Carver sat for a few minutes staring across the sun-bright street at the unoccupied bus stop, at the lonely hot metal sign and the empty bench with a liquor ad on its back, thinking about what McGregor had said.
Then he dragged the phone over to him and called Miami.
22
The connection was bad. Barney Travers sounded as if he were a thousand miles away instead of just down the coast in Miami. Maybe that was why Travers’s voice seemed old, even though he’d only been retired a few years. Carver asked him how he was doing.
“Waiting to die,” Travers said.
“You sick, Barney?”
“Not as I know of. That’s what retirement is, Carver, just waiting to die.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. But you’ll find out soon enough.”
Carver said, “While we’re waiting, can you tell me what you know about an escort service called Nightlinks?”
“Sure. Office is over on Telegraph Road. It’s a front for prostitution, like most escort services, but the women screw clients for money on their own time so it’s hard to prove. Even harder to tie in with Nightlinks if any of the women do get caught taking money for sex. By the time Nightlinks gets its percentage, the deed is done and nobody’s taking a fall for it.”
“Ever hear of a guy named Carl Gretch, A.K.A. Enrico Thomas?”
“In connection with Nightlinks?”
“In any connection. But he works as an escort for Nightlinks.”
“No, I don’t think I’ve heard of him. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Those guys change their names more often than their underwear. To get his real name, you’d probably have to go back beyond Carl Gretch.”
“What about Beni Ho?”
“Hah!” Travers seemed to brighten considerably. “That one I can tell you about. He’s worked as a Nightlinks escort, but he’s something more than that. He does enforcement work for various people, and he loves it. The little fart doesn’t have a bone in his body that isn’t mean. He’s a killer, though it’s never been proved in court. Watch out for him, Carver. He might not be much bigger’n a midget, but he’s dangerous and ornery as a wolverine.”
Carver watched the traffic glisten in the sun out on Magellan. He was tired of people telling him how tough Beni Ho was. The little bastard wasn’t bionic. Carver had seen him bleed. He said, “You recall if anyone ever brought charges against Nightlinks?”
“Charges, yes. Convictions, no. They’ve got the usual shark attorneys. I don’t think they were ever in any kind of real trouble. Truth is, despite Harvey Sincliff, Nightlinks has a comparatively clean record as escort services go.”
“Harvey Sincliff?”
“He owns and runs Nightlinks. A real slimeball, is Harvey. Nightlinks is set up so it looks clean on police computers, but with Harvey in charge I can tell you the girls are spreading for money and he’s getting plenty himself.”
“Plenty of money?” Carver asked.
“Only that. Harvey’s a disciplined businessman, in his sleazy fashion. There’s not much chance he’s diddling any of his employees. He comes across as a lightweight who oughta be selling used cars with their speedometers turned back, but don’t underestimate him. He’s got brains and balls, and no scruples whatsoever. If he thinks you should be out of the game, he’ll pay Beni Ho to remove you from the board.” Travers paused for a moment. Violent coughing came over the line. “S’cuse me,” he said. “I been doing that more and more. One of these times I’m gonna cough up all them years I smoked cigars, then roll over and die.” He cleared his throat, coughed again briefly. “You know, I kinda miss Del Moray. How’s Lieutenant McGregor doing these days?”
“Up for promotion, and he’s got his eye on becoming chief of police.”
“That’d be a fucking tragedy.”
“Any message for him, now that you’re safely retired?”
“I don’t waste my time these days thinking about pricks like McGregor. What life I’ve got left is too short for hateful reminiscing.” More coughing. “On second thought, tell him I hope he eats ground glass and dies puking.”
“I’ll tell him verbatim. Thanks for your help, Barney. You take care of yourself.”
“Speaking of taking care, be extra careful of that little weasel Beni Ho. He enjoys seeing other folks in pain, and that’s the only reason he needs to start breaking small bones. There’s talk about him having killed some people in imaginative ways.”
Carver said, “I shot him in the leg a few days ago.”
“Really? That’s not very imaginative.”
“Effective, though.”
“Not effective enough, unless infection sets in. Shoulda been his fucking heart. But anyway, just knowing that has made my day, Carver, and it’s not even time for lunch. Call me again sometime, when you feel like chatting about dentures or prostate operations. Hey, wait a minute! Don’t forget to tell McGregor what I said about him. I mean that, now.”
“Not to worry,” Carver said, but Travers had hung up.
Lunch, Carver thought. Despite his earlier conversation with McGregor about fast food and the death of true love, he decided to grab a cheeseburger and vanilla milkshake at a drive-through McDonald’s, then drop by Nightlinks and try to talk with Harvey Sincliff.
He smiled. McGregor. Harvey Sincliff. It was amazing, the people you met in this business. Not at all like, say, if you worked in a shoe store or sold nursing home insurance. Maybe.
As he started to stand up, the phone jangled. He sat back down and was going to let the answering machine handle it, but it was Beth so he lifted the receiver.
“I’m calling from the drugstore down the street from Gretch’s apartment,” she said. “He’s back. He’s in the building now.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” Carver said. “If he leaves, follow him.”
Beth said, “I don’t think he’s going to leave, Fred. He’s carrying up armloads of clothes and boxes out of his car. Like he’s moving back in.”
23
Carver was in Orlando in a little over an hour. He left Beth parked in her car outside the apartment on Belt so she could follow Gretch if for some reason he broke and ran again. Then he limped along the hot sidewalk toward the building entrance, wishing he’d had time to stop for lunch. His stomach was growling. People like Gretch caused problems large and small. The large problems kept Carver in business, but they spun off smaller ones. Such as hunger.
Gretch apparently had finished carting up boxes; his car was parked at the curb in front of the building, doors and trunk closed. A length of twine dangled from beneath the closed trunk lid, barely touching the ground.
As Carver turned to negotiate cracked concrete and enter the building, Hodgkins emerged. He was wearing overalls today over a white tee shirt, and carrying a hammer. A long screwdriver with a yellow plastic handle smeared with white paint was tucked through one of the overalls’ many tool loops. He didn’t look happy.
When he saw Carver, he stopped and said, “I was gonna call you. He’s back.”
“I know,” Carver said. “How did that come to pass?”
“Billy seen his chance to collect back rent and get the apartment occupied right away, is how. That’s a landlord for you when he don’t live on the premises and have to cope with the trash that’s there. If I was him, I wouldn’t have let the little prick move back in. Not after the way he skipped out on the rent the first time. What’s to prevent him from doin’ it again?”
Carver didn’t have an answer. “Did Billy consult you?”
“Sort of. I told him what I just told you. Told him Gretch was scum and his money was contaminated. He said money was money and didn’t know nor care where it came from, so it made no difference if Gretch was scum. I don’t believe that. A man with character wouldn’t say it. Billy’s got no character, only property.”
“It happens that way a lot,” Carver said. “Is Gretch up there now?”