Wrong Place, Wrong Time Read online

  “I don’t think so. I’m kind of stuck, to tell you the truth.”

  “Maybe that has something to do with your case of the megrims.” Hilda took another doughnut and pushed the plate toward me.

  “Thanks.” I took another doughnut, too, even though four is usually my limit. “Well, maybe not stuck, exactly. I have a long list of Luis Ortega’s last customers to check out.” I explained the jealous husband/horny housewife theory. “Somehow, I don’t think Sunday is the best day to knock on doors and say, ‘Hey, lady, have you screwed any good pool cleaners lately?’”

  Hilda nodded solemnly. “Phone McNair-Anderson first thing tomorrow. I’m certain they’d appreciate your sensitive insights.”

  “I’m ignoring that. Anyway, Thorney’s problem is on hold now. All I can do is wait to see which way Judge Gortner jumps.”

  “Surely he’ll talk to that boy,” Hilda said.

  “I figure he’ll either pull the kid’s chain or start a campaign to canonize Saint Jerry.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”

  On the TV screen, Maria Shriver crinkled her nose. Hilda pretended she’d missed it again.

  We went for the drive we’d missed the day before and had a late lunch at an outdoor restaurant Hilda had heard about. The food was okay. At least they didn’t give you two asparagus spears, a radish, and a splash of sauce on a huge plate, call it Salade de Whatever, and charge like a wounded bull.

  There was a travel agency across the street from the restaurant. They had a gigantic Club Med Moorea poster in the window. Hilda saw me looking at the sea, sand, and palm trees. “Would you like to change places?” she said. “From this chair you could ogle a reasonably attractive blonde at the corner table. She doesn’t have Maria Shriver’s jawline, of course, but …”

  “No thanks, babe, I’ll tough it out here.”

  “Be strong.”

  Wouldn’t you know it, we were caught leaving the restaurant by a couple Hilda knew. They invited us to a cocktail party later that afternoon.

  “Nothing fancy. Come as you are, darlings,” the woman cooed.

  “Marvy,” I said, but they all pretended I hadn’t.

  Hilda had just sold the party givers eight thousand bucks worth of Victorian batwing bird feeder—or some goddamn thing—so we put on our customer-relations heads and trotted off to sip and soiree with the beautiful people.

  I was very restrained and decorous. Even Hilda said so later. But this one guy got all excited when we were introduced. He was a sales consultant, he said, but he seemed to think he was Conan the Barbarian. He worked out, and lived on the latest body-building wonder diet. He told me the names of all the stuff he ate and the pills he took and how much he could bench-press and how his lats and pecs had improved and … It was boring as hell.

  Then he wanted to know how often I had to fight and run and shoot and all that, and it went on until he talked himself into a challenge.

  He wanted to arm-wrestle, for Christ’s sake.

  Our hostess went pale. Hilda got a trifle tight around the eyes, too. Maybe they thought I lacked couth. I can’t imagine why.

  I manfully declined to arm-wrestle.

  Conan called me chicken.

  I declined again.

  Conan bet me a hundred dollars.

  I took him outside and we arm-wrestled across the hood of Hilda’s BMW. His breath smelled like mint. I beat him five times straight and put his hundred bucks in my pocket.

  Funny thing was, it didn’t improve my mood all that much.

  Chapter 22

  Monday, I got up early and really hit it. The Mustang and I were only a rust-colored blur as we rocketed around Dallas. Busy, busy, busy.

  I found—eventually—a west Dallas street guy I’d used as a snitch in the past. I wanted his help with the Ortega gambling angle. But Diego didn’t think any action Luis could have tapped was big enough to warrant a hit if he welshed.

  “Hey, Rafferty, you playing with yourself, man. No way. Black eye, sure. Busted leg, maybe. A little cutting, possible. But shotgunned by an Anglo? No fokking way, man.”

  “Does this mean you don’t want to earn the fifty bucks by checking it out, Diego?”

  He grinned. “I didn’t say that, did I? I get back to you, man. Count on it.”

  He diddly-bopped away, singing out Hispanic rap-style greetings to people he knew or pretended to know.

  Diego was the most indiscreet snitch I’d ever seen. Yet again I wondered how he stayed alive on the street. Unless that snitch persona was a con and everyone knew it but me.

  Naw, couldn’t be. He’d been right about the truck driver in that insurance case last year. On the other hand …

  Hell with it; Diego would find what he’d find and I’d believe it or I wouldn’t. Why worry now? I climbed back into the Mustang.

  The engine didn’t want to start at first. When it finally fired up, it made that hissing noise again. Uh-oh. I pulled out into the traffic, anyway. Some days, simply being in motion was as good as it got.

  I went downtown to the cop shop to talk to Ed Durkee and Ricco. Ed was on a day off; Ricco was in the coffee room, eating a jelly doughnut and carefully not spilling coffee on his garish sport jacket.

  “Hey, Rafferty,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  Ricco nodded sagely. “This don’t surprise me,” he said. “When do you not need a favor?” Ricco’s affected speech pattern went with his clothes. I bet he had a “© Damon Runyon” tattoo somewhere.

  “Come, come,” I said. “Think of the warm inner glow you feel in your heart from fulfilling your chosen role as a dedicated civil servant.”

  “What the fuck are you yapping about now?”

  “Well, scratch ‘civil,’” I said. “You wanna swap tidbits of information or not? There might be a clue hanging around loose.”

  Ricco took another bite of doughnut and shrugged. “Maybe. What you got?”

  “The Ortega thing. I found Luis’s common-law wife.”

  Ricco shrugged again. “Big deal. So did we.”

  “Congratulations. Here comes the tricky part. They had a, oh, call it a strained relationship. In fact, call it ‘Frankie & Johnny’ with a mariachi sound. Luis ‘done her wrong.’ And there is a platonic boyfriend who’s very annoyed about that. Well, not a boyfriend, really, more like a would-be protector.”

  Ricco’s eyes narrowed. “You think the boyfriend had something to do with Ortega?”

  “Not really. For one thing, he is not the shit-kicking bounty hunter who faked me out. And I’m pretty sure he’s only what he appears to be, but … How about you let your fingers do a little walking through the records?”

  “What am I, your personal goddamn records clerk? Maybe I ought to just go roust this stud myself.”

  “Calm down. That’s why I haven’t told you who he is yet.” I explained to Ricco about John From Next Door’s protective attitude, how Maria Hermosa might need him, and my opinion that John was probably cleaner than Mr Sheen. I left out the part about Maria Hermosa being pregnant. Ricco wasn’t the kind of person you’d tell that to.

  “Okay,” Ricco said around a final slurp of coffee. “I’ll play your silly game. If Records don’t have a package on this guy, I’ll leave him be. What’s his name?”

  “And while you’re at it, how about Maria’s family? Have you found any hot-blooded brothers; maybe a father or uncle with a violent temper?”

  Ricco shook his head. “Already been down that road, Rafferty. There ain’t no one out there doing a family revenge number for the Hermosa ginch. The story is that she, Mama, and Papa came up from Mexico two years ago. Just the three of them. Legal and all, too, which has to be an unnatural act for greasers.”

  A uniformed cop came into the room and shoved coins into one of the soft-drink machines. He gave Ricco a pointedly neutral look and ignored me.

  “Where’s Maria’s father now?” I said.

  Ricco said, “Yeah, well, the Hermosas haven’t ex
actly prospered here in the home of the free and the Anglo. Last year Papa—uh, Papa’s not real smart, you see—Papa buys this bottle supposed to be gen-u-ine Scotch. He gets it from one of his greaser buddies, right? Party time! Only it ain’t real Scotch; it’s rubbing alcohol and iodine and, I don’t know, goddamn sheep dip, maybe. The stuff almost turned Papa’s lights out. As it happens, he ain’t dead, but he also ain’t quite alive enough to know that.”

  “Okay, then—”

  “Hang on,” Ricco said. “Next thing you know, Mama Hermosa’s busy lighting candles in the cathedral, when blooey! Stroke city. So now, Mama and Papa Hermosa got their brains turned to salsa. They’re both stretched out somewhere soft, doing vegetable imitations on my tax money.”

  The uniformed cop stared at the back of Ricco’s head for long moment, then carefully took his cold drink out of the machine and left. He took slow, deliberate steps and held his back very straight.

  I said to Ricco, “Your warmth and sensitivity never fails to amaze me.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, forget the Hermosa broads relatives and revenge. What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

  Whoops. “Oh, ah, I can’t remember offhand,” I said. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “What are you trying to pull? Was this all a con?” Ricco curled his lip.

  It was too embarrassing to tell him I really didn’t know John’s last name. I just got up and walked out.

  With dignity, though. With great dignity.

  Claude Cannerly was a tall, skeletal man in his fifties who knew every person in Dallas who (a) was a politician, (b) wanted to be a politician, (c) knew any politicians, or (d) could spell the word politician.

  Okay, so I’m exaggerating. But not much.

  “You met Judge Gortner, eh?” Claude rumbled. He had a low, soft voice surprisingly deep for his pigeon chest. “Business or pleasure? And whose business or pleasure was it, yours, or his?”

  We were standing on a street corner near the county courthouse. Ambience-wise, I found the setting disappointing.

  “Claude, isn’t political gossip properly done in smoke-filled taverns? You know, the back booth, furtive looks, and talking behind your hand. Where’s your sense of tradition?”

  He looked surprised. “You read too many books, Rafferty. Besides, out here, people see me talking to you. They’ll want to know who you are. It gives me something to trade.” A bus went by; Claude coughed, then said, “What about Judge?” He said “Judge” like it was a first name, not a title.

  “Oh, it was business, sort of, and both of ours, in a way. He’s not a real judge, is he?”

  Claude shook his head quickly. “Of course not. He’s a lawyer, though. Some of those would-be judges can’t even say that.”

  “Hooray for Gortner. Is he honest, Claude?”

  Claude laughed. “How long is a piece of string? Why? Did he promise you something?”

  “No,” I said, “but he might. I want to know what it’s worth if he does.”

  “Good point.” He frowned for a few moments, then said, “Judge Gortner’s as honest as anyone in his line of work. More important, he’s old Texas, so if he looks you in the eye and shakes your hand, he’ll probably do what he says.”

  “What exactly is his line of work.”

  A short, fat man strode purposefully along the sidewalk. Claude flapped one hand at him in greeting, then said, “Judge is a fixer, a professional go-between. He calls himself a consultant, but mostly he makes phone calls—Judge knows everybody in three states—and he introduces people.”

  “Big deal,” I said.

  Claude nodded. “Bigger than you think. Look, suppose you want to build something or do something. Maybe it’s a project so new that no one knows what to expect; maybe it’s so different that folks are nervous about it. The thing of it is, if your project is touchy in any way, you need Judge Gortner. Pretty soon, he’s out there talking to people, patting backs, squeezing elbows, explaining to the right people how the common folks just downright need whatever it is you’ve got. Judge calls that tenderizing the market.

  “And he’ll set up meetings and business lunches for you, meetings with the people who can help you. Judge will tell you who should get what subcontract and which charity needs a donation and whose wife wants an invitation to what. Eventually, you’ll most likely get whatever it is you want. Oh, you’ll have to give a little, maybe set aside some park land or whatever, but there’s an up side, too. If there’s any state or federal money out there—grants, special loans, tax relief, whatever—Judge’ll find it for you.” Claude waved his arms expressively. “Politics, that’s all. And Gortner’s a politician.”

  A car horn bipped softly; Claude grinned and waved at a gray Mercedes going past.

  I said, “My dealing with Gortner is on a more personal family level. I’m more interested in him as a man.”

  “Understood,” Claude said. “You can trust Judge, I’d say. Not Tom, though. Watch out for him.”

  When I looked blank, Claude said, “Tom Gortner. Judge’s son.”

  “This is turning into a family saga. I’ve only met Judge and his grandson Jerry. Tell me about the missing link.”

  Claude licked his lips and leaned forward. “Tom is Judge’s only son. Spoiled rotten as a kid and he never outgrew it. Terrible Tommy, they used to call him. He barely got out of high school—that was back when they still had passing and failing—and then he flunked or partied himself out of three or four colleges. I swear, Rafferty, it almost broke Judge’s heart when Tom came home from Austin with his tail between his legs. Since then, why, nothing much has changed. Oh, maybe Tom’s not putting his tit in the wringer quite so often these days, but he’s not completely over the habit. When he does, Judge bails him out.”

  “What does Tom do?”

  “Judge has him appointed to this and that,” Claude said. “Tom would be in his late thirties now, I guess. He’s presentable enough, got this boyish kind of face and he smiles real pretty. So Judge doesn’t have much trouble boosting him onto quango boards and getting him committee seats. I think he’s on some ag department board at the moment. Something about land use, or—hell, it doesn’t matter. Tom will make money at it.”

  “How? Director’s fees? Expenses?”

  Claude sniffed. “The normal money, sure, but Tom sweetens up the take by selling his vote. To all comers, all at once.” For Claude, that would be the ultimate sin. Imagine, a politician who wouldn’t stay bought.

  On the walk back down the street, Claude said good-bye and scurried into the courthouse; I went on. I got lucky for a change and beat a parking cop to the Mustang by half a block. And when I twisted the key, the engine started right up without making that noise.

  Aha! Things were looking up.

  I drove all the way out to Maria Hermosa’s apartment building just to read John From Next Door’s mailbox.

  Barcola. His last name was Barcola. I phoned Ricco.

  “That guy’s name is John Barcola,” I said. “I just remembered.”

  Ricco snarled but finally said he’d check it out and let me know.

  Aqua-Tidy next, where Larry Davis was on his second beer after a long session with his accountant. He gave me a list of the swimming pools Luis Ortega had cleaned in the two months before he went to that great chlorine plant in the sky. There were eighty-three names on the list. Whoopee.

  Some of the names sounded vaguely familiar, but then again some of the names were pretty common. There were three Joneses, several Smiths, and a pair of Browns, for Christ’s sake. The addresses were all over the place. Whoopee again.

  Fought the rush-hour traffic home. Like a dummy, I took the freeway where I zoomed along at speeds approaching thirty miles an hour. Well, occasionally I zoomed. More often I was stopped dead. Finally pulled into Hilda’s driveway at six-forty-five. As I reached for the ignition, the Mustang made that noise again.

  Damn!

  Chapter 23

  The first shot skittered off the pebble
d walk and howled away somewhere. The second bullet made a baseball-size crater in the forehead of a mannequin wearing the baggiest shorts I’d ever seen.

  By then Thorney and I were down behind a long stone planter box, trying to find a position where the human body was less than two inches high.

  It didn’t seem a particularly pleasant way to spend a Tuesday morning.

  An hour earlier, I’d gone to Thorney’s house. Just to check on the old guy. There had been no further visits from vandals, he told me, and he was just going shopping, did I want to come along?

  Why not? So we boogied off to go hang out at the mall. Like awesome, okay?

  Now someone had turned the mall into a shooting gallery, in the old county-fair sense of the word. And what kind of crummy mall was this, anyway? How were we expected to hide behind such a puny little planter box?

  In the odd way your mind works at such times, I realized that when I had reached out to push Thorney down, he had already begun to drop. He was pretty quick for his age.

  Off to our right, voices came from other hiding places. A woman’s voice shrilled up and down the scale wordlessly. A second voice, a man’s, just went up. “No, no, no, no …” he shouted. Another man yelled, “Call the police! Someone call the police!” That voice was steady and purposeful.

  Hopefully, one of the clerks in the dozen nearby stores would have already thought of calling the cops, but you never know.

  There was another dull boom and a sharp skree as a third slug ricocheted off the top of our planter screen. Thorney wriggled and twisted more tightly into the angle between the low wall and the walkway.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Goddamn it,” he said testily. “Somebody dropped an ice cream cone over here. I’m lying in it, that’s all.”

  It’s not hard to tell who has been shot at before and who hasn’t.

  “He’s over that way I think,” I said, pointing through the planter. “By the exit tunnel. Keep your head down, for god’s sake.”