"Nick is a friend of mine," he said.
"That's not the damn point!" She slapped an open palm on the table.
Riding back along the dark Santa Monica strand, Sally weaved slightly from side to side and continued to speak. She used the words need, relate, affection, and dialogue over and over again.
By the time they got to her apartment, she had begun to cry. No sobs, just the usual controlled-anger tears.
Inside, she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and poured wine. Then she sat in the middle of the living-room floor holding her wineglass with both hands.
Carr sat down next to her. He stared at the floor. "There is something serious I've been wanting to say to you for a long time. I just haven't been able to get up enough guts to say it."
Her look was incredulous. She set her wineglass down and put her hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" she said softly.
Carr leaned close to her face, his lips next to her ear. "I'm a sex fiend," he whispered. He stuck his tongue in her ear and wrapped his arms around her.
Sally tried not to giggle as she made a halfhearted attempt to struggle.
"Charlie, stop! You're making fun of me!"
He kissed her lips and reached to unzip her pants.
They made wine-prolonged love on the living-room floor. Afterward, Carr carried the nude and sleepy Sally to her bed. He pulled a cover over her, and she said "I love you" without meeting his eyes.
"I love you, too," Carr mumbled.
He dressed and bicycled back to his apartment.
After showering, he wrote a note and dropped it in the drawer next to his holster and badge. It read:
1. Check mug books.
2. Ballistics report.
3. Autopsy report.
He went to bed.
TWELVE
The secretary ushered Red Diamond into a paneled office. The little lawyer sat at a big elevated desk with nothing on it but polish. He stuck out a two-ringed hand and forced a smile.
"Glad to see you out," he said.
"Hi, Max."
Max Waxman's bald head was fish skin stretched tightly over skull, with ear-level black hair falling limply over his collar. He wore thick glasses and a sparse mustache. His tie was white silk. "What can I do for you?"
"Now that I'm out, just thought I'd stop by to say hello."
"Hello." Max looked at his watch. He folded his hands.
Red sat down lightly in the leather chair. He nervously curled his toes inside his shoes. His stomach was sour.
"I might as well get right to the point. I'm getting ready for a big score-an oil-lease project-and I'm looking for backing. I thought I'd give you first shot at it since you and me go way back. I got the project figured for two or three hundred grand in twenty days. I'm planning to bring the suckers in through real-estate people. The pitch is a grand apiece. I got a guy who can make the phony oil-lease charts…"
"Red, Please." The lawyer held up his hand. "I know you just got out, how tough it is and all, but these things involve too many people. The cops are on to you. You've been down too many times."
"So you won't even let me finish telling you…"
"I'll finish it for you. You need a front. An office, a secretary, a car, juice money for the real-estate people, the boiler room, bleepety bleepety bleep. And you want money from me. I'm sorry, Red. The answer is no. I'm sorry." He adjusted his tie.
Red sat for a moment without speaking. "Okay, then," he said, "will you loan me twenty-five grand? You know I'm good for it."
"The people that put up front money for you five years ago wouldn't think you're good for it. They went to the cleaners. They ended up sucking wind."
Red's face flushed. "And I went to the stinking, fucking joint."
"I'm sorry." Max pressed the intercom buzzer and told the secretary to make golf reservations for four, including Judge Brooks.
"If you need bucks, bring something to me, but please, nothing less than a pound. Coke should be legalized anyway. Or paper, bonds, stocks-something that's tangible. My investigator handles the arrangements. Same as before. I like to stick with the basics. Nice talking with you, Red. I'm really kind of busy today." He leaned forward and handed Red his engraved business card.
Red put it in his shirt pocket. He grasped the arms of the chair tightly. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need the money. I've sent you a lot of business through the years. I never handed you up to the Feds in the last project. I could of handed you up to the Feds but I didn't. They asked about you but I kept my mouth shut and walked the yard. You could have been there with me. You know that."
"I also know that the statute has run. I'm a lawyer, Red. I'm home free. They can't arrest me, because the offense happened over five years ago. That's the law. Please don't try to muscle me. Nobody muscles me. Let's remain friends." Max turned his palms up and gave a weak smile.
Red stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He thought it odd that his stomach had suddenly stopped churning.
"Tony the juice man has a long memory, doesn't he?" the lawyer asked. Red felt his head bob up and down. "I told you years ago that it was a mistake to go to him for front money. I'm sorry you didn't take my advice. I'm really very sorry."
Red walked toward the door.
"Bring something to me! Anything except grass. I have a truckload man who keeps me busy with grass. Anything else! With luck you'll be out of the bind in no time at all. I am sorry, Red." Max looked at his watch.
The door closed.
A jukebox played soul music.
Red Diamond and Ronnie Boyce sat in a corner booth with drinks, served by a floppy-breasted waitress who wore nothing but a G-string.
The only light in the bar was a semicircle of pink, which illuminated a small, round stage. On the stage, a naked blonde woman with stretch marks on her stomach arched backward clumsily to give some men at a nearby table a good look at her crotch. The men made drunken remarks of appreciation.
No one else in the place seemed to be watching her. The tables and booths buzzed with whispered negotiations of all kinds. In the next booth an older man with a ponytail and a fat Mexican woman snorted cocaine from a tiny spoon.
Red handed Ronnie the ten-dollar Sahara Casino chip. "Take a look at it, lil' brother. I just got it today. You can't tell the difference between it and a real one. It's a sample counterfeit from the guy who makes 'em. He's an inventor, a genius really."
Ronnie rubbed the chip, tried to bend it. "Can we get some more?"
"That's the problem. The inventor made up this sample for me, but we need cash before he'll go into full production. We're back in a negative-cash-flow situation at this point."
Ronnie looked puzzled.
Red wrote on the paper place mat. "Cash flow…equipment trip to Las Vegas…$100,000." He turned the place mat around to Ronnie. "This is the way I have it mapped out. We need another score to make this thing move. The dude will make the phony chips for a flat fee and we lay 'em down in Vegas. I figure we can do four or five grand at a time. We'll take our time so the pit bosses don't catch on, then we drive back to good ol' L.A. with a hundred big ones. Fifty for you, fifty for me…And by the way-" Red smiled and took the chip out of Ronnie's hand-"passing phony gambling chips is only a state crime. No Feds to worry about. Once we come back across the California border we're fucking-ass home free. You like?"
Ronnie gave a noncommittal nod. "Yeah, I guess. But how about the money on the last score? Couldn't we…"
Red snapped his fingers. "Damn! Let me apologize…I thought I had told you what we have working on that end. I've been so busy… Briefly, things are great on setting up the front. I have things worked out for you and me to have offices in Century City. It looks like the best thing to go for at this point is limited partnerships for food franchises or maybe gold futures. This is what the suckers will probably go for. But I need more marketing research. We can't just jump in without knowing we can get the suckers. Too much risk for too little profit. You know what I mean…"