Joe Gores - Interface

“How long was he looking for her this time?”

“Three weeks, part of it in Mexico, according to what he says.”

“Kinda sloppy work for a private eye with his reputation, ain’t it? With her marching up and down Jones Street under a sandwich board labelled „Come and Get it“?”

“You said yourself you wouldn’t figure Maxwell Stayton’s daughter to be a junkie whore.”

“There’s that.” Wylie’s face was sullen. “Hell, if we could just uncover something to prove that Fargo and Docker know each other—”

“If if if!” Henry Tekawa threw up his hands in abrupt atypical frustration. “All we have is ifs. What we need is to lay our hands on Docker.”

“What we need is to lay our hands on Docker, and damned fast!” Walter Hariss pointed a soft-tipped finger at Neil Fargo for emphasis. The inner office of the Bush Street parking garage smelled of too many cigars smoked in too confined a space.

Neil Fargo leaned against the frame of the door he had just opened, and laughed in the importer’s face. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat.

“I fail to see what’s so funny.”

“You are. We are. We’re running around in tight little circles, Docker’s laying back laughing at us all. Kolinski’s in the slammer.”

“In jail? For what? I don’t understand.”

Neil Fargo straightened away from the door frame, the sardonic grin still on his face. “The big it. Murder One.”

“Mur... But that’s insane! He just left here an hour ago—”

“For the FarJon Hotel. Murder One, Walt.” His eyes gleamed with delight. “The cops walked in on him just as he was feeding a massive overdose to a junkie whore named Robin.”

Walter Hariss was on his feet. His face was chalky then, as he spoke, became mottled with congested blood.

“Overdose to... to Robin? She’s...”

“That’s right, Walt. Roberta Stayton is dead.” Spurious concern came into his eyes. “What’s the matter? Your humanitarian feeling for her—”

“But... but... Alex wouldn’t... He knew what I planned to...”

He stopped speaking abruptly. Neil Fargo’s voice was very soft. “What did you plan for her, Walt, that you forgot to tell me about? Like you forgot to tell me where she was?”

But fear had entered the importer’s face and voice which far outweighed any fear he may have felt of Neil Fargo. “It must have been Docker!”

“The fuzz think it was Kolinski.”

“No, I tell you, it was Docker!” Sweat was starting out on his face. “He... must have framed Alex for it. Must have known—”

“The police have Kolinski cold, Walt. The spade chick on the desk is nailing his nuts to the wall every time she opens her mouth.”

“She...” Hariss licked his lips. “Has she mentioned... ah...”

“The fact that you’re half owner of that hotel?” Neil Fargo shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. But I did.”

“You—”

“Sure. I checked with the tax assessor’s office this afternoon.” His voice and eyes hardened. “You had to be cute, not let me know you had Roberta Stayton under your control. You think I was going to stand still for that?” He laughed harshly. “You’ll come out okay, Kolinski’s the one who was running the girls out of there. You can just throw him to the wolves, since they have him on Murder One already, and end up with the whole pie.”

Hariss had gotten control of himself once more. He sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk. His features were once more impassive.

“I’ll do what has to be done. But if that nigger says Alex gave an overdose to Robin Stayton, she’s lying and it’s a frame. Docker himself was at that hotel less than two hours ago!”

“Docker...” Neil Fargo’s eyes were slits. “Are you sure ? He...” Suddenly his face cleared. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself. He said: “Who gave you that hot rocket?”

Hariss started to speak, then stopped. He was suddenly troubled. “The nigger.”

“She called you up? Told Kolinski that Docker was there?”

Hariss nodded reluctantly, as if only then beginning to see what the other man apparently already had seen.

“You listened in on the other phone?”

This time Hariss shook his head. His face had gotten gloomy. Neil Fargo clapped his hands together once, palm on palm, like a child playing pattycake. He left the open doorway for the first time, sat down across the desk from Hariss.

“So you don’t know Docker was there, you only know the black chick said he was there. And you don’t even know the black chick said he was there, you only know Kolinski told you that’s what she said.”

“Why would he lie? When Alex left here he wasn’t planning to kill anyone. He wanted information that Roberta Stayton had.”

“Which was?”

“Docker’s current whereabouts.”

“For all you know,” said Neil Fargo patiently, “it was Roberta Stayton herself on the phone. And she may have threatened Kolinski with something — anything. Some sort of exposure. He knew he had to take her out, fast, so he left here with a hotshot in his pocket—”

“We didn’t have any pure stuff,” Hariss objected. His eyes blazed with sudden, almost feminine anger. “Your friend Docker saw to that.”

“Walt, get it through your head: Kolinski killed her, for whatever reason. There just isn’t any doubt about it. As for the rest of it, Docker probably was there. The spade chick says he was. And it was Docker who tipped the cops about Kolinski and the overdose.”

“There you are.” Hariss seemed only to have heard the part of it which fit his preconceptions. “Docker is playing some devious game of his own, aimed at crucifying me.”

“So far you haven’t come out too bad,” said Neil Fargo. “It’s Kolinski who’s in the soup.”

“Indeed? My courier dead, my chemist compromised — and my Mexican sources are not going to be in any hurry to start dealing with me again. And it was Alex who had the street distribution net arranged, not me.”

“So get the street layout from him on visiting day,” said Neil Fargo callously. “This idea that Docker is out to get you just doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t even know you, doesn’t even know your name — at least not from me.”

“From Roberta Stayton, then. He must have known her, if he was able to direct the police to her room.”

“Yeah, probably. But he didn’t mention Roberta by name when he tipped the cops — just Kolinski. Kolinski was OD’ing somebody . And what reason would he have to be going after you, for Chrissake? He already got the heroin and the money that was going to buy it. He’s already fucked you and fucked me.” His voice became momentarily strident, as if infected with Hariss’ tension. “What’s he hanging around for?” He sneered suddenly. “He doesn’t like your face? Shit, I don’t like it either, Hariss, but I can live with it...”

The ringing phone cut him off.

“Bush Street Garage,” said Hariss.

An old cracked voice asked suspiciously, “Is Neil Fargo there?”

“One moment, I’ll check. I’m just the car-park boy.” Hariss held his hand over the receiver, pointed toward the wall phone over the safe.

Neil Fargo lifted the receiver, said. “Yeah, speaking.”

“You put out the word on a yellow Mercury Montego, license six-three-six, Zee-Eff-Eff?”

“One moment,” snapped Hariss. He punched the HOLD button so the caller could not pick up any of their conversation. He exclaimed, in red-hot fury, “You bastard, you had that license number and—”

“It came in after Rizzato dropped around to my office,” said Neil Fargo. He stared hard at Hariss. After a moment, Hariss’ gaze faltered. He punched back into the outside line. Neil Fargo said into the phone, “That’s right. You have anything on it?”