William Lashner - Marked Man

“Great,” I said. “Meanwhile I might be able to find us another lead.”

“From where, mate?”

“A woman I know,” I said.

“Business or pleasure?”

“She’s a Realtor.”

“That’s the answer, isn’t it? With a Realtor it’s always business.”

“YOU NEVER told me the plan,” said Monica as she sat beside me in my rental red convertible. She near shouted to be heard over the bleat of L.A. traffic and the loud hum of the wind racing over our heads now that we were moving again.

“Plan?”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“Plans fall apart,” I said. “A strategy is a mode of operation infinitely adaptable to the truth of the situation as we find it. I prefer strategies.”

“Okay. So you never told me your strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“You don’t have a strategy either?”

“That, I’m working on,” I said.

Monica turned to me and frowned, and I must say it was a lovely frown. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her sunglasses were big and round. To the other drivers peering into the cabin of our convertible, she must have looked like a starlet on the way to the set. I probably looked like her accountant.

“It will be all right,” I said. “Hey, we’re getting close to the Pacific Ocean. Can you smell it?”

“We have to take a right somewhere.”

“I know. But it is so cool, isn’t it? Sit back and take a sniff. The Pacific Ocean, the Santa Monica Pier, Muscle Beach.” I had gotten off the blocked stream of traffic on the 405 at Venice Boulevard, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Not the most direct route, maybe, but scenic, sure, and, dude, like, what’s the rush? “Maybe I should pop my biceps for the locals.”

“You’ll need to give out magnifying glasses.”

“Be nice,” I said.

“Really, Victor. What’s the plan? We’re just going to march up and demand the truth?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “He’ll be prepared for us. I don’t know if we’ll be shut out or charmed to death, but whatever game he plays, we’ll adjust. Sometimes the best strategy is to just blunder forward and make a mess. It’s how I found him, I riled things up enough so that he knew I was coming, and he got nervous. That’s why Mrs. LeComte was rudely warned to keep quiet and why Stanford Quick ended up dead.”

“And from that you found his new name?”

“Well, I had some help,” I said.

THE LAKESIDE Chinese Deli was not by a lake and not a deli, and with its bare tables, busted sign, and the hand-scrawled Chinese posters in the window, the joint screamed botulism. But if you wanted dim sum in Philadelphia, if you weren’t looking for linen tablecloths and silver candlesticks, and if you didn’t mind being the only Occidentals in the place or being treated like family, which included rude service and a lot of yelling, then there was no better place than the Lakeside.

“You’re not eating,” I said to Sheila.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“But I ordered all this for us,” I said, gesturing at the metal steamers and small round plates sitting before us, a tempting array of dumplings on each.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a good use for it.”

And she was right, I would. I was suddenly starving, ravenous, as if my brush with death had fed my hunger. Eat while you can, because you never know when it will be you in that chair with an unfinished drink and a bullet in your head while some skeevy interloper gropes through your clothes for a cell phone. I pinched a dumpling with my sticks, dipped it in the dipping sauce, popped it in my mouth. Shrimp. Nice.

“So if you’re not hungry,” I said, “why did you come?”

“Because you called.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Why not?”

“How’s your fiancé?”

“Lovely. Thank you for asking.”

Her smile was sly, her lips were coral, her eyes were bright, and I liked the way her false blond hair rested lightly on her cheek. Sheila was one of those women who got better-looking every time you saw them. How did she do that? I wondered.

“You sell that condo yet?” I said.

“Are you interested?”

“Not in buying the condo.”

“Good, because I don’t think it is a good fit.” She looked down, traced a Chinese letter on the tabletop with her fingertip. “But if you want another look, just to be sure, that can be arranged.”

“Not tonight, thank you. I’ve had a tough day.”

“Too bad. I’m feeling frisky.”

“Are you going to keep dating while you’re married?”

“I don’t know. Give me a call after the wedding and we’ll see.”

“He’s a lucky guy.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Investment banker?”

“Of course. But I have something special just for you, Victor. A name.”

I put down my chopsticks. “Go ahead.”

“That house you wanted me to keep tabs on? The Ciulla property? There is another Realtor who is showing surprising interest. His name is Darryl. I had lunch with Darryl just yesterday. We chatted, we laughed, we drank too much. It was quite chummy.”

“I can imagine.”

“Darryl is short and sweaty and wears a toupee, yet still he thought just the thing I wanted in my ear was his tongue.”

“Men are funny like that.”

“In the course of our rather wet lunch, we decided to work together and form a syndicate to purchase the Ciulla property for ourselves. It’s unethical and illegal, which is why it’s so delicious. Instead of bidding against each other to make the seller rich, two Realtors buy the property for themselves and then let the clients bid to buy it from the syndicate. It costs the clients no more, but the Realtors end up splitting the profit.”

“Sweet.”

“Of course, even in a syndicate, the name of the buyers always stays confidential. No Realtor wants another Realtor to poach a client.”

“You would never do something like that.”

“I’m a Realtor, Victor. But in the course of our conversation, after our fifth drink, while I was trying to keep my eardrum from drowning, Darryl let slip a bit of his client’s name. Reggie, he called him.”

“Reggie as in Reginald?”

“There you go.”

“Reggie.”

“Yes, and he’s on the West Coast. Darryl was very pleased to have a client on the West Coast. He mentioned it repeatedly. ‘My client on the West Coast.’”

“Reggie from the West Coast.”

“Does that help?”

“Yes, yes it does. You’re beautiful, do you know that?”

“It was nothing.”

“No, it was definitely something, but that’s not what I mean. You really are beautiful.”

“Oh.” She almost blushed. “Then thank you.”

“I was trying to figure out why every time I see you, you seem more beautiful, and now I know.”

“And why is that, Victor?”

“Because against all appearances and against all odds, despite your Escalade and your bracelets and your rather frightening profession, and despite all your attempts to appear otherwise, inside you are actually a doll. I asked a favor without telling you why, and you endured a drunken lunch with the likes of Darryl just to see it through. You are too sweet for words, and I think the more I see of you, the more it shows.”

She lowered her chin and stayed quiet for a moment. “If you tell anyone,” she said finally, “I’ll rip out your lungs.”

“I don’t doubt that you would.”

“Nobody wants a sweet Realtor.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“If things don’t work out with your investment banker,” I said, “you’ll give me a call.”

She fought a smile for a moment and then picked up her fork. “Maybe I will have one,” she said as she speared a dumpling.