Last Ditch (34 page)

Normal
pushed the door open.
"Terry's up
my ass, Leo."

"Be
right
out," I said.

The
Street was
independent of time. Beneath the towering oaks and maples, the huge old
houses
frowned down at the street like dowager aunts. Tim Flood's house, like
most of
its neighbors, was better than twenty rooms. Three stories of tapered
columns,
gabled windows and gingerbread flourishes covered in brown shingles. A
three-foot brick wall, into which an ornate wrought-iron gate had been
set,
separated the sidewalk from the front yard I opened the gate and walked
up the
broad front steps to the double doors. I knocked, waited for about two
minutes
and then knocked again, harder this time.

A
bell
somewhere on the door tinkled as Frankie Ortiz pulled it open. He wore
a pair
of khaki trousers, a navy blue V-neck sweater and a pale blue
button-down shirt.
It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen him without a tie and
jacket.

"Hi,
Frankie." I said. "Sorry to intrude."

He
stuck his
head out the door and checked the street in both directions. "Ya
shoulda
called ahead," he said.

"You'd
have told me no."

He
stepped out
onto the porch and closed the door behind him.

"I
seen
where you popped those two Vegas cowboys."

"Thanks
to
you."

He
gave me a
look of mock surprise. "That what you come here for? To thank us? How
thoughtful."

"No,"
I said. "I need to talk to you."

"To
me?"

"To
both
of you."

His
eyes ran
over me like ants.

"Tim
don't
see nobody but Caroline."

"I'd
really appreciate it if you'd ask him."

Frankie
shrugged. "Way I see it, our accounts are even, Leo. You give us a hand
with the girl; we ship you a warning that somebody wants to waste your
ass.
Nobody owes nobody nothing."

"I'm
asking a favor," I said.

"A
favor,
huh?"

"You've
seen what they're saying about my father?" "Be kinda tough to miss
there, Junior." "How about it?" I asked.

He
smoothed his
pencil-thin mustache with the side of his finger.

"You
been
talkin' to Eddie Schwartz lately?" "Yeah."

He
checked his
manicure and then the street again. "Not much incentive for talkin' to
you
then, is it?" "No. I guess not." He gave it some thought

"You
wait
here," he said finally. "I'll go ask Tim." Five minutes later,
he reappeared at the door. "You caught him in a good mood," Frankie
said. He opened the door all the way, and I stepped into the vestibule.

"Come
on," he said, "you probably want to take that coat off before you get
in there."

I
took his word
for it and pulled the coat off as we ambled to the end of the hallway,
and then
on through the double French doors at the end of the passage, which
left us in
a small foyer between the main house and the giant solarium at the
back.
Frankie stepped to one side and ushered me into the stifling sunroom.
Like my
last visit, it was at least eighty-five degrees inside the glass room.
The
humidity was like the Texas Gulf Coast
in August.

A
dazzling
array of orchids, exotic plants and shrubs, many pushing the
thirty-foot glass
roof, dripped in the moist air. The place was a greenhouse with
furniture. It
felt like a sauna.

The
remains of
Tim Flood were masquerading as a pile of bones, dry, white and nearly
lost amid
the cushions of an ancient wicker settee that fanned out behind his
head like a
halo.

"Sit,"
he said, motioning toward a green wicker chair. Sweat was beginning to
roll
down my backbone. I sat.

Frankie
pushed
an old-fashioned bar cart over next to me and asked me what I wanted. I
took a
botded water and downed about half of it. Frankie poured something
disturbingly
yellow into Tim's glass, added two ice cubes and then took a seat on
Tim's
right, with his hands folded in his lap.

Tim
looked
pretty good. Smaller than I remembered. His hawklike nose had become
more
prominent with age; his bony liver-spotted hands gripped the padded
arms of the
lounger like bird's feet, but the hard little eyes showed no concession
to
time.

Tim
generally
liked to shoot the breeze a bit before getting down to business. He was
big on
tales of the good old days. Of ghost fleets on Lake
Union,
of breadlines and Hooverville and union elections that were settled by
sawed-off baseball bats up the sleeve. Today, however, he wasn't in the
mood
for small talk.

"Tell
me
about Eddie Schwartz," he said.

I
gave him the
whole story, omitting, nothing except what Ralph had said about Jimmy
Chen.

When
I
finished, Frankie jumped in.

"What
the
hell was he doing down on the docks?"

"I
think he
wanted to talk to Judy Chen."

"Why
would
he want to do that?"

"I
don't
know."

Tim
sat up
straighter in the chair. "What do you want from me?"

"Somebody
told me Judy Chen had her ex-husband working for her down on Pier
Eighteen.
Said it was the ex-husband who was supposed to let those people out of
that
container."

"Somebody,
huh?" Frankie repeated. He looked over at Tim. "Now what tittle
somebody might that be?"

"Eddie
Schwartz tells nobody nothing," offered Tim.

"Judy
neither," added Frankie.

Frankie
and Tim
passed a quick look between them.

"Ralphie,"
Frankie said. "The lush."

Tim
turned his
predator eyes on me.

"Ralphie
still alive, huh? I'da thought he'da swallowed himself to death by now."

"He's
working on it," I assured him.

"That
thing ate him up."

"What
thing?"

"The
container thing. He ain't never been the same since that. Before that
he was a
pretty good man. After that . . ." He made a drinking motion with his
thumb.

Moisture
was
beginning to seep out through my scalp. I took another big sip of my
bottled
water. "Is it true?" I asked.

"What?
That Ralphie likes a drink?" Frankie said with a smile. "Yeah. I
think that's safe to say."

I
kept my cool
and kept plodding forward.

"That
Judy
Chen had her ex-husband Jimmy working for her down on Eighteen and that
he was
the one supposed to let those people out of that container."

We
sat in
silence for a moment. I listened to the sound of my own thick breathing
and
imagined that I could hear the constant movement of water throughout
the room.

Tim's
voice suddenly
sounded hoarse. "You know, Leo, you outlive your friends; you outlive
your
secrets, too. It just happens. You wake up one day and none of the
reasons why
you was keeping secrets matter a rat's ass anymore, cause nobody who's
still
breathing gives a flying shit."

I
had no idea
what to say. He took a deep breath, fixed me with a stony stare and
continued.

"I
don't
like what happened to Eddie Schwartz."

I
nodded and
stared at the tops of my shoes.

"Eddie
was
a good man. Better than a lot of guys with legs."

"You
and
him was tight" Frankie said.

"Yeah,"
I said, without looking up. "When I was a kid."

Tim
rustled
around in the chair.

"Old
man
like Eddie ... a good man . . . shouldn't go like that."

"No,"
I agreed. "He deserved better."

Tim
leaned way
back into the shadows of the chair, nearly becoming lost again among
the
cushions, with only the sharp tip of his nose poking like an arrow out
into the
fight

"Frankie
says you want a favor."

Suddenly,
we
were at the last bus stop in the free ride zone. This was my chance to
drink my
water, pay my respects and get on up the road. After this, nothing was
free.

I
looked at
where I thought his eyes should be. "Yeah, I do."

"Then
you'll owe me," he said.

This
was the
"Last Train to Clarksville"
section of the program. Owing Tim a favor was no small matter. Tim's
favors
were not multiple choice. If he wants a package delivered to Detroit,
you go to Detroit.
If what he needs is somebody to shoot the mayor, then you shoot the
mayor. No
questions asked.

I
took a deep
breath. "I know," I said.

Frankie
shifted
in his chair. "You know, Leo, if it was just any schmoozer sittin'
there
in your chair, I'd think maybe the guy didn't know what in hell he was
letting
himself in for. But you know, it being you and all, I gotta ask you how
come
this is all so damn important to you. I mean . . . what the fuck do you
care?"

I
kept my voice
flat "How could I not care? In my whole life, my old man's the only
standard anybody's ever judged me by. Everything I've ever done has
been held
up to his light for inspection. Like it wasn't important on its own.
Like the
only thing important about it was how it compared to somebody's image
of my old
man, and what he might have done." I spread my hands. "How could I
not care?"

Frankie
sat
back in his chair and looked over at Tim. I saw the tip of Tim's nose
move up
and down. Frankie rested his chin in his hand.

"You
don't
quote us," he said.

"Naturally."

"What
do
you wanna know?" "Who killed Peerless Price?" "Not a
clue."

I
must have
looked dumbfounded. "I thought maybe . . ." I began. From the
recesses of the chair, Tim laughed. "You thought if your old man needed
somebody hit, he'd come to me, is what you thought right?" "Something
like that," I admitted. "He would," said Tim,
"usually."

"But
not a
reporter," Frankie said quickly. "You're lookin' for more trouble
than it's worth. You don't waste reporters."

"Not
even
for Bill," Tim said.

"
'Sides
that" Frankie said, "Bill... your old man ... he pretty much had
Price under control. Price had been busting his ball for years. Your
old man
had his ass covered."

I
tried
something else.

"What
did
my old man have on Douglas Brennan?"

They
passed
another look. I waited.

"Who
says
he had anything?" Tim asked.

"He
had
enough to get Douglas to issue an Order of Provision
over that raid on the Garden of Eden."

Frankie
raised
an eyebrow. "Kid's been doing his homework, Tim."

"He's
a
detective," Tim said; and they both had a good laugh.

"What
do
you need to know about Brennan for?"

"I
need to
squeeze him a little."

They
both broke
out laughing again.

"Jesus,
Leo," Frankie chortled. "Ain't you squeezed that poor old bastard
enough yet?"

"Guy
on
death row's hard to squeeze," Tim added.

"The
papers say he's gonna get a new trial. They say the judge made some
procedural
mistake. I figure Brennan can't afford anything coming to light that
could
potentially screw that up."

They
silently
talked it over again. Tim spoke first

"Some
say
that little Mexican he offed down in Tacoma
might not have been the first"

"Or
even
the second," added Frankie.

For
reasons I
don't understand, I had a terrific urge to point out that Felicia
Mendoza was
Guatemalan, not Mexican, but I resisted.

"Do
tell."

Frankie
leaned
out across Tim, putting his face close to mine.

"You
ask
him about the fifteenth floor of the Carlisle Hotel in nineteen
fifty-seven." "What about it."

Frankie
shook
his head. "I can't say no more. Some of the people involved are still
around."

I
was tempted
to ask if any of said "still around" people were, by chance, in the
room at this time, but decided against it.

"The
Carlisle Hotel, fifteenth floor, fifty-seven." "You just ask him.
You'll shrivel his dick up like a roll of dimes."

"What
if
he—" I started.

Tim
cut me
dead. "Come on, Leo. Show me something. Smart private dick like you
ought
to be able to run a little bluff. Give your old man that much info,
he'd come
out of there owning the guy's house."