Something for Nothing (20 page)

Peter was quiet now, and Martin knew he was surprised to have gotten the answer he was looking for.

Martin cleared his throat—knew it was a little too theatrical, but didn't care. “So you don't work out in Oakland anymore?” he said. “Isn't that what you said in the class? That you work out in the suburbs now?”

Slater nodded. “I used to work for narcotics in Oakland,” he said.
“But the second time I got shot, my wife said that I had to quit or she was going to take the kids and leave. And I could tell that she meant it. She was really freaked out. So was I, actually.”

He stopped and looked back at Peter, who was still sitting there looking at him. Then he held up his thumb and forefinger, pointing it at Peter, and made a little shooting noise. It was the sort of sound that Peter made when he ran around the house pretending to fight as a soldier in some sort of imaginary war. It was just the right move to make at that moment, Martin knew. It took some of the tension out of the air, and made Peter smile.

My son is smitten by this detective guy, Martin thought. Not that he was surprised. It was like the guy had just stepped right out of some cop show. The jeans and the T-shirt and the sneakers. What the fuck was that, anyway? It was a little much, Martin thought. The guy thinks he's fucking Serpico. He was suddenly ready for Jim Slater to leave—to get the hell out of his house and go be a hero somewhere else.

“So anyway,” Slater said, his tone indicating that he was done with his brief narrative. “I was just about to turn in my badge when a position opened up out here, in the suburbs, where it's just a little bit safer than in Oakland.”

He looked at Martin and raised his eyebrows, as if to say that he understood why Martin was living in the suburbs. “They were starting up a new narcotics bureau,” he said. “The drug trade has been booming out here for a while now. You know, suburban money—rich parents, kids with money. They buy drugs, and so people sell them. And so finally someone up in Sacramento decided to get serious about it, throw some cash at the problem, bring in some guys with some experience.” He smiled at Martin. “And so here I am, bugging you on a Saturday. But I gotta tell you,” he said. “It's a lot better than kicking doors down in Oakland.”

Martin gave a little laugh—forced it out. “Well,” he said. “I hope you're not planning to kick down our door anytime soon.” He chuckled again, but he knew it sounded a little off. “Because of the class where
we saw you and everything.” He tilted his head toward the door to the entry hallway, where Sarah had disappeared a few minutes earlier. “It was my daughter,” he said. “It was just a bag of pot. A few joints' worth. My wife found it, and we decided to sit down hard on her. I don't remember where we heard about the course, but it seemed like a good idea. And it was . . . it was great. I mean, you know—I think it was useful for her. For us too, actually. We learned a lot. And I think the problem's solved. Or I hope it is, anyway.”

Slater looked at Martin, thoughtful for a second. Martin wondered if he bought all of this bullshit. Probably not. Jesus. Could he have sounded any more like a nervous ass-kisser?

“How old is your daughter?” Slater asked.

“She's thirteen,” Martin said. “She's young. The problem is her friends. She's got some friends who are a few years older, and I think they're a bad influence. You know, older boyfriends, that sort of thing.”

Slater nodded. “Listen, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “Like I said, there are a lot of drugs out here in the suburbs. And not just pot, either. So you can't be too careful. I think you did the right thing, taking her to that class. She's probably just experimenting with the stuff. But you've gotta let her know that it's serious, and that you take it seriously.”

Martin nodded. He'd never actually thought that the pot in his daughter's purse was a big deal. And he thought that the whole drug class had been a fucking joke—in part because of the unrelenting earnestness of guys like Slater. He was about to say something more—something about searching Sarah's room and curfews (both of which were lies)—when Peter spoke up.

“Is my sister in trouble again?” he asked. He looked over at Martin, and then back at Slater.

This whole scene was, Martin realized, a little too intense for Peter. He knew the signs: the slightly quavering voice, the hands fidgeting together, the eyes getting a little bit watery. It didn't help that they'd dragged him to those stupid drug classes, or that he'd had to listen to the endless shouting matches between Sarah and Linda over the bag of
pot. (Martin had opted for a vaguely neutral good cop posture: joking with her on the side, doing the occasional eye roll behind Linda's back, as if to say he thought Mom was going a little overboard, too.)

“Peter,” Martin said. “This doesn't have anything to do with your sister. Detective Slater is here about something totally different. It's just about one of my planes at work.”

“That's right,” Slater said. “I'm just here about someone who bought a plane from your dad. And,” he said, standing up and stretching, “I'm on my way out the door.”

Slater stretched his long, lean body and then sort of shook himself. Like a cat, Martin thought. No wonder he isn't dead. He's got the nine lives thing going for him.

“Listen,” Slater said to Martin. “You've been a big help. I didn't really expect to get an ID on this guy so quickly, so this is great. But I've gotta ask you for one more favor. Do you think I could stop by your office on Monday and get a copy of his sales records from you?”

Martin's first instinct was to say “no—not a chance.” The thought of having to go through more of the same out in Hayward made him want to weep. What was Slater going to think when he saw Martin's planes? What self-respecting narcotics detective wouldn't be able to connect the dots? But he knew he couldn't say no—that he had to be amenable. And so he just nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Whenever you like. Not a problem.”

After this Martin told himself to relax, and think like the version of himself he was a month ago. Like an innocent person, that is. That's how you got away with things, he knew. You convinced yourself you were innocent, so that when the police stopped you, you believed you hadn't done anything. But that was easier said than done, especially with some fucking hero detective guy lingering in your house on a Saturday afternoon.

Martin walked Slater out into the entry hallway, with Peter trailing close behind them.

“So, Peter,” Slater said as Martin opened the front door. “It was
nice to see you again. He reached out and patted him on his bare shoulder.

“It was nice to see you, too,” Peter said. He stood there looking at Slater for a second, and then he said, “Have you been to any A's games this year?”

Slater smiled, looked at Martin, and then back at Peter. “No,” he said. “I haven't. I went to a Giants game a while ago, but it was cold and foggy, and they lost. I had a lousy time. I hope I can get to an A's game before the end of the year, though.”

Peter struggled a bit to gather his towel and wrap it around his belly more effectively. “Well,” he said. “We're going to see Gaylord Perry pitch against them in July. It's going to be part of my birthday present. We don't know what day he's pitching yet, but when we find out, we're going to get tickets.” He said this as if he was announcing the birth of a new child, and Martin felt a quick stab of anxiety at realizing that he'd forgotten about tracking down tickets for the game.

“Really?” Slater said. “Wow. That's pretty cool. I wish I could go to that game. I'd love to see him throw that spitter. You know that's what he does, right? He does it right in front of everyone, and no one can catch him. The umpires, the TV guys—forget it. He's just too good at it.”

Peter was smiling now, ear to ear. “Yeah,” he said. “I know. I don't even know who to root for. I mean, I don't want the A's to lose, but I really want him to win.”

“I hear you,” Slater said. “I always root for the bad guys—which is a problem, because I'm the guy that's supposed to catch them.” He laughed, ruffled Peter's hair with his hand, and then looked at Martin.

“I'll be by on Monday,” he said, and Martin nodded as Slater gave him a quick wave and walked toward his car. Martin wasn't sure, but he thought he might have detected a change of expression when Slater looked at him this last time—as if his mention of bad guys extended to him. But Martin doubted that Slater meant he'd be rooting for him. That didn't seem likely at all.

T
he meeting with Slater in Hayward went fine. When he showed up Monday morning, he didn't seem to have any sort of secret agenda. Martin knew that he might be just biding his time, playing good cop for a while. But Slater really had seemed fairly normal, as if the first encounter at Martin's house had broken the ice and they were now on friendly terms. He'd even mentioned Peter's birthday and the A's game.

“He's a cute kid,” Slater said.

“Thanks,” Martin said as he handed over the file on the pot smuggler. “I think he liked you, too.”

Martin knew better than to think that his worries were over, but he was pretty sure that Slater wasn't on to anything yet.

His hope was that the rest of the day would go just as smoothly. The plan was to drive up to Berkeley for a late lunch (and drinks) at Spenger's, the fish place down by the bay, on Fourth Street. He and Ludwig were going to meet up with Radkovitch, and go over the meeting with the Wells Fargo guys that Radkovitch had finally been able to set up. Martin was dreading the meeting, but he was glad for the excuse to get out of the office and away from the increasing claustrophobia he was feeling there, bouncing around, waiting for buyers who didn't seem to exist anymore. And he didn't want to hear anything bad from Radkovitch while sitting in the office. He needed to be out, have a drink in his hand.

But just as they were locking up the office for the day—Martin was literally standing outside, with the key in the door—the guy with the white 240z came driving up. Holy shit, Martin thought. That's him. Better, Martin saw that he was with a woman—younger, mid- to late
twenties. Definitely not thirty, even. Not bad-looking, either. Long brown hair, tight jeans, boots.

How about that, Martin thought. Maybe he'll want to impress her, let her see that he knows how to make a deal.

“Hey,” Ludwig said. “Is this your guy?”

“I think so,” Martin said. He noticed that the guy was dressed in the same white sweater and jeans that he'd been wearing the day he stopped by the office. “Or else it's someone dressed up like him, and in his car.”

“Wow,” Ludwig said. “Great. Who's the girl?”

“I don't know,” Martin said. He gave Ludwig a sideways look, and then walked down to say hello to the guy and his girlfriend (he wasn't sure why he was assuming she was his girlfriend . . . maybe she was just a friend with a passion for airplanes).

“Hey there!” Martin said, smiling and squinting in the afternoon sunlight. He wanted to seem animated, but he didn't want to overdo it, either.

“Hello!” the guy said, kind of shouted, actually, and then waved to Martin. He walked over and put out his hand for Martin to shake. He used one of those irritating overhand shakes, the one where the hand starts high, up around the shoulder, and then descends into yours. Kind of ridiculous—definitely a fraternity handshake.

The guy started talking right away. He was sorry he hadn't made it by the other day, and sorry he hadn't phoned. Everything had gotten crazy, he said, and then he'd lost Martin's card, and so on. But was there still time to check out the plane they talked about?

“Definitely,” Martin said. “Absolutely.”

Martin, the guy, and his girlfriend were in the air within half an hour. (Ludwig had offered to come along, but Martin said no.) They went up in the 1970 Cessna 177
A
Cardinal that Martin had had on the lot for a while now. Close to a year. But it was the plane the guy had been interested in, which was exciting. Martin explained that it was the model that Cessna had put out to replace the earlier Cessna 172.
The 172 was a good plane, he said, but it was a little bit underpowered (as was the original 177). The 177
A
had a 180-horsepower engine, so it could climb more quickly: the initial rate of climb was about 650 feet per minute. It also had a higher cruising speed: about 110 knots, or 125 mph, at least on a nice day. And it was a good plane for aerial photos, which was what the guy had said he wanted. This was because the Cardinal didn't have the old wing support strut that was always in the way when you wanted to take photos of anything directly below. (What Martin didn't say, of course, was that the guy should really be looking for a 177
RG
. That was the plane that provided the big improvements on the earlier models of the 172 and 177s, yet stayed within the ballpark, pricewise. Plus, the RG didn't have the handling problems—the pilotinduced oscillation—that plagued the first 177. But Martin didn't have an RG on the lot, so forget it.)

They cruised across the bay, over the Bay Bridge, Treasure Island, and Alcatraz, and then shot out across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a nice day. The fog was starting to make its way in under the Golden Gate, but the air was still too warm on the bay side for it to be able to really stay thick and blanket the area. That would happen eventually—by midnight or early morning, maybe—but for now there were just wisps of fog streaking along the top of the water by the bridge. From their vantage point, about three thousand feet up, you could still see the rugged coastline through the fog, its gray rocks pounded by angry breakers. It looked wild, almost prehistoric.

“Isn't it amazing from up here?” he said to the couple. He had to shout a bit over the din of the engine. “Can you imagine what the first explorers must have thought when they sailed into the bay? Who was it? Sir Francis Drake?”