Joseph Wambaugh - Finnegan's week

“Hello,” he said, thinking it might be Lou Ross with details about the New York trip.

“It’s Shelby Pate, Mister Temple,” the voice said.

Jules was astonished. He caught his breath and said, “Yes?”

“I gotta talk to you today.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Abel got it for me,” Shelby said, “a few days ago.”

“How’d he get it?”

“From Mary,” Shelby said. “He was fuckin her.”

“I see,” Jules said. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“Money,” Shelby said.

“I see,” Jules said.

“Want me to explain?”

“I don’t want you to explain on the telephone,” Jules said. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“At my office.”

“Be there at one,” Shelby said.

“I simply can’t,” Jules said. “I can be there by five-thirty. That’s the best I can do.”

“Okay,” Shelby said. “Five-thirty.”

“Will Durazo be with you?” Jules asked.

“He had an accident in T.J.,” Shelby said. “He ain’t never gonna be with me again.”

When Jules hung up, he was paralyzed with rage. His heart was pounding. His mouth was very dry but at least his hands didn’t shake. He was pleased that his hands didn’t shake. He’d always been able to control stress to a remarkable degree, hadn’t he? He was pleased that his mind had worked so quickly under fire. He’d told that pig to meet him at five-thirty because he knew instinctively that he’d be better off after dark. Whatever happened, it should happen after dark.

Jules hadn’t clearly formulated a plan yet, but Shelby Pate was forcing him. He wasn’t exactly making it up as he went along. He already had ideas, but they weren’t crystallized. Abel Durazo wasn’t coming back? That was great news. There was only Pate.

Jules looked at his watch. There was plenty of time to go to Green Earth and make preparations. Hazardous waste could be stored for a long time if he did it properly, and he certainly knew how to do that in order to sidestep government regulations. There was a stack of drums containing diesel fuel, and some containing etching acid that he’d been holding until he had a sufficient load. He’d put Shelby Pate into one of those drums.

Then it would be a matter of borrowing a boat from someone at the club. Maybe a runabout on a trailer. He could haul it to the yard and dolly the drum onto the boat; then he could launch the boat and dump the drum a mile offshore. He could do it as soon as Monday, or wait till the weekend. That might be best, doing it on the weekend. Then he could stay out and do some fishing just to prove something to himself: that Jules Temple did not panic. That Jules Temple was once again in control of his own destiny.

But he quickly dismissed that plan. The more mundane but less dangerous way would be to dump Pate’s body in the vicinity of a bikers’ bar like Hogs Wild, and let it be found. Let the police think he’d died as he’d lived, at the hands of some other lowlife scum.

“It’s possible that I’ve been running away from my three sisters all my life,” Fin said to her.

He was sitting on the sofa eating his second bowl of butter brickle ice cream. His bachelor apartment, a block from the sand in south Mission Beach, had been thoroughly cleaned and tidied up by Fin on the chance that he’d be successful in persuading Nell to come home.

She was seated at the kitchen table finishing her second bowl.

“Why would you spend your life running away? Are they so awful?”

“Actually, all three’re smarter than me. And each managed to have a happy marriage to guys that weren’t millionaires or senile or comatose. The youngest one’s recently widowed and she got herself a good job, recession and all. They have nice kids and they’re successful in life. Me, I’m a failed actor, a failed cop, and the world’s worst marriage prospect.”

“So’re you saying you always marry women who aren’t like your sisters?”

“Actually, I came to that conclusion just after I met you.”

“Whaddaya mean by that?”

“You remind me of my sisters.”

“I thought they kicked ass and took names.”

“They did. It didn’t work, but they kept trying.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you waste a lotta time on self-pity?”

“That’s exactly what my sister says.”

“Which one?”

“All three.”

“Are you a junkie that can’t stop?”

“Probably,” he said, “unless I finally get involved with somebody who’s like my sisters.”

“I thought your first wife, the good sergeant, kicked your butt from time to time.”

“Yeah, but she did it for her own amusement. My sisters did it to make me a better person.”

Nell got up and went to the refrigerator for more ice cream. “The hell with calories,” she said.

“With that bod, you can afford a few calories.”

“Looks like I’m doing it again,” she said.

“What?”

“Getting involved with a Peter Pan policeman. Your favorite song is ‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’ right?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“A woman my age would kinda like it the other way around, even in these modern times.”

“Hillary Clinton wouldn’t think so. Who’re you voting for on Tuesday?”

“Since you got me all mixed up I’ll probably vote for Perot.”

“I’d rather not talk politics.”

Nell sat down next to him on the sofa, and said, “I’ll bet your sisters spoil you rotten. Want some of my ice cream?”

“Does this mean we’re … involved? ”

She didn’t answer, but she put down the bowl and scooted closer.

“The thing that drove me wild was your broken nose,” he said. “It’s so sexy.”

“My most masculine feature,” she said.

“I told you I was probably gay …”

“Except for the sex part,” she said. “Right?”

“Riiiiiiight,” said Fin Finnegan.

Jules was tired, but quite satisfied with his day’s work. He felt he looked cool and collected in gabardine slacks and an oversized cotton shirt with a yachting crest on the pocket. He wore the shirt for the freedom of movement he’d need during the action he’d planned. Instead of tasseled loafers, he wore boat shoes, for traction on the greasy asphalt in the truck yard.

Jules almost went back out to the yard again, but that was pointless. It would work or it wouldn’t. He was ready or he wasn’t. He had a small liquor cabinet in his office, so he opened it and poured himself a shot of Scotch. He held the glass of Scotch in a half-extended arm. His hand did not shake.

Bobbie was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac half a block from Shelby Pate’s house. He’d have to head in the other direction if he left. Bobbie simply had to know where he’d go if he left his house on a night when his crime partner lay dead in a Tijuana morgue.

She knew that what she was doing was foolhardy, and that her boss would go cosmic if he found out about it. She knew that Fin and Nell would react in a similar fashion, but she believed that Shelby Pate might hook up with the man who’d masterminded the theft of the navy shoes if only to tell him that Abel Durazo had been killed. Any meeting with Jules Temple would help to cement her case, or at least assist in the interrogation after they arrested Shelby Pate on Monday morning.

At 4:45 P.M., he lumbered through the open doorway. He propped the dangling door in place, but didn’t bother to secure it with nails. He didn’t pick up any of the clothing that was strewn all over the property. He got on his bike, put on the black helmet, and roared away, not noticing the Hyundai that was never far behind.