Choke (30 page)

He found a parking place and went back to the bar on the corner, entering through the back door. The place was packed, and the music was loud. It was full of gay couples and stags, and Daryl’s entrance was noted by most of them. He found a spot at the bar and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it back, Daryl leaned over the bar and shouted into the man’s ear, “Who owns the place?”

“Why do you want to know?” the bartender shouted back, in what passed for a whisper in the crowded bar.

“I have a badge,” Daryl said. “You want me to show it to you in front of all these people?”

The bartender held up a finger. “Wait a minute,” he hollered. He walked to the opposite end of the bar, near the rear of the room, and spoke to a small man seated on a stool. After a few words the bartender looked back toward Daryl and waved him over.

When Daryl reached the end of the bar, the stool next to the little man had been vacated. The owner was slender and very blond; he reminded Daryl of a photograph he had seen on a book jacket of the young Truman Capote.

“So?” the man shouted.

Daryl leaned toward him. “Is there somewhere a little quieter where we can talk?”

The man wagged a finger at him. “Now why would I want to go somewhere quiet with a cop?” He waved an arm at the room. “Maybe there’s somebody you’d like to be introduced to?”

Daryl leaned in again. “Do you know a man named Merk Connor?”

“Sweetie,” the man said, “I know absolutely
everybody
who’s worth knowing. Is this Merk worth knowing?”

“Not anymore,” Daryl shouted. “This Merk is dead.”

The little man’s face went very white.

Tommy walked through the hotel slowly, looking for the two men. He found them in the restaurant, tearing into large steaks and starting a second bottle of an expensive-looking Italian wine. He ordered a club soda at the bar and watched them through the rest of their dinner. They said almost nothing to each other during the meal. Finally, the handsome one paid the check with cash, and they left the table and went up in the elevator. Tommy followed them to the lobby and watched the numbers stop at four.

He went to the front desk, which was manned by a short, middle-aged man with an extreme comb-over. “I need some information about two people who checked in earlier this evening,” he said.

“We don’t
normally
give out information about our guests,” the man said.

Tommy sighed and placed his badge on the counter, saying nothing.

“But for
you
I’ll make an exception,” the man said. “What is it you want to know?”

“The two men in question just left the dining room and went up to the fourth floor. I want to see their registration cards.”

The desk clerk riffled through a stack of cards and placed two on the counter.

“Mr. Oliver and Mr. Twist,” Tommy said aloud. “Somehow I didn’t expect literary allusions. Of Kansas City, Missouri. And I see they’re paying cash, no credit cards.”

“We get some funny names now and then,” the desk clerk said. “Usually it’s a couple of salesmen from Miami who aren’t out of the closet yet and think they’re being discreet. They always pay cash; they don’t want their wives checking the credit card bills.”

“What were your impressions of them?” Tommy asked.

“The nice-looking one did all the talking,” the clerk said. “I got the impression that the big one could only grunt.”

“Accent?”

“None that I could place.”

“Education?”

The man grinned slightly. “None that I could place. Funny, I expected him to sound New Yorky, but he didn’t. His grammar was less than perfect.” He picked up a clipboard and ran a finger down a list. “They left a wakeup call for nine
A.M.
”

“Late sleepers, huh?”

“He said something about jet lag.”

“Right. I want a room for the night, preferably on the ground floor, and I’d like your very best rate.”

“For you, it’s comped,” the man said. “Anything to help out our mighty men on the force.”

“You’re sweet,” Tommy said, accepting a key.

“Right down the hall there, on your left. You can see the elevators, if you peek through the little hole in the door. That’s what you fellows do, isn’t it? Peek through doors?”

“All the time,” Tommy replied. “Thanks.” He turned toward the room, and as he did, Daryl came through the front door, trying to look in-conspicuous. “What?” he said when the younger man approached.

“Let’s talk,” Daryl said.

“I just got a room; come on.” Tommy led the way down the hall, conscious of the gaze of the night clerk, opened the door, and showed Daryl in. It was one of the hotel’s better rooms, he suspected; it was large, had a seating area with a sofa and a pair of easy chairs, and sliding doors opened directly onto a small beach.

“Not bad,” Daryl said. “How’d you do it?”

“I think the desk clerk liked me,” Tommy said. “Have a seat; I’ve gotta call my wife.” He dialed the number.

“You didn’t show for dinner,” she said without preamble.

“I’m sorry about that, hon, but this case is heating up. I’m having to stay in a hotel over at the beach tonight; Daryl and I are following two out-of-towners.”

“Oh, is one of them the person on the phone in the middle of last night?”

“Rosie, baby, she was calling from L.A. Her information led us to these two guys. Now, I don’t have time to run it all down for you, but here’s where I am.” He gave her the phone and room numbers. “Daryl and I are both going to be here all night.”

“So now I have to worry about Daryl?”

“Sweetie, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He hung up. “I’m starving; you want something from room service?” He tossed a menu at Daryl.

“Who’s paying?”

“The hotel.”

“Caesar salad, prime rib, apple pie à la mode and a good red wine.”

“Same here.” Tommy called in their orders, then hung up. “I’m going to take a short walk on the beach,” he said, going to the sliding doors and slipping off his shoes and socks.

“Tommy, we have to talk.”

“We’ll talk over dinner. Right now I have to think some, and by myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Daryl said, opening the minibar and choosing a tiny bottle of good scotch.

They were into the roast beef before Tommy would allow any discussion.

“Now, what do we have to talk about?”

“We’re going to have to rethink the secret man theory,” Daryl said. “At least where Merk is concerned.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I got to thinking when I left here. You remember, I told you that the first time I followed Merk, he went in the front door of a bar and out the back door, and I thought he had gone to Clare’s house?”

“Yeah. So?”

“He went to the same place the night he was murdered, too, only he didn’t go out the back door. As a matter of fact, he didn’t go out the back door the first time, either.”

“So where did he go?”

“Upstairs with the owner.”

“To do what?”

“Tommy, it’s a gay bar.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“He’s been seeing the owner, a guy named Wilson Pater, for several weeks on a regular basis.”

“I never would have figured him,” Tommy said.

“Seems Merk was not exactly out of the closet yet. Pater said he was a little hard to get the first time.”

“Well, that does seem to cast a slightly different light on his relationship with Clare, doesn’t it?”

“Pater said the reason she gave him such a hard time in the divorce was he admitted he liked guys. She apparently didn’t take it well.”

“She wouldn’t, would she?”

“You think she was so mad she would knock him off?”

“Maybe. I’m still more inclined to think he was involved somehow, and she knocked him off to keep us from connecting them.”

Daryl polished off his apple pie. “So where does that leave us?”

“Our two palookas left a nine o’clock call; I left one for eight. Let’s get some sleep and see where they lead us tomorrow.”

“Suits me,” Daryl said. “I’m bushed.”

They each took a double bed and were immediately asleep.

C
lare Carras had just finished dressing when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to her bedroom and walked down the hall to the front door. A young man, rather handsome, dressed in a good Italian suit, stood at the door. He smiled.

“Mrs. Carras?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Parma. I was a business associate of your husband, kind of. I just heard about his … passing, and I happened to be in town, and I wanted to pay my respects.”

“Thank you,” she said. She had never heard of anybody named Parma, but he was very good-looking and quite charming.

“Can I come in a minute? I’d like to use your phone, if it’s okay.”

“Sure,” she said, unlatching the screen door. He was rather attractive, and it had been a while. She led him down the hall, past a phone on a small table. “Come upstairs,” she said. “It’s more comfortable.”

“Yeah,” he said, “comfortable is good.”

She reached the top of the stairs and turned, smiling, to show him to a sofa. She had not yet completed her turn and didn’t see the backhand coming. There was a loud noise as he struck her below the right ear, and she spilled backward into the room, her thin cotton dress riding up over her thighs. She scrambled backward, trying to get to her feet, but he caught her with his open right hand, and she fell again.

He came and stood over her, smiling. “Nice legs,” he said. He reached down, grabbed the front of her dress, hauled her to her feet, then sent her reeling toward a sofa.

She struck the sofa with some force, making it slide backward.

He walked toward her, then took hold of the coffee table between them and, with a quick motion, sent it flying across the room. A vase of flowers on the table smashed against a wall.

She held her hands out in front of her. “What do you want?” she asked, and her voice was nearly uncontrollable. Then she looked toward the door and, as frightened as she already was, she saw a man who frightened her even more. “Who is he?” she asked.

“Oh, this is my associate, Mr. Bones. He got that name because he likes breaking them. He tells me it’s something about the sound they make.”

“Please tell me what you want,” she said.

Parma dragged the other sofa toward her, then sat down, facing her. He reached into an inside pocket and retrieved a small kitchen knife. He removed a paper sleeve, revealing a blade only about two inches long. “I bought it this morning,” he said, “just for you.” He ran his thumb along the blade. “Razor sharp.”

“What do you want?” she pleaded.

“It’s like this, lady. I’m going to ask you some questions about your husband and his money, and if I don’t get answers that please me a lot, I’m going to start using this cute little knife on your very pretty face.” He threw the knife at the floor between them, and it stuck in the wide planking. “Then I’m going to fuck you in several places, maybe some you’re not used to, but you’ll get to like it. Then Mr. Bones here is going to fuck you, and he’s not nearly as nice about it as I am. After that, when I’ve finished using the little knife on you, no man is ever going to want to fuck you again, and I don’t think you would like that, because I think you like being fucked a lot. Am I right about that?”

“What do you want?” she asked again.

“Am I right about that?”
he screamed.

“Yes,” she said, trying to control her voice and think.

“Yes,
what?”

“I like being fucked.”

“Good; I think we’re starting to understand each other. Now, let’s get started with the questions. Your husband’s name used to be Marinello, or sometimes Marin. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“No,” she said weakly.

He stood up and unzipped his fly. “I’m going to let you take it out for me,” he said.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “He told me that used to be his name.”

“That’s better,” Parma said. “Your husband, back when his name was Marin, took some money from some people, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he told me he did.” She had to draw this out as long as possible, until she could regain control of herself.

“Did he tell you how much?”

“Not exactly. He only hinted that there was a lot.” She sat up, got her feet under her.

“Well, let me mention a figure.
Twenty-seven million dollars.
Does that have a familiar ring?”

“More,” she said. “He had more than that when he died.”

“Boy,
that’s
good news,” he said. “The people I work for are going to like that. Where is the money?”

“It’s … invested,” she said, shifting her weight to the front of the sofa cushion.

“Invested where? In what?”

“I’ll get the papers,” she said, rising and starting toward the small desk a few paces away. She managed to take three steps before he reacted and started for her.

She got the drawer open and whipped around, pointing the automatic at his head.

He stopped moving, realizing he had made a big mistake. He backed up a step. “Now, listen, lady; that’s going to hurt more than it’s going to help. Give it to me.” He held out a hand. “Unlike me, it’s not even cocked.”

Quickly, she worked the action and got off a round at his head. It caught him in the throat, and he staggered backward, wide-eyed.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the big man coming at her. She whipped around, assumed a firing stance, and put two rounds into his chest, knocking him off his feet. When she was sure he couldn’t get at her, she turned her attention once more to Parma, who was still standing, clutching at his throat with both hands, vainly trying to stem the spurting blood, which had soaked the front of his suit and was gathering in a large pool at his feet. She took a step toward him, the pistol held out at arm’s length.

He tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, he shook his head, spraying blood around him.

She lowered the pistol and put a round into his crotch. He staggered backward, knocked over a table, and fell facedown, twitching.

Then, before she could relax, another man appeared in the living room door. Clare spun and fired two rounds in his direction. He dove to the floor, his hands held out in front of him.