Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“Anything else?”

“No,” he said, putting his notebook away. “You?”

“Someone just tried to kill me,” I said.

“Where?”

“Midnight Pass. Shot at me three times. I got away.”

“You think Obermeyer tried to kill you because you threatened him?” asked Viviase.

“Unlikely,” I said. “What about Hoffmann’s man Stanley?”

Viviase pulled out his notebook again and flipped through the pages. When he stopped, he read, “Stanley LaPrince. Born in…He’s thirty-six. Born Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Finished high school, two years at Louisiana State, joined the army, Desert Storm action, bunch of medals. Discharged after he shot three unarmed Iraqi soldiers. Made the mistake of doing it in view of a Reuters reporter. Hooked up with Hoffmann about three years ago, maybe more.”

“So, are you taking me in?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’ll tell Obermeyer there’s not enough evidence to charge you, which is not quite true. I don’t like Obermeyer. I don’t like Hoffmann.”

“And me?”

“I don’t much like you either, but I’m getting used to you. You’re pissing someone off, Fonesca, and we both know who. My advice? Midnight Pass vote is tonight. Spend the rest of the day watching movies and go to bed early.”

Viviase left and I picked up the phone. Dixie was back at work at the coffeehouse. She told me Harvey, my regular hacker, was back in town and at work. Since there was no cost for Harvey’s services, I thanked Dixie.

“Anytime,” she said. “Got to run. Cappuccino machine is making weird sounds.”

I called the law offices of Tycinker, Oliver, and Schwartz on Palm Avenue and got connected to Harvey.

“Harvey here,” he said flatly.

Harvey would have been movie-star handsome if he didn’t have his recurrent love affairs with alcohol. He was still a handsome man with blond hair. He was a little on the pudgy side. He had developed an intense addiction to the Internet. He had a small office at the law firm where he did work, both legal and questionable, for the partners and work for me as part of my retainer.

“How are you?” I asked.

“All the parts still seem to be connected,” he said. “I’m filled with iced green tea and staying busy. What can I do for you?”

I told him. Part of what I asked him to do was to confirm something I’d already found out. The other part was something new. He said he would call me back, probably in less than half an hour.

“Oh, Tycinker says he’s been trying to reach you.”

“I know why,” I said. “Talk to you later.” I had papers to serve on Mickey Donophin and one day to serve them. There was no point in calling Tycinker and telling him my troubles. He wouldn’t want to hear them. If I backed out, I’d have to turn the papers over to Dick Provner at the Freewell Agency and Tycinker would be less inclined to use me the next time he needed papers served, and less inclined to continue our arrangement, which included the services of Harvey the Hacker.

I took my wallet, keys, notebook, and pen out of my wet pants pocket, picked up the pile of soggy clothes, and dumped them in a white plastic garbage bag from the box Ames had placed in one of the bottom drawers of my desk. I put my red, mud-covered shoes in a corner. I’d deal with them later.

The rain had stopped. The sun was out. The phone started to ring. I let it. Then I heard Hoffmann’s voice on the answering machine saying, “Fonesca, if you’re there, pick up.”

I picked up the phone and said, “I’m here.”

“Turn off the answering machine,” he said.

I turned it off.

“It’s off?”

“It’s off,” I said.

“I don’t trust you,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “You called me.”

“I have a business offer,” he said. “You’ve been bothering Dr. Obermeyer. He has a weak heart. I think he may have gone to the police. I can convince him to withdraw any complaints he may have made.”

He definitely sounded much different from the fun-loving baseball collectable man who had threatened to beat my head in with a bat and may have just taken three shots at me. He sounded different from the man in the Double Tiger Productions T-shirt who had offered me ten thousand dollars to spend a weekend in New Orleans. He sounded like a kinder, gentler, and maybe more nervous Kevin Hoffmann.

“Another business offer,” I said.

“Consultation on security for me and my business interests,” he said.

“Consultation?”

“Much of my work is confidential,” he said. “There’s a lot of industrial espionage, corporate espionage, particularly in the land business. You’d advise me on how to deal with it.”

“I’m a process server,” I said.

“I think you’d be perfect for the job,” Hoffmann said. “Twenty thousand dollars as a signing bonus, payable this afternoon. Four thousand dollars a month. I can have contracts ready this afternoon.”

“This afternoon,” I repeated.

“There is one condition,” Hoffmann said. “Standard clause. Nondisclosure. You can’t talk to anyone about my business or private transactions.”

“Retroactive?”

“Of course,” he said nervously.

I sat in my desk chair and pretended I was thinking.

“I don’t think so,” I finally said.

“Five thousand,” Hoffmann said, a touch of desperation in his voice. “Twenty-five thousand up front. Two-year, no, three-year guaranteed contract.”

“So, you’d give me four thousand dollars a month,” I said. “In exchange for which I would do…”

“Nothing. And say nothing,” he added.

“If the offer’s still open after the commission meeting, I’ll think about it, Mr. Dutcher,” I said.

This time the pause was his and even longer than mine had been.

“We’ve got to talk,” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll come out to your place with a couple of my friends. They’ll take William Trasker out of your house and then you and I will talk.”

“That won’t happen,” he said.

“Then we don’t have anything to talk about,” I said.

I hung up the phone. I got up and picked up the white plastic bag filled with my dirty clothes. I added a few items that were on the floor of my room. The phone rang. I answered. It was Hoffmann again.

“Fonesca, I didn’t kill Roberta Trasker.”

“And you didn’t try to kill me?”

“You? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve got to get to the Laundromat,” I said, and hung up again.

I called Kenneth Severtson’s office. His secretary put me through to him.

“Severtson, are we still on for tomorrow at ten at the First Watch on Main?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you back with your wife?”

“We’re talking about it.”

“Have her with you,” I said. “Tell her I said it was important.”

“Fonesca,” he said with what may have been a sob. “You don’t know how grateful I am to you for all you’ve done. I’m bringing a bonus tomorrow morning. I want you to take it without arguing.”

Someone else was offering me money. I was about to say no when I changed my mind.

“Make it cash,” I said. “I know someone who can use it.”

“Cash,” he said. “Ten o’clock.”

“Stay dry,” I said.

“I will,” he answered.

We both hung up.

I was out the door with my plastic bag full of laundry when I heard the phone ringing again. I kept walking.

The rain had stopped.

The laundromat was on Bahia Vista just east of Tamiami Trail. I got my load in, inserted detergent and quarters, and went to Leon’s kosher deli a few doors down for a kosher corned-beef and chopped-liver sandwich. I got a Diet Coke from the machine in the Laundromat and sat listening to the washers and dryers while I ate and thought.