“Hi, remember me? Tracy Spencer, Ron Fischer’s girlfriend? Remember you talked to me the other day at the apartment?”
“Yes, Tracy, I remember.”
“That’s my stage name, Tracy Spencer, get it? Spencer Tracy, the movie star. I wanted people to remember my name, but then he died…” Her voice trailed off, probably a moment of silence in remembrance of her fallen namesake. “I guess I’ll have to change it again. What do you think of Hoffy Dustman?”
I took a sip of coffee. “What is your real name?”
“Bertha Weems.”
“What can I do for you, Tracy?”
I felt sorry for her. I knew her boyfriend, the pilot, was most likely gone for good. I knew firsthand how it felt to be lonely. However, with her looks and her job, I also knew she wouldn’t be lonely for long.
“You seemed so nice the other day I thought it would be okay to call you.” I reassured her, and she continued: “Yesterday I got a postcard from Ronnie. He said everything is okay. He’s got a temporary job, didn’t say where, said he had to leave town for a while, but not to worry, he’d be back.”
My hand started to shake. The coffee splashed on my desk. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm.
“Mr. O’Brien, are you there?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here. By any chance did you notice the postmark on the card?” I tried not to show my excitement.
“No,” she said.
My heart sank. “Do you still have the card?” Holding my breath, I crossed my fingers.
“I put it in the drawer. Do you want me to get it?”
I exhaled. “Yes, that would be nice.”
A few seconds later, she told me, “It was mailed from Las Vegas, but I’m confused.”
Las Vegas! I had to call Sol fast and tell him where to start looking. But I tried to remain calm. “Sounds like he’s okay. Why are you confused?”
“I came home from work last night and noticed Ronnie’s El Camino was broken into. And I think someone went through his apartment too. The door was unlocked. But I know I locked it after I dropped off his clothes. You think I should call the cops?”
Cops, my God! They’d arrest him before I could get the answers I desperately needed. “No, don’t call them,” I almost shouted.
“Why?”
“Oh, I’m sure it was just kids fooling around.” It bothered me that it had become so easy to lie.
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Remember, Tracy, you said he had some trouble in the past. I don’t think he’d like the cops snooping around.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Now listen to me. This is very important. Do not, I repeat, do not tell anyone about the postcard or this phone call. Do you understand?”
“You sound scary. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but your boyfriend is hiding out for a reason. We don’t want to tip off anyone that might be out to harm him.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Will you help him?”
“If he asks me, I’ll help. But first I’ve got to find him.” We said goodbye and my hand trembled as I hung up the telephone.
I immediately dialed Sol’s office number. It was still too early for him to be in, but Joyce said he’d be there shortly. I left a note for Rita. I told her I was going to Sol’s office and she could start filling out the discovery form. I’d review it when I returned.
I ran to my Corvette. If Karadimos found Kruger first, he’d disappear for good. Sol said Kruger had been a bartender before he was a pilot. A bartender, I thought as I drove.
Where would we start to look? Las Vegas was the drinking capital of the world. There had to be a million bars.
The trial date was bearing down on me. I was running out of time and I was out of money. I needed Kruger’s testimony.
C H A P T E R 36
I entered the lobby of Sol’s office complex. Telephones rang off the hook, people bustled about with papers in their hands and files and folders under their arms. Their footsteps were muffled by an array of lavish antique Persian carpets. Flaming reds, vibrant greens, and golden silk threads were woven together to form intricate designs that told ancient stories. The rugs didn’t mention where I could find Kruger.
“I’m O’Brien, here to see Mr. Silverman,” I said to the young man sitting behind the reception counter.
“Yes, sir. I was told to expect you. I’ll buzz Joyce.”
An abstract painting took up the whole wall behind the guy. It was black and white with gobs of paint running down the canvas. I had had no idea what it was supposed to be. Looked like some sort of a shaggy animal.
I strolled to the picture window at the end of the room and peered out. The rich architectural decor in Sol’s office clashed with the view of Downey’s commercial district-a body shop, thrift store, and a taco stand with a hand-lettered sign that read, “Carne Al Pastor Con Frijoles.” Maybe the picture on the wall was the goat they used in the tacos.
Joyce appeared. “Hi, Jimmy. You can wait in the conference room. Sol will join you in a few minutes.”
I sat at a polished wood table that could have doubled as the deck of an aircraft carrier for a nation of pygmies. I didn’t count the chairs, but if the seats filled, the population in this room would have rivaled a small European principality.
A tall man materialized carrying a silver coffee service with two fragile-looking cups. He wore a formal waiter’s outfit, black pants, white shirt, and a cutaway jacket. The jacket looked too small.
“Jamaican Blue Mountain,” the waiter said.
“What?”
“The coffee, sir. Mr. Silverman’s favorite.”
I didn’t care if it was Purple Mountain Majesty; I needed to speak with Sol. “When will the boss be here?” I asked.
“Soon.” He turned and slipped quietly out the door.
I sipped the coffee. No surprise, it was excellent. I was pretty hyped up about Tracy’s news that Kruger was alive and most likely in Las Vegas. I drank some more coffee and was pouring a second cup when Sol came bounding into the room.
He sat at the head of the table.
“Hope the coffee’s okay.”
“Sol, you know damn well it’s great,” I said, a trifle facetiously. I was proud of his success and he knew it.
He poured a cup for himself. “I have a guy who picks out my coffee and grinds it special.”
That came as no surprise, either. But I didn’t comment. I wanted to tell Sol about Kruger. “I got a call from Tracy, Kruger’s girlfriend. He mailed her a postcard from Vegas.”
“I guess you could call him a coffee designer,” Sol said.
“I think he’s a bartender-Wait, not the coffee guy. Kruger. He’s probably a bartender.”
“Oh, I know about Kruger. I’ve already had my men up there looking for him.”
I leaned back in my chair. “How’d you know he’d be in Las Vegas?”
“One of my informants spotted him on the strip then he disappeared. But it fits. Kruger wants the action and it’d be easy to find a job bartending. There are more bars in Vegas, per capita, than any place. Don’t forget he’s hiding out. It’s like they say-if you want to hide a book put it in a library.”
“With all the places to look, how long will it take to find him?”
Sol set the coffee cup down. “If we just went place to place, showed his picture around, and went back to each bar at every shift change, we’d never find him, not in this lifetime. But we have help.”
“Yeah, from whom?”
“Our old friends, Nick La Cotta, Joe Sica, and the boys.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Jimmy, these goniffs know Vegas. The Mafia built the town. Not much goes on up there that they don’t know about and we need all the help we can get. Remember, we’re not the only ones looking for Kruger.”
“Yeah, I know. Karadimos is after him. Not to mention the FBI. He skipped on the drug thing.”
“If the FBI finds him first, they’ll hustle him off to Houston on the fugitive warrant and you’ll never get to him. Even if you did, he’d clam up. You wouldn’t get anything out of him. But, that’s not the worst of it-” Sol stopped in mid sentence for a beat. “I don’t even want to think about Karadimos finding him before we do.”