Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

He wore khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt that needed ironing. His feet were clad in Hush Puppies and since they were on the desk the holes in their soles were obvious. He was in his mid-seventies, bald, bespectacled, with one of the sidepieces of his glasses held together with masking tape, and potbellied.

He was talking on the phone when we came in.

“Hold the wire, Lenny.” He looked up. “Thanks, Denise.” The blonde disappeared. To us: “One second. Sit down, fix something.” He pointed to a fully stocked bar that covered half of one wall.

“Okay, Lenny, I got cops here, gotta go. Yeah, cops. I don’t know, you wanna ask ’em? Ha ha. Yeah, I’ll tell ’em that for sure, you momzer. I’ll tell ’em what you did in Palm Springs the last time we were there. Yeah. Okay, the Sahara job in lots of three hundred thousand with coasters and matchbooks – not boxes, books. I got it. I give you delivery in two weeks. What? Forget it.” He winked at us. “Go ahead, go to someone local, see if I care. I got maybe one, two more months before I drop dead from this business – you think I care if an order drops dead? It’s all gonna go to Uncle Sam and Shirley and my prince of a son who drives a German car. Nah, nah. A BMW. With my money. Yeah. What can you do, it’s out of control. Ten days?” He made a masturbating motion with his free hand and beamed at us. “You’re jerking off, Lenny. At least close the door, no one will see. Twelve days, tops. Okay? Twelve it is. Right. Gotta go, these cossacks are going to drag me away any minute. Goodbye.”

The phone slammed down, the man shot up like an uncoiled spring.

“Artie Gershman.”

He held out an ink-stained hand. Milo shook it, then I did. It was as hard as granite and horned with callus.

He sat down again, threw his feet back up on the desk.

“Sorry for the delay.” He had the joviality of someone who was surrounded by enough automatons like Denise to ensure his privacy. “You deal with casinos they think they got a right to instant everything. That’s the mob, you know – but what the hell am I telling you that, you’re cops, you know that, right? Now, what can I do for you, officers? The parking situation I know is a problem. If it’s that bastard at Chemco next door complaining, all I want to say is he can go straight to hell in a handbasket, because his Mexican ladies park in my lot all the time you should also check how many of them are legal – if he wants to get really nasty, I can play that game too.”

He paused to catch his breath.

“It’s not about parking.”

“No? What then?”

“We want to talk to Maurice Bruno.”

“Morry? Morry’s in Vegas. We do a lot of our business there, with the casinos, the motels and hotels. Here.” He opened a drawer of the desk and tossed a handful of matchbooks at us. Most of the big names were represented.

Milo pocketed a few.

“When will he be back?”

“In a few days. He went on a selling trip two weeks ago, first to Tahoe, then Reno, end up in Vegas – probably playing around a bit on company time, not to mention the expense account – but who cares, he’s a terrific salesman.”

“I thought he was a vice-president.”

“Vice-president in charge of sales. It’s a salesman with a fancy title, a bigger salary, a nicer office – what do you think of this place – looks like some fag fixed it up, right?”

I searched Milo’s face for a reaction, found none.

“My wife. She did this herself. This place used to be nice. There was papers all over the place, a couple of chairs, white walls – normal walls so you could hear the noise from the plant, know something was going on. This feels like death, you know. That’s what I get for taking a second wife. A first wife leaves you alone, a second one wants to make you into a new person.”

“Are you sure Mr. Bruno’s in Las Vegas?”

“Why shouldn’t I be sure? Where else would he go?”

“How long has Mr. Bruno been working for you, Mr. Gershman?”

“Hey, what’s this – this isn’t child support or something like that?”

“No. We just want to talk to him about a homicide investigation we’re conducting.”

“Homicide?” Gershman shot out of his chair. “Murder? Morry Bruno? You got to be kidding. He’s a gem of a guy!” A gem who had been excellent at passing rubber checks.

“How long has he been working for you, sir?”

“Let me see – a year and a half, maybe two.”

“And you’ve had no problem with him?”

“Problem? I tell you he’s a gem. Knew nothing about the business, but I hired him on hunch. Hell of a salesman. Outsold all the other guys – even the old timers – by the fourth month. Reliable, friendly, never a problem.”

“You mentioned child support. Mr. Bruno’s divorced?”

“Divorced,” said Gershman sadly. “Like everyone. Including my son. They give up too easily nowadays.”

“Does he have family here in Los Angeles?”

“Nah. The wife, kids – three of ’em, I think – they moved back east. Pittsburgh, or Cleveland, some place with no ocean. He missed ’em, talked about it. That’s why he volunteered at the Casa.”

“Casa?”

“That kids’ place, up in Malibu. Morry used to spend his weekends there, volunteering with the kids. He got a certificate. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Bruno’s office was a quarter the size of Gershman’s, but decked out in the same eclectically elegant style. The place was neat as a pin, not surprising, since Bruno spent most of his time on the road.

Gershman pointed to a framed plaque that shared wall space with a half-dozen Number One Salesman commendations.

“You see – awarded to Maurice Bruno in recognition of voluntary service to the homeless children of La Casa de los Niños blah blah blah. I told you he was a gem.”

The certificate was signed by the Mayor, as honorary witness, and by the director of the children’s home, a Reverend Augustus J. McCaffrey. It was all calligraphy and floral intaglio. Very impressive.

“Very nice,” said Milo. “Do you know what hotel Mr. Bruno was staying at?”

“He used to stay at the MGM, but after the fire, I don’t know. Let’s go back to the office and find out.”

Back in Office Beautiful, Gershman picked up the telephone, punched the intercom and barked into the receiver.

“Denise, where’s Morry staying in Vegas? Do that.”

A half-minute later the intercom buzzed.

“Yeah? Good. Thanks, darling.” He turned to us. “The Palace.”

“Caesar’s Palace?”

“Yeah. You want me to call there, you can talk to him?”

“If you don’t mind, sir. We’ll charge it to the Police Department.”

“Nah!” Gershman waved his hand. “On me. Denise, call Caesar’s Palace, get Morry on the phone. He’s not there, leave him a message to call–”

“Detective Sturgis. West L.A. Division.”

Gershman completed the instructions.

“You’re not thinking about Morry as a suspect, are you?” he asked when he got off the phone. “This is a witness thing, right?”

“We really can’t say anything about it, Mr. Gershman.” Milo paid lip service to discretion.

“I can’t believe it!” Gershman slapped his head with his hand. “You think Morry’s a murderer! A guy who works with kids on the weekend – a guy who never had a cross word with anybody here – go ask around, I give you permission. You find someone who has a bad word to say about Morry Bruno, I’ll eat this desk!”

He was interrupted by the intercom buzzer.

“Yes, Denise. What’s that? You’re sure? Maybe it was a mistake. Check again. And then call the Aladdin, the Sands, maybe he changed his mind.”

The old man’s face was solemn when he hung up.