Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
“Has the guy did
anything
you'd expect so far?” Nelson wanted to know.
“You wanna call first or just go?”
“Let's go. This is about our last shot till we see Lugo.”
“Okay,” Lynn said, standing up and massaging his right knee.
Breda surprised him by taking off her yuppie glasses and looking directly at him. “Do you have a gun with you?”
“No,” he said, “but Nelson carries more firepower than Israel.”
“I'll watch over him, don't worry,” Nelson said to Breda.
Encouraged by her concern, Lynn said to her, “I know I pleaded poverty but I been holding out. If anything happens to me I want you to take my bank card to the beg-a-buck machine and take it all: thirty-three bucks. You can even have the coupons I been saving for a carpet-cleaning discount. Nelson, he gets my steering wheel cover and my bowling ball. If
he
survives.”
Breda didn't answer. She put her strawberry glasses on and went back to the computer, not even bothering with a mean little grin.
There was a one-hundred-foot drop from ceiling to lobby floor. And the lobby, the size of a small town, looked like it had been designed by a mathematician. Geometry dominated. There were tiers of half-hexagon stone planters overflowing with flowers, ferns and exotic plants, as well as octagon reflecting pools.
Above the ground were half a dozen floors offering rooms whose doors opened out onto a view of the colossal lobby on one side and the desert panorama on the other. More descending tiers, these full of water, spilled down into a canal upon which guests could ride to their rooms in an electric boat with a surrey top, captained by a girl in sailor whites. The only real drawback to the concept was that all of the indoor water emitted a dank odor.
Lynn had only been inside the resort hotel twice, but Nelson never had. They moseyed around before Nelson spoke to a young woman at the reception area. “I'd like to leave a message for Mister Ibañez. Francisco V. Ibañez. Unless he's already checked out?”
She went to a computer, punched a few keys, and said, “No, we have him until Monday. You might try the house phone around the corridor to your right.”
When they got to the phone, Lynn said, “If he's in, you'll be somebody from the car rental. He's gotta bring the car back because there's been a mistake. It was promised to somebody else.”
“Yeah, I'll tell him we'll give him three days for free because a the mixup.”
“Don't overplay your role,” Lynn said. “One free day's enough.”
Nelson picked up the house phone and said, “Mister Ibañez, please.”
He let it ring ten times, but shook his head at Lynn and hung up.
“Okay, let's cruise,” Lynn suggested. “If I spot him, I'll give you a signal and turn my back so he doesn't recognize me.”
“Then what?” Nelson wanted to know.
“Then while you keep an eye on him I'll go straight to the phone, call the sheriffs and tell them to come pick up their smuggler.”
Lynn had expected anything but reason and common sense from Nelson Hareem at this point, yet Nelson said, “I agree.”
“I could kiss you, kid,” Lynn said.
“You already warned me against that,” Nelson reminded him.
With the thirty-second annual Bob Hope Chrysler Classic going on, the hotel was like just about every other hotel in the desert: fully booked. Lynn and Nelson went out to the pool area and studied all dark bald men, as well as all dark men wearing hats. There were a lot of both, what with so many tans.
Their progress was temporarily halted by a champagne blonde at poolside modeling a passion-pink floral bikini, and a golden cotton-weave sun hat. First she'd pose with, then without a matching cover-up, while a fashion photographer clicked away.
Nelson ogled, then resumed his stroll, splitting off from Lynn, looking for “possibles” worth a second look. He saw a lot of young women his age with old men Lynn's age.
There was a breeze blowing, but the pool decking trapped and intensified the heat and the water reflected a blistering glare. Lynn was hot, but resisted the temptation of buying a drink from one of the strolling cocktail waitresses in sarongs. The smell of coconut oil reminded him of many failed poolside romances during the years in Palm Springs when he'd still believed a deep tan would bring him love, not just skin cancer.
Now, resigning himself to lonely middle age, he just stayed out of the scalding sunlight as much as possible. Wilfred Plimsoll said that his saloon was the safest place in town. Not a single case of basal cell carcinoma had been triggered by the gloom in The Furnace Room.
There were several dark husky men wearing hats who made Lynn's heart pump for a few seconds, but when he'd get close to them it was always a no-go.
His
guy had small, very dark eyes and slightly flared nostrils, at least they'd been flaring when he'd waited, hands held low, for the charge of Lynn Cutter.
“Whaddaya think, Lynn?” Nelson asked, after they'd lingered for nearly thirty minutes.
“Another phone call?”
They went back to the house phones and tried again. Nelson let it ring even longer before shaking his head and hanging up.
“Lemme try something,” Lynn said, and Nelson followed him back to reception.
This time there was a young man behind the reception desk. Lynn said to him, “I've been trying to reach Mister Francisco Ibañez all day. Did he leave a message in his box for me? My name's Costner, from Desert Car Rentals.”
The young guy disappeared for a moment, then returned and said, “Mister Ibañez has gone to L.A. till tomorrow, but there's a note from the concierge that a clubhouse badge will be delivered for Mister Ibañez this afternoon. Are you delivering it?”
“Do you mean for the Bob Hope tournament?”
“Yes,” the young man said. “Are you the person with the badge?”
“No,” Lynn said. “Not that badge. Thanks anyway.”
When he and Nelson were leaving the monster lobby, Lynn said, “Guess you and me're going to a golf tournament tomorrow. Wear your plus fours.”
“What're plus fours?” Nelson asked.
“Knickers.”
“What're knickers?”
Lynn said, “I think our generation gap is insurmountable. I'll bet you've never tasted a stewed prune. Plus fours? Like Payne Stewart wears?”
“Wanna stop by John Lugo's house on Southridge before we go back to Breda's?” Nelson asked.
“He'll still be out on the course.”
“Okay, wanna go get a pick-me-up at The Furnace Room, and then come back here and stake out Ibañez?”
“I gotta do the other thing with Breda, remember?”
“How bout afterwards?”
“I'm not coming back here tonight,” Lynn said. “I'm getting a good night's sleep. We're gonna wrap this up tomorrow by catching Ibañez here in the morning, or by staying closer to John Lugo than his caddy.”
“How do ya wanna do it?”
Lynn said, “Here's what I propose: Tomorrow morning I'm coming back to the hotel bright and early, ready to spot him if he returns from L.A. to pick up his clubhouse badge. If by chance he decides to go straight to the tournament without stopping here,
you'll
be there.”
“But how'll I know him? I didn't get a good look.”
“You'll know him,” Lynn said. “After all this, you'll know him, won't you?”
Nelson looked at Lynn for a second and said, “Yeah, I think I would, if he gets near John Lugo.”
“Okay, the obvious thing to do is, find Lugo and stick with him. If our guy shows up wearing a wig, or a Batman suit, or cross-dressed to look like Bette Midler, you'll be there.”
“Don't worry, I'll recognize him. I
think.
”
“When you drop me off, go straight to a phone, call Lugo's lawyer at home and tell him you're gonna hang around his client tomorrow. Grishman'll tell Lugo you're around. He doesn't want anything to happen to his old-age-annuity client.”
“How bout Breda?”
“I'm gonna ask Breda to shuttle back and forth from the golf tournament to the hotel if necessary, or to relay phone messages between you and me.”
“Sounds okay,” Nelson said.
“Try to look like a golf fan tomorrow.”
“Do golf fans wear cowboy boots?”
“Only one. Glen Campbell.”
After Nelson dropped him at the mansion, Lynn went directly to the ice maker in the pantry and scooped some cubes into a Ziploc bag to put on his throbbing knee. As he sat there in the “gourmet kitchen,” thinking that a thousand Chilean miners must've died for
half
the unused copper pans in the butler's pantry, he plunged into a lightweight bout of depression. He realized that when he finally lost this house-sitting job he'd probably end up in a couple of rooms that were smaller than this kitchen that had never even served more than four people at one time, according to the homeowner.
Lynn wouldn't be sorry to see the last of the place. The scale of the house was making him feel more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. And feeling alone made him think of Breda.
He took his ice pack with him and climbed the staircase to the master suite. He wanted to lie in a warm bath with the ice on his knee until it was time for their six o'clock date with Clive Devon. He turned on the country station, and by the time he'd gotten into the Jacuzzi tub, Vince Gill was singing for him.
Never knew lonely could be so blue
Never loved someone like I love you
Never knew lonely till you.
Well, there wasn't any sense feeling spooky about it anymore. The rednecks had his number, that's all there was to it. But, whatever the hell they sang about always applied to losers, so maybe that was the logical explanation.
He should've known the relationship couldn't go anywhere. What'd he have to offer? But wait a minute! He did have some connections in this town just by virtue of having been a cop for a long time. And he'd have a fifty percent pension tax-free, which, even allowing for the greater salary she'd earned at LAPD, would be worth more than
her
retirement checks. So maybe the sugar-coated fantasy he'd nibbled at for the past several days wasn't so farfetched, the fantasy of working part-time with her in her business. Maybe it could've worked out if her head wasn't more twisted around than the kid in
The Exorcist.
And all the while, Vince Gill never let up, not for a minute.
Never knew lonely could be so blue
Never knew lonely till youuuuuuu.
She picked him up in front of the house at twilight: low, blue and purple twilight. Breda didn't say anything at all when he got into the Z, so he said, “Nelson and me struck out today.”
“I know. Nelson called me.”
“I figured he'd fill you in, that's why I didn't call you,” Lynn said, causing her to show him that smirky little grin of hers that said: I don't give a ferret's fuck whether you ever call me, scumbag!
“I'll do the talking with Clive Devon if you don't mind,” she said, with a voice pretty far up on her irritation scale.
“It's
your
case,” he said. “I'm along to flash my buzzer at the only guy in this hemisphere that I ain't shown it to since I met you.”
“Look, I know things haven't turned out the way I said they would.”
“Not quite. I almost got killed. I probably
will
get killed sometime tomorrow when our bald guy goes after John Lugo or me, whichever one he spots first.”
“So explain,” she said, not looking at him as she roared away from a red light, all of a sudden as macho a driver as Nelson Hareem. “Why're you risking your ass like this?”
“Tell you the truth,” he said, “I'd call the sheriffs tonight and lay it all out for them if we really had anything to lay out. Believe me, if I spot the bald guy tomorrow morning I'm picking up the phone and calling nine-one-one. I'll point out their smuggler to the first deputy that arrives, and let their detectives work out what all that tombstone stuff is about.”
“Call the sheriffs now,” she said. “Let them in on it now.”
“I would if ⦔
“If
what
?”
“If I was more sure that all a the work we've done means anything at all. We're not positive Francisco Ibañez is the guy we're after. I don't wanna look stupid if we got nothing.”
Breda switched on the headlights and rolled her eyes the way he'd done so often with Nelson Hareem.
“Men!” she said. “Typical male-pattern bullshit! He put some hurt on you last time, yet you'd let him hurt you a lot, even to the
max
, rather than risk looking stupid in front of the other boys!”
“We all have our idiosyncrasies,” he said. “You ain't exactly a mental-health poster girl.”
“At least I stay sober,
most
of the time! At least I have a job!”
“I'm gonna have one soon as my pension comes.”
“What, bartending at The Furnace Room, when you're sober enough?”
That did it! He was really steamed! “Maybe!” he said. “But at least I won't have somebody at The Furnace Room calling me a sick degenerate when about the most decadent thing we ever do in there is sit around watching 1950's black-and-white movies with edgy background music about girls that look for love in all the wrong places with oily guys named Nick!”
When he finished that speech he wondered if it made any sense whatsoever.
The argument stopped when she made a screeching left turn from Palm Canyon Drive into Clive Devon's Las Palmas neighborhood.
The sky was darkening fast as Breda parked on the street. They walked to the gate of the Devon house and rang.
The maid, Blanca Soltero, answered the intercom. “Who ees there, please?”
“Police,” Lynn said. “We'd like to talk to Mister Devon.”