Potshot (22 page)

‘Maybe we should vote.’

‘Maybe I should make my phone call,’ I said.

Bernard shrugged and walked down to the other end of the porch. I called Wilbur Harris.

‘I don’t usually do this,’ Harris said. ‘But our mutual friend is entitled to a favor.’

‘You got surveillance on a guy in L.A. named Morris Tannenbaum?’

‘No further mention of names, please,’ Harris said. ‘We have him under consideration.’

‘Phone tap?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Visual surveillance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got a bug in the house?’

‘Yes. In his study.’

‘How long?’

‘Two years.’

‘He make you?’

‘I think he’s spotted the visual. They all assume they’re tapped. I don’t think he’s wise to the bug.’

‘Can you give me the logs from the bug?’

‘Sure,’ Harris said. ‘Maybe do your tax returns for you?’

‘And transcripts?’

‘You can’t have the transcripts. It would take too long to copy them.’

‘How about I give you a few names and if you come across them, you send me their transcripts?’

‘Gimme the names. I’ll see what we can do.’

I gave him some names.

‘If they’re all in the logs it’s too many,’ he said. ‘We got a serious problem staffing clerical help.’

‘God forbid you do the Xeroxing yourself.’

‘God forbid.’

‘Can you overnight them to me?’

‘And what do we get?’ Harris said.

‘I think Tannenbaum’s tied to a big swindle,’ I said. ‘If I can bust my end of it, you might get Tannenbaum.’

‘Gimme your address.’

I did.

Vinnie was up on the hill with his walkie-talkie. The rest of us were on the porch. I sat on the railing. Hawk leaned on the post by the porch steps. Tedy Sapp was making drinks.

‘We have a position,’ Chollo said, ‘for your consideration, jefe.’

‘We?’

‘All us, for whom I, a simple Latino, am honored to speak.’

‘That the same as simpleton?’ I said.

‘I do not think so. We are thinking that it makes no sense for us to sit here and wait for the Dell to attack us, when we could go out and slyly shoot them while they were still in their hole.’

‘If we were to be successful, we’d have to massacre pretty much all of them,’ I said.

‘Sí.’

‘I don’t want to do that,’ I said.

‘On the other hand, señor, we do not wish them to massacre us.’

‘I was thinking maybe there’d be a third option,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can bust this murder case and then maybe we won’t have to fight the Dell.’

‘We would run?’

‘It’s a third option,’ I said.

Nobody else said anything. Chollo took the drink that Tedy Sapp handed him, and took a sip and held it happily in his mouth for a moment before he swallowed it.

‘You were not so reticent about shooting in Proctor when we were after that cop’s wife,’ Chollo said.

‘We weren’t shooting fish in a barrel.’

‘We were risking women and children.’

‘They were risking the women and children,’ I said. ‘We were getting Belson’s wife out of there, and it was worth a massacre if it came to that.’

‘And this situation is not worth a massacre?’

‘No.’

Chollo thought about that. Everyone else was quiet.

‘You do not have to do it,’ Chollo said, without anger. ‘We can do it, and when we have you can solve your murder.’

Sapp handed me some beer in a long-neck bottle. Blue Moon, a personal favorite. I had a pull.

‘No,’ I said.

Chollo didn’t seem offended. Thoughtfully he rocked back in his chair. Bobby Horse sat beside him, both feet flat of the floor. Bernard was in another rocker, the second walkie-talkie on the table beside him. Tedy Sapp had stopped tending bar and was leaning on the wall, his arms folded. Even in repose, Sapp looked as if he were flexing. Chollo balanced his chair by touching his feet to the floor just often enough to keep the chair steady. He looked at Hawk.

‘I’m with him,’ Hawk said and nodded toward me.

‘You would have a problem with shooting them?’ Chollo said.

‘No.’

‘But you won’t?’

‘No.’

Chollo nodded slowly. He looked at Bobby Horse.

‘We could go back to L.A.,’ Bobby Horse said.

‘Sí.’

Chollo looked at Sapp.

‘I vote for the massacre,’ Sapp said.

‘Bernard?’ Chollo said.

‘I just as soon shoot all of them that we can,’ Bernard said.

Chollo turned back toward me.

‘But I got something else,’ Bernard said.

Chollo waited. Loose in his chair. Peaceful.

‘We ought to do what he says.’

‘Because?’ Chollo asked.

‘Because we said we would.’

‘And we cannot change our mind?’

‘Bernard J. Fortunato’s word is good,’ he said.

All of us were quiet, staring at Bernard. Finally Tedy Sapp spoke.

‘You’re so fucking little,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you had a word.’

‘You got to keep your word more,’ Bernard said, ‘if you’re small.’

Chollo was looking past me, toward the road.

‘Hello FedEx,’ he said.

A Federal Express truck pulled up in front of the house and the driver got out with an envelope.

‘Mr Spenser?’ he said.

‘Me,’ I said.

He handed me the letter. I signed his little Etch A Sketch, and he went to his truck and drove away. I opened the envelope. Inside was a thick sheaf of computer printout. I slipped it back in the envelope and looked around the porch.

‘You guys come to any conclusions?’ I said.

‘Bobby Horse and I will stay,’ Chollo said.

‘Me too,’ Tedy Sapp said.

‘Vinnie tole me he’d do what I did,’ Hawk said.

I looked around the porch. With the possible exception of Sapp, these were bad men who had done bad things.

‘Okay,’ I said.

No one had anything else to say.

‘Whyn’t you read that list?’ Hawk said.

I read the transcripts first. There were three: one George, who seemed to be a drug dealer, one Henry, who sounded like a bookie, and one Lou (female) talking about water resources in a place called Potshot (no state mentioned). The entry was dated a month before she hired me. Some of it was the kind of trivial chatter that people have before they settle in. Then I came to it.

TANNENBAUM: Fix us a couple more drinks, will you baby?

LOU: I’d love to
.

TANNENBAUM: Oh man, that hits the spot
.

LOU: To you, Morrie
.

TANNENBAUM: Preacher’s fucking us. I think he knows about
the water
.

LOU: Steve told him
.

TANNENBAUM: That fucking blow. He’s like a loose fucking cannon
.
Bragging about being a bad guy. He’s going to fuck up this fucking
deal if we don’t do something about him. I told you we needed to do
something about him
.

LOU: I can fix it
.

TANNENBAUM: How you going to fix it?

LOU: I know a person who will do it
.

TANNENBAUM: I don’t want you hiring nobody. Lotta deals go
south ’cause some fucking hired guy can’t keep his fucking mouth shut
.

LOU: Person I’m thinking of will be fine. He’ll do anything I say
.

TANNENBAUM: You fucking him?

LOU: Just enough
.

TANNENBAUM: To keep him under control?

LOU: Un-huh
.

TANNENBAUM: That what you doing to me?

LOU: Nobody can keep you under control, Morrie
.

(Sound of sexual activity.)

TANNENBAUM: Come on you little bitch. You know you want it
.

LOU: Morrie, I’m not going to fuck you right here on the floor
.

TANNENBAUM: You’d fuck me in the middle of the 1-5 freeway
if you needed to
.

LOU: Come on Morrie. Let’s go to bed
.

It was pretty clear that they were talking about Steve Buckman’s impending murder, though no one quite said it. And the Feds were willing to let some guy named Steve get ‘fixed’ rather than reveal their bug on Tannenbaum. I knew they’d say, ‘If we can put Tannenbaum out of business, we’ll save a lot more lives than maybe this guy Steve who may get killed.’ And I knew they were probably right. The most good for the most people and all that. I was glad I didn’t have to think that way.

I thought about Lou with Morris Tannenbaum and felt crawly. Then I found myself smiling, alone, in the badly furnished living room of a rented house in a remote town. I had a genuine clue implicating my client in her husband’s murder and my first reaction was disappointment in her sex life.

Then I wondered who the someone was that would do anything she told him. I knew of two guys in Potshot that she might control – Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker. Given what I was learning about Mary Lou, there might have been twenty others. Anyone who would bop Morris Tannenbaum… and I kind of liked Walker. I hoped it wasn’t him.

I went through the logs looking for familiar names. There were none. If anyone else from Potshot was talking to Morris Tannenbaum, it wasn’t someone I knew.

Vicki was doing turquoise today. Turquoise sundress, and a turquoise headband restraining her dark hair. Her long fingernails were turquoise, and she wore a heavy turquoise and silver necklace with matching earrings.

‘Mr Ratliff isn’t in,’ she said after she’d admired the way I walked to her reception desk.

‘When do you expect him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s… he hasn’t been in all week.’

‘Have you talked with him?’

‘I called his home. I was worried. All I got was his machine.’

‘On which you left a message?’

‘Several,’ she said.

‘And no call back?’

‘No.’

‘You report him missing?’

‘I called Chief Walker,’ she said. ‘He said that he was sure nothing untoward had happened.’

‘Untoward?’

‘That’s the word he used,’ Vicki said.

‘I love a good vocabulary,’ I said. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

Walker’s words must have comforted Vicki. She didn’t seem consumed with worry. She was still looking at me like an appraiser. I wondered if the look were lustful. I sucked in my stomach.

‘Give me his home address,’ I said. ‘I’ll go check on him.’

‘I don’t know if I should,’ Vicki said.

‘Of course you should.’

‘You are a detective,’ she said.

‘You bet I am.’

She appraised me some more. It seemed a cool appraisal, but it might have masked lust. I smiled reassuringly. Big smile. Wide. Friendly. Honest. You can count on me. She smiled back, and wrote Ratliff’s home address on the back of a business card and handed me the card. I must use that smile only for good.

Mark Ratliff’s house was small and stuccoed and faux Spanish, with red tile on the roof. A BMW sports car was parked under a carport to the right of the house. Several days worth of
The Los
Angeles Times
were scattered near the front door. I looked at them. The earliest was last Tuesday; the most recent was this morning. I rang the bell. No one answered. I walked around the house. There was a small patio out back and a sliding door that opened onto it. The locks on sliding doors often worked badly. I tried the door. It didn’t open. I looked inside. The door was held in place by a short stick that prevented it from sliding. Sticks worked well. I walked around the house again. No alarm signs. No
protected by
stickers in the windows. I went back to the patio, took my gun out and broke the glass in the sliding door enough so I could reach in and remove the stick. Then I slid the door open and went in. It was cool. The air-conditioning made a quiet sound. Everything else was still. The house was empty. I would look carefully, but you almost always know when a house is empty as soon as you walk in.

The house was orderly but not anal. Beside a Barcalounger in the living room was a copy of
The Los Angeles Times
, dated last Monday. It was scattered on the floor, the way it would be if someone had been reading it. On the floor next to the right side of the Barcalounger, among the newspaper pages, was a squat glass with a half-inch of water in it. I picked it up and sniffed. Scotch maybe. The ice had melted.

I walked through the house. All seemed to be in order. In Ratliff’s bedroom were three pieces of matched luggage of descending sizes. Lined up side by side, they just fit the width in the back of his closet. In the linen closet was a tan pigskin shaving kit. It was empty. There were sunglasses, some keys, and loose change on top of the bureau in his bedroom. There was a toothbrush in the slot in his bathroom. An electric shaver sat in its recharging base on a glass shelf under the mirror.

In the kitchen there was milk in the stainless steel refrigerator. I smelled it. Spoiled. The refrigerator reminded me of Susan’s. There wasn’t much in there. Producers are probably too important to cook, unlike Susan, who was too impatient.

Ratliff had converted what was probably once a dining room into a den. There was an imposing desk in front of the back window. I looked through it, and found nothing much beyond some bills, a couple dozen Bic pens, and a roll of Turns. I punched up his answering machine. There were two calls from Vicki, and no others. I picked up his phone. Dial tone. I browsed his computer. There was an online banking folder, a stationery folder, and a screenplay folder. I opened it. There was a 135-page screenplay titled
The Millennium Beast
. The title page said it was by Mark Ratliff. The format was very professional. I read a couple of pages. It was horrendous. Ratliff probably had a hit on his hands.

It took me another couple of hours to go through everything in the house. When I finished I went back into his living room and sat on the couch. All I knew for sure was that Ratliff wasn’t there. His luggage seemed intact. He hadn’t taken his shaving kit. His toothbrush was still in the bathroom, and so was his electric razor. He might have had another piece of luggage. He might have another home fully stocked with razors and toothbrushes. But his car was still in the carport. His keys were still on his bureau.