Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“Sergeant Masuto, is it breakfast? As our guest, please.”

“I had breakfast. How many people work in your room, Fritz?”

“Bartenders, waiters, waitresses, busboys, the kitchen help-all of them?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-two, I think. We overlap because we are open sixteen hours a day.”

“Fritz, I’m interested in someone who didn’t turn up for work yesterday and today.”

“That’s every day, Sergeant. If not for goldbricking, I could get by with five people less.”

“I’m interested in yesterday and today.”

“There’s Johnny at the bar. He was out yesterday, but he came in today. Ah-let’s see. There is a kid we take on for busboy, maybe a week ago. Look, Sergeant, I don’t want no trouble about this. It’s hard as hell to find busboys-especially busboys who got more brains than a cow. So we don’t ask too many questions when we get one we can use.”

“Fritz, I’m not going to make any trouble for you. But this is life and death.”

“As serious as that? Sure. Anyway, this kid, he got too many smarts for a busboy. He’s not in yesterday. Today, he’s on the late shift, starts at noon. Hey, Max,” he called to one of the waiters, “is Frank in yet, that new busboy?”

“No sign of him yet.”

“His name is Frank-Frank what?”

Fritz shook his head. “I can get it for you.”

“Wait. What does he look like?”

“Very dark, black hair. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. Skinny.”

“Chicano?”

“No, not Chicano. Some of the boys try to talk to him in Spanish, but he doesn’t know Spanish. Some kind of accent, not German or French, because I can spot that. I figure he’s some kind of student maybe.”

“Fritz,” Masuto said, trying to control his eagerness, “the people who work here, they have to come off the street and change into their work clothes. Where?”

“We got a dressing room behind the kitchen.”

“Take me there.”

“Sure, sure. You think there’s something funny about that kid?” He led the way through the cocktail lounge into the kitchen and through it. “You know what kind of trouble we got already? You need a busboy, everyone says there are five million unemployed, but go try to find a busboy. So we can’t pick and choose.”

“I know, I know,” Masuto said.

They were in a narrow room now, a room about twelve feet long, a wooden bench running down the middle and rows of metal lockers on either side. Most of the lockers had padlocks on them. A waiter sat on the bench, lacing his shoes.

“Which is his locker, Fritz?”

“We look. The names are on them.”

The waiter stopped dressing to watch them. Fritz was farsighted, fumbling for his glasses as Masuto traced through the names.

“Here!” Masuto cried. “Frank Franco!”

The locker was padlocked.

“I want this opened, Fritz. Now!”

Fritz nodded.

“Now, damn you! Now!”

“Sure, sure.” He turned to the waiter. “Steve, go get the handyman.”

“What did the kid do? You can’t just-”

“Get the handyman,” Masuto said, his voice like ice. “I’m a policeman. You have him here in five minutes, or I swear I’ll take you in.”

“Sure. Okay. I’ll get him.” He got up, stared at Masuto a moment, then left.

“Fritz, does anyone know anything about this kid? Do you have an address for him?”

Fritz shook his head hopelessly. “All right, you don’t hire people this way. He said he was looking for a place to live. He had just come into town. So I let it go, and a couple of days ago, I ask him again. He says he thinks he got a place-”

“Goddamn it, are you telling me you hire like that? Where was he sleeping?”

“Sergeant, I swear, I’m telling the truth. It happens.”

“All right, it happens,” Masuto said more softly. “Who did he talk to? Did he make any friends?”

Fritz creased his brows. He was a large, soft man, and he knew he was in trouble. The whole thing frightened him. He had never been at ease with the complex of laws that surrounded hiring, Social Security, withheld taxes, and compensation, and in this particular case he had short-circuited everything. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “I try to help, yes? I do my best. A few times, I see him talking to Maria.”

“Who’s Maria?”

“Maria Constanza-she’s a good girl, a Chicano. I don’t want no trouble for her. She’s a waitress. She works in the lanai. In the lanai we have waitresses. She works three years here.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“Get her in here.”

“All right, I bring her.”

As he left, the handyman entered carrying his tool box-a middle-aged man whose blue eyes peered inquiringly at Masuto from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Are you the cop?” he wanted to know.

“Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. Open this locker for me.”

“You sure you got the right?”

“I’m damn sure. Now open it.”

He took out his hammer and gave the padlock a couple of sharp blows. It was a combination lock. Nothing happened. “Sometimes you can spring them, sometimes you can’t.” Then he took out a hacksaw and went to work. He was sawing away at the lock when Fritz returned with Maria Constanza.

She was a slender, pretty girl, with wide brown eyes and a look of fear on her face.

“Maria Constanza?” Masuto asked.

She nodded.

“Sit down please,” he said, indicating the bench. “Don’t be afraid.”

She sat down tentatively, staring at him.

“Would it be better if we talked in Spanish? Would it be easier for you?”

“ Por favor ” she whispered.

Then he spoke in Spanish. “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. But if you can help me, a little girl’s life might be saved.”

“I will try to help you.”

“That locker,” he said, pointing to where the handyman was sawing away, “belonged to a man called Frank Franco. Fritz tells me that you were friendly with him.”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“How friendly?”

“What did he do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know-yet.”

While they were speaking, Beckman came into the room. He exchanged glances with Masuto, shook his head, and then noticed the handyman sawing away. He stood silently.

“We talked to each other,” Maria said. “We had one date. He took me to the movies. We saw the picture called King Kong .”

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“A little. He was lonely. He lived with his brother.”

“His name was not Frank Franco.”

“You know that?”

“What was his real name?” Masuto asked gently.

“Issa.”

“Issa what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He never told me. But he said I might call him Issa, not in the restaurant, but when we were alone. He made me promise that I would never reveal his name. Now I’ve broken my promise.”

“You’re an illegal immigrant?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t be afraid, please. The fact that you’re an illegal immigrant is no business of mine. Nothing will happen to you. I promise you.”

“Please. I must work. I have a little boy who will starve if I don’t work. My husband is in Mexico. This is the first man-I can’t lose my job, please.”

“You will not lose your job.” He turned to Fritz. “She’s done nothing, Fritz. I don’t what her to lose her job.”

“She’s a good girl. Maria,” Fritz said to her, “tell him whatever he wants to know. You won’t lose your job.”

“This man, Issa,” Masuto said in Spanish, “is he an Arab?”

“I don’t know. When I asked him where he was from, he just shrugged and said it was far away. He and his brother were students at the University of Nevada. Then they came here.”