Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) (25 page)

I sat down next to Rosie. Mrs. Subic— I’d never heard a first name— brought in a chafing dish full of scrambled eggs and a basket of buttered toast. She smiled and set them down, returning to the kitchen and coming out again with a silver coffeepot that could have been made by Paul Revere himself. Maybe it was.

“Guess what they do for a living, Martin?”

“Social work?”

“They’re detectives.”

He digested that for a full ten seconds, sighed, and took a piece of toast. Either he wasn’t impressed, didn’t care, or didn’t want to know about it before breakfast.

The food was good, and I, for one, was hungry. I scooped some eggs onto my blue and white plate. These dishes sure looked like the real thing to my unschooled eyes. Even I am not nervy enough to pick up a host’s dinnerware and look at the name on the bottom, but I ran a cautious finger around the rim of my cup and it rang like a bell. Rosie watched me do it. Then she picked up her own still-empty cup and waved it around, gesturing in the general direction of the sideboard.

“This is a lovely house,” she said.

She was good. I was probably the only person in the room who noticed she was reading the bottom of the cup.

“Thank you,” Subic answered. “We like it.” For some reason, maybe the condition of his son’s face, maybe not, he looked terribly sad.

“Yes,” Mrs. Subic said. “We love it here. It’s a nice working-class neighborhood. The people are the salt of the earth. We’re a working-class family, and we like to be among our own.” A sudden memory hit me. The Brit Thunderskin web page had ranted about being working-class. Amazing how the same term could mean such different things.

Royal groaned. I couldn’t tell if it was because of what she’d said or because he’d tried to eat with his curb-stomped, ruined mouth.

“Don’t mind my wife,” Subic said, rubbing his back again, sighing, and grimacing. What do you say to that?

“Are you all right, Mr. Subic?”

“It’s just this back of mine again. Hurt it on the job. Disability.” They weren’t living on disability.

“Oh. I’m sorry. What kind of job?”

“Teamster. Twenty years.” They weren’t living on union retirement benefits, either.

I ate the eggs. They were pretty good. But I hadn’t missed the hot, angry look in Royal’s eyes when his father talked about his working days, and the injury that had ended them. I was remembering that edge of anger I’d first heard when the boy talked about his father’s money.

And I wanted to know where all this family’s money came from. The cash that Royal had given me. The money hidden in expensive furnishings inside a cheap little house.

We finished breakfast, and Deeanne gave Royal a sad little kiss on an undamaged part of his forehead. Mr. Subic thanked us again for bringing his son home, and for helping him. He might have been talking only about the fact that we’d been at the hospital the night before and had brought the kid home this morning, or he might have been speaking more generally. I couldn’t tell, and he didn’t ask any questions or make any statements about how else we might be helping.

Mrs. Subic just smiled at Rosie and me like a tripping hippie.

As we were walking out to the curb, Rosie whispered, “Wedgwood.”

I stopped Deeanne before she got into her car. “What’s with that house, Deeanne?”

“What do you mean?”

“The money. Royal says his dad has a lot. You can see it in the furniture, the dishes, the silver. But they live in a poor little house in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s because of the robbery.”

I stared at her.

So did Rosie. “Robbery?”

“Royal told me. He really hates it, but he told me because he trusts me. See, back when his dad was working, he didn’t like some stuff that was going on in his company. They were, like, hiring women and blacks and he, like, wanted more overtime. Or something like that. I don’t know. It wasn’t, like, real, real clear. But, you know, he was all, ‘I’m gonna lose my job to a woman’ or something. And he went out and robbed some places, or some guys did— I don’t exactly know, but he got a lot of money and then he pretended he hurt his back and quit working. About ten years ago. He’s pretty old.”

“What kind of place did they rob?” Obviously, they’d made a nice haul.

“Oh, Royal says it was a bunch of stores, big ones. Places they knew because they drove trucks, you know? Not here. Someplace else. Some city. Maybe in Los Angeles? I don’t remember. But nobody ever got caught.”

“And he’s afraid to display the money outside the house.” No wonder Royal was cop-shy.

“I guess.”

“And he’s still pretending he hurt his back and even seems to believe it now himself.” Or maybe he was crippled by guilt and fear. The father and son seemed to have a lot in common.

“Yeah. Royal says he knows his dad’s got a whole lot of cash stashed somewhere, maybe buried. Digs it up or whatever, every few months. Wicked, huh?” She half smiled. Yes, there was something funny about the situation, but it worried me that she saw it that way. I was still trying to get my mind around the story when Rosie answered her.

“Yes. Wicked.” Rosie didn’t smile. “And Royal isn’t too happy about the stolen money, is he?”

“He hates it. But he uses it. You know, he goes, it’s kind of hard not to.”

The story went a long way to explain some of Royal’s problems. A boy could grow up pretty confused in an atmosphere like that.

“Who knows about the money, Deeanne?”

“Well, Royal’s real careful about it. But you know, now that you bring it up, you’re making me remember something. Like maybe he told Zack too. Because when they were, you know—” she bit her lip and a sick look flashed across her pale face “—he came back for a second and leaned over Royal and said, ‘You better be glad Pete didn’t believe in stealing, even from robbers. But, like, Pete’s dead now.’ Or something like that.”

Terrific. I wondered how long he would honor Ebner’s wishes. I could just see it— the Aryan Command swarming over that little stucco house with shovels, looking for buried treasure.

“But don’t say anything to anyone about it, okay? And could you not tell Artie I was already at the hospital?”

Aha.

“Deeanne, you’re taking too many chances. I don’t think you understand how dangerous this is. I want you to stay away from Royal’s house. When he gets better, you can meet him somewhere if you’re careful. Promise me now, or—” Or what?

“Okay. I promise.”

She seemed to mean it.

“Jake, Deeanne’s not going to stay away from Royal,” Rosie said as we drove away from the Subic house.

“You’re probably right.”

“She’s got this ‘Teen Angel,’ ‘Leader of the Pack,’ ‘My Guy’ mentality.”

I could hear all three songs in my head. They were coming from a radio at a drive-in where my dad took me for lunch every Saturday when I was a little kid. The place was full of teenagers in their Chevy Bel Airs and Ford Fairlanes, their hair in ponytails and DAs, their hearts, I later realized, full of romantic tragedy. No accident that Romeo and Juliet were adolescents. Deeanne probably thought she was willing to die for Royal. Nuts.

Rosie was right, no doubt about it. Artie was going to have to watch Deeanne, maybe even send her away somewhere until this was over. “Let’s go talk to Art.”

“Can’t, Jake. Got to pick up Alice at home and get to the office by nine. There’s a prospective client coming in.”

Oh, right. She wasn’t just my partner in this fiasco, she was the CEO. With any luck, we’d be needing more clients soon. Maybe it was better this way anyway. Artie Perrine and I had been friends for a long, long time, from way back in the days of my divorce, way back to my first few California years. We could talk one-on-one and figure things out. Possibly.

Rosie dropped me off at my house and I called Artie. His wife, Julia, answered.

“Jake! Honey! You’re such a stranger!” That was Julia’s way of saying she hadn’t seen me for a couple months. She’d never lost that New York accent of hers, and she’d never lost the East Coast big-city attitudes that went with it. Straight out, tell it like it is, take the offensive before someone takes it away. Chicago people have some of the same kind of edge, but our speech and our actions are softened by Midwest caution. And I think it’s easier for us to turn into Californians too.

I promised her we’d set up a double date for dinner soon. Before she could start interrogating me about the woman I was planning to bring, I told her I really needed to see Artie— was he home or at the magazine office? He was home, she said, but she didn’t call him to the phone— she yelled, “Artie! Jake wants to come see you!” I heard a vague background mumble and then she was back on the line. “Sure. Come on. See you soon.”

I headed for 101 south, and Mill Valley.

Artie and Julia Perrine, their son Mike, now a Berkeley freshman, and occasional assorted visiting relatives lived in a redwood canyon just outside the Mill Valley city limits in southern Marin. Once, a few years back, I’d spent some time in that canyon figuring out who killed a guy. The cops thought Artie’s visiting nephew was the best suspect. So did some of the neighbors, and an odder assortment of woods-dwellers you couldn’t hope to meet.

I parked in the lot at the bottom of the canyon and walked up the narrow path, and then the steps, to Artie’s house. Not much fun when you’re carrying groceries, but a good way to stay in shape, which Artie still never managed to do. He’d once had to pay a crew triple wages to do some foundation work, just because they had to carry the sacks of concrete all the way up.

The house was redwood and glass with two decks and two fireplaces. It was worth the walk.

Julia opened the door for me and gave me a big, wet smack on the cheek, calling me a schmuck and all the other affectionate terms she reserved for people she loved and didn’t see often enough. I promised to hang around more. She told me I had to “do something” about Deeanne.

Before I could even try to answer that, Artie wandered out to meet me carrying a sheaf of papers. He was wearing a brown hooded sweatshirt that, along with his top-of-the-head bald spot, made him look even more like Friar Tuck than usual.

“Listen,” Julia said, “I’d love to put in my two cents’ worth, but I’ve got a meeting. You know where the coffee is. There’s some pineapple upside-down cake too.”

I don’t know anyone who makes or even eats that anymore— except for Julia and Artie.

Artie led me back to his home office. Stacks of paper-clipped manuscripts and notes and magazines and newspapers on the computer desk, the computer, the bookshelves, the tables. More magazines and books piled on the floor. He lifted a mesa of
Probe
magazines off a wooden straight-back chair and told me to sit, planting his short round self in his own padded swivel.

“What’s happened now?”

“We took Royal home.”

“Deeanne went right back to the hospital, didn’t she? The minute I fell asleep?”

“Probably.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing much else, but you’re going to have to use a stronger hand with that girl, keep her away from Royal.” Easy for me to say. “She was lucky last night. They could have taken it into their bald heads to beat her up too, just to punish Royal even more.”

“Yeah. I know. Julia and I were talking. Maybe I’ll take away her car.” That would be pretty effective. Sure, there was public transportation in Marin, but I’d never figured out how anyone got anywhere on it. But then I had to admit, maybe that was just me. I hadn’t taken a bus since I’d left Chicago.

“How about sending her away for a few weeks?”

“She’s got school. And I don’t know where I’d send her. And how would I know she’d stay where she was put? She’d be running after Royal again in two days. She might move in with him, for God’s sake.”

“She couldn’t move in with him. He lives at home with his folks, and I don’t read them that way. Though they seem to like her.”

“She might rent a room near him. I’d have to go find her and bring her home again.”

“Take away her money.” Royal would probably give her all the cash she wanted, but maybe she wouldn’t want to take it. Then again, maybe she would. “I’m doing what I can, but I’m not so sure Royal isn’t going to end up dead. She hangs around him, she gets caught in the crossfire.”

“I’ll take away her car and her money. Did she get to school today?”

I told him she’d been on her way the last time I saw her, and that Royal had probably just wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head.

“I’ll call school. Wait.”

It took him five minutes to find the school number in the book, then he punched it in. They wouldn’t tell him if she was there, so he tried it another way. He said there was a family emergency, that he was her godfather and he needed to talk to her. Another ten minutes and she came to the phone.

“No emergency, Deeanne. Not at the moment, anyway. I just wanted to see if you were okay. And tell you to come right home after school so we can figure out what to do to keep you safe.” Pause. “Well, you’re going to have to think about yourself. I’m not gonna give you any choice.” Pause. “I’ll see you here by three-thirty, okay? You can call Royal when you get home.” Pause. “Good. ’Bye.”

He put the phone down and rubbed his eyes. “Well, she still sounds scared. That’s a good sign.” He looked up at me. “What’s next on your agenda?”

“Not sure. Maybe Pauline can give us something on Gilly. Maybe there’s something we don’t know yet about the dead guy, Ebner, that’ll help. The cops’ll be watching Switcher. What I need to find out at this point is what the Command’s Plan B is. Now that Plan A’s been leaked, are they going to go after someone else? The real question is what’s next on
their
agenda.”

“How you going to find that out? You’re not exactly, what’s it called, Inner Circle.”

That was too true. And now Royal, my only entry to the warriors, was not just out of the loop but also out of circulation. Still, I had a few things I could do if nothing broke on its own. For one thing, I wanted to talk to Karl. He’d warned me about Floyd, for some reason. Maybe he’d tell me what that reason was. And Floyd. My buddy Floyd. If I poked him with a sharp stick, would anything leak out? There was also Leslie. Sure, she was a monster and she didn’t trust me at all, but she’d done more than grunt at me, and I couldn’t say that about the other warriors. I was also very interested, the more I thought about it, in talking to Maryanne. She’d be disgruntled about being 86’d from Thor’s, and that could be good. I didn’t even have her last name. Maybe Leslie would give it to me if I was real tricky.