Timothy Hallinan - The Man With No Time

“This is interesting,” Tiffle acknowledged. “Helping people to get established and all. But what would a lawyer do?” He reached toward the cigarette box again, thought better of it, and contented himself with giving his straining shirt a tug.

I picked up the pace. “A major real estate transaction is the first step. We need to acquire an existing church. I don't have to tell you how much that might run into. Seven figures, certainly.” He lost interest in the shirt and drummed his fingers on the desk. “We would want you to handle the financial details, hold the money, set up escrow. People sometimes misunderstand when clerics attempt to function as businessmen, especially when such large sums are involved.”

“You bet,” he said, shooting me a look out of his pale little eyes. “Well, sure, I could do that.”

“Then, of course, the church will need a board of directors, like any profitable enterprise. Some of them must be Chinese; that would only be right. But the board's chairman should be someone familiar with business law, someone who can advise us on how to put the profits to work in the best interests of the congregation, but without doing-or seeming to do, Mr. Tiffle-anything inappropriate.”

He made a sticky little tent of his fingers. “Define inappropriate.”

Right. Smartass. I took a breath. “One of the principles of the founder of Christianity was to render unto Caesar that which belongs to Caesar. I would define as inappropriate anything that would bring Caesar's representatives to the door, feeling that they are not being rendered enough.”

He gave me a long, doubting look. “Churches aren't taxable.”

“Nonreligious financial activity undertaken with church capital sometimes is, though. It traditionally depends on two things: first, how divorced from religion the activity is, and second, how conspicuous it is. Spending the money, I mean.”

His nostrils widened. “How much money?”

I sat back and breathed in. “Lots.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“I have an engagement, with a missionary, in fact. But it's interesting you should suggest dinner, because if we were to decide to go into business together, I would have to insist on meeting you frequently outside of office hours.” I raised a hand. “Once again, the appearance of propriety.”

He went for it. “Yeah, yeah. Well, early, late, it's the same to me. Except I'm generally tied up from seven to eight in the evening. Personal.”

“Of course,” I said maliciously. “A man can't spend all his time at the old grind. Anyway, mornings are better for me.”

“So mornings it is. Tell me again. Why me?”

“Your connections. Your reputation. Your expertise. Mr. Tiffle, I shouldn't say this before we've signed some papers, but you're probably unique.”

“Fine,” he said, leaning back to a groan of protest from his chair. “I'd handle the transaction, direct business operations. That it?”

It almost sounded legal. “And, of course, we'd want your help with the newer immigrants. You deal with hundreds of them. In addition to your regular stipends, there would be an emolument for each Chinese soul-each solvent Chinese soul-you bring to the fold. You could be very, very helpful as we build the flock.” We exuded oil at each other.

“Yeah,” he said, yanking at his shirt again. “I could.”

“I need a shower,” I said to Tran as I got into the rented car, a gray Flazoolie or something else I'd never heard of. Tran had waited out the meeting in it, half a block away, as arranged.

“Long time,” he said, sounding nervous. He looked into the rearview mirror.

“Believe me, it seemed a lot longer to me than it did to you.”

“You can get him early?”

“I can get him out of the John if I need him.” Tran jerked his head around to look behind us again. “Why do you keep trying to dislocate your neck?”

“Somebody following me.”

“Oh.” I involuntarily turned in the same direction. “Who?”

“Chinese. Not there now.”

“Well, balls,” I said. “When did you see him?”

“Maybe last night. Today for sure, while you're inside, two times. Not there now.”

“Well, let's get out of Chinatown. You drive, I'll watch.” I angled the passenger-side mirror so I could see behind us, and Tran picked up Sunset and followed its curves more or less west. Traffic was building, and it was impossible to pick up any single car as suspicious. Absolutely everybody seemed to be Chinese.

“What kind of car?”

“Hyundai. White.”

“Nothing there now.”

“There before.”

“It's time for a new car.”

Ten blocks later I told the smoothie at the rental agency that we needed something with a little more pickup, and he tried to talk us into a Corvette at several hundred dollars a day. We compromised on a little BMW that set Tran's pulse racing, and I let him drive it out.

“You see Weepy?” he asked as he pulled into traffic.

“Florence Lam,” I said. Florence was the one who'd opened the office, arriving twenty minutes before the other women. Like Tiffle, and unlike the rest of the staff, Florence Lam didn't go out for lunch; if the circles beneath her eyes were any indication, she was probably too busy. I figured when Tiffle was hungry he just sacrificed a goat in the back room.

“How old Snowbell?” Tran was sharing the American male experience of ego infusion by automobile.

“Too old for you.”

“Eleanor prettier anyway.”

“Eleanor,” I said, “is definitely too old for you. Last night, you think you saw the guy outside Tiffle's?”

“Yes.”

“And today, he picked you up around Tiffle's.”

“I already say so.”

“That's interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because of what it suggests he doesn't know.”

“Pardon?”

“He keeps picking us up at Tiffle's, but never anywhere else. Well,” I said, “we can either wait for him to make a move, or we can make one ourselves. And if we wait for him, he'll have an agenda. Let's see if we can't take him.”

Tran gave the wheel an eager little back-and-forth. “When?”

“Now. Rush hour's good.” Even as I said it, my heart sped up. “Damn, I wish Dexter wasn't home.”

“Not home. Eating. Dexter always eating.”

My blood pressure rose. “Who the hell's watching Everett?”

“Friend, he say.”

“Great. A friend. Well, nothing we can do about it now. Where's he eating?”

“House of Breakfast. Olympic Boulevard. Dexter only eat breakfast, but he eat it four times a day.”

I checked behind us again. “Let's go interrupt him.”

We cruised Tiffle's four times: Tran driving, me sitting on my lungs in the passenger seat so I couldn't be seen through the window. By then Dexter was stationed in his maroon Lincoln on the little dead-end section of Granger Street across Hill. If the tail made a move, he'd have to get across Hill somehow, but I figured he'd manage.

On the fourth pass, Tran said, “Nothing.”

I turned to wave Dexter to join us, and we met a block away. “Who's with Everett, anyway?” I demanded.

“Somebody make Everett wish he never learned English. You gone to meet him.”

“I can't wait. I need you to follow Florence Lam home.”

Dexter made an elaborate show of scratching his head. “Florence Lam.”

“Weepy,” I clarified.

“I like Snowbell.”

“Me, too,” Tran said.

“Florence Lam,” I said. “And don't let her see you yet.”

“You didn't have to say that,” Dexter said. “Hurt a man's feelings.”

“We'll meet back here at ten and cruise old Granger Street again.”

“She got a eye for a man,” Dexter said, “she gone to spot me.”