Baishe said, “He doesn’t need my pedigree.”
I looked at him.
Baishe was leaning into the corner behind Poitras’ desk, looking at me like he’d had to scrape me off the bottom of his shoe. Without waiting he went on, “I know about you. Big deal in the Army, security guard at a couple of studios, sucking around town with that bastard Joe Pike. They say you think you’re tough. They say you think you’re cute. They also say you’re pretty good. Okay. Here’s what we’ve got. The highway patrol up by Lancaster finds Morton Lang shot to death behind the wheel of his car, an ’82 Cadillac Seville. He’s got three in the chest and one in the temple, close range.” Baishe touched his forehead. Wasn’t much hair there to get in the way. “No shell casings in the car, but the people up there say it looks like a 9mm. There’s blood, but not a whole lot, and some peculiar lividity patterns so maybe he wasn’t popped there in his car. Maybe he got it somewhere else and he was put there. No sign of the kid. Car’s been wiped clean. Robbery’s out. He’s still got his wallet and the credit cards and forty-six bucks and his watch. Keys are in the ignition. You got all that?”
“I’m watching your lips, yes, sir.”
Baishe looked at me, then at Lou. Lou said, “Cole has a brain imbalance, Lieutenant.”
Baishe unwrapped his arms, came out of the corner, leaned on Poitras’ desk and looked at me. He looked like a Daddy Longlegs. “Don’t fuck with me, boy.”
I pretended to be intimidated. After a bit he said, “How do you fit into this?”
I went through it again. Baishe said, “How long have you known the wife?”
“Since yesterday.”
“You sure it hasn’t been longer?”
I looked from Baishe to Poitras to Simms and back to Baishe. Poitras and Simms were looking at Baishe, too. I said, “Come off it, Baishe. You got nothing.”
“Maybe we dig into this we see a bigger connection. Maybe you two are pretty good friends, so good you decide to get rid of her old man. Maybe you rig the whole act and you pull the trigger. Setup City.”
“Setup City?” I looked at Poitras. His mouth was open. Simms was staring at a spot somewhere out around the orbit of Pluto. I looked back at Baishe with what we in the trade call “disbelief.” He was looking at me with what we in the trade call “distaste.”
I said, “ The Postman Always Rings Twice, right? 1938?”
“Keep it up,” Baishe said.
“That’s a real good thought, Lieutenant,” Lou said, “only Cole here is known to me personally. He’s a good dick.” I expected Baishe to laugh maniacally. Only the Shadow knooowwzz. I was getting tired and just a little bit cranky. I said, “Is that it?”
Baishe said, “We’ll tell you when that’s it.”
I stood up. “Screw that. I didn’t come down here so you guys could work out. You got any other questions, book me or call my lawyer.”
Baishe went purple and started around the desk. Lou stood up, just happening to block his way. “Lieutenant, could I talk to you a sec? Outside.”
Baishe glared at me. “Have your ass in that chair when I get back, peep.”
“Peep. You’re really up on the patois, aren’t you?”
Baishe’s jaw knotted but they went out. I glared at Simms. He looked bored. I glared at Lou’s desk. Behind the desk on a gray metal file cabinet were pictures of a pretty brunette and three children and a three bedroom ranch-style home in Chatsworth. One shot showed a couple of comfortable lawn chairs in the backyard beneath a poplar tree, just right for drinking a beer and listening to a ball game while kids played in the backyard. There was a picture of Lou doing just that. I had taken the picture.
Lou came back in alone. “He expects your continued cooperation.”
Simms laughed softly.
I said, “You notify the wife yet?”
“Not home. We got a car there waiting for her.” I could see a couple of street monsters parked in her drive, scratching their balls and waiting for a fadeaway woman in a light green Subaru wagon with two little girls in the back. Sensitive guys. Guys like Baishe. Sorry, lady, your old man caught four and he’s history. I said, “Maybe I’d better do it.”
Lou shrugged. “You sure you want to?”
“You bet, Lou. Nothing I want more than to sit down with this woman and give her the news her husbands dead and her nine-year-old son is missing. Maybe I’ll even break the word to the two little girls, too, for the capper.”
“Take it easy.”
“I’m taking it easy,” I said. Simms had stopped smiling.
The redhead came back in with the color copies and the little picture. She put the copies on Lou’s desk and the little picture on top of the copies. She looked at me. “What, no cracks?”
“They broke my spirit.”
She smiled nicely. “Penny Brotman. Studio City.” And swayed away. Simms said, “Sonofabitch.”
I took the little picture and put it in my pocket. I sneered at Simms, then gave Lou a flat look. “If we’re finished, I want to get out of here.”
He looked at his hands. “I didn’t know he was gonna pull that, Hound Dog. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
I went back along the short hall, down the flight of stairs and out through the reinforced door. Nothing had changed. The Chicano guys still stood by the front desk, the white kid still murmured into the phone. People came in and went out. A fat woman bought a Coke; it wasn’t a diet drink. A black cop with heavy arms led a man past the desk and through swinging doors. The man’s fragile wrists were cuffed. There were knots in my trapezius muscles and in my latissimus dorsi and my head throbbed. I went up behind the kid on the phone and stood very close. He looked at me. Then he murmured something into the phone, hung up, and sat on one of the wooden benches with his head in his hands. I dialed Janet Simon and let it ring. On the thirty-second buzz she answered, breathless. I said, “Does Ellen Lang have any close relatives nearby? Sister or mother or something like that?”
“No. No, Ellen doesn’t have any relatives that I know of. She’s an only child. I think there could be an aunt back in Kansas, but her parents are dead. Why?”
“Can you meet me at her house in twenty minutes?”
There was a long pause. “What is it?”
I told her. I had to stop once because she was crying. When I was through I said, “I’m on my way,” then I hung up. I stood with my hand on the phone for several seconds, breathing deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth, making my body relax. After a while, I went over to the kid on the bench, said I was sorry, and put a quarter on the bench beside him. It was shaping up as a helluva day.
10
At twenty minutes before three I pulled into Ellen Lang’s drive and parked behind Janet Simon’s Mustang. Ellen’s Subaru wasn’t there. I went to the front door and knocked. Out on the street, cars driven by moms went past, each carrying kids home from school or off to soccer practice. It was that time of the day. Pretty soon Ellen Lang would turn in with her two girls. She’d see the Corvette and the Mustang and her eyes would get nervous.
I knocked again, and Janet Simon opened the door. Her hair was pulled back and large purple sunglasses sat on top of her head. Every woman in Encino wears large purple sunglasses. It’s de rigueur. She held a tall glass filled with amber liquid and ice. More ice than liquid. She said, “Well, well. The private dick.” It wasn’t her first drink.
Ellen Lang had made the house spotless for Mort’s return. Everything was back in its place, everything was clean. The effort had been enormous. Janet Simon brought her drink to the couch and sat. The ashtray beside her had four butts in it. I said, “You know when she’ll get home?”
Janet Simon fished in her pack for a fresh cigarette, lit it, and blew out a heavy volume of smoke. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. Maybe I’d spoken Russian without realizing it and had confused her.