Роберт Паркер - Sixkill

“He wants it,” I said.

“Whatever it is,” Henry said.

I picked up another donut.

“You know what it is,” I said. “You used to want it, too.”

Henry smiled.

“I got it,” he said. “He juiced?”

“He was,” I said.

“Has the look,” Henry said. “He needs to get off them.”

“I’ll make the suggestion,” I said.

Zebulon Sixkill VII

The club was in Hollywood, and the haul back and forth from Garden Grove was long. So when his month of grace ran out, Z got a one-room apartment on Franklin Avenue, from which he could walk to work.

The club had a fancy front façade with a scary-looking black guy named Deevo working the door. He had a Mohawk, and a scar on his jawline. Z worked inside, where there was a long bar, a lot of waitresses in short skirts, and a small stage upon which nude women danced and did stand-up comedy. The crowd was largely male. But there were always some couples there that got heated up by the naked performers. Many of the people who came were regulars, including a famous movie comedian named Jumbo Nelson, who was there several nights a week, usually with young women, and a tall bodyguard in a black suit who used to lean on the bar near Z and watch Jumbo.

Z had been working the club for six months when, on a crowded Friday night, with a heavy rain coming down outside, Jumbo Nelson slid his hand up the dress of a dark-haired woman sitting at the next table with a male companion.

“Hey,” the woman said, and slapped at his hand. “You see what he done, Ray?”

“I seen,” Ray said.

He stood and walked to Jumbo and grabbed him by the collar. Z started over, but the bodyguard got there first.

The bodyguard said, “Ease off, pal.”

Ray picked up a beer bottle from Jumbo’s table and swung it against the bodyguard’s forehead. The bottle broke and the blood began to run down the bodyguard’s face. Z arrived and gave Ray the same kind of forearm that he had used to ward off tacklers. It put Ray down. Deevo arrived, and he and Z got Ray on his feet and walked him out with the wronged woman behind them screaming that they wanted their fucking money back. Deevo stayed outside and put them in a cab. Z came back in and put a folded Kleenex over the cut on the bodyguard’s face. He taped it in place.

The bodyguard said he’d get it stitched later, after he drove Jumbo home. Later, on his way out, Jumbo gave Deevo and Z each a one-hundred-dollar bill. He also gave Z a business card.

“I like your style, Tonto,” Jumbo said. “Gimme a call, might hire you.”

It had rained fourteen out of the first nineteen days of this month. And it was at it again. I was in my office, reading Doonesbury, Arlo & Janis, and Tank McNamara. I spent a lot of time on Doonesbury, because I had to read it twice. When I finished, I poured some fresh coffee and began to think about Dawn Lopata.

That she had spent sexual time with Jumbo seemed certain. That during that time she had died also seemed certain. Who was responsible for that, and why, was not certain. After being at this for a month, I knew more about everybody involved. But I didn’t know how Dawn Lopata died. I looked down through the rain at Berkeley Street, where there was a jangle of colorful umbrellas.

“Progress,” I said to the street, “is our most important product.” My office door opened behind me. I swiveled around. And two men came in. Maybe progress had come knocking. The taller man was evenly tanned, with a big mustache and silvery hair worn long. He was wearing pressed jeans and black lizardskin cowboy boots, with a black velvet blazer and a white shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. His partner was a little shorter. He was wearing a full Brad Pitt. Black shoes, black suit, white shirt, black tie. His tan was darker than the other guy’s, and his black hair was slicked back tight against his scalp.

“Where’s Moe?” I said.

“What?” the tall guy said.

I shook my head.

“A little Three Stooges humor,” I said. “Pay it no mind.”

I gestured the men toward my client chairs.

“My name’s Silver,” the tall guy said. “Elliot Silver. I run Silver Star Security.”

He took a card and placed it on my desk where I could look at it.

“Wow,” I said. “I feel safer already.”

“This is Carson Ratoff,” Silver said.

Ratoff put his card next to Silver’s and sat down beside him.

“I’m an attorney,” Ratoff said.

“Can’t have too many of them,” I said.

“We represent Jumbo Nelson,” Ratoff said.

“Me too,” I said.

“We would like to discuss that with you,” Ratoff said.

“Let’s,” I said.

“Since local counsel, whom we employed, has been fired, and since you were employed by local counsel, why are you still investigating?”

“An unquenchable thirst for knowledge?” I said.

Ratoff looked at Silver. Silver nodded slowly.

“That must be it,” he said.

“Sometimes I work for tips,” I said.

Silver looked down for a moment and rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of his left hand. Then he looked up.

“So you don’t have anybody paying you right now?” he said.

“Sadly... no.”

“Maybe you could work for us,” Silver said.

“Great,” I said. “What do you want to hire me to do?”

“That depends,” Silver said.

I smiled my friendly neighborhood gumshoe smile.

“On what?” I said.

I was pretty sure I knew.

“Lemme put it to you this way,” he said. “You investigate your ass off, as far as it takes you, and you conclude that Jumbo is guilty as hell. Whaddya gonna do?”

“What would you like me to do?” I said.

“Tell us,” Silver said.

“Happy to,” I said.

“And nobody else,” Silver said.

“Just the cops,” I said. “Maybe the DA.”

“And if you conclude he’s innocent?” Silver said.

“I’ll tell you at once,” I said. “And the cops and the DA.”

“Got no problem,” Silver said. “But we’d like to see if there’s something we could do about the guilty part.”

“Like I tell you, and then shut up about it?”

“That’d be about right,” Silver said.

“Our firm,” Ratoff said, “pays consultants very well.”

“That’s what I’d be?” I said. “A consultant?”

“Yes.”

“How much is my consulting fee?” I said.

“Six figures would not be unreasonable,” Ratoff said.

“Wow,” I said.

“There’d be a confidentiality agreement, of course,” Ratoff said.

“Of course,” I said.

“So you’ll do it?” Ratoff said.

“No,” I said.

Ratoff sat back and stared at me.

“Why?” he said.

“My dog would know,” I said.

“Your dog?”

“Pearl,” I said. “When she sniffed me, I would no longer smell like rain.”

“Rain?” Ratoff said.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Silver said.

“Faulkner?” I said. “Surely you read The Sound and the Fury ?”

“Never heard of it,” Silver said.

“There’s this guy, Benjy,” I said, “who’s retarded, and his sister Caddy always smells like rain to him...”

“Shut up,” Silver said.

I was quiet.

“We tried the easy way,” Silver said. “It’s not the only way.”

“You could grovel,” I said.

Silver shook his head.

“Don’t fuck around with this,” Silver said. “There’s some very important people involved in this. L.A. people. You don’t know them, and they like it that way. But trust me, they are important.”