Hard Cash (3 page)

Then I thought some more about all those
hundred-dollar bills nestling safely in their hiding spot in my apartment. All
facing the same way, nice and neat. All of them ready to be dipped into and
spent on things I need and want. Waiting just for me —

Fucking wake
up already.

After paying my tab, I went to the front desk. A
young Asian guy smiled and greeted me. I flashed my PI credentials. Back when
California took my license, I surrendered the duplicate I'd requested a few
months before that.

"My name's Jack Barnett," I told him.
"Private investigator. I'm here inquiring about a guest who checked out
yesterday. Man named Ricardo Lane."

His face didn't show any recognition of the name
as he started tapping his computer keyboard. Madden's boys probably talked to
someone else when they were here; otherwise, he would've known Lane was dead.

"Yes," he said in a quiet, accentless
voice. "Mr Lane checked out yesterday at around twelve-thirty PM."

"How long was his stay?"

"Oh, just one night. I checked him in myself
late Tuesday afternoon."

"Really? You remember? Do you recall anything
he might have said that was even the least bit out of the ordinary? You know,
beyond the usual check-in conversation?"

He thought for a moment. His thin, well-arched
eyebrows furrowed his forehead.
Black hair hung straight across his head. It looked like it never
needed styling.

"No, not really. He just asked for some
directions."

"Did he now? Do you remember where?"

"Yes. I do recall, because it was a street
I'd never heard of. I remember, I had to look it up on a map for him."

"And what street was that?"

"Encanto Road."

IV

A
s I drove home, I felt the money slipping away. Hard as I
tried to tighten my grip on the situation, everything became more and more
vaporous. Questions throbbed inside my head like a pounding jungle drum, and
the jungle itself thickened the deeper I waded into it. The only thing I had
going for me was that right now, it appeared to be dead money.

We use that term in poker. It refers to money
that's been put into the pot by players who subsequently drop out of the hand, forfeiting
their stake. Lane was deceased, and Blake didn't admit to knowing anything
about it, so one would think that neither one of them had any further claim on
it.

But the whole thing didn't add up.

I contemplated making the trip to Port Isabel.
Talking with Lane's widow might blow away some of the fog surrounding his
death. It might also clarify Blake's role. With ninety-five thousand in my
nest, I could certainly afford to go, and the money was dead and getting colder
by the minute.
 

I pulled into my parking space at home and decided
I would first try to contact Lane's widow by phone. As I stepped into my
darkened apartment, I never saw the fist coming from behind the door. It caught
me right in the gut, doubling me over and knocking the wind out of me. From the
other side of me, something — I never knew what it was — landed
flush on the back of my head. An explosion of pain buckled my knees and sent me
straight to the floor, thrusting me into total darkness.

≈≈≈

Time meant nothing —
it could've been seconds, it could've been days. The next sensation I felt was
water in my face. I shook my head to clear the blackness that had consumed me.
It only partially worked.

 
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr Barnett."
I couldn't yet see, but I knew the silken voice.

Blake.

Slowly, I regained my senses. I was lying on the
floor, but when I tried to lift my head up, I was stopped by an ache the size
of Tampa reverberating through my skull, tearing it inside out. The taste of
blood ran through my mouth. I swallowed it. In a few seconds, I was able to
open my eyes, and I saw Blake sitting on my sofa, looking quite relaxed.

Off to one side stood two muscular goons, wearing
sport coats with open-necked shirts. At first, they looked like four, but once
my double vision subsided, I could see they were just a pair. They were each
about twenty-five, with heads shaved bald. One had a goatee, the other didn't.
They looked like they both popped out of the same cookie cutter that produces
guys who fight in those barbaric bare-knuckle matches on TV. One of them was
holding my Springfield .357 semiauto, which he had found nestled in my bedroom
dresser drawer. My shoulder rig lay on the coffee table.

Blake spoke again. "I said, welcome back to
the land of the living, Mr Barnett." I couldn't yet speak, so he said,
"Steve, get him up in the chair."

The goon who wasn't holding my gun lifted me with
what seemed like very little effort, depositing me into a chair directly across
from the sofa. Sitting upright, I was becoming more and more conscious, able to
make slight movements on my own. The pain didn't go away, though.

"Can you talk now?" Blake asked, his
smooth voice becoming a little snappish.

I tried for a few words, but could only mumble.
That was a lot more than I could do a minute ago, though, so I knew that
semi-coherence was not far away.

Blake said, "Julius. The water."

The goon with my gun grabbed something —
probably my water pitcher from the fridge. He flung its icy contents into my
face again. The cold shock sent me into a body-length spasm, penetrated my
brain, and reawakened me.

Finally, I could form words. "Blake, what the
hell do you want?" My mind went straight to the money in what I thought
was a nice, safe hiding spot.

"It's not what do
I
want, Mr Barnett,
but what do
you
want? I did a little checking with my friends down at
police headquarters and they gave me the number of the cell phone that made the
911 call from the Ricardo Lane accident. A little further checking, and I find
the number belongs to you. What do you think of that?"

My vision became a little clearer, as I saw his
eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise.

I said, "I'm not paid to think."

I did think, though. I thought how Blake would
force me to hand over the cash. I thought how much more of this shit I would
have to take before the ninety-five dimes went sailing straight into his
pocket.

Water dripped from my hair and forehead into my
eyes. I wiped it away with my shirtsleeve as best I could.

Blake shifted his weight on the couch and crossed
his legs. My vision finally returned and I took a good, long look at him. His
tanned face appeared even more handsome than the one in his website photo. His
charcoal gray suit had thin chalk stripes, probably custom-made. His shirt
looked high-end, too, pale blue and well-fitting. But his tie was in the lime
green neighborhood, way off base for the rest of his outfit. Given my
situation, lying here in extreme pain and all, I normally wouldn't notice the
cut of a guy's clothes, but this tie was so godawful it jumped out of his suit
at me and made me squint.

Even still, I had to admit he looked good. Like he
should've been in a top-level meeting somewhere hammering out some
hundred-million-dollar deal, not in an ex-PI's low-rent, one-bedroom apartment,
supervising a brutal beating.

"Well, I'll tell you what
I
think of
it," he said. "I think it's wonderful when a private citizen takes it
upon himself to report a crime that he has witnessed. You know, helping the
police keep our streets safe, and all that good stuff." His voice took a
downward turn, suddenly crackling with aggression. "But I don't like it at
all when that citizen tries to involve me in that crime."

"I bet you'd like it even less if you
were
involved."

He gestured to the goon he called Steve, who came
over to my chair and laid a solid right to my jaw. Blood slid out of my mouth.
I reached for my handkerchief.

He held up my ID case for me to see.

"Now, Mr Barnett, I see here that you are a
private investigator. From California, no less. What is your connection to
Lane? Where do you know him from?" He fingered my ID, shuffling it
absently from one hand to the other, waiting for me to respond.

I spoke around my handkerchief. More like mumbled,
actually. "I never saw him before he got run over."

"Well, where did you get my name from? Are
you associated with anyone from South Texas?"

"Lane spoke your name before he died. That's
all I know. Now, what's
your
connection to him?" Not that I was in
any position to demand anything from Blake, but I wanted to postpone any
discussion of the money.

He chuckled a little, then said, "Allow me to
introduce No-Sleeve Steve. Steve, please remove your jacket."

No-Sleeve Steve obediently peeled off his sport
coat and folded his arms, revealing huge, prime-cut biceps protruding from a
dress shirt with the sleeves cut off. The biceps led down past powerful
forearms to ham-hock fists. It sent a pretty clear message.

"Steve here, and Julius, are my connection to
you
, Mr Barnett. They will be your future, should you decide to
interfere in my business any further. Am I making myself understood?"

Not wanting to swallow any more blood, I sopped it
up from my mouth with my handkerchief. I gathered he took that as a yes.

He stood up, signaling the goons. Julius slid the
clip out of my weapon. He returned the gun to its holster, then placed it on
the coffee table. In a moment they were out the door. I staggered over to my
window, where I saw them get into a dark green Escalade across the parking lot.

I rushed to the money hiding place. Still there. I
gazed at it for a minute. Blake never asked about it. What the fuck was up with
that? I didn't have the answer, but as I wiped my own blood off my face, I
vowed right then and there never to turn that money over to him.

I took out a couple of hundred so I could get my
mouth looked at. Then I drove to a little storefront clinic nearby where they
don't ask too many questions. Fortunately, I didn't need any stitches. The
doctor cleaned up the wound and put antiseptic and a dressing on it. It still
hurt like hell.

Afterward, I drove home, poured a Dalmore,
settling in to watch TV for the rest of the day. I tilted my head to the right
as I drank, careful not to let the Scotch get too close to the wound. Even if
it did, what the fuck. It was alcohol, right? Might sting a little, but it
would clean away any germs.

As night fell, I'd drained the Dalmore, a little
less than half a bottle's worth, and lay heavy-lidded on the couch in front of
the flickering TV.

≈≈≈

The next morning found me
on the couch with a pounding head. The damned Scotch had done it to me again,
and now it was time to pay the tab. To make things worse, the temperature had
dropped considerably during the night, so in addition to blinding pain, I was
freezing. I headed into the bedroom for a thick sweater. I slowly tugged it
over my hurting head, then turned up the heat all the way.

I wanted to mope around the entire day in order to
give my cuts a chance to heal. My throat was dry. I drew a big glass of tap
water and downed it in a few gulps. Rehydrated, I made toast before starting
the coffee to help my head.

Checking the paper, I saw nothing new on the Lane
killing. Putting it behind me, I turned to the special automotive supplement,
and I started to think about what I would do with the money: spend it or invest
it.

I was heavily into an article featuring a sneak
peek at the upcoming 2004 Mercedes two-seater when my cell phone rang.

An all-business female voice charged out of the
other end of the line: "Mr Barnett?"

"Yes," I said around a piece of toast
that had already slid halfway down my throat.

"Jack Barnett?"

"Yes, this is he. Who's this?" I reached
for my coffee.

"My name is Erica Lane. Ricardo Lane was my
husband."

I nearly spilled the coffee trying to put the cup
back on the table. Stammering out a response, I think I asked her what I could
do for her.

"I'm in Las Vegas. I want to talk to you
about his murder." Her voice was naturally soft, but it tried hard for a
sharp edge. It got there.

"Well, there's really no evidence that it's
murder, Mrs Lane, but, uh, I, uh … where did you get my name?"

"I need to see you, Mr Barnett. I'll answer
any questions you have, but only in person. And I have some questions for you,
too."

Once again, I felt my grip on the money loosening.
After a sigh, I dropped my head and said, "Meet me in the coffee shop at
the Mirage Hotel. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

V

Y
ou wouldn't think it because the Mirage is so huge and
impersonal, even for a Las Vegas hotel/casino, but their coffee shop is a
relaxing kind of place. Roomy, seldom jammed up this time of year, and with
plenty of out-of-the-way seating for private conversations. Besides, they have
good breakfasts.

I took a booth a little way past the hostess stand
in a cozy nook to the right, hoping to spot her. But when she finally arrived,
I didn't have to search for her. My face heated up.

She lit up the place the moment she stepped in.
Even though she was maybe a little north of forty, she radiated sizzling Latin
beauty, standing there scanning the room. Her plain black dress clung like a
tailor-made to subtle curves, stopping where long, straight thighs took over.
She wore minimalist high heels, and her long, unadorned open neck made her
appear even taller. A ladies' Rolex swirled around one wrist, with a sparkly,
high-ticket bracelet wrapping the other. A no-bullshit rock sat on top of her
wedding band and what looked like a dark ruby burst out from a ring on her
other hand. Tasteful diamonds studded her earlobes. One look at her and you
knew it was time to wire home for money.