The Man Who Risked His Partner

  “And since he keeps losing,” I finished for her, “he doesn’t pay the money back. El Señor’s finally gotten tired of it, and he wants his pound of flesh.”

  She nodded. “And Haskell doesn’t tell the truth because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s gotten himself into something that grubby and useless. It doesn’t fit his glamorous image of himself. And he likes to live dangerously.”

  It made sense. I had to give her that. And it resolved some nagging questions, like how el Senor possibly could’ve tracked Haskell down so fast. Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the sensation that there was something wrong with it. A sore place in my gut told me over and over again that we’d underestimated someone. Who, I didn’t know—just someone.

  My personal candidate was Jordan Canthorpe, but I didn’t get a chance to say so. Before I could tell Ginny not to jump to any conclusions until she heard about my day, feet-on-carpet sounds from the stairs stopped me. We shut up and watched as Haskell’s head showed past the rim. He paused there for a second, then came up the rest of the way toward us.

  “Am I interrupting something?” His sharp eyes watched us warily. Somehow he consistently conveyed the impression that he was taller than he was. He wore a casual khaki suit I hadn’t seen before, and his hair was damp—he’d been in the shower. “It’s my life you two insist on investigating. And I heard one of you mention danger. I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”

  His audacity was wonderful. Brass balls polished to a shine. Apparently he hadn’t told us one true thing in two days except his name, and yet he acted like we were abusing his trust.

  But Ginny didn’t bother to admire the show. For no particular reason, she tightened her grip on the .357. Facing him, she said in a voice like a scalpel, “Brew tells me you want to fire us, Mr. Haskell.”

  She made the statement into an attack, but he met it without any trouble. In fact, he looked like he might be sneering quietly to himself. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why is that?”

  Almost smiling, he said, “I was wrong to question the way you’re handling this case. I think I’m a pretty good judge of people. I can see now that I don’t need to worry about what you’re doing.”

  There was more than one way to take that, and I thought I knew which way he meant it. I was just getting ready to yell at him when Ginny stopped me.

  “In that case”—her tone would’ve made Genghis Khan sit up and take notice—“you can leave us alone to finish our conversation. We’ll let you know when we’ve reached a decision.”

  He carried it off better than I would have. He didn’t try to argue, protest, fight back. He didn’t say anything else about his rights. He didn’t even ask what kind of decision it was we had to make. On the other hand, he didn’t look the least bit ruffled or unhappy either. “I’ll be in the den,” he said with just a touch of what you might call hauteur. Then he turned on his heel and went back down the stairs.

  When I figured he was out of earshot, I murmured, “I wonder how long it’s been since that man told anyone the truth about anything.”

  “I’m not sure,” Ginny said distantly. “I think he just told me the truth about myself.”

  I looked at her. Suddenly I was mad at her, too. “The hell he did.”

  I would’ve gone on, but she made a gesture that cut me off. “We really can’t spend the rest of the night standing here.” Back to being reasonable. “We’ve got to get to work. Maybe you’d better tell me about those scratches.”

  Good point. That’s exactly what I wanted to do. Her theory fit well enough, but it didn’t seem particularly inevitable. We didn’t have anything as handy as evidence to go on, so we couldn’t afford to rule out other possibilities. Like one or two of the inferences I’d been in the middle of a few minutes earlier.

  But when I started to talk, my emotions confused me. What I really wanted to tell her about was Pablo and the Santiagos, not Gail Harmon and Mase Novick. On top of that, she had no business looking so damn breakable. By the time I’d said two sentences, I was talking such gibberish that I had to go back and start over.

  Squeezing down hard on my brain to make it behave, I described my run-in with Frail Gail and her headhunter boyfriend. Also my little chat with Captain of Detectives Philip Cason. To make sense out of it for her, I had to give her some news she’d missed about Bambino Chavez and Cason’s investigation. When I was done, however, she let that side of the question go. It became irrelevant because we knew Haskell had lied about the money laundry. Instead, she concentrated on the obvious implications of my story and tried not to look relieved.

  “That’s quite a coincidence,” she commented. I was giving her exactly what she wanted most—a reason not to believe that we stood in the way of a ritual hit. “There’s a man in Puerta del Sol who dreams about wasting our client—and Jordan Canthorpe just happens to have his address memorized.” But she didn’t say it. She didn’t want to hope that hard. “What’s your theory?”

  I shrugged. “As far as Canthorpe is concerned, it’s simple. Haskell has been screwing around with his fiancée. Looking for a little consolation, Canthorpe goes to a former girlfriend and meets Novick. Next thing you know, he’s pointing Novick like a loaded gun at Haskell’s head. Too good an opportunity to pass up.

  “On Haskell’s side, it’s more complicated. Stop and think about it. Having el Señor after you isn’t something you can be wrong about. Either he is or he isn’t. And if he is, there are plenty of intermediate steps. You don’t pay the loan shark, the loan shark gets mad, you get threats, harassment, nasty phone calls. When the goons come after you, you know why.

  “No matter what he tells us, Haskell would know it if el Señor were after him. And all we really know about him is that he’s a bullshit artist.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say that he’s using us to solve two different problems at once. He wants us to protect him from Novick. At the same time, he is in trouble with el Señor. He’s into the sharks for more than he can cover, and they’re starting to get mean. So he lies to us, makes us concentrate on el Señor, with the idea that any defense we come up with against the sharks will ward off Novick as well.”

  Then I stopped. Once I said all that, I didn’t believe it anymore. No particular reason. I just didn’t like the relief that rushed into Ginny’s face.

  Nevertheless, I still didn’t tell her that the Caddy’s driver hadn’t looked much like Mase Novick.

  At least she played fair. It cost her an effort, but after a minute she said, “Haskell is probably capable of anything, but why would Canthorpe tell the cops Haskell lied about the money laundry? It was a perfect chance to misdirect everybody, cover whatever Novick did. Instead he let Haskell off the hook.”

  Since she was playing fair, I had to do the same. “That’s simple. Haskell’s story was too easy to check. As soon as the cops brought in their own accountant, they’d uncover the truth. Which could get Canthorpe in trouble.

  “In any case, he didn’t want Haskell taken into protective custody where Novick couldn’t get at him.”

  “All right,” she said. Her forehead knotted while she concentrated on not jumping to conclusions. “That works so far. But if Canthorpe is really that smart, why did he give us Novick’s address? Why try to get Haskell killed and then tell us what we need to know to protect him?”

  I spread my hands. It was just a theory. “Maybe he panicked. You sure as hell took him by surprise this morning.”

  She shook her head. I tried to do better.

  “Or maybe he’s even smarter than that. Maybe he’s smart enough to know that Novick is an unguided missile. He might do anything, go off anywhere. Once you launch something like that, you’d best dig yourself a hole, climb in, and pull the hole in after you. Maybe that’s what Canthorpe is doing. Making himself look as innocent as possible.”

  That was what she wanted to hear. Seeing how much she needed to believe it gave me a quicksand feeling in the pit of my stomach
. From the look of things, I was doing her a favor. I was making what we were up against small enough for her to handle. But I knew better. The woman I loved was getting farther and farther away, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

  So I didn’t respond when she straightened her back, shook the slack out of her muscles, made an attempt to smile at me. I didn’t respond when she stepped closer to me and looked at my scratches again.

  “After we nail Novick,” she said softly, “I think I’ll go find Frail Gail Harmon and break her fingers.”

  Now she wanted me to act like nothing had changed between us.

  I couldn’t do it. Instead I replied, “That’ll be fine. What’re we going to do in the meantime?”

  My lack of enthusiasm hurt her. Frowning, she peered into my face. Then she drew back. Whatever she saw in my eyes made her stop looking at me.

  She waggled her .357 aimlessly in front of her. “First I’m going to go get my purse. Put this thing away. After that—” Her struggle to pull herself together, be as strong as she remembered being, made me want to wail. “I’ll go have a talk with Sara Haskell. Before it gets dark and late enough for Novick to try again. I want her permission to look at lover boy’s bank accounts and financial records. They might tell us a lot—if we hire somebody to interpret them for us. I know she’s probably too loyal to do it, but it’s worth a try.

  “What about you?”

  By that time the misery was back in her face. And it was my doing—which naturally made me as proud as horse-shit. What would it have cost me to comfort her a little, even if I hardly knew who she was anymore? But I was still furious inside, fuming mad and barely able to keep a lid on it. I’d gotten us into this case to recover the Ginny Fistoulari I used to know, and it wasn’t working.

  Until she asked, I hadn’t thought about what I might do. Right away, however, several ideas occurred to me. They must’ve been percolating in the back of my head, waiting for me to feel as savage as they did. I picked the one she wasn’t likely to argue with and said, “I think I’ll take Haskell to visit Ms. Wint.” Eunice didn’t deserve that, but she wasn’t my client. “Maybe she can tell us something useful about her fiancé.”

  Ginny nodded. She still couldn’t look at me. “Good luck.”

  All alone, she went downstairs to get her purse and her coat.

  16

  But I didn’t go see Eunice Wint. Not right away. I waited until Ginny left the house. Then I went downstairs myself.

  Haskell was in the den on the couch, turning a drink around and around between his palms. For some reason, he was able to look more relaxed when he was moving than he could when he was sitting still. His tension showed in the way he turned his head as I walked into the room.

  “That took long enough,” he remarked. “I thought I’d have to sit here while you two negotiated world peace.” Then he noticed my expression. Adjusting his tone, he said, “Fistoulari didn’t tell me anything. What have you decided?”

  “Come on,” I said. The pain of my scratches seemed to come and go. At the moment they felt like I’d been raked by a tiger. “Let’s take a ride.”

  He didn’t get up. “I have a better idea. It’s been a long day. You look like you could use some rest. Why don’t we stay home and unwind for a while? Have a drink.” He waved his glass. “Put your feet up. Do you play poker? We could try a few hands. It’ll make you feel better. Take your mind off your troubles. Loser pays for dinner.”

  “You’re going to pay for it anyway.” Even at my best, I’m not exactly a scintillating conversationalist. “It’s a business expense, part of the bill. Come on.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Apparently he didn’t want to move. “It’s only”—he glanced at his watch—“five thirty. The trouble with you is that you never give yourself a break. We’re safe here. What can happen? The door is locked, isn’t it?” He nodded toward the picture window. “Nobody is going to shoot at us from the arroyo.”

  That was true—for a while. The light was still in our favor. But it wouldn’t last. Dusk gathered quickly, and the weather looked like maybe it had finally made up its mind to snow.

  “So relax,” he said. “Have a drink. I’m serious.

  “I’ll tell you what. If you’ll unbend enough to join me, I’ll entertain you for a few minutes. I’ll bet you”—he dug into his pocket, pulled out his half-dollar—“you can’t flip a coin ten times and have it come up heads more than three or less than seven times. What would you say the odds are?”

  Haskell was doing a little research, trying to find out where he stood. But I didn’t care. “The odds are,” I said, “if you don’t come with me, I’m going to drag you.”

  He stared into his glass and swirled the amber from side to side. “You still haven’t told me what you’ve decided.”

  “That’s true.” I didn’t particularly want to muscle him, but I’d do it if I had to. “You still haven’t told us what happened to the records on that money laundry. You were supposed to get us documentation so that we’d have something to fight with. Where are they?”

  He looked at me—a long, hard look steady as a steel probe. Then he said, “I left them at the bank. Where they’ll be safe. If I brought them here, anything could happen to them while you and Fistoulari are out ‘investigating’ my private life.”

  He was good, no question about it. I almost believed him, even though I knew he was bluffing. He could tell me my mother was a cocker spaniel, and I’d be tempted to believe him.

  He required an answer. But if I told him what I had in mind, he’d never go along with it. Holding his gaze, I said, “We don’t like to leave things unfinished. We’ll keep working until we find out what’s going on here.” I wanted him nervous. “Until we take care of whoever is after you.

  “In the meantime, I’ve got errands to run. I can’t leave you alone, so you’re coming with me. If you don’t like the way I ‘investigate,’ this is your chance for a little damage control.”

  I wasn’t as good as he was. But I was a hell of a lot more sincere.

  He kept me waiting while he finished his drink. Then he got to his feet and gave me a smile that made my scalp itch. “You’re in luck,” he said brightly. “I didn’t have any other plans.”

  I resisted the temptation to poke him in the stomach, just to remind him of his mortality. Instead I told him to get his coat.

  When we left the house—carefully leaving the lights on and locking the door—we found that Ginny had taken the Olds. We were stuck with Haskell’s showboat Continental. Considering our destination, that didn’t cheer me up. Still, it was better than walking. Haskell wanted to drive, as usual, but I wasn’t that dumb. Once I’d talked him into the passenger seat, I fired up the Continental—which was like turning on your own private hydroelectric power station. Then I drove out of Cactus Blossom Court in the direction of the beltway.

  Even the luxurious suspension felt the wind. Heading west on the exposed surface of the beltway, the car made small lurching movements in the gusts. I had the unsteady feeling that we were about to spin out of control. Outside the range of the headlights, all we could see was the thickening dusk, as if the wind were slowly turning black.

  Haskell rode in silence for a while, watching the day go out. However, he wasn’t any good at sitting still. He had his half-dollar in his hands, turning it back and forth between his fingers. Every now and then he flipped it gently. Then, abruptly, he stuffed the coin back into his pocket.

  “You’re an unusual man, Axbrewder.” He made it sound like he was continuing an earlier conversation. “I don’t know what to expect from you. You have a relatively grubby job, but you act like you’ve never forgiven yourself for not being a saint. You’re big and tough, you carry a gun, you throw your weight around, and yet you’re as touchy as a cat.

  “Tell me something. Why don’t you drink?”

  That’s why he was good at playing people. His accuracy was frightening. I think he did it with radar. I wanted to spit
a nasty retort, but I stopped myself in time. Practicing self-mortification, I told him the truth.

  “I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Ah,” he breathed. For a second there, I could’ve tricked myself into thinking he sympathized. But then he laughed. “That’s perfect. Somebody wants to kill me, and who do I get for protection? A drunk and a cripple. If I were counting on luck to keep me alive, I’d be as good as dead.”

  I almost ran off the road. “Ginny isn’t a cripple. She’s just lost her left hand.”

  “I’m not talking about her hand,” he explained. “She’s going to pieces in front of you. If you can’t see that, you’re in worse trouble than I thought.”

  I measured the distance between us, wondering if I could hit him hard enough to do some damage without losing control of the car. Then I had a better idea. I let out a loony sound that resembled a laugh.

  “Oh, come off it, Haskell. You’re just upset because she doesn’t find you irresistible. Every now and then, people make the mistake of underestimating her. Some of them are dead.”

  “Is that a fact?” His tone made his opinion clear. But he didn’t say anything else for a while.

  Rush-hour traffic thinned out as I turned off the beltway and pointed the Continental south on Trujillo. The headlights didn’t expose the way the city changed around us, but I could feel the difference. Down in the South Valley, people were starting to huddle together so that they wouldn’t freeze to death.

  Eventually Haskell asked me where we were going. I told him to wait and see. After that he forced himself to keep his mouth shut.

  I found Bosque easily enough, but in the dark I almost missed Gail Harmon’s house. I spotted it as I was going past. Lights showed at the windows.

  Feeling as savage as I did, I intended to stir up quite a bit of trouble. But I didn’t want to be stupid about it, so I drove by without stopping. After a bit of confusion on the unfamiliar streets, I managed to work my way around and back in the other direction until I hit Bosque again. Then I turned off all my lights, eased the Continental down the road, and parked in front of the house beside the one I wanted.