Slow Burn (21 page)

"Perhaps,"
she said. " Let's see if I can learn from my own mistakes." She
leaned over and put both hands on the table. "Mr. Waterman . . .
yesterday," Lawrence began.

"That
would be Monday," I interrupted.

Her green eyes
narrowed. "Yes, Monday."

"I just
wanted to do my part for being clear."

She gave me a
smile thin enough to pass for a scar. "Yesterday . . . Monday," she
began again. "In the course of your work for Le Cuisine Internationale,
did you have occasion to have a number of people followed?"

I could read
the gleam in her eye. If I said no, I was going straight to jail, without
passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars.

So I said,
"Yes."

Her
disappointment was palpable. "You did?" "Maybe you ought to
write this stuff down so we don't have to keep repeating ourselves."
"Whom did you have followed?" " 'Whom' is a terrible word, you
know." "What?"

"
'Whom'—it's one of those snob words people use to tell other people that
they're educated. It gives language mavens something to feel snooty about. I
think maybe only credentialed folks use the word. It doesn't work any better
than 'who,' and it sounds funny."

"Are you
refusing to answer my questions, Mr. Waterman?"

"Certainly
not. I was merely making an observation, an aside, a minor digression, as it
were." "Well?"

"Mason
Reese, the Del Fuego group and the Meyerson group."

"Were they
followed singularly or in groups?" "Except for Reese, they left in
groups."

"Do you
have a record of when the various parties left the hotel yesterday
morning?"

"Some of
them left in the afternoon."

She stayed
calm. "Do you have a record?"

She picked up a
stenographer's pad and a pencil.

"Yes,"
I said. "Dixie Donner and her traveling companion, whose name is Bart
something-or-other, left on foot at nine forty-nine. Mason Reese left on foot
at ten-twenty." She scribbled away. "At eleven-twenty the Meyerson
crowd left by limousine, and the Del Fuegos came down at twelve-twenty. They
also left by limo."

When she
finished writing, she leafed backward in the notebook until she found what she
was looking for. She marked the spot with her middle finger as she looked back
and forth between the pages.

"All
right, then. Let's start with Mr. Reese. Where did Mr. Reese go?"

"I have no
idea."

The gleam returned
to her green eyes. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I don't
have any control over what you do or don't believe, Lawrence. All I can do is
tell you the truth. I don't know where anybody went because I haven't had a
chance to run down the operatives and find out. Every time I set foot outdoors,
you guys arrest me."

"You're
very close to having that honor again, Mr. Waterman."

"Besides,
if I were to go out and find all those people. I'd be operating as a private
investigator, wouldn't I? And we couldn't have that, now, could we? Not with me
without a license and all."

"Very
cute," she said, without meaning it.

She readied her
pencil. "I want the names and addresses of these operatives of
yours."

"I don't
know that either."

"You hired
these people, and you don't know their names?"

"I didn't
hire them." "Who did?" "George."

"Then give
me his address and phone number."

"He
doesn't have either. You know that. You were in court this morning. Ifs a
matter of public record. That's why his bail was so high."

"You're
serious, aren't you? You're actually trying to tell me that . . . that
gentleman was—is—homeless?"

"Yeah, I
am. Ifs like I told you before—George was a friend of my father's. What can I
say? He drinks. He's fallen on hard times. He flops wherever he can. Once in a
while I have a need for day labor. When that happens, I try to use George and
his associates if I can."

"Because
you're such a charitable sort."

"Because
they work cheap and they make great surveillance operatives. Think
about it, Lawrence; who better to have hang around outside a building
all day long than a bum?
They're perfect for it."

She considered
her options. "When you want to contact Mr. Paris, how do you do so?"

"I leave
him a message at this bar he hangs out in."

"What bar
is that?"

"The Zoo,
on Eastlake."

Scribble,
scribble. She kept at me for the better part of an hour, worrying the issue
like a terrier with a rat. Writing down everything I said. Finally, she dropped
the notebook on the table and looked at me. She wasn't mad anymore. Beulah the
Bureaucrat was back.

"Mr.
Waterman, despite your protestations of harassment, we're going to do this by
the numbers. We are going to follow up on every lead you've given us. If at any
point it appears that you have been untruthful, if it appears that you have
been withholding information pertinent to this investigation, I am going to
charge you with obstruction of justice and I am going to permanently pull your
judicial variance. I hope I'm making myself clear."

When I failed
to respond, she shifted her gaze to the cops.

'Take Mr.
Waterman over with the others."

"Come on, Lawrence," I whined. "I'm tired. I want to go to my room. What over? What
others?"

All the others,
it turned out. Across the hall, they'd opened the doors between the individual
rooms, creating a single large meeting space. Tension hung in the air like fog.

Directly in
front of me, a serious clutch of suits leaned toward one another. Lieutenant
Driscoll was on Marry Con-lan's right. On Marty's left was Detective Lobdell.

Lawrence
's voice came from behind me.
"Excuse me, please, Mr. Waterman."

I moved out
into the middle of the room so that she could enter. She walked by me and
stepped up onto the dais. The conversation stopped. When she began to speak,
she had the suits' undivided attention. I headed for my client.

In the right
rear corner, Sir Geoffrey Miles, Rowcliffe and Senor Alomar huddled together in
a tight knot. Rowcliffe stood one pace to the rear, offering no expression
whatever, while Miles sat with his hands clasped across his midriff, his chin
high and gaze haughty. Alomar surveyed the room with the bemused ease of a man
on vacation.

To my immediate
right, the Meyerson contingent had redeployed the furniture, turning two tables
sideways, circling the wagons, cutting that comer off from the rest of the
room. Abigail Meyerson sat placidly between Hill and Francona, her back to the
front wall and her hands in her lap. Behind them, Brie skittered back and forth
along the west wall of the room, rubbing her shoulder against the surface as
she paced like a shooting-gallery duck. Spaulding was clear over in the
opposite corner, grab-assing with Rickey Ray.

The Del Fuego
mob was situated directly across from Sir Geoffrey. Dixie sat front and center
with her hand resting on Barfs right leg, way too high for polite company. Bart
appeared not to notice. Jack Del Fuego and Candace sat Dehind a long
pink-covered table. Jack wore an abstract-patterned sport coat that looked like
the international symbol for bad taste. Candace gave the impression of being
slightly amused.

I grabbed a
loose chair from the corner and sat down next to Sir Geoffrey. "What’s
going on? Things seem a mite tense."

"Sir
Geoffrey has fomented insurrection/' said Rowcliffe.

"He has
rallied the masses," added Alomar.

I didn't have
to ask. "These fools have been niggling at us all day," Sir Geoffrey
spat. "They had the gall to offer us prepared sandwiches. Tuna on wheat.
Ha! I have sworn to remain mute until properly fed. The remainder of the rabble
followed my lead and are, for once, holding their tongues."

"Dinner,
sir," Rowcliffe said.

He was right. A
liveried waiter stepped into the room, shot the bolts, top and bottom, and
opened both doors wide. When he stepped aside, an armada of carts rattled forward.
I counted them. Twelve carts full of food and drink. The door opener directed
traffic.

"Meyerson
order." He pointed. Four carts broke off the train and headed that way.
"Miles." he nodded in our direction. My old friend Rodrigo pushed the
lead cart free of the melee and headed toward us. He seemed surprised to see me
in such esteemed company.

With a grand
flourish, Rodrigo skidded the cart to a stop in front of Miles and Alomar.
"At your service," he said. This got him a barely perceptible nod
from Sir Geoffrey, while Alomar yawned into the back of his hand. Rowcliffe
stepped forward and began to set the table.

I moved back
out of the way, allowing the crew to hover and dart around, delivering two
bottles of wine, a basket of assorted breads, rolls and muffins, another basket
of gleaming fruit, plates, glasses, silverware. As if by magic, the trappings
of a banquet appeared around the two men. These were guys who knew how to order
from room service.

Rodrigo removed
the silver cover from one of the dishes on his cart. "The shad roe with
Creole," he announced.

Alomar waggled
a doubtful finger. As Rodrigo set the plate before him, Alomar dropped a hand
on the waiter's shoulder.

"You spoke
to the chef, as I instructed?" "Yes, sir," Rodrigo replied.
"About the pimiento?"

"Yes, sir.
I told him what you said. A mere rumor of pimiento." "Good
fellow."

Rodrigo turned
back and produced lamb kidneys bourguignon, which Rowcliffe took from his hand
and set before Sir Geoffrey. Sir Geoffrey bent and sniffed the air above the
plate.

"This time
the shallots are fresh?" he asked. Rodrigo held up a hand. "The chef,
he swears." Miles made a resigned face, and pointed at the wine bucket.

"Rowcliffe,
Let’s begin with the Merlot."

At the front of
the room, the city contingent was drinking coffee and tea from a collection of
silver urns, still deep in discussion, only now Lobdell was doing most of the
talking.

A water glass
of scotch had loosened Jack's tongue. I could hear him from where I was
sitting. As he held his plate aloft, a huge gob of mashed potatoes and gravy
began to slide down his face.

"Will ya
take a look at this dry little piece of shit for twenty-nine dollars?" he
bellowed. "Hey, Abby. This must be one of your sawdust specials."

Dixie
waved her fork in the air. "I told
you we're not charging enough, Jack. Haven't I told him that?" she asked
nobody in particular. "We're givin' them too damn much for too damn
little."

The Meyerson
group pretended not to hear. Sir Geoffrey and Senor Alomar were in rapt
concentration. Only Rickey Ray wasn't eating. He still stood near the center of
the room, taking it all in.

I walked over
to his side. "What, no pressed duck for you?"

He chuckled,
allowing a broken grin to nearly pull his face back into order. "No way,
Leo. You eat that shit, you look like old Jack." He looked me over.
"You don' look like you eat too mucha that crap neither."

"More than
I should."

He dug a finger
into my rib cage. "You're holding it pretty good."

"Holding
too much of it, is what I am."

He nudged me
with an elbow, "Well, you know, you get older . . ."

"Oh, ifs
like that, is it?"

Amid the quiet
clatter of silverware and working jaws, we shared a laugh. "That's a wild
flock you got over there," I said.

"You ain't
just kiddin'."

"How long
you been baby-sitting Jack Del Fuego?"

"Couple of
years or so."

"How'd you
come to know Jack?"

"I went
right after him, podna. that’s how it is with me. I always gotta go for it. Got
limited career choices, ya know. that’s what the Army guy tol' me when they
turned me down. Said he figured I'd got limited career choices."

"You were
still fighting when you met Jack?"

"Yeah, and
gettin' damn sick of it, too."

"Tough way
to make a living."

"Aw,
hell," he said. "You got you a good look at my face. I been fightin'
my whole life. Never seemed like I had any choice. I used to be real sensitive
about it. All you had to do was look at me a little bit too long and I was all
over you like a cheap suit. By the time I started to fight for money, I
figured, you know, what did I have to lose, anyway. Wasn't like I was gonna get
uglier as I went along."

"Jack see
you fight?"

He nodded.
"I had a month off till I had to defend my title back in Dallas. I heard
they was having tough-guy matches down Oklahoma City way. Givin' away five
grand every Friday night. I figured, you know, what the hell, might as well
make some cash. I seen him around the fights with the other high rollers, you
know. Didn't take much imagination to see he was one of those guys who was
always gonna have to own the biggest dog. that’s how come he had the meatball
brothers. All the other wads just had one gofer chauffeur, but the Jackeroo
just had to have two. Anyway, fella I knew tol' me how much Jack was paying the
Galante brothers to watch his big ass, and I figured, shit, I might as well be
the one takin' his money as that pair of mud pies. So, you know, one Friday
right after the fights, I walked up to him at this big barbecue he was throwin'
for his golf buddies and tol' him, right in front of God and everybody, how I
was frxin' to become his bodyguard and companion."