Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

"Do you wish to kill him yourself?"

"I may allow you that privilege."

"I am glad that you still retain confidence in me, patron."

"As always, Carlos. Go now. You have work to do."

Carlos departed with the feeling that he might soon be a dead man lifted from his shoulders. plbtchbr's reputation as an artist who sold his work at high prices had given him sufficient cachet to arrange a late dinner meeting at the clubhouse with the exclusive broker who worked for Rancho Caballo. The broker had a visitor's pass waiting for him at the security gate.

He met her in the lobby. She was a cheery, perfectly dressed young woman with a big hairdo that framed her glossy face and cascaded down to her decolletage.

She oozed with the desire to find the perfect Rancho Caballo home to meet his every need.

Over dinner, the woman patted his hand and talked about the host of contractors who could build a house exactly to his specifications if there was nothing available that he liked.

The food and service were excellent and the large number of dinner guests surprised Pletcher. He had expected far fewer people. He knew not a soul, nor did he want to. But it was dear that the rich had made Rancho Caballo a haven from the rigors of the outside world.

The dining room had a California decor, with two walls of windows that looked out over the golf course, where the lights along the golf cart paths cast a glow over the fairways. A fireplace crackled with cedar and pinon logs, and a series of wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling. The paintings on the wall were mundane pastel watercolors that Fletcher's trained eye had immediately dismissed as bogus hackwork.

"Do you plan to sell your home in town?" Heather Griffin asked as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. Fletcher could see the wheels turning as she contemplated the possibility of two fat commissions.

"Oh, I suppose my accountant will insist on it, if I decide to buy in Rancho Caballo," he replied.

"Rancho Caballo is blessed with many talented people," Heather crooned.

She named two prominent entertainers who owned vacation homes.

"You would fit right in."

"An elite community in every way, I'm sure," Fletcher said, eyeing a tableful of richly dressed young matrons wearing squash blossom necklaces, concho belts, and turquoise earrings.

"The ambiance must draw them here."

"Exactly," Heather replied gaily.

"I suppose it would be best to have one broker handle the sale of my house and the purchase of a new one."

"That's the most efficient way," Heather agreed as she leaned forward to give Pletcher her pitch.

Half-listening, Fletcher nodded and smiled every so often to keep her talking. His visit to Rancho Caballo, which Kerney would most certainly reproach him for, had yielded nothing. He had hoped to come away with something useful. He eyed the young woman across the table and thought what a nice warm blaze it would make if all Santa Pc realtors were burned at the stake, the fires fueled by the catalogs, brochures, and marketing material they spewed out to attract potential buyers. Next summer's annual city fiesta would be the perfect time to do it.

After dinner, Pletcher made his excuses and said good night. He arrived in the lobby just as Bucky Watson entered with a male companion-one of the unidentified guests in the O'Keefie benefit photographs.

He approached Watson with a smile, hand outstretched.

"My dear Bucky, how are you? It's been so very long since I've seen you."

"I'm fine, Pletcher," Bucky answered, shaking Hartley's hand, a little perplexed by the cordiality. He knew the old queer didn't like him.

"Who is your friend?" Pletcher asked, turning to look squarely at the man for the first time. He was definitely Hispanic, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and curly light brown hair.

"Vicente Fuentes, meet Fletcher Hartley," Bucky replied.

"Pletcher is one of our living treasures."

"Ah," De Leon said.

"I have heard of this custom.

Your city honors elders who have contributed their talents to the community. It is an admirable idea."

"I've enjoyed the distinction," Fletcher said.

"Have you been with us long in Santa Pc, Senor Fuentes?"

"I am only an occasional visitor," De Leon answered.

"I believe you've met a friend of mine, Frank Bailey.

At the O'Keeffe benefit last month."

"I don't recall the name," De Leon said.

"I've met so many people since I arrived, it is hard to keep everyone sorted in my mind."

"Of course. Perhaps I am mistaken," Fletcher said.

"Perhaps," De Leon replied. He touched Watson's back in a signal to move on.

"Good night, Mr. Hartley."

"Good night, Senor Fuentes."

Hetcher drove home in great anticipation of his next conversation with Kerney. He would reveal a tidbit that, he hoped, would be new and helpful information. at a corner table in the clubhouse bar, Bucky Watson waited for De Leon to speak. De Leon expected to be treated with deference, and while Bucky privately resented the attitude, he knew better than to confront it. He took a sip of his drink and remained silent.

Aside from the hostess behind the bar and an older couple about to leave, the room was empty. De Leon watched the man hold the woman's coat as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. When they walked out the door, he glanced over at Bucky.

Bucky looked like an athlete, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and a trim waist, but his petulant face spoiled the image.

After the hostess left to deliver drinks in the dining room, De Leon finally spoke.

"How much inventory do you have on hand?"

Bucky did a quick calculation in his head.

"A six-week supply of cocaine," he answered.

"Maybe a little less than that in heroin. Smack has been moving well lately."

"Send everything to Chicago immediately."

"That's a lot of product to put on the road at one time."

De Leon answered with an icy look.

"I'll have it shipped out by morning," Bucky said, recovering quickly.

It would mean calling in the crew to build special containers at the crating shop, packing the drugs in with some cheap art, forging lading bills, and putting two large trucks on the road. It was an all-night job.

"When will I be resupplied?" Bucky asked.

"You won't be, for a time."

"I've got people who expect product waiting out there."

"They can wait," De Leon said, thinking how tiresome Bucky could be.

"They may start moving to other suppliers."

"Or they'll cut back on bulk sales and raise their prices. When can more of my funds be moved into Rancho Caballo?"

"We can wash an additional nine million right away," Bucky answered.

"Do Springer and Cobb continue to believe it is your money they are using?"

Bucky snickered.

"Yeah. They don't seem to care where it comes from, as long as they get their slice."

"Excellent. There is a shopping mall south of the city that is about to come on the market. When it does, offer the asking price and secure the largest mortgage possible. I'll transfer funds to cover the down payment and closing costs."

Bucky masked his surprise. If De Leon was right about the mall, no one else in the city knew anything about it.

"I'll take care of it."

"Have the police returned to question you further about the art theft?"

"No," Bucky replied.

"Roger Springer will ask the governor to intervene if the cops get too nosey."

"Since you had nothing to do with the theft, you should have no worries."

"I'd love to know who pulled it off. It was a slick piece of work."

"So it seems," Enrique said.

"What have you learned about it?"

"The police are operating on the assumption that Amanda Talley was somehow involved in the heist. I introduced you to her at the O'Keeffe benefit. The cops think she may have been murdered."