“That’s more than I expected,” Noccia said to me. Then he hung up.
I wanted Del Rio and his crew out of that vehicle. It couldn’t happen fast enough for me. I hung in with Rick for a half hour of pure screaming adrenaline overload as Noccia got a couple of his goons out of bed and we waited for his guys and mine to meet up on the shoulder of a highway.
Rick said to me, “My date is here,” and a few minutes later he said, “They’re gone. Headed north on Five.”
I told Rick to call Aldo for a ride, and had just hung up when the phone rang again, a 702 area code. Vegas.
“Carmine. Is everything under control?”
“Very under control. I’m going to sleep like a kitten tonight. I wired your fee into your account. Six million even.”
“Thanks.”
Noccia said, “No problem. Good job,” and hung up.
My throat was dry. My hands were shaking. I drank down a Red Bull in one long swig and I dialed out. I got Chief Mickey Fescoe on the third ring.
I told Fescoe that a van with a fortune in illegal pharmaceuticals was headed north on 5, that it belonged to Carmine Noccia. I pictured Fescoe, my sometimes friend, shaking off sleep, jumping out of bed, dying for me to fill in the blanks.
“What did you say?”
I repeated myself and then gave him the details. Fescoe punctuated every fifth word with “Holy shit” and “You’re kidding ” as I connected the dots for him. I drew a straight line between the three members of the Noccia crew who had been found shot dead on a highway in Utah to the Ford transport van holding a street value of thirty million in OxyContin.
I said, “There’s a GPS transmitter in the van. The receiver is in Fry’s Electronics parking lot. Yeah. Inside a trash can under the flying-saucer marquee if you want to send a car for it.”
“I’ll send someone now. I might get it myself.”
“If I were chief of police, I’d tip off the DEA. And take them down with a traffic stop, Mickey. Keep me completely out of it.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Fescoe. “Hey, Jack, how did you come into all this information?”
“I can’t say.”
“Right. It’s private. Sorry I asked. I don’t need to know,” said Fescoe.
I said, “Not that I’m keeping track, Mick, but don’t forget that I helped you with this.”
Another way of saying You owe me a big one.
“I’ll help you if I can,” said Fescoe.
Another way of saying I’ll help you if I can, but don’t count on me if you killed Colleen Molloy.
CHAPTER 105
It was a hell of a send-off for Cody.
The Bazaar was a five-star restaurant on La Cienega, a “movable feast” that called up Spanish fiestas of the kind you only saw in movies.
We had booked the tasting room, called Saam, for our party of thirty. The furnishings were leather and Murano glass, and the food was bizarre and terrific: tapas and cheesy confections and foie gras lollipops wrapped in cotton candy.
People were lit on magic mojitos infused with end-of-the-workday relief. There were silly toasts and drunken laughter, and a couple of girls were crying and laughing at the same time.
As I said, it was a hell of a party.
But some people were missing: Del Rio, Scotty, and Cruz were out working the hotel murder case. Justine had given Cody a cashmere sweater and begged off the festivities.
I wanted to be anyplace but here. But I owed it to Cody to give him a bash worthy of how much we all loved him. He’d stepped into his job after Colleen left six months ago, filling her place without a hitch. Like he was made for it. I’d always be thankful to him for that.
I clinked my glass with a fork, and the whooping only escalated.
“Cody,” I said. “Cody, we’re going to miss you.”
There was whistling and guys yelling Cody’s name. Mo-bot was beaming. Even Sci stood up and gave Cody some applause.
“We’re going to miss your clothing commentary,” I said to my former assistant, “and your impersonations of all of us, especially me.”
I did an impersonation of Cody doing an impersonation of me, running his hand through his hair, giving himself a serious look in the mirror, straightening his tie.
People roared.
I said that I had put a contract out on Ridley Scott for taking Cody away from us, but that I was grateful to Cody for finding Val.
Cody broke in to say, “Val, stand up, girlfriend.”
And she did, laughing too, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the magic mojitos. She was just having fun.
I said, “Cody, you’ve kept us on track and you’ve brought us a lot of happiness too. And if the acting thing disappoints you, I’m going on the record: You’ll always have a home at Private.”
I gave him the gift-wrapped camera and card from everyone at Private, and after the applause had abated, Cody wiped his eyes with a red napkin and used his foie gras lollipop as a microphone. “Jack, I want to thank you,” he said. “Seriously, this has been the best job of my life. You taught me more than this,” he said, grinning as he ran his hand through his hair. “You showed me honorable leadership in action. That’s what I’m going to remember most.”
I didn’t know thirty people could make so much noise with their hands.
CHAPTER 106
Del Rio eyed the King Eddy Saloon, a bar within an old bootlegging hotel by the same name on Skid Row, East Fifth and Los Angeles Streets. This was a bad section of town, but King Eddy’s attracted all types, from homeless drunks to young people with dreams who owned condos around the corner.
The building was gray with black trim, bars on the three windows around the door, a security gate attached to that, attesting to what could and often did happen in this neighborhood.
Del Rio went through the door, Cruz right behind him, like Samuel Jackson and John Travolta going into that diner in Pulp Fiction.
“Cold Cold Ground” was playing on the jukebox, and some people were singing along. The circular bar was jam-packed with local characters. A cheap wooden platform held the TVs, which were tuned to a basketball game. At that instant, the Lakers lost by a point.
Customers groaned.
Alongside the wall opposite the bar was a line of tables under decorative neon beer signs. At one of the tables a pair of trannies was getting crazy. From the pitch and volume of the screaming, Del Rio thought it was just a matter of moments before it got physical.
With luck, they’d be out of there before the trannies blew.
Del Rio had seen a picture of the guy they were looking for. It was a couple years old and the guy had been holding a number under his chin, but Del Rio was pretty sure he could recognize him inside his favorite hangout.
He searched the backs of heads and profiles, and then he saw the African American guy with a short beard sitting at the bar. He was eating a free doughnut and talking to the old barfly sitting next to him.
Del Rio got Cruz’s attention, tilted his chin toward the guy with the beard. Cruz squinted, then nodded, and Del Rio pulled his nine.
Del Rio walked over to the guy having his beer and doughnut, put the gun to his spine, and felt the guy stiffen. The guy stared into the mirror over the bar for a second, looked into the faces of the two men who weren’t joking, raised his hands, and held them up.
Del Rio said, “Mr. Keyes, walk with me.”
Keyes said, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then don’t do anything stupid.”
This was Tyson Keyes, the badass limo driver who was Karen Ricci’s first husband. According to her second husband, Paul Ricci, Keyes was the man who had tipped Carmelita Gomez that her john had been killed by a limo driver. Maybe he’d done more than that. Maybe Tyson Keyes had killed five businessmen who’d hired party girls for a couple of hours in their hotel rooms.
Keyes swiveled around, then got off the stool very carefully. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for, man.”