Elmore Leonard - Cat Chaser

“Really? I’m surprised you hear anything about that,” de Boya said.

“You kidding?” Jiggs said. “General, there certain areas you’re a living legend among people that know anything about or appreciate the fine art of interrogation. It used to be, when I was a youngster on the Force in New York, we could use our own resources, so to speak, in extracting information. Now, the guy doesn’t even have to tell you his name his lawyer isn’t present. Fucking Miranda changed everything.” Jiggs shook his head, began to grin a little. “Wasn’t like that where you come from, I don’t imagine.”

“You say to get information?”

“Yeah, interrogate a suspect.”

“The trick,” de Boya said, “when you question someone is not to ask a question.”

Jiggs maintained a pleasant expression. “You don’t ask ’em anything?”

“No, never. You take the person’s clothes off. Always you do this, strip the person naked, and sometimes it’s enough. Or you subject the person to an unpleasant experience, increasing this gradually,” de Boya said, giving his recipe. “The person wants to tell you something, but you still don’t ask him. He pleads with you, he begins to say things, to ask the questions himself, yes, and then answer them, he’s so anxious to please you if you’ll stop the unpleasantness.”

“The unpleasantness,” Jiggs said, his face creased in appreciation. “That’s not bad, general.”

“But the information,” de Boya said, “that isn’t the important reason for interrogation.”

“It isn’t?”

“What do you wish to know?” de Boya said. “Where someone lives? Where they hide arms? Something they’re saying about you, the government? No, the purpose of interrogation is preventive. What you do in the secrecy of the act always becomes known to others, to the ones against you.”

“And it scares the shit out of ’em,” Jiggs said, nodding. “I getcha.”

“I like to think it gives brave men pause,” de Boya said. “Remember, fear is of more substance than information.”

“Yes sir, that’s a good point.”

“Information, it has degrees of importance at different times,” de Boya said. “But fear, you can use fear always.”

“Keeps your people under control,” Jiggs said.

“Yes, they don’t know what to do, so they do nothing.” De Boya began to nod, a pleasant expression masking his thoughts, his pictures from another time. “I always do a good job at that.” He gestured with his hands. “Well, it was my especiality, of course.”

A few minutes past midnight Moran’s phone rang. He turned off Johnny Carson and got to the counter, knowing it was Mary, feeling wide awake now.

She said, “Jiggs Scully was here, earlier this evening. They were in Andres’s study with the door closed for almost a half hour.”

Moran said, after a moment, “I know what you’re thinking… But I talked to Nolen and now I’m leaning the other way, back to Jiggs.”

“You think the whole thing’s his idea?”

“I’m pretty sure. If Andres wanted to get the goods on us there’s got to be a simpler way than all this.”

“Then why did Jiggs come here? He must be working for Andres.”

“For him and against him. Listen, you got to get out of there.”

“I will, soon.”

“Have you written down what you want to say?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Does Andres know I was there today?”

“He didn’t mention it, but I’m sure he does. He got home late.” Mary paused. “Wait a second, okay?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I heard something. Hold on.”

Moran waited, standing straight up now. He heard it then, away from the other end of the phone connection, sounding like shots, glass breaking. He pressed the phone to his ear and heard a voice far away, someone shouting. He heard Mary’s voice, closer, call out, “What is it?” Then nothing. He waited. He heard jarring sounds close, as though she might have dropped the phone picking it up. Now her voice in the phone was saying, “I’ll call you back.”

“Wait a minute. Are you all right?”

Her voice came as a whisper now. “I’m fine, but I can’t talk now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Andres is upstairs.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

But she’d hung up.

MARY DIDN’T CALL BACKduring the night.

Moran phoned her in the morning. The maid with the accent said Mrs. de Boya was not at home. It was only nine o’clock; Moran didn’t know what to say next. He asked what time she was expected. The maid said she didn’t know. He asked then, “Is Mrs. de Boya all right?”

The maid, Altagracia, said, “Yes? I think so.”

He took a chance and said, “What was all that noise last night?”

The maid hesitated. She said, “I don’t hear any noise.”

He tried again a little after ten.

A recorded voice answered to say, “The number you are calling is temporarily out of service. Please try again later.” He dialed again to be sure and heard the message repeated.

What in the hell was going on?

He got the number of the Coral Gables Police from Information, 442-2300, dialed and a male voice answered. Moran said, “Hey, what was all the noise over on Arvida last night? Up at the end of the street.”

The male voice said, “Who is this speaking, please?” Moran said he lived in the neighborhood and was just wondering… The male voice said, “Could I have that address and your name, please?” Moran hung up.

He knocked on the door to oceanfront Number One, waited and banged on it. Then got the key from Jerry, Jerry in a lighthearted mood whistling “I’m Going to Live Till I Die,” and went back to let himself in.

The apartment was empty, still a mess from the night before: the bottles standing on the coffeetable, the bowl of water, bits of potato chips all over. The bed Rafi had slept in was unmade, the light spread and sheet in a tangle on the floor.

Nolen, in Number Five, was popping open a can of beer. He said, “Stand back. Don’t say anything yet.”

Moran waited in the doorway to watch.

Nolen poured a good four or five ounces of Budweiser down his throat. When he lowered the can and looked at Moran with grateful wet eyes he said, “Oh Jesus. Oh my God Almighty.” He raised the can again and finished it in two tries.

“I’m gonna live.”

“Till you die,” Moran said. “Jerry’ll whistle it for you while you’re going down the tube.”

“Fuck you,” Nolen said.

“If you know you’re gonna be hung over-”

“And if you know I’m gonna be,” Nolen said, going to the gas range where a saucepan of chili with beans was starting to bubble, “what’re you asking me for? You want to be useful, open a couple of beers.”

Moran sat with Nolen while he ate his breakfast, chili laced with catsup to sweeten it and drank several ice-cold beers, the sorrow in his watery eyes giving way to a bleary expression of contentment.

Moran commented. “You having fun? You dumb shit.”

“Don’t judge,” Nolen said, “till you walked a mile in my moccasins.”

“Few weeks you’ll be down to Thunderbird.”

“Or Chivas. I’m making my run.”

“Bullshit, you’ll be down making love to the toilet bowl.”

“I never throw up, George. I value my nutrition.”

“What time’d you go to bed?”

“I watched black and white TV, you cheap fuck, and hit the sack early.”

“Where’s your pal Ché?”

“Who?”

“Rafi, your spray painter.”

“He borrowed my car to go look for Loret.”

“He expect to find her, Miami Beach?”

“Rafi expects-Jesus, this hits the spot, you know it? I doubt Rafi’s expectations have anything to do with the real world. He’s a twinkie.”