselves. All I do, I see that nobody gets inside the warehouse. The cold room—that’s their problem. Opens up to the outside there, anyway. Bay nine, down by the hydro transformer.”

“So you can’t get in here?”

“What for? I seen dead cows before. You want in?”

“No, that’s okay. What about Kellerman Cold Haulers?”

“What about ’em?”

“I thought they had space in this section, too.”

“They do. They sublease it from Farwest Beef.”

“You ever see their trucks?”

“Who? Farwest?”

“Yeah.”

“Now and then. Farwest is phasing out of here, too. They get a truck in here, maybe once, twice a month.”

“You ever see the drivers?”

“Oh, yeah. All the time.”

“Why is that? I thought you only worked nights and weekends?”

“I do. Only, that’s usually when they come. Farwest Beef. They got a beautiful stainless rig, a Freightliner, real honey. Makes a run about twice a month.”

“Loading or unloading?”

“Both. They run the rig right up to bay nine there. Banging and slamming around.”

“What’s the driver like?”

“Hell of a nice guy. Always got a joke for you. Always a couple of cold beers. I’ll tell you, Farwest must pay real well, too. Rig’s spotless, kept right up. Real top-notch stuff. No rust, no dirt.”

“Why do you think they pay so well? The driver tell you?”

“No. Won’t say much about that. Talk to you about anything else, though. But I can tell. You keep forgetting—I used to be a cop.”

“You can tell what?”

“That the company pays real well. This driver, he must be raking it in.”

“Why?”

Jimmy looked at Beau with an air of genuine pity, the old-timer getting one-up on the new man.

“Well, he’s got a Rolex, doesn’t he? Don’t get that in Lucky Elephant popcorn.”

“A Rolex?”

“Yeah. One of those—what you call ’em? Presidents.”

“A President? That’s solid gold.”

“Thirty thousand easy. See what I mean?”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“Hank something. It’s on the list there.”

Beau looked down the sheet. Under Farwest, he found the name Starbuck, Henry D.

“This the guy? Starbuck, Henry D?”

“Yeah. Hank’s short for Henry, isn’t it?”

“Describe this guy for me.”

“Jeez, let’s see. Big guy, big as you. Blond hair. Going a little bald. Got real big hands. Kinda heavy, but hard-looking. Clean shaven. Dresses nice. A lady’s man. Wears a wedding ring, but he isn’t married.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, if he is, he’s got a real casual idea about it. I come around once, he was unloading these carts into the cold room, he and this other guy, and he’s got his ring off—you know, so he won’t catch it in the door. All drivers take off their rings and stuff when they’re loading. Too easy to catch a finger.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And I see he’s got no white mark under the ring. That’s how you can tell, you know. A guy who screws around, he’ll take that ring off as soon as he gets out of the house. I asked
him about it, but he just laughed, made some joke about how it was his life-ring, kept the sharks away. Say, you hear the one, these two lawyers are walking down a street, they see this great-looking broad, and one lawyer turns to—”

“What did you say?”

“It’s a joke. So the lawyer says to his buddy, say, wouldn’t you like to screw—hey, where you going?”

Beau was headed for the car, his head full of white noise. Jimmy caught up to him at the loading bay. He watched Beau jump down to the ground and unlock the Town Car.

“What’s the matter, you don’t like jokes?”

“I’ll make you a bet, Jimmy. I’ll bet Hank Starbuck told you that joke? Am I right?”

“Yeah. That’s what made me think of it! Talking about Hank!”

Beau reached in and picked up the cellular phone.

“When’s the last time Farwest had a truck in here?”

“Got a time sheet in the shed. Pin me down on it, I’d say, oh, ten, fifteen days ago. This all mean something to you?”

“I don’t know yet. You say Starbuck had a guy helping him?”

“Yeah.”

Beau looked down at the Farwest list.

“Was his name on the list?”

“No. He was in the truck with Hank. Long as there’s somebody on the list, no harm in bringing a friend to help with the load, is there?”

“Did you get his name?”

“Nah. Didn’t speak any English. At least, not around me. Now that you say it, though, I guess he had to speak English.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll bet my left lung Hank don’t know any Jap.”

“Jap? Japanese?”

“Yeah. Japanese. The other guy was a Jap. Wiry little guy, with those stupid round black glasses on.”

Beau was dialing the cellular and checking his watch. Midnight. Christ, Meagher’d be in bed. He’d wake his wife.

“Hate those people,” said Jimmy, staring out at the street.

“Who?”

“The Japs. They’re gonna buy the whole country. I hate ’em.”

“Yeah,” said Beau. “I figured you might.”

Beau was back on the interstate headed for San Bernardino by the time he finally tracked Meagher down in the Holiday Inn at Rapid City. Beau was getting used to L.A. traffic now. The secret seemed to be to keep the pedal floored and your brights on, hit the horn a lot, and cut in front of anybody stupid enough to give you road room.

Beau figured that Los Falcones would run late and party long, and a plate of
fajitas
was looking pretty good right now. The phone in his hand was warm, and the sound of the line ringing down the airwaves added a nice surreal touch to the scene.

The ringing stopped.

There was a dull thud, and a crash, clearer now, something breakable breaking. The phone thumped again.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Eustace! Don’t tell me I woke you up!”

“Oh no, McAllister. I hadda get up to answer the phone anyway. How the hell did you find me?”

“I called your wife.”

“Oh man. You wake her?”

“Oh no, Eustace. I woke the guy beside her.”

“Very funny. What the hell do you want?”

“Eustace, justice never sleeps, you know. Out here in the night, your loyal troopers are fighting the good fight, holding back the yellow hordes, the red peril—”

“I take it you found something? Other than your pecker?”

“I found something. What are you doing in Rapid City?”

“I’m on my way to see that Cut Arms guy. Remember?”

“Right! Sorry. Did the doc come up with those figures?”

“I called again today. But didn’t he say he was going out to one of the clinics?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I think he was going to the Rosebud. But he would have flown, I think.”

“Maybe I’ll run him down out there. We’ll go fishing.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay then. For a minute there, I thought you were actually
working
or something. You know, like your loyal underlings out here on the coast, putting their hearts on the line, digging into the seamy underbelly of the bloated corpse of American civilization, cutting deep into the entrails of—”

“Beau, cut it out. What have you got?”

“What have I got? You have a pen?”

“Just a minute … okay. Shoot.”

“First, there’s a guy works for Mountain Bell, name of Bucky Blitzer? He was in the hospital with me. I’ve called him a couple of times, but the cellular won’t work in these hills. Could you try him in the morning, ask him about this joke I heard?”

“Oh, what the hell is
that
?”

“No, I’m serious. It’s the one about these two lawyers, they see this blonde on the street? Remember?”

“No … wait. Yeah. You told me that one.”

“Right. I want you to ask Bucky who told it to him.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because I wanna know. Ten bucks says he heard it from that kid, died in the truck fire. Hubert Wozcylesko.”

“And if he did? Man, I can see taking this to Vanessa!”

“Also, I need you to find out who owns a couple of companies for me.”

“Sure. Who?”

“Kellerman Cold Haulers. Don’t know where they’re based, but it’ll be in the national register. Get Moses or Dell to call Sig Tarr at the
Gazette
. He’s a friend, and maybe there’s a story in it for him.”

“I know Sig—he’ll want something for his trouble. Charlie Tallbull’s doing better, by the way. They’re going to arrange for him to get his physio in Wyola.”

“Eustace, you notice, any Indian gets put in the hospital around here, he gets out as soon as he can?”

“Yeah? So did you. What else can I do?”

“I have another name—sounds familiar to me. Farwest Beef and Dairy?”

“I don’t have to ask about that one. Those are the people bought Ingomar’s spread. Remember, the Japanese guys?”

Beau slapped the wheel. “Oh, for chrissake! Farwest Beef and Dairy. God, I hate being stupid. It really complicates your life!”

“Yeah, everything takes longer. You remember last year, when we were doing the big fund-raising thing, for Doc Darryl’s cancer wing?”

“Yeah, the goddamned cancer wing. We raised money for that every year for ten years. And every time we did, I ate Kraft Dinner for a month.”

“Well, these guys, they were right on the bandwagon, pulled in a hell of a lot of money for Doc Darryl. I got to know a couple of them. I liked them. They were all right. Farwest is a California corporation, but the parent outfit is in Kyoto. Montana Beef, it’s real big in Tokyo, Osaka, the big cities. Japs are gonna be as sick and fat as we are, give ’em a few years.”

“I think Danny Burt’s into something with them. I talked to this guy who’s the security guard out at 220 Ditman—you know, Earl Black Elk’s last known address?”

“They got a guard there?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s another thing. Two twenty Ditman isn’t a house or an apartment. It’s a warehouse. Huge place, right under the I-5 overpass, in a real rat’s-ass part of town. Right out of
Night of the Living Dead
, Eustace. Two twenty Ditman’s about a block long, mostly empty. But Farwest has a cold-storage room built in, real secure. Very high-tech. And the guard, his name is Jimmy Drinaw, tells me that he sees the Farwest truck come in maybe twice a month. And he describes
the driver. I ask him, what’s the name. He says Starbuck, Henry D. I say, can you describe this guy? Guess who he describes?”

“Danny Burt?”

“Danny Burt. Down to the ring thing. Listen, did you notice his watch at the board meeting?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Jimmy Drinaw noticed it, too.”

“Okay. This adds a whole new dimension. What in the name of God is Burt doing running a Farwest truck to Los Angeles?”

“Can you talk Vanessa into a warrant?”

“Not with what you’ve got there. Where’s the felony?”

“He’s using an alias. False pretenses?”

“What value has he received? Who has he conned? No, not enough. But I can sure go talk to him, let him know we’re asking questions. See if he gets nervous.”

“Okay, but be careful. There’s another guy around, he’s real wired into this. I have a vague idea it’s somebody in a wedding picture I have.”

“A wedding picture?”

“Yeah. I found it in that house on Vallejo Canyon. They’re all there, the Gall kid, the girl—her name’s Donna Sweetwater Bent, by the way—make a note.”