Джо Горес - Dead Man

“Anyway, many thanks. What hospital’s Andy in? I gotta fly back this afternoon, but maybe—”

“Wouldn’t do any good, he’s still in intensive care.”

Dain shook his head. “Fuck of a note. Well, anyway, give him my best when you get in to see him.”

“Sure thing.”

Dain spent half a day working the O’Hare parking lots and shuttle buses with Broussard’s mug shots, then spent most of his flight to San Francisco studying them. Even with the flat police lighting and the dehumanizing circumstances, her beauty shone through. Exotic was a good word. Deep tan or dark skin, dark eyes that challenged the camera, the cops behind the camera... The surname suggested a reason for her dark rather wild beauty. As did the soliciting busts in New Orleans.

It was going to be another routine operation. He would find them, Maxton would get his bonds back, Zimmer would probably get roughed up a bit, and that would be that. He might as well be working for legitimate clients on the right side of the law for all the good this was doing him.

Who would need a hitman in the Jimmy Zimmer bond caper?

Homicide had been jumping all morning. A tourist from Cincinnati had wandered into Emergency at S.F. General complaining of a headache, then had fallen dead on the floor. They had found a .22 slug in his brain. The cabbie who delivered him to the hospital had picked him up on Eddy Street in the Tenderloin.

A thirteen-year-old shot a fourteen-year-old dead with an A/R on full automatic in the parking area of one of the Western Addition housing projects in an argument over a crack concession.

When police arrived at a rather nice Victorian on Elizabeth Street on a neighbor’s complaint, they found a seventy-three-year-old man watching Santa Barbara with a self-righteous set to his jaw and a bloody claw hammer in his hand. His sixty-eight-year-old wife lay on the floor in front of the TV. She had wanted One Life to Live.

In his private office Randy Solomon was working on the preliminary paperwork on the three killings. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his jacket over the back of his chair.

Dain came through the open door. He was wearing horn-rims and a conservative three-piece suit and was carrying a slim attaché case. Randy hadn’t laid eyes on him for over a year. His face hardened as he did an exaggerated double take.

“Well, well, the big private eye. A whole year, nothin’, then here comes Jesus Christ. Down here slummin’, white boy?”

Dain sat down in the visitor’s chair.

“Why the hardnose, Randy?”

Solomon detoured around Dain to close the door, then came back so he could lean down into Dain’s face. He said softly, “I knew a guy once — young, sharp, good mind, good investigator. Sweet wife and a nice little kid. Just getting started on his own... looking for that big case...”

“And they all lived happily ever after,” said Dain.

Solomon ignored this. His voice was openly hostile.

“Know what I see now? A whore in a three-piece suit.”

“I do what I always did, Randy. Find people.”

“For the sleaze of the earth,” snapped Solomon hotly, “with that fag bookseller pimping for you.”

Dain was suddenly on his feet.

“What am I supposed to do, for fuck sake? Repos and wandering wives? The fuckers killed my family! Where else will I find them except outside the law?”

Solomon looked surprised, then chuckled and went around behind his desk. The tension suddenly went out of both men.

“Shit, I might of known. You getting anything?”

“Another day older and deeper in debt.”

“So why the fancy getup?”

“I’ve been at the stock exchange cavorting with the bulls and the bears.”

“Who’s winning?”

“This morning, the bulls. To be exact. Robert Farnsworth of Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth out of Chicago. Daddy sent him out here for three months of seasoning before giving him more control of the family brokerage business. Bobby-boy is best buddies with a guy I am seeking for a sort of connected Chicago lawyer named Maxton. This guy and an exotic dancer—”

“Teddy Maxton?”

“Yeah,” said Dain in surprise, “you know about him?”

Randy waved a vague hand. “He comes out here as consulting defense counsel every once in a while. He’s damned good in front of a jury.” His voice, eyes, hardened slightly. “Our Teddy the kind of guy hires a hitman?”

Dain shook his head. “I’m just paying the bills with this one.” He leaned forward in his chair, cleared his throat. “But I, ah, need a good wireman, Randy.”

“You know that stuff isn’t admissible in court,” chided Solomon. “And it sure as hell ain’t legal.”

“Admissible in court I don’t need, legal I don’t care about. I just think this Zimmer will be calling Farnsworth and I want to be listening in.”

Solomon tore a sheet from his memo pad, began writing on it. “Remember Moe Wexler?”

“Pensioned off six or seven years ago on a medical disability? Had a leg broken in about eight places...”

“That’s Moe. Here’s the address of his electronics shop.” He handed Dain the memo slip with a wink. They stood. “How’s my boyfriend? Shenzie the wonder cat?”

“Don’t ask. You might get stuck with him again for a few days if this Farnsworth thing pans out. The neighbor lady in Mill Valley who usually takes him is out of town...”

Solomon gave his deep chuckle. “Anytime for the Shenzie cat.” They shook hands, Dain started for the door. Randy spoke to his back. “How about some handball?”

Dain turned and looked at him. Suddenly grinned.

“How about tomorrow? I’ll whup your ass.”

“That’s my man,” said Randy happily. “The hopeless romantic to the bitter end.”

Arched across the front window of the narrow storefront in Clement Street was MOE’S ELECTRONICS PLUS. Under this in smaller letters was, TVs — VCRs — Recorders — Radios, and under that in even smaller letters, repair & service. Dain pushed open the door, jangling a small brass bell fixed to a spring inside the top of the door. There was a wooden counter with an old-fashioned cash register, behind that a doorway to the work area covered with a heavy brown curtain.

The curtain was shoved aside by a big easygoing man running to fat. He had a cute little mouth and hair in his ears and ex-cop written all over him. He moved with a slight limp.

“Hello, Moe,” said Dain.

Wexler studied him for a moment, then smiled genially.

“Eddie Dain,” he said. “You’re looking fit. Randy Solomon called, said you might be around, or I’d of thought somebody was sending an ex-49er tackle around to bust my other leg.”

“How’s the first one?”

“Still busted.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry about your wife and kid.”

Dain was silent. Wexler raised a hinged flap of countertop and went to the door to twist the bolt lock at the same time that he jerked down over the doorpane a small brown roller shade that had OUT TO COFFEE — BACK IN 15 on it. Dain had begun counting out $100 bills on the counter like dealing a hand of poker.

“One bug on the private phone of Robert Farnsworth at Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth. They’re a brokerage house on Pine across from the Pacific Coast Stock Exch—”

“You sure your call won’t come through the switchboard?”

“My man is dumb, but not that dumb.”

Moe nodded. “They got a service door on Leidesdorff Alley with a lock on it you could open with garlic breath.”

“You ex-cops,” marveled Dain. He counted out another sheaf of bills. “The second bug is at Farnsworth’s apartment. He’s got a three-month lease in that tall white stucco place on Montclair Terrace where Francisco—”