Juan scowled and looked away, jaw clenched like he was fighting some sort of skewed right or wrong gangster inner conscience. “Ah, shit. I ain’t heard from him in over a week,” he finally said in a quiet voice.
“Out of town?”
“Don’t know. He mighta bounced. I called and I paged his ass, but I ain’t heard back.”
Art thought about this, wondering at Smiley’s possible whereabouts.
The silence seemed too much for Juan and he interjected, “I’m tellin’ ya, these Russian dudes are no joke — they are some scary ass motha’-fuckers. Seems like every hombre they wanna find end up disappearing forever.” Juan crossed himself and glanced around nervously. “Madre de Dios.” He was getting shakier by the minute, as though just the mere mention of these Russians would bring them crashing into the room.
As if on cue the door burst open, and Juan recoiled in his seat. Deacon Maznicki popped his head inside.
“Hey Art, I got a call from — whoa, holy crap!” Deac said when his eyes found Juan. “Who’s the princess with the pretty face?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bracamontes said, looking anything but threatening.
“Oooooo, and she has such a dirty little mouth on her too.” Deacon turned to Art. “So, some Wilcox lawyer guy called for Ethan again. What should I tell him?”
Art glanced at his watch. They were closing in on 10:30 pm. It seemed late for Tobias’s lawyer to be on telephone duty. This guy must be getting a serious percentage on the estate settlement or he was vying for lawyer of the year. “Get his number; tell him I’ll try to call him back.” He emphasized the word try with a raise of his brow.
“Got it.” Deacon winked at Juan and pursed his lips.
“Asshole!” Juan hollered as the door closed.
“Who exactly are these guys looking for?” Art asked, routing Bracamontes back to the line of questioning.
Juan’s attention refocused. “They lookin’ for two jokers — guy named Kane and some other fool.” Juan squinted at the ceiling as if trying to pull the words out of his memory through the air. “Stanton, Stenner, Stoner … ”
Art went cold. He leaned over the table again to peer into Juan’s twitchy eyes. The guy was still bouncing around in his drugged brain, attempting to recollect the right name. Art enunciated his next words. “I need you to think very clear; were the names Tobias Keane and Ethan Tannor?”
Like a lightning flash frying what was left inside Juan’s skull, his eyes quit moving and fixed on Art. “Yeah! Those the ones.” He bobbed his head and grinned, clearly proud of his powers of recollection.
Puzzlement settled over Art, clouding his thoughts. It occurred to him then that perhaps Tobias really had been murdered. That idea faded away quickly, though; forensics had pointed too strongly at suicide. Still, he hadn’t heard back from Bagowski on the report yet. Would something unusual turn up after all? He began to wonder how safe his partner really was. Sure, Ethan could handle himself, but what if he was caught by surprise?
An unknown force had been scrambled to Tobias’s estate and then left like a pack of ghosts — in and out with precision. Were these Russians the same guys? With that question, Art’s fear for Ethan escalated; even with the pedigree he had, the chances of surviving against such military might were low.
Stan Bailey’s frantic account came back to him: “They were just there, sailing out from the chopper like some hit squad in black masks and then I was down, and everything went dark quick. But before I passed out, one of them was standing over me — the bright white against black … it was the face of Death, I tell you, with a gleaming row of teeth that smiled back at me. I thought I was dead.”
“Hey man, I’m talkin’ to you! Can I go or what?”
Art snapped back to the present, shaking his head to cleanse the imagery of Stan’s account from his mind. He pushed away from the table and stood erect once again. “Is there anything else?”
“Es all I know, I swear.”
Art stopped the recording. There was a faint click as the tape ground to a halt. He fixed a steely gaze on Juan that the other man couldn’t hold.
“You’ve bought yourself a reprieve, Bracamontes. Consider your time here tonight as …” he paused, “… rehabilitation.” Art reached for the tape recorder. “But I swear to Christ, if you’re fucking me on this I’ll find you, and I’ll end you. There will be no Miranda rights. There will be no penal system; just you and me.” He jabbed a thumb at himself to underscore the point. “And a bullet that has your name on it.”
Juan felt like his chest was caving in with each word thrown at him from across the table. Was it the adrenaline finally ebbing from his body, or the crippling pain of their earlier encounter returning to his ribs?
The detective continued, “I’m cutting you loose, but I’m going to keep my ear close to the ground. If I hear so much as you leaving the toilet seat up after you take a piss — ” He made the universally understood neck slashing motion.
Detective Hansen’s words had come out cool, collected, and thick with promise. Juan believed him. He’d heard rumors about Arthur Hansen. But they ain’t rumors if they true, right? Juan didn’t care if they were or not; at this moment, Hansen had his dick on the chopping block — theoretically speaking. Juan hadn’t been circumcised when he was a baby — gracias a Dios — and he wasn’t about to start the habit of letting sharp objects near his genitals.
He was a survivor — he’d been one all his life. Flipping on someone for a shorter term in prison and letting another person take the fall came naturally to him. Cooperation was the key. Maybe his brother Miguel would give him a job and another chance at the tire shop. He could change — no, he had to change. His life depended on it, and that wasn’t theoretical. Juan knew what the man staring down at him was thinking. Not just thinking, hoping. Hansen would let Juan go, sit back, and hope for the day he fucked up again.
17
The Bad Lead
The Cozy Clam was always open for business. Ethan felt like he was becoming a regular, but not in the regular sense of the word as it pertained to the normal clientele. As usual, the perverted motel manager, Jeffrey, sat behind the desk skimming through the last issue of a porno magazine. Creepy noises emanated from his mouth.
It took a few seconds before Ethan’s presence was noticed. “Oh, ahhhh — how can I help you, Mr. Cash?” Jeff said with a wink.
“I’ll need a room for the night.”
“Your previous room is, ah, occupied at the moment. Would you like a different room, or do you wanna wait?”
“New one.” This place disgusted Ethan. If he wasn’t so preoccupied with the current goings-on in his life he’d have the building bulldozed for safety and health code violations.
“Twenty bucks,” Jeff said, then turned to the rack of keys on the wall and lifted a pair off its hook. “Looks like you’ll be upstairs this time, Room 202. You can take the elevator or those stairs across the lot.”
Ethan dropped the money on the countertop so he wouldn’t have to touch the revolting man. Jeff mimicked Ethan, dropping the key on the counter as well. Ethan looped a finger through its ring, wishing he was wearing his crime scene gloves.