Something for Nothing (43 page)

Martin wasn't sure how to feel after the call with Mr. Incurious over at the Alameda County Sheriff's Department. It was reassuring to hear such disinterest, but he knew he wasn't in the clear yet. He wondered if the detective he'd spoken to had been referring to Slater when he said that someone else had the lead on the case. What would Slater think when he saw Martin's name? It could go either way. He might say “I was wondering if he was going to call in—and since he did, he must be innocent.” Conversely, he might say something like “Oh yeah, I forgot about that guy. He's obviously calling as a preemptive strike, hoping to convince us he doesn't know anything. Let's go arrest him.”

He sighed, wondering how long he was going to have to wonder about this sort of thing. Probably a long time. He went back to his boat and tried to relax. He read a magazine, then watched a fishing show on TV (it was freshwater fishing, which didn't interest him at all). Eventually he dozed off. He slept for about two hours. When he woke up, he thought about taking the boat out. But he knew he really didn't have the energy. He just wasn't motivated. Plus, that was something you did when your mind was clear and you were able to concentrate. He was too anxious right now.

He laughed at himself. He'd never last if he had to really hole up and lie low. It was too boring, and he couldn't handle the anxiety.

He thought about things he could do, places he could be where
Hano wouldn't think to look for him. The track was out, of course. He could jump into a plane and go somewhere, maybe up to Reno to gamble, but he was afraid to even go to the airport in Hayward.

Hayward—he needed to get ahold of Ludwig. Fortunately, it was a Saturday, and a holiday weekend at that, so there was no way he'd be at the office. But Martin didn't have a plan for Monday. How could he open up the office if he was hiding? Shit.

He thought about just climbing into the car and heading up to Sharon's house. He'd surprise Linda and the kids, and go with them down to Santa Cruz. Now that she knew about Val and Angela, she'd forget she was mad at him. But that was the problem: he didn't think he could handle talking about what had happened. And even if she didn't say anything, she'd look at him in a way that would communicate her horror and sadness. No, it was too much. He couldn't face her just yet.

Eventually, it occurred to him that he could go to a movie. That's what people did when they were just kicking around, right? He used to go to the movies by himself all the time. Before the kids, or when they were really young, to get out of the house, take a break on a Saturday or Sunday. (Linda would get furious, but he could only take so much.) He'd loved it, sitting there in the dark, no one to bother you, no one knowing where you were. You didn't even tell anyone you were going to a movie. Someone might ask you later on where you'd been, but you'd just shrug. And while you were there, you could get completely absorbed in the story. It didn't matter what the movie was.
Lawrence of Arabia,
Doctor Zhivago, The Great Escape
. Even something older, like
Gone with the Wind
or
Casablanca
when they were playing somewhere. He'd really enter into that world, feel the emotions of those people. He'd fallen in love with Julie Christie while watching
Doctor Zhivago
—that's all there was to it. He'd walked around in a cloud for days.

So okay. He got a paper out, and saw two films he was interested in. The first one was
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three
. The other one was that new Coppola film,
The Conversation
.
The Conversation
was
playing in town, at the Grand Lake Theater. Ludwig had seen it . . . had raved about it, in fact. This was either good or bad, but Martin decided to give it a shot. He'd loved
The Godfather,
so this seemed like the better bet.

He drove across town. At least he'd have a couple of hours in which he didn't have to think. Just sit there in the dark, eat some popcorn, be someone else.

It was a great building—one of the old-time theaters. There was a big tall neon sign on the top of the building. It was basically an oversize billboard. You could see it for blocks when they lit it up at night. But the sign fit the building, because the whole place was huge. The main auditorium seated something like two thousand people; it had a giant balcony, and an organ they'd play before films. It had originally been used for vaudeville acts and silent films—his dad still talked about that sometimes. He loved it: the plush carpeting, the fancy gilt patterns on the walls, even the heavy-looking curtains in front of the screen that would part when the film started. They just didn't do it like that anymore.

He and Linda used to come here all the time. He remembered when they'd gone to a Hitchcock double feature a long time ago. They'd seen
Psycho
and
The Birds,
back-to-back. Linda had been completely terrified. So had Martin. The whole crowd had been scared—over a thousand people, probably, everyone screaming and yelling. They'd all been really into it: Linda, Martin, everyone.

He walked inside, paid the girl in the glass booth. She gave him his ticket, and he walked it around to the kid who tore it in half and gave his half back to him. He got some popcorn and a Coke. He made his way to his seat—dug in as he watched the curtain rise.

He lasted about forty-five minutes. Less, in fact. First of all, the film was slow and boring. Leave it to Ludwig and that nitwit Jenny to recommend something like this. Maybe this was Coppola trying to appeal to an arty, college crowd after
The Godfather
(though both of them had raved about that one, too, so it was hard to say).

But this film . . . Jesus. It was about a professional surveillance guy—a wire-tapping, microphone-planting expert. It was Gene Hackman, and he wasn't bad (better than in
The French Connection
). And it was set in San Francisco, which he liked. But it was the last thing Martin needed to see right now. By the time he'd decided to leave (something he'd hardly ever done before; he always stayed to the end of films), he was convinced that the police had been tapping his phone for months. Or wait, he thought as he was walking out (excuse me, sorry, excuse me). Not his phone. Why bother with that?
Val's
phone was the one they'd have tapped. And they had heard him talking to Val. He tried to remember the specifics of his calls. Val was usually at home. That he knew. There hadn't been very many calls, probably only about half a dozen, but he was pretty sure that they'd been fairly explicit. Come get the money. When you deliver the drugs in Mexico. And it was a given that Val had talked to Hano and that he and Hano had talked about Martin. Probably more than once. How could he have been so stupid?

By the time he was in his car, he was certain that his boat was bugged. He knew that this was silly, that he was being paranoid. But he couldn't help it.

He drove, trying to clear his head. Maybe he'd catch an early dinner at the Sea Wolf. He'd get one of the tables at the long, slanted window that looked out over the water, and not think about anything. Maybe just get drunk—plastered, even. He knew he wasn't going to do this, but it sounded good. Anything to numb himself against the feelings of fear and confusion that were making their way into his head. On the one hand, he felt as if he'd survived a genuine ordeal. Making it out of Val's house in one piece (and with the money, no less) felt nothing short of miraculous. On the other hand, he had the nagging feeling that this wasn't over yet—that in fact his ordeal had just begun.

M
artin left the Sea Wolf at about 5:30. He'd sat at a table that overlooked the water, had a few drinks, eaten the filet of sole. The place had been almost empty, which was a relief—he was able to just sit and blank out. When he emerged from the restaurant, the fog was starting to roll in, and it was really cooling off.

He stood in the parking lot, trying to decide what to do. He wanted to go get some groceries, but he knew he was dirty. He put his nose to his right armpit and sniffed. He smelled sour—the smell of stress, of anxiety. He'd go down to
By a Nose
for a quick shower, then go to the market. He didn't like the little shower in the boat—it was a tight fit, and the water really only trickled out—but he was really stinky . . . rank, actually . . . and the thought of cleaning off sounded pretty good.

Okay. He walked over to his car, leaned in, grabbed the little .22 from under the seat again, and put it into his front pocket. It was probably a good idea to keep it with him, just in case. He was pretty sure that a shootout with Hano at the marina was unlikely, but it couldn't hurt to be careful. Not that he thought he'd have what it took to use it, necessarily—to point it at someone and actually pull the trigger. He hadn't even been able to kill a dog, for Christ's sake. Was he really going to pop a few slugs into Hano's big Hawaiian muscles? Probably not. But he put it into his pocket anyway.

He was almost to the boat and thinking about a warm shower when he looked up and saw the guy standing on the deck. For a second he thought he had the wrong boat. Then he realized no, it's my boat, and someone is standing on it, looking at me. And then he realized, it's Jim Slater . . . the drug detective.

“Ahoy there, Matey!” Slater shouted, waving his hand and smiling. “Ahoy!”

He was using the exaggerated accent of a salty old sailor, or a pirate, maybe, flashing his big Cheshire grin, laughing, and basically hamming it up. It was a big joke, and Martin could see that he was enjoying the opportunity to yank Martin's chain, throw him off balance.

And it was working—had worked. Martin had been hustling along, but now he slowed to a stop just short of the boat. He felt like someone who'd run a long race and had been raising his arms at the finish line, ready to signal victory, only to see his opponent dash past him at the last second and break the tape. But it was more than that. It was as if the whole notion of victory, of winning the race, had been an elaborate hoax. He'd believed he was competing, but in fact he'd never had a chance to win, because the other guy was always going to be faster, stronger, smarter, more determined. It was as if it had all been rigged from the start.

“Don't look so surprised, Martin!” Slater said as Martin got closer, then stopped again, right in front of the Viking. His voice was charged with enthusiasm, but Martin could hear the sarcasm. (“Don't look so surprised, you fucking idiot.” That's what he was really saying. “Did you really think I wouldn't find you here?”)

Still smiling, Slater leaned forward, both hands against the side of the boat, and looked down at Martin as he stood there on the dock. He was wearing what Martin had come to realize was his uniform, basically: blue jeans and T-shirt. This time it was just a plain navy blue T-shirt, with a little pocket on the left breast. Again Martin was struck by how lean he was, and how athletic he looked. Sinewy muscles, big fat veins down the biceps and into the forearms. He looked strong. Martin wouldn't have been surprised if he'd done a quick, somersaulting hand vault over the side of the boat and landed behind him. It certainly wouldn't have left him any more surprised than he already was.

“Aren't you glad to see me?” Slater asked. “I've been waiting here for
at least an hour. Maybe closer to two. The old guy a couple of boats down said that this was definitely your boat, and that you'd been here, but I was beginning to worry. I mean, first you clear out of your house in Walnut Station, and then you aren't here . . . What's a narcotics detective to think?”

As with the early moments of Slater's visit to his house (how long ago had that been—years?), Martin knew that this was the time to act indignant, or at the very least, put out. What's this all about? Why are you standing on my boat? Do you know you're trespassing? Do I need a lawyer? That kind of thing. But again he didn't have what it took. And, of course, Slater knew this, which was why he could stand there on Martin's boat and fuck with him: because he knew that deep down Martin was just a big pussy. Even Gary Roberts would have been able to muster the courage to call Slater out right now (of course, Slater would probably kick the shit out of him for it, but that wasn't the point—or it wasn't the exact point, anyway).

But instead of pretending outrage, Martin just sighed.

“Okay,” he said, still standing on the dock. “Slater. What can I do for you? Is this about Val Desmond and his wife? I called the station, you know. I called them and told them I didn't know anything about what happened out there at Val's house.”

“It's Detective Slater,” Slater said. But he was still smiling, and so Martin didn't know if he was serious or not. Or he didn't know if he was completely serious, that is.

“Okay,” Martin said. “Sorry. Detective Slater.”

Slater nodded. “That's all right,” he said. He smiled at Martin again, and Martin nodded back, trying to think. He was too scared and confused to figure out what was going on, exactly. Here he was, standing on the dock, while this motherfucker was standing on his own boat, taunting him.

Slater put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Then he looked around—at the control panel and the steering wheel, up at the bridge, and then back at the rear of the big deck. He nodded to himself. “This
is one nice boat,” he said. More nodding. “What is it, about fifty feet? You can go way out in the ocean with this, can't you? Do you go out deep-sea fishing in this?”

“Uh, yeah,” Martin said after a pause. “We go pretty far out. For salmon. Mostly salmon.”

Slater gave a slow back-and-forth shake of his head and whistled.

“Man,” he said. “That must be pretty cool. Do you go out there with your kids? What's your boy's name? Peter? He must love it.” He shook his head again, looking around—even reached out and ran his hand along the polished teak framing that ran along the control panel.