Authors: Stephen Greenleaf
“So losing your only client wouldn't bother you.”
She clasped her hands and glared at me above two rows of white knuckles. “Do you know how many manuscripts I get in the mail every day? From writers who would cut off their left tit if I'd agree to represent them?”
“How many?”
“Twenty. On a slow day. And they're not all from Iowa housewives, either. Not that some of our biggest sellers didn't start out as housewives,” she added, just in case a housewife was in earshot.
“So Chandelier is immaterial to you.”
“I didn't say that.”
“So it
would
bother you if she fired you.”
“Of course it would. But not enough to blow her to smithereens. I'm not Sicilian, for God's sake.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I believe you.”
“As simple as that?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I know who did it.”
“Who?”
“I'll let you knew when I can prove it. Hell, maybe I'll even write a book about it.”
She chuckled. “You've probably got a few good stories in you at that. True crime can be huge, you know. You could be another Ann Rule.”
“I'm afraid there's a bit of a problem.”
“What's that?”
“The last story I told got a guy killed.”
“Sounds like a seven-figure advance, plus another mil for the film rights.”
Chapter 28
“What'll it be?” the big man asked.
“Beer.”
“Tap or bottle?”
“Bottle.”
“Bud or Miller?”
“Miller.”
“Coming up.”
The bartender went down-bar to do his thing and I looked around the Porthole. It was near to 9
P.M.
The bar was almost full. The decor was boat stuff and sports gear. The clientele was exclusively male, predominantly middle-aged, and excessively boisterous in a manner that suggested competition and compensation. If there was a customer in the place who wasn't an off-duty policeman, I couldn't pick him out of the crowd.
The Porthole was a cop bar, the watering hole for the Portrero station a block up Twentieth on Third Street. The only question left was whether it was also the designated drinking establishment of the cops who called themselves the Triad. I figured I could find that out in about five minutes.
I downed my beer quickly, then waited for the bartender to notice I was dry. When he drifted my way, I asked for another. When he brought it, I gave him a new fifty. He looked at it front and back and laughed. “Ugliest damned thing I ever saw.”
“I couldn't agree with you more,” I said truthfully.
“I seen shit paper classier than that.”
“Looks like something some tin-pot dictator printed up in the hope someone would take him seriously.”
“Hell, the MPC the fucking army put out in fucking Nam was better looking than that piece of shit and the army fucks up everything.”
I had an opening so I entered it. “You pull a tour yourself?”
His look took on a wary focus. “Two.”
“What unit?”
“Americal.”
“DMZ.”
“Close enough. You?”
“Ninth Division.”
“Delta.”
I nodded. “My feet aren't dry yet. What MOS?”
“Eleven Bravo and proud of it. You?”
“Military police.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Long time ago now.”
“Yeah.”
“Thirty years.”
“The nightmares aren't that old, though.”
He shook his head. “The nightmares are always brand new.”
The bartender rubbed the bar though it didn't need rubbing. I'd taken him to places he tried to stay away from and he was lost in a time it still hurt to remember.
“The all-time shitty war,” I grumbled absently.
“Not if the civilians had turned us loose.”
“You figure Charley would have quit eventually?”
“We bomb the dikes in Hanoi, he'd
chu hoi
in a New York minute.”
I shrugged. “Maybe; maybe not. We dumped more tonnage on the North than we did on the Krauts in the big number two. I never saw much quit in the little bastards myself.”
The bartender's smile turned sadistic. “Everyone's got quit in them. You just got to push the right button.”
He went down-bar to do business, then drifted my way a few minutes later and tossed my change down in front of me. “You on the job in the city?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Private agency.”
“Yeah? How does that work out?”
“I'm not getting rich. On the other hand, I don't have a shift captain or a time card. Or even a Fourth Amendment.”
He laughed. “I hear you. Loud and clear.”
“You own this place?”
He shook his head. “Bunch of cops got together and bought it a few years back.”
“I'd peg everyone in here for blue.”
“You'd be ninety percent right.”
“You ever on the job yourself?”
He shook his head. “Brought part of an RPG round back to the world in my thighâcouldn't pass the physical. Been pouring booze for twenty-five years. Once I quit indulging myself, I got pretty good at it.”
I nodded peaceably. It wasn't the time or the place to debate war or alcoholism, though some might argue that they had similar roots in the psyche.
I decided to pursue what I came for. “Know a detective named Prester? Scar on his nose about here?”
“Sure. I know Curtis.”
“He come in on a regular basis?”
“All the Portrero bulls do. Why? You got business with him?”
“Maybe. How about a guy named Hardy?”
The bartender froze as if I'd said a prayer to Ho Chi Minh. “Who?”
“Hardy,” I repeated. “Vincent Hardy. Patrol sergeant up the hill.”
His face was as bland as meringue. “Don't think I know the man.”
“Really? He's been out here a long time.”
The bartender shrugged. “Maybe he had a problem with rum and got religion. What do you want with him?”
“A trade.”
“Trade of what?”
“Information.”
“For what?”
“Some equity in the enterprise.”
His frown was puzzled but provoked. “Information about what?”
“Certain prosecutorial activities down in the Hall of Justice.”
His puzzlement became confusion. “
What
kind of activities?”
“Prosecutorial. As in grand jury.”
“And what would you want in return for this so-called information?”
“Equity. Like I said.”
The response disgusted him. “Shit, I don't know what that means.”
“Let's just say I want to join the club.”
“What club would that be?”
“You know. The one that used to meet in the brick building down the street.”
His expression claimed his ignorance was all-pervasive. “Don't know nothing about it.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
Since that tack had taken me nowhere, I motioned for him to bring me another beer. While he was gone, he stopped to talk in whispers to a guy at the end of the bar, a gruff and grizzled character I'd never seen before. The guy down the bar looked me over, then said something to the bartender, who nodded his understanding, then brought me my third beer.
“That club you mentioned,” he said as he picked up two bucks from my change.
“What about it?”
“I think it's private.”
“How private?”
“Blue only.”
“Sounds like discrimination. Which would be a violation of my civil rights.”
“Tell it to a lawyer, pal.”
I was as persistent as a poodle. “Maybe it would be in their best interest to diversify.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
“Maybe that's the only way to stay in business, given the people who want to shut them down. Plus, I think I could be helpful in furthering the ends of the organization.”
“What ends would that be?”
“Making money.”
The bartender squinted at me. “What's the name?”
“Tanner.”
“And you're a PI.”
“Right.”
He gestured left. “Guy down the bar thinks you're the one who shot a cop named Sleet.”
“The guy down the bar is right.” I raised my glass and saluted him.
The bartender regarded me with calculation. “Sleet wasn't real popular down this way.”
“No? Why was that?”
“Kept sticking his nose in other people's business.”
“Well, he was a good cop.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“He was also a rat fink.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned forward so he would catch every word. “The rat fink would have sent Detective Storrs to the squad room in the sky if I hadn't put a stop to it.”
“So I hear. So what?”
“I figure that earns me a favor.”
“Which would be?”
“A face-to-face with Vincent Hardy to discuss my membership application.”
He thought about it. “What happens if the favor don't happen?”
“I discuss the club with someone else.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “The grand jury would be one possibility.”
“So you know about that.”
“I know enough about that to have an interesting chat with Mr. Hardy.”
“Maybe you could chat with Prester instead.”
I shook my head. “I tried that before. It wasn't productive.”
He nodded his understanding, as though talks with Prester were always that way. “Where can I reach you?” he asked, so I told him.
Chapter 29
The call came just before midnight, waking me up about two hours after I'd convinced Jill Coppelia to spend the night with her best friend in the office so she'd be hard to find in case the Triad wasn't through with its housecleaning.
“You Tanner?” a raspy voice asked.
“When I'm awake.”
“You the guy that wants a meet with Hardy?”
“It's been a lifelong dream.”
“I heard you were a smart mouth.”
“And I heard you weren't.”
“Fuck you. Be at the impound yard in an hour. Know how to get there?”
“I got my finger broken down there one night.”
“Yeah? What happened? She cross her legs?”
“A cop named Mandarich thought it would teach me a lesson.”
“Did it?”
“Not the one he thought it would.”
The voice laughed. “Mandy. What a putz. Sleet took him out, was the way I heard it.”
“Me, too.”
“Execution style. While Mandy was down on his knees, begging Sleet not to shoot.”
“That's the way it was.”
“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”
“My feelings exactly.”
His chuckle was a chilling obituary. “Sleet was one of a kind.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Tough as a stump.”
“Tougher.”
“You're the guy took him out, am I right?”
“That's right.”
His laugh sounded like advancing thunder. “You and Vince will have a nice conversation.”
“I look forward to it. But I've got a problem. My car's on the fritz. I'll have to borrow something somewhere. I can't make it to the impound before two.”
He paused long enough to consult a clock. “One-thirty or he's gone.”
“It's a date,” I said, and hung up. Despite the dangers involved, I regarded it as a good sign that the Triad felt enough under pressure to take prophylactic measures.
I dialed the friend's number and had her wake Jill. By the time she came on the line, there were two women mad at me before I'd spoken a word.
“Marsh? What's the matter? What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
She coughed and sniffed and cleared her throat. “Is anything wrong?”
“I hope quite the opposite.”
She hesitated long enough to make a reasonable assumption. “What's the matter? Is little Marshie lonesome?”
“Little Marshie is lonesome and Little Marshie is horny, but that's not why Little Marshie woke you up. I'm going to meet with Vince Hardy in an hour.”
Her breath sizzled like steak. “Where?”
“The impound yard.”
“Where's that?”
I told her.
“What's the meeting about?”
“First I'm going to sell you out; then I'm going to make him want to kill me.”
My statement of mission jolted her fully awake. “Sell me out? What are you talking about? And why will he want to kill you?”
I ignored her questions and asked a few of my own. “Have you got any cops you can trust absolutely?”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“Belcastro says he has a dozen or so for sure.”
“Get on the horn. Tell him to round them up. And make sure none are from the Potrero station.”
“At this hour? Why? And why not Potrero?”
I ignored her again. “How well do you get along with the Coast Guard?”
She paused. “Tell me you're not on a sinking ship.”
“Only metaphorically.”
After I told her what I had in mind, I got dressed and oiled my gun. I was pretty sure I wouldn't have to use it, but if I didn't have it with me, someone might wonder why not. At one-fifteen I got in the car and took Montgomery to Market, then Fourth across the bridge, then drove south down Third Street and took a left on Twentieth, knowing they were playing me for a patsy, hoping I wasn't being a fool, and that if I was, no one but me would have to pay the price.
The impound yard could serve as a diorama of the dark side of the moon or the slums of East Oakland or any other godforsaken place that needed illustration in miniature. Basically, it was a hive of seized or abandoned vehicles, most of them dented and rusted and rotting, beyond utility to anyone but a scavenger or a junkyard dog. But since some of them were evidence and might have to be retrieved at some point, at least theoretically, little plastic triangles had been placed with the delicacy of a nosegay on top of each roof. Each triangle was stamped with a number that matched with a printout in some office at the Hall of Justice, so a given vehicle could be tracked down when and if the occasion arose in the form of a defendant's discovery motion or an ADA's last-minute trial preparation.