T. Parker - Laguna Heat

“So you gave him a key?”

“He insisted on leaving me a hundred for my graciousness, as he put it. And he said that due to some rather tender circumstances, he’d appreciate it if I forgot his face.” Hyams drew sharply on his cigarette, then flicked his fingernails against the bottle. “I didn’t think much of it until this envelope arrived on Wednesday.”

From the bottom drawer of his desk, Ricky produced a plain white envelope with his name typewritten across it. He handed it to Shephard with a woeful look on his face.

“When I opened it, I knew that something wasn’t right.”

Shephard lifted the flap and drew out five one-thousand-dollar bills. They were so new they stuck together.

“How do you know it came from...?”

“Russell Dulak, that’s what his name is. Tom, around here you get used to a certain kind of man. I thought at first that Dulak might have been, uh, finding himself sexually. Coming out, as they say. But the hundred was strange, and the thousands, well, I just knew they were from him. No doubt. And the way he started coming and going around Dixon’s place, well, it wasn’t a personal kind of thing. I thought drugs, and I don’t like big drugs, but I wasn’t sure. Dulak came late at night, parked on the red where you did — I, uh, saw you from my apartment. And he only came when Dixon wasn’t there. He knew because he’d call and ask me. That’s how I knew the money was from him, too.”

“What kind of car?”

“Dark Porsche Carerra. Beautiful car.”

“What does Dulak look like?”

Hyams sighed and drank again from the gin. Shephard wondered what else was making his eyes gape. “Big guy. Dark hair and brown eyes. Always wore real nice clothes, I noticed.”

Bruce Harmon, Shephard thought, always right on the scene. Waving money at Hyams like he’d waved it at Jimmy and Dot Hylkama. So he had found Hodges-Steinhelper-Dixon-Mercante first, and not even bothered to call. Somehow, Shephard wasn’t surprised.

“Tom,” Hyams continued, staring down at the blotter again. “I think I did something wrong. So I called you. I was scared. When Dulak brought the suitcase and Dixon left in the taxi, I figured they’d be out of my place for a while. It’s a good place here. You might not understand it, but there’s a lot of good things here for a lot of people. I don’t want it, uh, fucked up.”

“What kind of car did Dixon drive?”

“Red caddy convertible. Nice one.”

Shephard studied the man in front of him, and saw something sincere in the haggard young face. “You knew it was the man in the Identikit sketch I showed you Saturday, didn’t you?”

Hyams downed the bottle in one gulp. “Dulak said I could keep the money, and my life, by saying and doing nothing. Russ. Shit, I knew it was wrong.”

“And Dixon left here with the suitcase Dulak brought?”

“I’m sure it was the same one.”

“Let’s see his room, Ricky.”

Hyams rose, swayed, steadied himself against Shephard’s shoulder, then led him back down the hallway and through Valentine’s dense lobby.

The apartments were clustered around a small courtyard behind the club. In the center stood a planter filled with banana trees, their fronds lacerated by the recent wind. Hyams took him to the second story, up a cement staircase that was swaying by the time they reached the top. The railing was littered with beer cans. The doors of several dilapidated apartments were open and couples kissed, laughed, spilled from the rooms. At the last door on the left, Hyams stopped and fumbled for the key. Mercante knew the out-of-the-way places, Shephard thought. He had hidden himself in town like only a man who had once lived there could.

The reek of chemicals hit him as he stepped inside and turned on the light switch beside the door.

The shock that rocked his body as he looked at the huge painting in the middle of the room rattled Shephard clear to his fingertips. Smiling at him from the canvas, revealed in all her golden youth and beauty, a beauty that hurt him to look at, was his mother, Colleen.

“Dixon’s a painter,” Hyams offered. “I could see him through the window, working on her. Pretty, isn’t she?”

Shephard’s heart was beating in his ears. “Close the door, Ricky, would you?” he heard himself ask. “And don’t touch anything, please.”

He stepped away from the canvas and surveyed the rest of the small room. It was chaotic: tubes of paint — Winsor & Newtons, he noticed — lay strewn on the dirty carpet; dishes were littered on the floor and couch; magazines and newspapers had been discarded in one corner, and now the pile reached nearly a foot high. Other paintings hung on the shabby walls, discordantly, as if thrown there without regard to balance or order. A violent seascape, a still-life that emitted a jittery anxiety, and a painting that arrested Shephard’s attention immediately. A self-portrait.

“Pretty, uh, riveting stuff, isn’t it?”

Shephard studied the sallow face in the portrait. Mercante had chopped his own face into green and yellow bevels from which his eyes arose narrowed and grim, like those of a viper about to strike. He might act like a god, Shephard thought, but he sees himself as a serpent.

In the kitchen, tossed beneath the cheapish table, Shephard found a pair of cowboy boots, the right one cloven at the heel. Sitting between the salt and pepper shakers on the table was a roll — barely used by the looks of it — of white surgical tape. Beside it was a Bible, open to Revelation.

The page had been kept by a brightly colored ticket envelope for AeroMexico, which contained no ticket. The date, scrawled by hand on the cover, was August 31. So, he’s traveling by air now, Shephard thought. The gate number was 42, the flight number 217, and whoever made the reservation had preferred — he read the words with a mirthless laugh — non-smoking. Shephard’s insides twisted.

“Is there a phone in this rathole?”

Hyams pointed to the couch. Shephard dug out the phone from under a dirty pillow and dialed Los Angeles.

The AeroMexico counter at International was still open, but the ticketing agent mournfully told Shephard that Flight 217 — L.A. to Cozumel — left at 10:15. He asked what time the next flight departed.

“That will be nine-fifty this morning,” she said. “Arriving Cozumel at seven P.M. May I reserve you a seat?”

Shephard took the reservation, hung up, and tried to find an earlier flight. Six phone calls later he had come up with nothing.

Then he thought of Marty Odette, who owed him one. Shephard dialed again. A song by the Rolling Stones echoed from the background of the Sportsplace when Odette answered the phone.

“Marty, buddy, this is Tom Shephard. I’m coming by in ten minutes and I need your help. Close the bar if you have to, you’re flying to Isla Arenillas.”

What I like about the Lear is the velocity,” Marty yelled as the jet careened down the dark runway. The scream of the engines rose to a soprano whine, the main wheels broke loose, and Shephard was pushed into his seat as the nose lifted into the air and the runway lights rapidly fell away below him. “Louder’n hell, but that’s the price you pay for speed.”

The Learjet angled upward and banked south toward Mexico. When Odette had climbed to thirty thousand feet, he left the jet in Shephard’s control and disappeared into the passenger cabin. Shephard grasped the yoke and held course by doing nothing. A moment later Odette returned with two heavy Scotch and sodas, light on the soda. He worked his way back into the tiny seat, strapped the headphones on, and reclaimed the controls from Shephard.

“This ain’t exactly legal, but that gun under your coat ain’t either, Shephard. We’ll ditch it under the seat when we go through Customs in Veracruz. They probably won’t even look. The Mexicans don’t care much what we bring down, as long as we got some dollars with us.” Marty sipped his drink and settled into the seat. Shephard gazed out the window at the dull glow of San Diego to the west, the blackness of the California desert in front of them. “Well, now that we’re comfortable, what the hell are we gonna do in Isla Arenillas? It means Island of Fine Sand, you know. And the airport there won’t accommodate this baby.”