The Devil's Redhead (37 page)

“Tell you what. I'm feeling just a little bit better, I'll go.”

“Ain't no junkie gettin' sick in my ho-tel, understand?”

“Your hotel?” Frank cackled. “Mr. Pierpont, sir.”

The bellman pulled back from the door. “Okay, smart-ass. Here it comes.”

He turned on his heel and left. Frank closed his eyes as the rest room door swooshed open then closed. Here it comes, he thought.

After a moment he checked his thumb again, probing gently with the forefinger of his good hand, then wrapping the thumb in fresh tissue. The blood had dried on the back of his head; he reminded himself to leave the scab alone. Eventually he rose to his feet, combating a swirl of dizziness, and leaned forward on the door till the latch gave way. He tumbled out, gaining his balance only after he hit the far wall. He looked up into the mirror and once again felt utterly astounded to find himself there, gazing back.

“You need money,” he told his reflection.

He tottered back out to the lobby, flipped the bellman off, crossed to the Powell Street door and ventured back into the street. Pedestrians marched in vacant-eyed unison down the sidewalk. A damp wind howled between buildings. He stuffed the wounded hand inside his jacket, where it would be warm and out of sight.

He could feel people looking at him as he searched out his truck. It rested in a green zone down the block from Omar's. He checked through the restaurant's window to be sure Waldo was gone, then hurried past with his head down. When he reached his truck he discovered a parking ticket tucked under his windshield wiper. As he crumpled it and prepared to throw, he glanced up at a newspaper dispenser and saw a headline that stopped him cold: TRIPLE HOMICIDE IN THE DELTA. In smaller typeface, a second lead read:
SUSPECTED LINK TO BRISCOE MURDERS.

He moved closer. Beneath the headline, the only words he could read were, “Last night three persons, one of them a seven-year-old boy, were murdered execution-style in a remote …” The rest disappeared below the fold. He tried to open the dispenser, gently at first, but the catch held. Shortly he was pounding on it, kicking it, till passersby stopped and he shrank back. Panting, it dawned on him finally he might have the change. He'd retrieved it from the floor of the rest room at Omar's after Waldo had left. He checked his pockets but found only thirteen cents; he needed twenty-five.

Just then a salesgirl from one of the nearby shops came out, dropped in her quarter and lifted the dispenser lid. Frank lunged, shoved her aside and caught the lid before it closed, grabbing a paper from inside. The girl recoiled, ready to scream.

“I'm sorry,” Frank said, easing away.

Abatangelo spent the better part of two hours trying to reach Waxman on the phone. The screak of the busy signal seemed particularly galling, given the state of things. Even so, it was never more than a minute before he had the phone in his hand again, redialing Waxman's number. A little after noon, deciding he needed a break, he went down to the street to see if the early afternoon edition was out. Might as well check the damage, he thought, remembering Cohn's admonitions on the subject of Waxman's faithlessness. He bought his copy of the paper from a corner stand and returned upstairs to his flat. Incapable as yet of reading Waxman's article, he turned instead to the interior pages.

The Saturday edition, as always, was particularly ripe with morbid news, most of it drug-related. One item in particular mentioned a 7.6 mm chain gun, designed for troop support aboard attack helicopters like the Cobra, discovered missing from the Port Chicago Naval Weapons Station; officials feared it may have fallen into the hands of drug traffickers. The term “narcoterrorism” appeared twice, and this was the briefs.

An old veteran of press hysteria on such matters, Abatangelo had little confidence in the objectivity of this particular report. Even so, he felt a vague anxiety, an uneasiness tinged with shame. The point, he reflected, had never been to hurt anyone. Quite the contrary. He'd always considered himself too on the ball for that. Just a hustler on the make for the expanded mind. An epicurean. Such defenses always minimized the money angle, of course. Small wonder, then, the world being what it is, that with such dubious justifications the end result would be a lot of death.

Finally, buried in the outdoorsman pages of the sports section, a piece on the Pacific salmon industry caught his eye. A lifelong fisherman complained that the manufactured salmon from the hatcheries no longer knew their spawning streams. Crossbreeding had all but ruined the wild strains. Once fabled for its spawning navigation, the salmon now got lost. Clogging inlet waterways, it died lost. “The noble salmon,” the author lamented, “has become just another dumb fish.”

Abatangelo returned to the phone, tried Waxman again, but the line was still busy. He felt disinclined to put the receiver down, presuming Cohn would be trying to call. He didn't as yet have the stomach for lawyer talk. He foresaw a practiced apology from Cohn for the friction between them last night, followed a bit too promptly by discussion of a fee, then a recommendation he turn himself in. Cohn was right, of course—the Bureau of Prisons didn't need any more reason than they had to yank him back in, conduct a grinding, dishonest, arrogant and sloppy review of whether he'd actually done anything to violate the terms of his probation. If he took the initiative, surrendered himself to custody, he stood a good chance of wiggling out of any real time. None of which, however, conformed to his need to see that Shel was still alive. He told himself it would be wise by day's end to take Cohn's other piece of advice, and find somewhere else to stay.

Finally he mustered the nerve to face Waxman's piece. The story commanded page one with a jump—two parallel pieces, the straight murder account gaining the higher, larger lead, with a column inch for Waxman down the right margin below the fold. The straight piece related the more objective information, identifying the place and time and numbering the dead, leaving them nameless pending family notification. It did note, though, that one was a child.

The nuances were left to Waxman. First he presented the theory that Shel had run a minor dope outfit, with Abatangelo, just out of prison, her once-again partner; the murders, in this scenario, were blamed on some amorphous revenge. Reading it, Abatangelo recalled that this was one of the theories advanced by the homicide detectives, embellished somewhat.

The narc's scenario got laid out next, with the similarities to the Briscoe murders, the link between Shel and Abatangelo, the possibility of an attempt to frame Frank.

Last came Abatangelo's account, coming off in contrast to the police renditions as the obsessive rantings of a half-cocked jailbird, angling for God knows what. At the same time, though, on the pickups inside, there was an archive picture of Felix Randall, as well as one of the shots of Shel that Abatangelo had passed along. The pictures, by simply being there, lent credence to his version of events. His name was even listed for attribution beneath Shel's photo. Apparently, he mused, it only took three people dead to get the editors to change their minds about adding a little art.

All in all, Abatangelo thought, Waxman came off strangely evenhanded. If you could think of ambivalence that way. He raised a lot of questions that made him seem sharp but only hinted at answers. He tried to please everybody and at the same time work up his own stock. It wasn't surprising, but it wasn't really forgivable, either.

Abatangelo folded the paper over slowly, then heaved it against the wall. He put his head in his hands, thinking, Just another dumb fish. Then he reached for the phone and kept on dialing Waxman's number till at long last he got through.

Waxman greeted him with, “I just tried to reach you.” A curious distance abstracted his voice, a skeptical civility that hinted at defensiveness. “I've just had a call from Frank Maas.”

Abatangelo laughed acidly. “Don't fuck with me, Wax.”

“I couldn't be more sincere.”

“Is she with him?”

Waxman hesitated. “Shel? He didn't—”

“Tell me what he said.”

Waxman cleared his throat. “First, I gather from your tone you've had the chance to read the article. I realize it may not be everything you would have wished. But understand—”

“I loved the article,” Abatangelo said. “Read it twice. In particular I liked your art. Tell me what he said.”

Waxman replied, “I don't think it's entirely apropos I tell you.”

Abatangelo squeezed the receiver and fought an impulse to bang it against the wall. “You want apropos? Before I showed up last night you were stewed, plowing through hate mail. You wouldn't even be on this story if it weren't for me. How's that for apropos?”

“I have a duty—”

“You shit little green apples as soon as you're in a room alone with a few cops. They spot this lovely trait and play you like a goddamn flute. You hand up my name, hang me out to dry. For all I know you're wearing a wire right now.”

“That is insulting.”

“What did this Frank guy have to say?”

“He's bitter. He says he had nothing to do with any killings.”

“No fooling.”

“He wants money.”

“How much?”

“What difference does it make? It taints whatever he intends to tell me.”

Abatangelo could hear a cat purring in the background. It was nuzzling the receiver on the far end. Waxman shooed the animal away and resumed with, “He says he's willing to meet, if I bring five thousand dollars. He's giving me half an hour to think it over.”

“Offer him three,” Abatangelo said, “and ask him where he wants to meet.”

Waxman groaned. “This isn't the tabs. We don't pay sources. Even if we did, I can't get an editor to front me lunch, let alone three thousand dollars.”

“I'll pay it,” Abatangelo said.

He did the tally in his head. He could sell the Dart, that'd bring maybe half a thousand. If he gave the Sirkis back, he'd never get the full three hundred, not from the likes of Toretta, but two would do. He could pawn Mannion's camera equipment; that might get him the rest. It wasn't his to pawn, of course. If caught, it meant back to prison for sure. No wiggle room at that point. Five more years.

“I'm dead serious, Wax.”

“Yes. I gathered that.”

“Tell him it isn't payment for his story. It's to cover the cost of food, a safe place to stay. He's on the run, we understand that. I understand that. But first he talks. Otherwise no deal.”

In the background, the cat's purring grew loud again. Waxman didn't bother to shoo it away this time.

“I guess,” he said finally, “if we're careful, check out his story so it doesn't look like we're just paying for some ruse.”

“There you go.”

“It's intriguing, your offer, don't get me wrong. It's just, ethically speaking, I mean—”

“Ethics is for philosophers, Wax. Get him to sit down with you. Serve the story, remember?”

Frank approached the restaurant bar of the Brighton Hotel and ordered a double Tanqueray rocks. Taking a stool, he checked his watch, shook it, put it to his ear. He told himself, Sit quiet now, try.

Another restaurant, he thought, bad news. His thumb, courtesy of Waldo, felt hot from infection and large as a bar of soap. His midriff cramped with each breath. Christ, why did I agree to this? Because the reporter insisted. Because the reporter doesn't want to be alone with you. He watched with relief as his drink arrived and he wrapped his hands around the glass.

The restaurant was new, catering to the icy fashion crowd—ambitious cuisine, stark decor, an intense unpleasant swank among the staff. Artwork of a sort hung here and there. Glass dominated the bar to where it seemed to emit a faint, high sound.

Behind the bar, a television offered the morning news, a segment called “Local Edition.” A bit about hepatitis in the gay community segued into a helicopter shot of the ranch house, beneath which the words
SITE OF GANGLAND-STYLE KILLINGS
appeared. Shortly an Asian woman with bangs and wearing a peach-colored suit was holding a microphone against a blurred backdrop. The sound was turned too low for Frank to hear everything the Asian woman was saying, but he did catch the word “methamphetamine,” pronounced like it was a kind of napalm. Then the camera cut to a close-up of Felix, standing on his porch. Frank couldn't tell at first if this was stock footage, a segment shot earlier or what. He strained again to hear, catching through the static bits of what Felix was saying—he had no clue, he said, what anyone was talking about. He mentioned something about a “doctor,” then smiled like a harmless aging redneck, gestured good-bye with his cane, and reached behind him as his wife, Cheryl, offered her shoulder and they hobbled side by side to the car. Going to the doctor, Frank guessed. Can't get much more harmless than that. Unless you take a good look at his eyes.