Get Shorty (19 page)

“You mean cops,” Harry said.

“Well, that's possible, yeah. Maybe Drug Enforcement individuals—I don't know. I was thinking more of other people in the product trade know buys are made out there, money changing hands. You understand what I'm saying? They the ones you have to watch out might rip you off. Like if you look, I don't mean like one of them, but kinda suspicious, you act nervous taking the bag out of the locker . . .”

“I don't know,” Harry said, shaking his head.

Wanting it, you could tell, but afraid.

“It's what I'm saying, it's not the kind of thing you do,” Catlett said. “That's why I was thinking you could send your boy, Chili Palmer. He gets hit on the head you aren't out nothing.”

 

They took Chili's rented Toyota, down Rodeo to Wilshire to come back around on Beverly Drive. On the way he told Karen about going into a restaurant on Little Santa Monica when he first got here. Went in all dressed up and was put way in the back after waiting at the bar about an hour, while these people who looked like they'd been out camping would come in and get the empty front tables right away. He told her about the worn-out leather jacket Michael had been wearing.

“You buy them new like that,” Karen said. “What did you think of him?”

Chili said he thought he was basically a nice guy, but it was hard to tell. “He was
on
most of the time. I think he has trouble being just himself.”

“He do any imitations?”

“Michael Jackson.”

“He used to do Howard Cosell constantly.” She said, “You know it isn't easy being Michael Weir.”

Chili didn't comment on that, thinking seven million ought to make it a
little
easier.

They were quiet and then she said, “What's Nicki like?”

“She's a rock-and-roll singer.” He thought a moment and said, “She doesn't shave under her arms.”

“Michael probably goes for that. He thinks he's earthy.”

“You still like him?”

“I don't hold anything against him. He's Michael Weir . . . and he's great.”

“You mean his acting.”

“What'd you think I meant, in bed? In bed he was funny.”

“Funny in what way?”

“He was
funny.
He said funny things.”

For a few moments they were quiet again.

“He's a lot shorter than I thought.”

“That's not his fault,” Karen said.

Chili dropped her off in front of Tribeca, a storefront kind of café with the name on the plate glass, and drove up the street looking for a place to park.

 

They weren't at that old-time-looking bar or anywhere on the main floor. Chili headed for the open stairway and started up. The place could be called the Manhattan or the Third Avenue, that's what it looked like, one of those typical overpriced New York bar-restaurants. The TriBeCa area, he thought of warehouses, buildings with lofts, but it was as good a
name as any. He saw a railing along the upstairs, this end of it open, overlooking the bar. And he saw a guy standing near the top of the stairs, the guy a few steps down but not coming down, standing there waiting for him. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt with beef on him and a full reddish-brown beard.

Moving up the stairs Chili got a good look at the guy and his size. Now he saw Bo Catlett appear above the guy to stand on the top step, almost directly behind him, and Chili knew the guy wasn't going to move. He got within three steps of the guy and stopped, but not looking up now, not wanting to put himself in that awkward position, his head bent back. He was looking at the guy's waist now at eye level, where the Hawaiian shirt bloused out of the elastic band of the guy's blue pants, double-knit and tight on him.

Catlett's voice said, “I like you to meet my associate, the Bear. Movie stuntman and champion weight lifter, as you might've noticed. Picks up and throws out things I don't want.”

Chili looked at the thickness of the guy's body, at red and gold hibiscus blossoms and green leaves on a field of Hawaiian blue, but wouldn't look at his face now. He knew they were hibiscus, because Debbie used to grow them on Meridian Avenue before she flipped out and went back to Brooklyn.

Now the guy was saying, “I know Chili Palmer. I know all about him.”

The Bear sucking in his stomach and acting tough, his crotch right there in Chili's face. This guy was as nuts as Debbie. You could tell he had his stomach sucked in, because the waistband was creased where the guy's gut ordinarily hung over and
rolled it, the pants as out of shape as this guy trying to give him a hard time. But Chili didn't look up.

Catlett said, “We think you ought to turn around and go back to Miami.”

Chili still didn't look up. Not yet.

The Bear said, “Take your ten grand with you, while you still have it.”

And Chili almost looked up—this guy as much as telling him he had been in his hotel room, nothing to it, saw all that dough and left it—but he didn't. Chili kept his eyes on the guy's waist and saw the stomach move to press against the elastic band, the guy still putting on his show but giving his gut a breather. Chili looked at the guy's crotch one more time before moving his gaze up through the hibiscus till he was looking at the guy's bearded face.

Chili said, “So you're a stuntman,” with the look he'd use on a slow pay. “Are you any good?”

What the Bear did in that next moment was grin and turn his head to the side, as if too modest to answer and would let Catlett speak for him. It made the next move easier, the guy not even looking as Chili grabbed a handful of his crotch, stepped aside and yanked him off the stairs. The Bear yelled out of pain and fear and caught Chili's head with an elbow going by, but it was worth it to see that beefy guy roll all the way down the stairs to land on the main floor. Chili kept watching till he saw the guy move, then looked up at Catlett.

“Not bad, for a guy his size.”

 

Karen saw it.

There was a scene like it in an Eastwood picture only Clint grabs the guy a little higher. The thug asks
him where he thinks he's going. She couldn't remember if Clint had a line. He's going upstairs in a hotel to have it out with Bobby Duvall. Grabs the guy with one hand and in a Reverse you see him tumble down the stairs to crash at the bottom. It was a western.

Karen had left the table within moments of seeing Catlett stop at the top of the stairs with the bearded guy, the Bear, in front of him, a few steps below, and knew they were waiting for Chili and something was going to happen. As a film sequence it would work from her point of view if she represented a third party in the scene. Then another setup to get the effect of it on her face. But there would have to be close shots too of what was going on. His hand grabbing the guy's crotch. A tight close-up reaction shot of the guy's face. As he begins to scream cut to a Reverse to see him go down the stairs. Catlett was down there now. They were leaving, the guy looking back this way, but not Catlett. Karen watched from the upstairs railing, people from tables around her now asking what happened. Chili was coming past the ones at the top of the stairs. She heard him say, “I guess the guy fell.” Now he was looking at her. He came over and she said, “What did he do to you?” Chili shook his head. He touched her arm and they moved through the tables to the corner booth where Harry was standing with his drink in his hand.

Harry said, “What was that all about?”

 

Karen sat at one end of the round booth so she'd have an angle on both of them at once and wouldn't have to turn her head looking from one to the other. She moved the shrimp salad that hadn't been touched
away from her, and the half glass of white wine. Chili brushed bread crumbs away from his place. He would look over, wanting to include her at first, telling them Catlett and the bearded guy, the Bear, had broken into his hotel room and gone through his things. Telling it matter-of-factly, making the point: “These are the kind of people you're dealing with, Harry. They want me out of the way so they can have a piece of you.” Nice irony. The ex-mob guy telling Harry to look out for the limo guys, they're crooks.

Harry had been acting strange ever since she arrived and he introduced her to Catlett and Catlett introduced her to his friend the Bear and they let her stand there a few minutes, Harry's broad, nothing more, while Catlett spoke to him and placed a key on the table next to Harry's meatloaf. Most of it and the baked potato eaten; he hadn't touched his green beans. When Catlett got up he smiled and touched her arm and said it was a pleasure. A good-looking guy, he reminded her of Duke Ellington, dressed by Armani or out of that place on Melrose, Maxfield's, wearing about two thousand dollars' worth of clothes.

The key wasn't on the table now.

Harry said to Chili, “You know what he is, you told me. So what? I need a hundred and a half, at least, and he's loaning it to me, no strings, I write any kind of agreement I want. All I have to do is pick up the dough. Okay? If you have a problem with him that's your problem. I don't.”

It seemed that simple till Chili asked, “Is he giving you a check or cash?” and it got interesting. Harry said cash. He said it happened to be waiting right this moment in a locker at the airport. He said
something about a business deal that didn't go through and Chili said, “Jesus Christ, the guy's setting you up. Don't you see that? You pulled out of their
Freaks
deal so he's teaching you a lesson. He's not giving you anything, Harry, he's paying you back.” Harry said he didn't know what he was talking about and Chili said, “Harry, I could write a fuckin book on paybacks. You reach in that locker, you're gonna come out wearing handcuffs, I'm telling you.”

Karen wished she could write some of it down.

Harry said, “Oh, is that right? I'm being set up? Then how come Catlett said I should send you out to get it, since you haven't done a fucking thing for me since you got into this?”

Karen watched Chili start to smile and for a moment it surprised her. Smiled and shook his head and said, “Harry, I was wrong, I'm sorry. You're not the one he wants to set up.”

Harry was not the Harry she had known for fifteen years; he was too quiet. But pouty, acting offended, Harry realizing he was into something he couldn't handle—that was it—and afraid of looking dumb.

Chili said, “Give me the key. If it's there and I don't see a problem, I'll get it for you.”

Karen watched Harry turn his head to look at Chili as though he had a choice and was appraising him, thinking it over.

She watched Chili shrug. He said, “It's up to you, Harry. But don't do it yourself, I'm telling you.”

She watched Harry put his hand in his coat pocket and bring out the key. He didn't hand it to Chili, he laid it on the table between them. He said, “A hundred
and seventy grand. I wonder if I'm ever gonna see you again.”

 

Harry left after that, which was fine with Chili. He and Karen went downstairs to sit at the bar for one, not sure if they'd eat here or go someplace else. She was full of questions, asking about the limo guys and how they made their money. Then asking if he was going out to the airport later this evening. He told her he was thinking of waiting till tomorrow around noon, when there'd be a lot of people there.

Right after that was when Karen said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. A friend of yours from Miami called the house.”

“Tommy Carlo?”

“No that wasn't it. I wrote it down,” Karen said. “Ray something. Ray Bar-bone? . . .”

The way the lockers in the Delta terminal worked, you put in three quarters for twenty-four hours. If you expected to use the locker any longer than that, you left two bucks inside for each additional twenty-four hours and a locker attendant would come by and check the time and collect the money. Chili had to read the instructions, printed on each locker, twice before he figured it out. He did this before walking past the bank of lockers where C-018 was located, noticing the lockers on both sides of it had keys sticking out. He liked that as much as he liked all the travelers here today. This LAX, ten-thirty in the morning, was a busy airport.

Next thing he did was check the Arrivals monitor to see what flight he was waiting for if anybody should ask. The one that caught his eye was 83 from Newark, due in at twelve-forty. He imagined Debbie coming out of the gate carrying a makeup kit full of pills and with that pissed-off look she had. Hi, honey, how was the flight? It was awful. The food was awful, the stewardess was a snip and I have a headache. He seemed to be thinking of Debbie and his situation more, still married
to her, since meeting Karen, even though he wasn't thinking of Karen in any serious way beyond—he wasn't sure what. The thing he liked about Karen, his past life and associations didn't seem to turn her on or off. She was natural with him, didn't put on airs. Also she was a knockout, she was smart, she was a movie star, or had been, and was starting to give him a certain look and call him Chil. All last night after the business with the stuntman, she had looked at him in a different way, he felt, than she did before. Like she wanted to know things about him. And she was quieter, even while asking a lot of questions, though she didn't ask if he was married or anything too personal. Dropping her off he thought she was going to ask him in. He believed she came close before changing her mind for some reason. Still looking at the Arrivals monitor he noticed Flight 89 from Atlanta up there, the one Bones had connected with from Miami and arrived on yesterday. Karen called him Ray Bar-bone, but didn't ask about him, so he didn't tell her what kind of pain in the ass this fuckin Bones was turning out to be: the way he kept showing up, Christ, for twelve years now, here he comes again, Bones the mob guy and playing it for all it was worth, but basically second-rate muscle, Bones could be handled. As long as he didn't have that big colored guy with him. Chili thinking he didn't need that one too, he already had a colored guy on his back, the dude. What was this? The first time in his life having trouble with colored guys.

In the gift shop Chili bought an L.A. Lakers T-shirt, purple and gold, and a black canvas athletic bag, a small one. The T-shirt went in the athletic bag inside the paper gift-shop bag. He looked around at the souvenirs, all the different kinds of mementos of Los Angeles, at the wall
of books and magazines. There was a scruffy kid about eighteen who looked promising, checking out the skin magazines. Chili went up to him and said, “You want to make five bucks, take you two minutes?” The kid looked at him but didn't answer. “You go over to those lockers across the aisle there and put this in C-017.” The kid still didn't say anything. “It's a surprise for my wife,” Chili said. “But you have to do it quick, okay? While she's in the can.” That sounded as if it made sense, so the kid said yeah, okay. Chili gave him the paper bag his purchases were in, a five-dollar bill and three quarters. The kid left and came back with a key that had C-017 on the round flat part of it.

What Chili didn't do was look around the terminal to see if he could spot any suits—the way in movies you saw them standing around reading newspapers. That was bullshit. Maybe you could spot them if you were out here all the time doing business. Maybe the limo guys could spot them and that's why the hundred and seventy grand was sitting untouched in the locker. Chili had no doubt it was there or this wouldn't be a setup. The suits grab you with something incriminating, with what they called “suspected drug money,” or there could be more than cash in the locker, some dope, to make the bust stick. There was no sense in looking around, because if it was a setup Catlett would have called it in and the suits would be here dressed all kinds of ways watching locker No. C-018, here and there but not standing anywhere near the locker, so why bother looking?

What Chili did, he left the airport for a couple of hours: drove over Manchester Avenue where he found an Italian place and had a plate of seafood linguine marinara and a split of red. While he was here
he wrote the Newark flight number and arrival time on a piece of Sunset Marquis notepaper. It seemed like a lot of trouble, the whole thing, but it was better to have a story just in case, not have to make one up on the spot.

By half past twelve he was back in the Delta terminal waiting at the gate where 83 was due to arrive at twelve-forty. It was on the ground at five past one. He watched all the passengers come off the plane and out through the gate till he was standing there by himself. Okay, he turned and walked down the aisle now to the bank of thirty-three lockers, three high, where C-018 was about in the middle. He looked both ways, taking his time, waiting till a group of people was passing behind him, giving him a screen, giving him just time enough to open C-017, grab the black athletic bag, leaving the gift-shop bag inside, and close the locker. He got about ten yards down the aisle, heading for daylight, when the black guy in the suit coming toward him stopped right in his path.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you come with me, please?”

Now there was a big guy in a plaid wool shirt next to him and another guy, down the aisle, talking on his hand radio. All of them out in the open now. The black guy had his I.D. folder open. They were Drug Enforcement. As Chili said, “What's wrong?” acting surprised. “What's this about?” The black guy turned and started off.

The one in the plaid shirt said, “Let's follow him and behave ourselves. What do you say?”

They took him to a door marked authorized personnel only the black guy opened with a key. It was bare and bright inside the office, fluorescent
lights on. Nothing on the metal desk, not even an ashtray. There were three chairs, but they didn't ask him to sit down. The one in the plaid shirt told him to empty his pockets and place the contents on the desk, actually using the word
contents.
But that was as official-sounding as it got. Chili did as he was told acting bewildered, saying he thought they had the wrong person. The black guy opened his wallet and looked at the driver's license while the other one pulled the Lakers T-shirt out of the athletic bag and felt around inside. They glanced at each other without giving any kind of sign and the black guy said, “You live in Miami?”

“That's right,” Chili said.

“What're you doing in Los Angeles?”

“I'm in the movie business,” Chili said.

They glanced at each other again. The black guy said, “You're an investor, is that it?”

“I'm a producer,” Chili said, “with ZigZag Productions.”

“You have a card in here?”

“Not yet, I just started.”

The one in the plaid shirt looked at the “contents” on the desk and said, “Is that everything?”

“That's it,” Chili said. He watched the black guy pick up the note with the Newark flight number and arrival time written on it. Chili said, “I'd appreciate your telling me what this is about.” He could act nervous with these guys without trying too hard.

“I got a John Doe warrant here,” the one in the plaid shirt said. “I can strip-search you if I want.”

“Pat him down,” the black guy said.

“Why don't I strip-search him?”

“Pat him down,” the black guy said.

Chili was starting to like the black guy, his quiet way, but couldn't say as much for the other one. The big guy in the plaid shirt put him against the wall, told him to spread his legs and did a thorough job going over him as the black guy asked what he was doing at the airport. Chili said he was supposed to meet his wife, but she wasn't on the flight. The black guy asked why, if he lived in Miami, his wife was coming from Newark? Chili said because they'd had a fight and she left him, went back to Brooklyn. He said he asked her to come out here, maybe with a change of scenery they could get back together and she said okay, but evidently changed her mind. He didn't mention it was twelve years ago she'd left him.

The black guy said, “Your wife a Lakers fan?”

“I am,” Chili said. “I'm a fan of everything that's L.A. I love it out here.” And looked over his shoulder to give the guy a smile.

The black guy said he could go. Then, when Chili was at the desk, asked him, “What was the number of the locker you used?”

Chili paused. “It was C . . . either sixteen or seventeen. He said, “Can I ask you—are you looking for a bomb? Something like that?”

“Something shouldn't be there,” the black guy said.

“Why don't you get the attendant to open all the lockers and take a look? Maybe you'll find it.”

“That's an idea,” the black guy said. “I'll think about it.”

“That's what I'd do,” Chili said. “I'd make sure I got the right guy next time.”

That was it. Time to collect his “contents” and his new bag and leave. He didn't like the way the black guy was looking at him.