Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

“Do you think they found the necklace?” she asked.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

She knew Evelyn from the ashram and was riveted when I explained the rich lady’s part in the story-the picture in Ozone Pacific’s magazine, the missing daughter, Baba’s extortion scheme.

“How does he know all that stuff about her daughter?”

“That’s the sixty-four-dollar question. Maybe he read Evelyn’s mind. Maybe he actually came across someone who knew the girl. Maybe a combination of things.”

Mary asked a couple more questions, then nodded decisively.

“I like the safecracking,” she said, treating me to a radiant smile. “I knew you weren’t small-time. How can I help?”

“Stay here until I get back, then we’ll see. As long as Baba hasn’t found the diamonds, we won’t have to worry about getting even with him. When the resort deal falls through and the Italians’ half million goes up in smoke, they’ll skin him alive.”

“Sounds good,” she said, looking around the suite with pleased anticipation. Its decor contrasted favorably with the ashram’s faded ambiance. “Maybe I’ll take a bubble bath while you’re gone.”

“Don’t say things like that. It puts thoughts in my head.”

“I know.”

Checkout time was noon, so I stopped in the lobby and paid for another day, then jumped in the Caddie and drove south on Pacific. The flophouse was quiet as I rolled by, no cops or gangsters in sight.

I parked at a meter several blocks farther south and walked over to Chavi’s booth on the boardwalk, searching for my partner.

He was standing near the fortune-teller, looking a tall thin black man up and down. There was an electronic bathroom scale on the asphalt in front of him and a sign tacked to the palm tree behind him that said “Guess Yer weight for five Dollers.”

“Reggie,” I said.

He held up a stubby forefinger to put me on hold, then punched the black guy lightly on the shoulder and tapped him on the chest with two fingers a couple of times.

“One fifty-seven,” he said.

A furtive look of surprise flashed across the man’s face before he veiled it with an expression of bored skepticism.

“You way off, man. I weigh one sixty-five.”

“Step on the scale.” Reggie pointed at the bathroom appliance.

“Why I wanna step on the scale?” the man extemporized. “You probably got it rigged.”

“How else we gonna know if I’m right?” Reggie said. “You got a scale with you?”

“What you talkin’ about, do I got a scale? Who carries a scale around with them?”

“Then cough up the five bucks, chump.”

“Oh, so now you don’t even want me to weigh in on your scale?”

“Be my guest,” Reggie said.

The man stepped up on the scale and all three of us looked down at the digital readout, which flickered to 158 and froze.

“See? You off by a pound!”

“Said I’d guess within two pounds. Cough up the dough.”

“Aw, shit, I don’t care about no lousy five dollars.” The man pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and handed it to Reggie, then walked off with an air of disgust.

Stone-faced but with the hint of a smirk, Reggie straightened the bill out, snapped it once, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

“When did you come up with this brilliant idea?” I asked.

“This morning. Chavi’s been telling me I ought to have a hustle, so I borrowed her scale and made me a sign. What’s up?”

“Trouble. We need to move fast.”

Saucer eyes. “What?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Engrossed in the palm of a bare-chested young man with blond dreadlocks, Chavi didn’t look up as we headed for the Caddie. Hurrying along the boardwalk and driving to the rental car, I told Reggie what had happened.

“That skinny kid in the orange nightgown?”

“Yeah.”

“Who killed him?”

“Probably Namo, the guy I cut with the razor blade.”

“How’d you happen to be packing a razor blade?”

“I got it from Ozone Pacific.”

“That squirrelly kid who lives next door?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d he give you a razor blade?”

I shook my head. “I’ll explain later.” I wondered what had become of Oz in the hubbub at the house, if he was around when they ransacked the place.

At the rental, I retrieved the Tomcat from the glove box and wiped down the wheel, dashboard, and door handles. I had planned to return the car to get my five hundred back, but that now seemed too risky. The detectives investigating the burglary at Hildebrand’s probably hadn’t had time to look at the previous night’s patrol reports and find out about the two Sacramento tourists who were questioned in Norm’s parking lot across the street from the crime scene-but they might have. If they had, they would have traced the rental to Enterprise and planted a plainclothes lurker near the airport return counter.

By the time I finished erasing our fingerprints, Reggie had moved the tools from the trunk of the rental to the trunk of the Seville. We climbed in the Caddie and headed north. There was still nothing unusual as we cruised back past the flop. Circling, I drove into the alley behind the house, alert for blue uniforms and black fedoras. My heart was pounding when I pulled up by the kitchen door.

“Keep the engine running,” I said, handing Reggie Baba’s.38. “If you hear me yell or guns start going off, come in blazing.”

Upstairs, my room and Reggie’s had been torn to pieces. They had cut the mattresses, smashed the furniture, scattered clothes everywhere.

But they hadn’t found the stash.

Besides the diamonds, gold, and bonds, the hiding place held several thousand dollars in cash, including two of the packets of hundreds from Fahim, two boxes of shells for the Tomcat, an extra clip (full), and my passport. I put everything in a shoulder bag and then looked around until I found a map of California in the debris on the floor. I opened it up and refolded it so that it showed the coast north of Santa Barbara, then circled the town of Pismo Beach with a pen, scrawled the following day’s date beneath the circle, and tossed the map back on the floor. After taking a last look around the place where I had lived for six memorable weeks, I picked up the shoulder bag and ran back to the alley with springs in my heels.

“We’re still in business, bro,” I said when I got in the car. “Head for Le Merigot, that hotel we went to last night.”

It was an overwhelming relief to have the diamonds back in my possession. If someone had dragged a bow across a violin, I might have wept for joy. I had spent four weeks and traveled hundreds of miles and been in three fights and committed at least a dozen felonies to get them and it would have been hard to remain detached if they had slipped through my fingers. I would have been bereft, as if I had lost a person dear to me, seeing the necklace in my mind’s eye like the afterimage of a candle flame, for years to come.

Now I could turn them over to Fahid in exchange for a small fortune and we would leave town, riding high, for the time being at least, with a bundle of cash and a charming new companion. I hoped.

The only blight on the rose was our legal jeopardy. It wasn’t clear exactly how much trouble we would be leaving behind us, but it didn’t look good. The doughnut eaters would be snuffing for whoever cracked Hildebrand’s safe. At some point my illustrious name would come up. Baba knew where I lived. Mrs. Sharpnick knew my identify. In the course of routine interviews, the cops would find out that I had had dinner with Evelyn and questioned her about the necklace. Two patrolmen had seen Reggie and me near the scene of the crime. With our mug shots, they would probably find people in the desert who could identify us, especially if the linebacker and her little man were still in town. Searching for me, the Santa Monica dicks would contact the Newport Beach police and get an earful from the family man. That would sharpen their interest. The two departments might pool resources to try and track me down. Warrants would be issued.