Potshot (12 page)

‘I do,’ I said.

The valet drove up and parked my car at the curb. He got out and held the door for Susan. A second valet hustled up and held the door for me. I gave him a ten-spot and got in the car.

‘Have a nice night,’ the valet said.

‘You too,’ I said.

And we drove off.

Susan and I didn’t talk much on the way back to Beverly Hills. But when we went to bed we made love with unusual intensity. There’s a positive side to everything.

In the morning after breakfast, Susan went to the health club and I went down to the Parker Center, where Samuelson introduced me to an ID technician who showed me mug shots for maybe four hours. I never found Tino, but I found the surfer. His name was Jerome Jefferson and he’d been arrested six times for assault. One conviction. No time. They gave me his last address, which was three years old. I pocketed it for later.

‘Never heard of him,’ Samuelson said when I went back to his office, ‘which means only that he hasn’t done anything bad enough to get our attention.’

‘Or you haven’t caught him at it,’ I said.

Samuelson shrugged.

‘Six assaults? Whatever he is, he’s a gofer,’ Samuelson said.

‘How about OCU?’ I said. ‘This wasn’t his own idea. Somebody sent him.’

‘I’ll call over there,’ Samuelson said. ‘Sheriff’s department, too.’

‘If they don’t know Jefferson,’ I said, ‘try Tino. My guess is that Jefferson’s the slugger and Tino’s the shooter.’

‘Or at least that’s the way it was supposed to work out.’

‘The way it was supposed to work out, I was supposed to get faint with fear and go right home,’ I said. ‘And never make audible mention of Steve or Mary Lou Buckman again.’

‘Audible mention,’ Samuelson said.

‘I’m sleeping with a Ph.D.,’ I said.

‘You might want to talk to your friend del Rio again,’ Samuelson said.

‘Again?’ I said. ‘You’re keeping track of me?’

‘We’re keeping track of del Rio,’ Samuelson said.

‘He’s not exactly my friend,’ I said.

‘Well he must like you. If he didn’t, I’d be looking into your death.’

‘Or his,’ I said.

Back in my rental car, I picked up Sunset down from the Civic Center, turned up the air-conditioning, and headed west. Jerome Jefferson’s last known residence was a three-story white stucco apartment building on Las Palmas just below Fountain. It had the sort of slick, sleazy look that only Los Angeles has fully mastered, with tiny useless balconies of green iron outside the windows.

There was no listing for Jerome Jefferson at the entry. I rang the bell marked Super. And after my third ring, he woke up from his nap and slouched to the door in his slippers. He was wearing an old-fashioned undershirt and plaid knee-length shorts. He had a two-day stubble, mostly gray. His long, limp hair was mostly gray, and showed no sign of shower or shampoo.

‘No vacancy,’ he said.

‘I don’t see why,’ I said.

‘Huh?’

‘Implied criticism,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a guy named Jerome Jefferson. Big guy, blond hair. Looks like a boozer.’

‘He ain’t here,’ the Super said, ‘and he ain’t coming back. The management company evicted him.’

‘Rent?’

‘Yeah. Fucker never paid. Company kept telling me to talk with him. You know him?’

‘I’ve met him,’ I said.

‘Then you know what’d be like to try and talk with him. They don’t pay me enough for me to get my teeth kicked in.’

‘You know where he went?’ I said.

‘Heard he moved in with some broad he was scoring in West Hollywood.’

‘Address?’

‘Got no idea,’ the super said. ‘Maybe they know at the company, they been trying to get the rent he owes them.’

There was a sign beside the entry that read Managed by Southland Properties, with an address in Century City.

‘You know his friend?’ I said. ‘Smaller guy. Thin. Big, sharp beak.’

The super shook his head.

‘I hope you find the bastard. You look like you might give him trouble.’

‘I might,’ I said.

‘You got the build for it anyway.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ I said.

He nodded blankly and closed the door and shuffled off back to his nap.

Century City is a cluster of expensive high-rises just below the Los Angeles Country Club that occupies a former movie back-lot between Santa Monica and Olympic. There was a big hotel there, and a shopping mall and a theater and a supermarket and the offices of anyone on the west side that wanted a good address. Southland Properties was on the fifteenth floor of a building on Constellation Avenue, with a nice view of the Century Plaza Hotel. I was passed along the chain of command at Southland until I was in the office of their financial compliance manager, whose name, according to the nameplate on his desk, was Karl Adams.

We shook hands and he gestured me to a seat.

‘Karl Adams,’ he said. ‘You’re looking for Jerome Jefferson.’

Adams was about my height, and lean. He looked like retired military.

‘I am,’ I said.

‘We are too,’ Adams said. ‘He owes us six months’ rent. What’s your interest?’

‘I’m trying to see what his connection is to a case I’m working on.’

My card was lying on Adams’s desk. He glanced down at it.

‘In Boston?’ he said.

‘Town called Potshot,’ I said. ‘In the desert.’

‘Long way from home,’ Adams said.

‘Anywhere I hang my hat.’

‘Yeah sure,’ he said.

He paused and was thoughtful for a small time. Then he said, ‘Don’t see why not.’

‘Me either.’

‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ Adams said. ‘And if you were to find him, I’d appreciate a jingle.’

‘Seems fair to me,’ I said.

‘After he skipped out of the place on Las Palmas, we figure he moved in with his girlfriend on Franklin Avenue. So we went up there but she says she’s broken up with him and hasn’t seen him and never wants to see him again.’

‘You believe her?’

‘No. So we put somebody up there for a couple days but there was no sign of him.’

‘Round the clock?’ I said.

‘Hell no. We don’t have the manpower for real surveillance.’

‘So if he didn’t come and go between nine and five you wouldn’t know if he was there.’

‘Correct.’

‘You got much experience skip tracing?’

‘Financial compliance,’ Adams said. ‘Says so on my door.’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘I’m retired Navy,’ Adams said. ‘Intelligence. I got a lower budget here.’

‘You got a name and address for the girlfriend?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

He took one of his business cards out of a small container on his desk and wrote on the back.

‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘You need directions?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve screwed up cases out here before.’

The girlfriend’s name was Carlotta Hopewell. She had a small clapboard house with an overhanging roof on the front porch. The house was in Hollywood, where it crouched among the apartment buildings on Franklin Street between Gower and Vine. The yard needed work, and some of the white paint was peeling from the clapboards. As I walked up the front walk, a woman who must have been watching out the window opened the door and stepped out onto the front steps. She had a glass of white wine in her hand and she smelled strongly of it.

‘May I help you?’ she said.

Her lips were pouty and her face was puffy. She had loud blond hair and not much muscle tone. She was wearing shorts and a short tank top that stopped several inches above her navel. Her body was pale and soft-looking.

‘Carlotta Hopewell?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for a man named Jerome Jefferson.’

‘I’m not him.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s helpful. It narrows the search.’

‘Hey you’re kind of funny, huh?’

‘But I have a serious side. Is Jerome staying with you?’

‘Naw.’

She swirled her wine a little.

‘But you know him,’ I said.

‘Maybe. You want some wine?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

She opened the screen door and we went in. Ah, memories of things past. There was a rough woven orange rug on the floor of her living room, and a huge picture of Prince covering most of the wall above a brown suede couch. There was a brown beanbag chair, and an angular black metal chair with a white canvas sling to sit in. A hall went off to my left, and through an open archway beyond the suede couch I could see the kitchen.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you some wine.’

She was gone for a minute and when she came back she was carrying a big jug of white wine and a glass. There was a marble-top coffee table in front of the couch, the marble marked with a large number of circular stains where glasses had been set down without coasters. She set my glass and hers on the coffee table and poured me some wine, and some for herself, holding the jug in both hands. There was no air-conditioning and the bottle was already beginning to sweat in the hot room. I had a sip of wine. It wasn’t very good, but it would probably prevent plaque. Carlotta raised her glass toward me and drank some.

‘Good times,’ she said.

‘So,’ I said, ‘tell me about Jerome.’

‘Why?’

I didn’t want to appear unsociable; I drank a little more of the jug wine. My shirt was already beginning to stick to my back.

‘He and I are supposed to do a little, ah, business.’

I smiled what I hoped was a cryptic smile. Susan had told me that sometimes my cryptic smile shaded off into a leer, which had shaken my confidence in it. But this time it seemed to work.

‘Business?’ she said.

‘Yes. Him and Tino. They told me to come here.’

‘You know Tino?’

‘Sure.’

She had finished her wine already and was pouring another large, clumsy dose from the jug. When she leaned forward I could see that she wore no bra, which was much more information than I really wanted.

‘Tino and Jerome and I were supposed to do a piece of business,’ I said, ‘for Jerome’s boss, what’sisname?’

Carlotta was looking at me speculatively over her wine glass. Sweat added sheen to her forehead and glimmered faintly on her upper lip.

‘Mister Tannenbaum,’ she said absently.

‘Yeah, Tannenbaum, and they told me to meet them here.’

‘Anyone ever tell you that you’re a cutie?’ Carlotta said.

‘Jerome and Tino just said that last night.’

She smiled automatically and drank some wine.

‘Well you are, and don’t you just know it.’

‘When do you expect Jerome back?’ I said.

‘He went to the beach for a few days,’ she said. ‘You ever fool around?’

‘No. I always mean it,’ I said.

‘Maybe you oughta,’ she said.

I would have been more flattered if I had the sense that she didn’t proposition everyone she met. And if she wasn’t drunk. And, the ugly sexist truth of the matter, if her thighs weren’t flabby.

‘You know where Mr Tannenbaum lives?’ I said.

‘Lives? How the hell would I know where he lives? You think he invites me and Jerome over for cocktails? I never even met him.’

‘But he’s in L.A. someplace,’ I said.

She drank some wine and nodded.

‘Me and Jerome never get invited anyplace. We eat cheap, we drink cheap, we live in this dump and Jerome don’t even pay the rent.’

She began to tear up.

‘Wasn’t for my alimony check we couldn’t even live like we do,’ she said.

Her wine glass was empty. She did another two-handed pour from the jug and spilled some of it on the coffee table and began to cry.

‘You wanna fuck me or not,’ she said through the tears.

‘Anyone would,’ I said. ‘But I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

I made a cryptic gesture and smiled a cryptic smile and stood up. When I did I could see myself in the oval mirror that hung over the gas log fire place on the far wall. My cryptic smile was not very convincing. It looked a little panicky. My face was sweaty. If I did not know and admire the owner, it was not a face I’d like very much.

‘Whyn’t you sit, drink some wine, have a little fun.’

‘I wish I could,’ I said.

‘But you’re uptight,’ she said.

‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the wine.’

She was looking into her near-empty wine glass now, with her feet flat on the floor and her shoulders hunched as if she were cold, which was not possible in the stifling room.

‘Get lost,’ she said.

Which I did.

Vincent del Rio had an estate in Bel Air where he was master of all he surveyed, and a good deal more than that. The place was about the size of Worcester, Massachusetts, and a lot better looking in its flowery green Southern-California way.

Even though I had called first, I had to do a lot of explaining to a sequence of scary-looking men of Mexican lineage as I worked my way past the gate, and past the front door, and into the courtyard of his vast white-stucco-and-red-tile home, into the presence of Vincent del Rio.

‘Señor Spenser,’ he said.

Del Rio was wearing a white suit today with a crimson silk shirt open at the neck.

I said, ‘Jefe.’

Del Rio smiled and sipped from a glass of iced tea. Bobby Horse was leaning against the courtyard wall with his thick arms folded. He nodded at me. I nodded back. Chollo was there, seated with del Rio under an olive tree, at a round, red wood table with a brick-colored tile top. They were playing chess. Chollo was as he had been, still medium height and slender, with his long hair in a ponytail. Even seated, he managed to look languid, which he wasn’t. On the table were a pitcher of iced tea and a dish of sliced lemons, several glasses, and the chessboard.

‘Sit down,’ del Rio said.

I sat between him and Chollo.

Chollo said, ‘Amigo.’

I said, ‘Chollo.’

‘You want some iced tea?’ del Rio said.

‘Gracias.’

‘Cut the crap,’ del Rio said. ‘What do you want?’

He had no trace of an accent.

‘Two sugars, some lemon.’

Chollo pushed the pitcher over toward me.

‘Help yourself,’ del Rio said.

I fixed myself up some iced tea and took a sip.

‘Mango,’ I said. ‘Very good.’