The smaller book had names and addresses, but I figured they weren’t steady customers because there were only a dozen. Langston’s was included. Since most guys know where they live, the book must not have been his. Under W, I found one I recognized. Roland White, aka Whitefish.
I shut the book and stared at the ceiling. White was boss-dog in the pack the Atlanta papers called the Dixie Mafia, which was about as Johnny Reb as maple syrup. The Cosa Nostra controlled it, like everything else as American as dope, loan sharking, gambling, and girls, not to mention murder for hire.
I felt like a guy on thin ice during a hailstorm. Smart thing would be to send the books to Endicott and fade out, fast.
But that wouldn’t get Kimberly Johnson back, if she was still among the living. By the time the D.A. decided a probable cause, White would be elsewhere and his Harvard lawyers would have him decked out like a choirboy singing counterpoint amens.
I hazarded another look at White’s name. The address was a boat slip at Lake Lanier. You can take the pirate off the open seas, but you can’t take the pirate out of the man. And he probably had enough muscle on board to row the ship to Singapore.
Well, I had muscle too — I had the books. And even the best sailor fears a stormy sea. I could use them to make a few waves, if I played it cool.
I went over to Fred’s Fast Copies, bought a few manila envelopes and made two Xeroxes of each book. Then I put the books in an envelope and wrote a note on the cover to Endicott, telling him the contents pertained to a confidential case and asking him to hold them for me. I addressed another envelope to him, and slid the first one inside and bought stamps from Fred’s machine. I put one copy in another envelope and mailed it to myself. The other I wrote White’s name on and took with me.
Before I drove away from Fred’s, I stashed my Beretta in the trunk next to the Browning I leave there just in case. Like the philosopher says, there’s a time to fight like an animal and a time to fight like a man. I was counting on White to be man enough to hold his gorillas in check when he saw what I had.
Lanier is one of those man-made lakes that was formed years ago by the damming of a river. It spreads for miles, following a contour in and around wooded hills. There’s a lot of open water suitable for sailing and plenty of coves for fishing. I’d wet a line there more than once, so I knew where the docking area was.
Whites slip was M-14. As I came down the dock I spotted it right away. It was more a floating mansion than a houseboat — three decks, lots of teak and brass and, I smiled, a couple of white life-preservers with WHITE STAR in red. The walkway leading to the boarding stair was blocked by a wire gate manned by the twin of Big Boy at All-Star. He was talking to a couple of tanned kids in swim suits who were fooling with a sleek runabout moored to the bow. When I said hi, the joking went out of his voice and he looked down at me and said, “Yeah?”
I gave him the envelope and said, “Mr. White wants to see this.”
He fingered it with one paw and squinted at the name. “He didn’t say anybody was coming by.”
I fished a business card from my wallet. “Show him. He’ll be interested.”
He grunted, then shambled up the boarding stair and went aft.
One of the kids said, “Hey, you know anything about boats?”
“Only that that’s a nice one,” I said.
The kid with him, a cute teenage girl, said, “Yeah, but it won’t start and we want to go skiing.”
“Have you checked the gas?”
They looked at each other. Then they laughed sheepishly and with a paddle eased the craft alongside the dock. As they climbed up, the boy said, “I thought she filled the tank.”
“Brothers!” the girl said.
Bruno the bear-man waved from the deck and said, “Hey — come on!”
So I went, my stomach a little queasy like it gets when I go gulf fishing and forget my seasick pill.
The salon of White’s boat had nine-foot ceilings and a carpet that seemed nine inches thick. He was standing by a baby grand, the contents of my envelope spread out on the shiny black lid. He was maybe fifty but looked forty, trim, tanned, his graying hair nicely styled — a work of art, so to speak, but cheapened by the two gold chains around his neck.
He dismissed Bruno with a careless wave of a hand with too many rings, then gave me a look with eyes that could chill a martini. “So what’s this?”
“First things first,” I said. “I’m Bleekman, a private investigator.”
“I can read. You trying to make a name with me?”
“I’ve already got one — like I said.”
“Yeah, but it won’t make the papers, because there won’t be a body to bury.”
“Nice boat,” I said.
“It’s paid for.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He put his hand on the Xeroxed copies. “Where’d you get these?”
“From All-Star.”
“There are laws against stealing.”
“Among other things,” I said.
He smiled, showing a lovely set of white-on-white caps. “Give me one good reason why I don’t off you now.”
“Those are copies.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And the originals are in the mail, right?”
“We see the same TV shows.”
He laughed. So did I. Then he said, “So what do you want — money?”
“Not a cent. I want two people.”
“Somebody hurt you? Sue them.”
“I want two of your girls, Kimberly Johnson and Gloria Reeves.”
“Names. I don’t know them.”
“You run them through Langston out of All-Star.”
“Sounds like racehorses.”
“They’re thoroughbreds, all right,” I said. “But they want out of your derby.”
He frowned. “So what’s your interest? You one of those crusaders against the forces of evil?”
“Maybe, but that’s not the point. The girls want out of the business. Kimberly’s missing.”
“They come and they go.”
“Make a call.”
He stroked his chin. “What’s in it for me?”
“I get the girls. You get the books. That’s it.”
“Copies are easy to make.”
“Rules of evidence,” I said. “Xerox is a good investment, but it’s not likely to hold up in court if you have a lawyer worth his salt.”
He sat down on the piano bench and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. “You like music? Believe it or not I’ve been taking lessons. It relaxes me.”
“They say it has charms to soothe the savage breast.”
“My daughter Laurie plays recitals. She’s good.”
“So make the call.”
“Two girls for two books.” He shrugged. “Seems fair.”
“There’s something else.”
He stopped playing and smiled. “There always is. How much?”
I shook my head. “Friend of mine named Ovid Johnson’s in jail for redecorating the All-Star office and giving your boys a workout. Drop the charges.”
“You ask a lot.”
“You’ve got a lot to give.”
He thought for a moment, then, “Yeah, I’m a real Santa Claus. OK — you got it, provided.”
“Provided what?”
“You educate the girls.”
“They won’t talk.”
Now he focused those ice-cube eyes on me and said, “They better not.”
“You got my word.”
He laughed. “I got more than that — I got your name, Bleekman. I know you now.”
“Likewise.”
“You got guts, but—” he tapped his head, “no brains. Those girls will be back on the street in two weeks.”
White made the call.
I was getting the Atlanta Journal from the bushes by the steps where the kid tosses it, when a car stopped at the curb. Two of Bruno s littermates hauled Kimberly out of the back and dropped her on the walk. She was in bad shape, but she was still in one piece, so I didn’t call an ambulance.