John Lescroart - The Vig

But Abe had swallowed that he had done just that -because it was convenient, because it closed his caseload -like it was sweet sweet candy.

San Francisco cases again.

His city. His turf.

He knew why he was down here. He was a San Francisco cop, and Rusty Ingraham was, as he had told Flo, his collar. His. Personally.

"How much money?" Hardy asked.

Rusty Ingraham's feet were belted to the leg of Hardy's bed at the El Sol. Hardy sat in the reading chair, the shades drawn, gun in hand, trying to keep awake.

His own foot was throbbing and he felt the unmistakable onset of fever. He didn't want to, but if Abe didn't show up in about an hour he was going to have to try and figure some way to get the Mexican police involved and avoid getting himself arrested for having a gun. Because if he didn't have the gun on Rusty, even for a minute, Rusty would be gone.

What made it worse was that Rusty had slept for over two hours after they'd gotten here. With his feet on the ground, belted hard to the bedpost, he had simply put his back on the bed and was snoring in five minutes.

Hardy had ordered a pot of coffee from the lobby and opened the door a crack to take it in. Rusty hadn't stirred.

Now Rusty half reclined on his good elbow, eyes sharp, alert. "Close to fifty thousand."

It amazed Hardy. This guy would lie to his dying mother. "What happened to the other thirty-five?" he asked.

It took Rusty a minute. "Jesus, you do know everything."

Hardy nodded. "I know Maxine's check was for eighty-five grand and her husband didn't see any of it." Hardy took a few minutes telling him the other things he knew, what he'd really done since Rusty had turned up missing.

"I'm impressed. You really floated out the canal, checking the current?"

"I wasted a lot of time. Not just that."

Rusty didn't seem nervous anymore, even seemed to be enjoying himself, reminiscing. "I probably should have just left you out of the plan, but I needed somebody who was out of the loop and still had access to it. I mean, we-you and I-weren't exactly buddies anymore. They'd believe you."

"I think they were coming around to it."

"So why didn't you just let it go?"

Hardy couldn't think what to say. It was like trying to explain red to someone who was color-blind. He could just hear himself saying, "Because it wasn't true, because I almost shot my best friend, because you had me scared to death for a week, because of Frannie and Jane…" He poured the last of the coffee, bitter and tepid. And then Rusty would say, "So what?"

"The one thing I don't understand," Hardy said instead, "was how come you didn't just pay off. You had the money. I mean, even before Maxine came over, you had -what?-twenty-five grand? So give the five or six to Johnny LaGuardia, you're out of the hole, forget about it."

Rusty didn't even have to ponder. "You don't forget about it, Diz. You don't ever get out. You know how much I paid fucking Angelo Tortoni over the past five, six years? How about five hundred to a thousand a week for like two hundred and fifty weeks? That's the vig alone, like a quarter million bucks. And his people seeing everything, so every case I settle, every horse I hit, Johnny's there with his hand out. You know what that's like? Three grand, four grand a month down the drain?" He shook his head. "There's no way I give him another dime. Then Maxine comes around, there's that much more. Girl always did have lousy timing."

"So she was just an afterthought? Killing her?"

Rusty shrugged. "Hey, no way I take her with me. Number one, she can't keep her mouth shut-she tells one of her friends, her husband, somebody, and next thing you know Johnny's down here putting me in a blender. Plus, Diz, you know."

"I know what?"

"Women. You know, you get to a certain point…"

"You kill them?"

Rusty laughed. "Hey, the thing is, we're here. I've got the money. You get maybe twenty-five-"

"I get maybe whatever I want. I might take it all. Where is it?"

"No, no, no. See? Then I lose my leverage."

Hardy cocked the gun. The guy had colossal balls. "Your leverage position is weak at the moment, Russ. Where's the money?"

He just shook his head. "Nope. You shoot me, you don't get it anyway. You take me back for trial and I'll need all of it for my defense."

"What defense? Tortoni finds out you're alive and you're meat anyway."

"I'm thinking the best thing to do, if it comes to it, is to turn state's evidence against Tortoni, cop a plea, turn the thing around."

Hardy uncocked the gun. "You're an impressive piece of work, Rusty. You got a lock murder-one with Maxine. You also tried to kill me and I'm not inclined to let it go."

"Why not, Diz? No, I mean it. It wasn't personal. I like you. So I pay for your inconvenience, I disappear someplace else and we forget the whole thing."

"We forget you tried to kill me?"

"Right."

"We forget you set up Louis Baker, using me to do it, fucked up the rest of his life?"

Rusty Ingraham rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."

"He's just a dirtbag nigger ex-con anyway, right?"

"At best." He sat up, leaning forward on the bed. "Come on, Diz. What'd I do to the guy he didn't deserve anyway? He should have done his thirteen for what we put him down for. They let him out after nine, that's their problem. Fuck Louis Baker. Even thirteen years wasn't enough. They should have thrown away the key."

"I think they will with you, Rusty. How's that grab you?"

Rusty shook his head, smiling. "I think it's unlikely. Listen, Diz. Who knows but me and you what really happened? I guarantee you Baker was there. So he shot Maxine and me. I'm hit but I get away. It still all works. I give you half the money."

"And the white man walks?"

Rusty raised his good hand, gesturing, still smiling, conspiratorial. "It's not black or white," he said. "It's who I am and who Baker is."

Hardy emptied his coffee cup in a long swallow. "That's right, Russ. That's exactly what it is."

After he'd shown up at Hardy's room at the El Sol, Abe had gone out and bought a length of rope, a pair of cheap sandals for Rusty and some over-the-counter tetracycline. Mexico was different that way.

Hardy had said he couldn't do anything until he'd gotten a little sleep, so Abe had moved Ingraham, over his polite objections, tying him elbows and knees to a chair while Hardy took his pills and crashed on the bed. Ingraham had spoken little, pretty beat himself. He showed no inclination to deny killing Maxine Weir. And eventually dozed off.

So Abe had spent the afternoon on the terrace, reading Loren Estleman's Bloody Season and wondering how Wyatt Earp had ever acquired such a good reputation. Every ten minutes he checked through the double doors.

At a little after three he had finished his book and awakened Hardy. He had a fever but he was okay. He had taken some more pills. They sat across from each other on the terrace.

"Okay," Abe said. "Now what?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

Abe sat back and sucked some air through his front teeth. "You want to drive him back, all of us?"

"Three days, small car. I don't know how I'd be," Hardy said. "I have felt better." He thought a minute. "Isn't there any way they can hold him here?"

Abe shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not here officially. I can't arrest him."

"But they can arrest him down here, can't they?"

Abe's scar tightened through his lips. "There is a rumor that anybody can be arrested here for anything. A humble and cooperative California police officer, such as myself, for example, could probably speak to the locals and arrange something." Abe stood up, yawning, and glanced back inside. "He's tied up good, Diz. Let's go down by the pool."

The reason they had never taken him was they weren't too smart.