As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said "Serves 40," which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. "You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck's participation," I said.
"Glad you asked. I didn't think you'd pursue the subject."
"Here I am," I said. "Care to fill me in?"
She paused to light a cigarette. "It's simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it'd be a Cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: 'Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.' The city planners had a ball, running him ragged with all the codes and requirements. He revised the plans sixteen times, but nothing ever seemed to suit. Twelve years later, when the developer still hadn't managed to get approval, he put the word out on the street and someone introduced him to Beck. That was 1981. The project was finished in ' 85, a speedy three years after construction began."
I waited for the rest.
"I can tell by the look on your face you're not getting it," she said.
"Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky."
"Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he's nice?"
I stared, feeling dense.
Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.
"Payoffs?"
"Exactly. That's where the money went – the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn't realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento – Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation – but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help."
"But that's political money laundering."
"Wow, you are quick," she said, rolling her eyes. "Isn't that why you're setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?"
"I wasn't sure how far you meant to go."
"Right to the bitter end."
"But when we first talked, didn't you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?"
"That's the story he gave me. I didn't figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I'm sure he's still funneling cash out of the country as fast as he can, but at least I get it now; his efforts were never meant to benefit me."
"I'm sorry. I know that's tough on you."
"Tough, but true," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction. "This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg," she said.
I said, "Hi, Marty. Nice to meet you," and the two of us shook hands.
Marty gave Reba a quick visual appraisal. "You're none the worse for wear. When'd you get back?"
"Monday. Kinsey drove down and brought me back. The whole experience was an education… in what, I don't know."
"I'll bet."
"I hear you're in the new offices. Nice to be so close. Dale's was always your favorite."
Marty smiled. "I've only been coming in the past fourteen years. I could be part owner with all the money I've spent."
Reba took out a cigarette and Marty picked up her Dunhill and extended a light. Reba tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she bent to the flame, her hand resting casually on his. She inhaled, her eyes closing briefly. Smoking was like prayer, something you approached with reverence. "Beck says the offices are awesome."
"Pretty slick," he said.
"Coming from you, that's high praise. How about a tour? Beck said he'd show me around, but he's in Panama."
"A tour? Sure, why not? Give me a call and we'll set it up."
"How about tonight? As long as we're down here, it would be a hoot." He hesitated. "I could do that, I guess. I need to pick up my briefcase anyway and clean off my desk."
"You're cleaning your desk on a Friday night? That's devotion." "Beck's new dictum – no files or papers on any of the surfaces overnight. Place looks like a showroom. I'm mostly playing catch-up, taking care of stuff I've let slide. I'll probably work tomorrow, too."
"The guy's a workaholic," she said to me as an aside and then turned back to him. "Kinsey's a PI… a pri-vate de-tec-tive," she said, separating each syllable for emphasis. She turned to me. "You have a business card on you?"
"Let me look," I said. I fumbled in my shoulder bag until I found my wallet, where I kept a stash of cards. Reba had her hand out so I passed one to her and she handed it on to Marty, who studied it, pretending it mattered when he couldn't have cared less.
He tucked it in his shirt pocket. "Guess I better watch my backside." Reba smiled. "That is so so true. You have no idea." He shook a cigarette from the pack, placing it directly between his lips. Smoking didn't seem like a good idea as he was already wheezing. Reba said, "Allow me," as she picked up her Dunhill, flicked it, and offered him a light. "Such service."
"You bet. Tit for tat," she said. She propped her chin on one hand. "Aren't you curious what she's doing here?"
Marty looked from Reba to me. "A drug bust?"
"Don't be dumb," she said, giving him a smack on the arm. She leaned forward flirtatiously and murmured, "She's part of a task force – federal and local dicks – looking into Beck's finances. All very hush-hush. Promise you won't tell." She put a finger to her lips and I could feel myself blanch. I couldn't believe she'd laid it out like that, without a word to me. Not that I'd have agreed. I checked his reaction.
His smile was tentative as he waited for the punch line. "No, seriously."
"Seriously," she said. I could see she enjoyed doling it out to him bit by bit.
"I don't get it."
"What's to get? I'm telling you the truth."
"Why tell me?"
"Fair warning. I like you. You're right in the line of fire."
He must have been one of those men who operated with his body thermostat cranked up into the red zone because his face now bore a sheen of perspiration. Without seeming to be aware of it, he took the flap of his tie and blotted the beads of sweat from his cheek. "What do you mean, I'm right in the line of fire? How do you figure that?"
"Well, A: You know what he's been up to, and B: Beck won't go down for this any more than he'd accept blame for the missing three hundred and fifty thou."
"I thought you volunteered."
"Stupnagel that I am, I made it easy for him. I'd like to think you're smarter than me, but maybe not."
"He can't do anything to me. I'm covered."
"You really think so? All he has to do is point. You've got your fingerprints on everything. You're the one who set up the accounts. Same with the offshore banks and the IBC."