Robert Crais - Indigo Slam

The hard eyes narrowed. 'In your office you said two thousand.'

'It's not as big a job as I thought. A hundred now, a hundred when I find him.'

She peeled off two of the hundreds and gave me both. 'Take it all now. I'd like a receipt.'

I gave her the receipt, and then I left to find her father.

Iphoned information for Enright's address, then left Teresa Haines alone with her coffee and laundry, and headed south along La Cienega toward Culver City. I wanted to tell her not to drive, and to be careful if she walked to the mall, but I didn't. She had been living like this for quite a while, and I knew she would ignore me because I would be saying it more for me than for her. That's the way adults often talk to children. You know they're not going to listen, but you want to tell them anyway just so you know that you have.

Enright Quality Printing was located in a two-story industrial building just off Washington Boulevard three blocks from Sony Pictures. On the way down, I was thinking it would be a small copier place like a Kinko's, but it wasn't. Enright was a big commercial outfit with employees and overhead and presses that run twenty-four hours a day, the kind that does large-scale jobs on contract for businesses and government. The building occupied most of the block, and what wasn't building was a neat, manicured parking lot for their corporate customers and a loading dock for the six-wheelers that delivered their product. The loading dock was busy.

I put the car in the parking lot, then went through the front entrance into a little waiting room. An industrial rack was built into one wall, filled with pamphlets and magazines and thick heavy manuals of the kind Enright produced. There were chairs for waiting and a counter with a young woman behind it. I showed her a card and said, 'Is there someone in charge I might see?'

She looked at the card as if it were written in another language. 'Sorry. We don't do cards.'

I took back the card. 'I don't want cards. I'd like to speak with someone in authority.'

She squinted at me. 'You mean Mr. Livermore?'

'Is he in charge?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Then that's who I'd like to see.'

'Do you have an appointment?'

'Nope.'

'He might be busy.'

'Let's give it a try.'

If we're patient we're often rewarded.

She said something into her phone and a few minutes later a short, thin man who was maybe a hundred years old came out of the offices and scowled at me. 'You want something printed?'

'Nope. I want to ask you about a former employee.'

I gave him the card and he scowled harder. 'This is shit work. Ya oughta get your money back.' He handed the card back and I put it away. Just the way you want to start an interview, getting crapped on by an expert. 'You the cops?'

'Private. Like it says on-the card.'

He made a brushing gesture. 'I didn't get that far. I see shit printing, I gotta look away.' This guy wouldn't let up. He said, 'Listen, you wanna talk, I'll talk, but you gotta walk with me. I got some ass to kick.'

'No problem.'

I followed him along the hall and onto the floor of the printing plant, walking fast to keep up with him. I guess he was anxious to start kicking ass.

The plant itself was large and air-conditioned and brightly lit with fluorescent lights. It smelled of warm paper. Machines that looked like cold-war era computers bumped and clunked and whirred as men and women monitored the progress of paper and cardboard and bindings. The machines were loud, and most of the workers wore hearing protection but not all of them, and most of them smoked. A woman with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth was wearing a T-shirt that said EAT SHIT AND HAVE A CRAPPY DAY. 'I'm looking for an employee you let go three weeks ago, Clark Haines.'

Livermore made the brushing gesture again. 'Got rid of'm.'

'I know. I'm wondering if you have any idea where he might be.'

'Try the morgue. All fuckin' junkies end up in the morgue.'

I said, 'Junkie?' I think my mouth was open.

Livermore stopped so suddenly that I almost walked into him. He glared at two guys who were standing together by a large offset press, then made a big deal out of tapping his watch. 'What is this, vacationland? I ain't payin' you guys to flap gums! We got orders to fill!'

The two men turned back to their machines, Livermore set off again, and I chased after. So much ass to kick, so little time to kick it. I said, 'Are you telling me that Clark Haines is a drug addict?'

'Guy was a mess since day one, always runnin' to the John, always shakin' with the sweats an' callin' in sick. I knew somethin' wasn't right, so I started keepin' my eyes open, y'see?' He pulled the skin beneath his right eye and glared at me. Bloodshot. 'Caught'm in one'a the vans, Haines and another guy.' He jabbed the air with a stiff finger. 'Bammo, they're outta here. I got zero tolerance for that crap.'

I didn't know what to say. It didn't seem to fit, but then it often doesn't. 'Have you heard from Clark since that day?'

'Nah. Why would I?'

'Job reference, maybe? He told his kids he was looking for work.'

'Hey, the guy's a top printer, but what am I gonna say, hire a junkie, they give good value?'

Livermore beelined to a short Hispanic man feeding booklet pages into a binder. He grabbed a thick sheaf of the pages, flipped through them, then shook his head in disgust. 'This looks like shit. Redo the whole fuckin' order.'

I looked over his shoulder. The pages and the printing looked perfect. 'Looks okay to me.'

He waved at the pages. 'Jesus Christ, don'tcha see that mottle? The blacks're uneven. Ya see how it's lighter there?'

'No.'

He threw the pages into a large plastic trash drum, then scowled at the Hispanic man. 'Reprint the whole goddamn run. Whadaya think we're makin' here, tortillas?'

I guess printing isn't a politically correct occupation.

The Hispanic man shrugged like it was no skin off his nose, and began shutting down the binder.

Livermore was again stalking the aisles. I said, 'Who was the man with Haines?'

'One of the drivers. Another fuckin' junkie, but him I could figure. Him, he had asshole written all over'm.'

'What was his name?'

'Tre Michaels. I think Michaels was the dealer.'

'Did you call the police?'

'Nah. Hey, I thought about it, okay, but they put up such a fuss, whinin' and cryin' and all. Michaels is on parole, see? I coulda violated him easy, but I figured, what the hell, I just wanted him outta here.'

'Think I could have his address?'

Livermore made a little waving gesture and walked faster. 'Go back up front, and ask Colleen. Tell'r I said it was okay to give you what you want.'

Colleen was only too happy to oblige.

Tre Michaels lived on the second floor of an apartment building just south of the Santa Monica Freeway in the Palms area, less than ten blocks from Culver City. It was just before eleven when I got there, but Michaels wasn't home. I found the manager's apartment on the ground level, told her that I needed to speak with Mr. Michaels about a loan he had applied for, and asked if she had any idea when he might be back. She didn't, but she was only too happy to tell me that Michaels worked at the new Bestco Electronics that had just opened, and that maybe I could find him there. She smiled when she said it and I smiled back. We are nothing if not the finest in West Coast detection.

Five minutes later I turned off Overland into the Bestco's lot, parked, and went inside. Bestco is one of those enormous discount electronics places, and as soon as I stepped through the doors three salesmen in sport coats and smiles surrounded me, anxious to meet or better any advertised price in town. I said, 'I'm looking for Tre Michaels.'