“I gets ’em from a outfit in Jersey,” said Taps. “They think I’m in law enforcement.” His booming laugh was surprisingly sonorous for such a slim man.
Chapter 17
Doctor Don was smart-assing his way into his morning-commute stint after the six a.m. newsbreak of KFRC when Runyan got off the 31 Express on Bush and Franklin. Moyers slid a little lower in his car seat as he watched the bus rumble away and Runyan trudge up the hill.
Doctor Don said, “Dave ‘The Duke’ Sholin is so cheap that his seersucker suit sucks!” Runyan looked too exhausted to spot Moyers if the insurance investigator did a tapdance on the hood of the car. Doctor Don added, “Dave Sholin is so cheap that he has a sign on his toilet, ‘When the lid won’t close, flush it!’ ”
Moyers switched off the radio and flicked on his microminicassette recorder as Runyan turned in at the rooming house.
“Six-oh-eight a.m., Wednesday, the eighth,” he dictated. “Surveillance of subject recommen...”
He stopped dictating and slid all the way down in his seat. Louise Graham was just driving by in a white current-model Toyota Tercel four-door. He raised his head quickly above the level of window, caught her license as she put on her blinker for the left turn into one-way Franklin Street, and wrote the number in his notebook.
“Surveillance of subject recommences at his new residence address of Sixteen-Twenty Bush Street,” he dictated. He did not mention Louise Graham in his report.
Runyan put on the night chain and crossed to the bed without bothering to turn on the light even though the shades were down and his room was quite dark. He lay down on his back on top of the spread, fully clothed, his shoes still on, bouncing up and down a little just because the bed would bounce, unlike his cot at San Quentin.
He felt like he could sleep for a week, after identifying the competition and with his visit to Gatian serving notice on them. And now they were setting up the job Taps had talked about incessantly during their years in Q. He had sure never intended to pull another robbery, but what could he do? He was on parole. He couldn’t run and they knew it, so he needed cash to buy them off. Damn Cardwell! Why hadn’t he worked alone — or at least told Runyan there were others involved?
He’d also have to figure out a way to get Moyers off his back, but staying alive had first priority. Right now, he was free. There was no way Moyers or anyone else could have a tag on him that he could think of, which meant the initiative had passed to him for the time being.
He set the alarm for four that afternoon and went to sleep with his lock picks under his pillow. He’d need them tonight.
It had been a lousy day for Angelo Tenconi. One of his debtors had got himself all stirred up and had balked at making payment, so Tenconi’d had to have the fucker’s leg broke. Thing is, how was the freaking guy going to keep up his payments, he’s in the hospital with a broken leg? But it had to be done; an example had to be made.
Then there was this thing with freaking Runyan, coming around to Gatian and, for Chrissake, threatening him. Two million freaking dollars, and Runyan running around like some kind of nut case.
He was almost glad when he let himself into his penthouse and found the remains of last night’s party still littering the living room. He dropped his topcoat on the floor as he punched out a three-digit number on the phone.
“Tenconi, penthouse. Get a fuckin’ maid up here to clean up the mess.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
He hung up feeling gratified. He owned the building, so he didn’t have to take shit from anybody. He went around the wetbar on which the phone stood, jerking down his tie as he did. From the fridge he got an ice-cold beer, jerked the tab and dropped it on the floor as he recrossed the room toward the hallway. In passing he flicked on the TV and threw the remote on the couch.
Runyan came through the hallway arch and delivered a truly stunning kick to Tenconi’s balls. Beer sprayed and the can went flying. Tenconi, knees clamped together, dropped slowly to the floor making the sound bath water makes leaving the tub.
Runyan jerked Tenconi’s .41 Magnum out of its shoulder holster and stepped back as Tenconi tried to focus on him through pain-blurred eyes.
“Did that get your attention — asshole?”
Tenconi began crawling toward the couch like a half-crushed beetle. “You’re... dead, Runyan...” he panted. “Abso... lutely... fuckin’... dead...”
On the TV, John Ritter had lost his trousers on syndication and was running around the Three’s Company set in his boxer shorts while the studio audience howled. Runyan was ejecting the live rounds from the Magnum, plink, plink, plink, onto the wood parquetry at the edge of the rug. Tenconi was now on his side on the couch, knees drawn up, face pasty.
“Next time, you better not miss,” Runyan told him.
Runyan snapped the revolver shut and dropped it on the floor, where it made a dent in the varnished surface. He crossed to the door and jerked it open to leave.
A mahogany-faced Chicana maid was standing outside the door with her cart behind her, just ready to shove a passkey into the door lock. Runyan bowed.
“You’d better come back tomorrow. Mr. Tenconi is all balled up at the moment.”
He went by her toward the elevator. The maid shrugged to herself and closed the door again. She didn’t like being alone in the apartment with Tenconi anyway. He always put his hands on her when she had to pass close to him.
Runyan came out of the YMCA with his hair slicked back and damp from his shower. He’d done a full routine — rings, high bar, parallel bars, the horse. He felt pleasantly tired and hungry as a bear. The face-off with Tenconi hadn’t hurt, either. He was getting his edge back.
As he passed between the old ornate pillars flanking the entrance, Moyers fell into step with him.
“You didn’t leave any forwarding at the Westward Hotel.”
“Somebody thought I had the diamonds in my pocket and tried to take them away.” In the first space beyond the white passenger zone in mid-block, a car’s lights went on and the engine turned over, caught. Deadpan, Runyan added, “You don’t carry a shotgun around in your trunk, do you?”
“They’re going to get you, Runyan.”
“At the trial, the prosecution said I was working alone. Found the combination on the back of the desk drawer—”
“You wrote that there yourself, Runyan. It’s an old safe-cracker’s trick.” He added urgently, “They’ve had eight years to figure out how to do you in and get the diamonds.”
“Unless I turn the stones over to you. Yeah, sure.”
They were almost even with the car whose engine had started up. The driver honked once, a single short tap. It was a white Toyota Tercel with a woman behind the wheel. The woman was Louise. Runyan’s face flushed hot as if he were ashamed of something he had done. Louise! What...
“Homelife General can offer you the reward for turning in the stones, plus protection from whoever—”
“Old home week,” said Runyan, glad of the darkness that hid the almost feverish flush on his cheeks.
He cut across the sidewalk to the car and opened the driver’s door. Louise quickly slid over into the other bucket as Runyan started to get in. Moyers belatedly ran across the sidewalk, but Runyan already had the car moving. He looked in the side mirror; Moyers was standing in the white zone staring after them with an unreadable expression. Runyan gave a short snort of laughter, then turned to look at Louise as if seeing her for the first time.
“You didn’t know where else to find me, so you waited around until I showed up for a workout. You just couldn’t stay away—”