The waitress brought drinks. Lockhart took a healthy gulp and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Ten percent," LaMonica said.
"A hundred thousand dollars? You can go back and tell her flat out that she's not going to get it. Flat out. No way," Lockhart said.
LaMonica sipped his drink. "The amount of money she wants is not even the hard part," he said. "Freddie Roth's last printing job was contracted by the Mafia…yes, the actual honest-to-God Italian Mafia. If you check on Roth you'll see he was well connected. After Roth's murder, she tried to peddle some of the checks. They found out about it and sent some hoods to take the checks from her. My client heard they were coming, grabbed the checks, and went into hiding. She had planned to live by passing a few of the checks now and then-as you can see, they're of very high quality, easy to pass-but she got cold feet." LaMonica smiled "I don't know whether she was more afraid of the Mafia or the police."
"And just how did you get involved?" Lockhart asked.
"I do investigative work for her attorney," LaMonica said. "He asked me to check out her story; she owes him a sizable legal fee." He wiped condensation off the outside of his glass.
"We're not going to pay ten percent," Lockhart said. His chin dripped sweat. It seemed he had nothing else to say.
"I'll certainly relay that message to her," LaMonica said. "I just hope the Mafia won't pay ten percent either. She's negotiating with them, too, as you may have already guessed. As I understand it, their distribution problems are minimum." He looked at his wristwatch. "I've got a flight to catch."
Lockhart nodded dumbly.
LaMonica got up and they shook hands. "I'll be back in touch," he said.
"I want to meet your client. I have to speak with her in person," Lockhart said as if mouthing his one and only line in the school play.
"I'll tell her that." LaMonica headed down an escalator and made his way to the boarding gates. At the intersection of two busy corridors, he hid behind a ticket-counter partition. Moments later the man with the shaved head rushed past him like a hound after a rabbit. LaMonica checked his watch once again, then trotted to a boarding area at the opposite end of the airport. He approached a gate and gave a red-suited boarding agent his ticket.
"You just made it, Mr. Ross," said the man. "Please hurry. The flight is ready to depart."
LaMonica rushed down the boarding ramp and onto the plane. He found his seat and fastened his seat belt.
The jumbo jet was only half full. In the seat next to him was a bespectacled young woman wearing designer jeans and a cashmere sweater. She was reading a thick book. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back smartly. As the plane lifted off LaMonica leaned back and took a deep breath.
After a while, the woman put the book down and stretched. LaMonica smiled. She smiled back.
"Live in San Diego?" he said.
The woman shook her head. "Business trip."
"I love your sweater," he said. "In fact, I bought my wife one just like it. I was in New York at a medical convention and I missed her birthday. I feel lust awful about it."
The woman smiled. "She'll forgive you. I take it you're a doctor?"
"Yes, I'm a neurosurgeon. My name is Bill Adams." They shook hands.
"Carol Williamson," she said. "I'm a buyer for a department store."
"I just hate to travel," he said. "I guess I'm kind of a homebody."
"I don't mind it so much," she said.
LaMonica closed his eyes. Later, he slid back in his seat and allowed Carol Williamson to step into the aisle. She found her way to the front of the cabin and entered the lavatory.
LaMonica looked around carefully. With one hand, he opened her purse and dug out a wallet. His fingers flew to the money pouch. About fifty dollars. Not worth the risk. He pulled two of the ten or so credit cards out of the wallet and pocketed them, then shoved the wallet back into the purse and shut it. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. When Carol Williamson returned and stepped gingerly around him, he acted as if he were asleep. As her leg brushed his he imagined grabbing her crotch with both hands and squeezing until she cried. She wiggled back into her seat.
When she tried to initiate some small talk, he ignored her.
Over the intercom the pilot announced the weather forecast for San Diego. By midnight LaMonica would be back across the border and at the safe house. He visualized himself lying on the cot-naked, secure and comfortable. Women (he recognized none of them) stood by the bed clutching rattan baskets overflowing with money. They nodded to one another and emptied the baskets over his body. Some of the money fell off the sides of the cot and onto the floor. He was immersed in crisp, rich greenbacks, unable to move, unable to touch himself.
Chapter 15
The floor of the huge jai-alai auditorium was a carpet of discarded betting tickets and empty beer cups, the refuse of a seedy-looking crowd (at least half were Americans) that milled around the betting windows. The electronic tote boards at either end of the fronton flashed changing odds on the Perfecta, Quiniela, and Trifecta combinations, gambling jargon designed to avoid the use of the word lose.
The court itself was an enormous well-lit stage shielded by fine netting. On its left side half a dozen bored-looking Mexican men sat in a cagelike affair waiting to compete. They were dressed in white trousers and colorful shirts.
Paul LaMonica found Sandy sitting alone in the reserved section. He plopped down in a seat next to her. "They want to meet you," he said.
"Are they suspicious?" She turned the page of the program she was reading.
"A little. You can't blame them. There's a lot of money involved," LaMonica said in a confident tone.
Sandy closed the program and stared at the court. "I don't like showing my face. It scares the shit out of me to show my face," she said.
"No U.S. soil, no U.S. crime," LaMonica said.
"But they could put us together behind a conspiracy."
"So what's another grain of sand on the beach?" LaMonica said.
The players marched to the middle of the court and bowed to scattered applause. Two of them strutted to the service line while the rest returned to the cage. The game began.
"They're no better than the greyhounds who chase the mechanical rabbit," Sandy said, her eyes on the court, "or racehorses. They just come out like slaves and perform. Sad, don't you think?"
"I'm sure they're not too sad in the locker room every night when they sit around and cut up the side bets," LaMonica said. "Racehorses with brains."
"I hope they don't ask me too much about this Freddie Roth person," Sandy said.
"If they do, you just play it by ear — keep everything vague."
The pelota slammed against the front wall like a rifle shot. It bounced back full court. A player was waiting. He caught the ball and roundhoused it back.
"Mr. Cool keeps asking me about you," she said. "He's afraid you're going to rip me off." Sandy gave him a funny smile.
"Your main man," LaMonica said sarcastically.
"We're just using each other," Sandy said. "Just like you and I always have."
"I don't like him."
"You don't like anyone. Particularly black people. You've always been that way."
They didn't speak again until the first game was over. The number-three player had beaten number seven with a kill shot to the corner.
"I want you to keep your Mr. Cool out of this," LaMonica said. "What you do with him on your own is your business. You and I had something once, but that's over now. I have no jealousy."
"You never had any kind of feelings," she said, her eyes on the fronton.