Copp On Fire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp, Private Eye Series) (9 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Andrew "Butch" Cassidy was head of security at
United Talents,
a bear of a man weighing some three hundred pounds with little suggestion of
bodyfat
in his stance. He did not speak, he barked, and that voice had been born and bred in the Bronx with little adulteration since. Maybe forty-five, fifty-five, probably somewhere in between, and I guessed accurately he'd been a New York cop.

Pedigree shows to those in the trade, and he had me pegged too—something in the walk, maybe—but he kept his big silver pistol in plain sight as he and Guilder escorted me into the security office. "Why'd you leave the force?" he barked at me as we stepped inside.

"Same reason for you, probably."

"I pensioned off. You didn't stick that long. Why not?"

Guilder didn't like the personal turn. "Watch this

guy, Butch. He's mean. Broke my window with his bare hand."

      
Butch Cassidy gave a disgusted look and holstered his weapon. "Didn't break your face, though. Get the man some coffee, Walter. Put some JD in it. Same for me. Then get out of here."

      
I sat down on a leather couch and watched the squelched junior cop play bartender and waiter while the other one went through my wallet. I got heavy black coffee laced with Jack Daniels from the one and a sour smile from the other as he tossed the wallet back to me. Guilder gave me a parting look that was like a promise, but not another word.

      
"You're in trouble, mister," Cassidy told me as he picked up his cup and settled behind the desk.

      
"Tell me about it," I said. "I've already been charged with conspiracy in several murders. What can you add to that?"

      
He tasted his drink. "Stupid."

      
"Agreed. But it gets the attention."

      
"Sure does. Maybe
you'n
me need to get together on this."

      
I tasted my drink, looked him over. "Okay. What're we putting together?"

      
"First off, I never worked for Wiseman."

      
"No?"

      
"No. You read the newspapers?
Daily Variety
?—
Hollywood Reporter
?—those kind of papers?"

      
"Not usually."

      
"Know anything about the trouble Wiseman was having with his board of directors?"

      
"Not the particulars, no."

      
"Man's a crook," he said solemnly.

      
"How big?"

      
"Big enough. Had his board worried for sure. Nickels and dimes are okay, but this guy Wiseman . . . well, they sent me out here a year ago. I report directly to Harry Klein. Know who he is?"

      
I admitted my ignorance.

      
"He's chairman of the board. Also a director of some big Wall Street outfits. The people in Manhattan have been worried about your friend Wiseman."

      
"Hey, I'm not sure I ever met the man."

      
"Then what's your interest?"

      
"My own neck, among other things."

      
"Then watch where the nose goes. Word is out that you're nosing around in other people's business. That could get you in a whole lot of trouble. Sure you never heard of Harry Klein?"

      
"Doesn't he sell men's suits?"

      
"Wising off won't help either. Klein is connected, if you get my meaning, in all the right places. He manages a great deal of money for some very important men."

      
I thought oh shit but said aloud, "Good for him. Myself, I'm not interested. I'd sort of like to stay out of jail and keep my license—that's my only interest. What's yours?"

      
"Guess I'm interested in helping you stay out of jail and out of trouble."

      
"Why?"

      
He spread his hands in a benevolent gesture. "Common background, maybe."

      
I thought not, but I smiled and told him, "Thanks, I appreciate it. So how can you help me?"

      
"Look, you're stirring up muddy waters, like I told you. That can get you nothing but trouble and it sounds to me like you got enough of that already. I've been authorized to offer you a deal. You give us Wiseman, we'll give you back your head . . . plus a nice cash bonus in the bargain."

I laughed.

"What's funny?"

"First off, you don't have my head. Even if you did I don't have Wiseman. If I did I'd give him to the cops. But I think he's dead, just like they say, and that's why I laughed. If the guy had something of yours, Cassidy, I think it went with him. So what can we put together now?"

The bear growled. "Get out of here,
Copp
, before I bust you for trespass."

I needed to hear it only once. I turned back at the door, though. "According to my information, the UT board of directors just recently reconfirmed Wiseman as CEO. Why would they do that if he's such a crook?"

I received a sour smile and a knowing look. "Can you imagine fifty million bucks,
Copp
?"

"Not really, no. My numbers don't run that high."

"Then I guess you couldn't imagine losing that much to a thief, could you."

I guessed I couldn't. But I guessed I could imagine why the losers would reconfirm someone who'd stolen it from them. What better way, really, to keep the guy around and in sight.

And if "connected," as applied to Harry Klein, still meant what it once meant, I could also imagine why the thief would want to drop out of sight for good, even to staging his own death. Especially if he'd lost the fifty million to his own numbered account somewhere.

      
So what did I have now?

      
Snakes, I had a bag of snakes.

I got back outside just in time to rescue the Cad from an assault by Guilder. The guy was apparently still smarting over his loss of face, and figured to restore some of it by retaliating tit for tat. I caught him with an iron bar poised over my windshield.

      
"Go ahead, break it," I told him. "Then I'm going to shove that bar someplace warm and keep it there."

      
He tried to laugh it off, then came to me with the bar.

      
I took it in the palm and kept it, hoisted him with the other hand onto the roof of the Honda. "I apologize for busting your window. I brought your wallet back."

      
"I got it . . ."

      
"So let's just call it square."

      
I let him down and gave him back the bar. "No reason we can't be friends then."

      
Actually he seemed anxious to be friends. I took the iron bar back and examined it, hefted it, placed it against my head for a fit, handed it back to him. "Were you at my office yesterday, Walt?"

      
The question seemed to add to his nervousness. "I don't know where your office is at, Joe."

      
"Lady next door described you perfectly," I lied.

      
"Not me, I've never been out there. I stick pretty close to—"

      
"Out where?"

      
"You said—"

      
"I just said my office, Walt."

      
"Well, I knew you're from out around Covina or Azusa, that area. I never go out there." He tried to smile.
  
"Anything east of civic center is another country to me."

      
"Butch thinks you're with Wiseman."

      
"What?"

      
"He thinks you helped Wiseman set up this scam."

      
"Why would he think that?"

      
I kept on lying. "He knows about Melissa."

      
"How could he—?" Guilder caught himself, gave me a stage wink, tried to smirk, and, "Has to be some bonus to this work, Joe. If the lady wants to play, hey . . ."

      
"Don't try that with Butch, he's a bear.
Bear'll
eat you alive. Myself, I don't care. But the people back East want the fifty million, want it bad. I've heard of people like them hanging guys like you on a meat hook through the rectum and skinning them alive. So from one private cop to another . . ."

      
I now had Walter Guilder's full attention. He leaned against his car, looked me in the eye and told me in sober tones, "I don't have the fifty mil, Joe."

      
"Well, they're going to think so. They know about you and Melissa. They know about Charlie Franklin. And they believe that Bernie Wiseman is still alive."

      
"This is crazy, Joe. I bought into nothing like this. What can I do to square myself?"

      
I said, "I'm sort of on the same spit. Maybe we ought to put our heads together and see what we can do about it."

      
That made him nervous again. "I don't know, I just don't know. Did Butch tell you that?"

      
"Sure."

      
"I just don't know . . ."

      
"I need to talk to Melissa, Walt. Maybe I can cut a deal with these guys."

      
"What kind of deal?"

      
"Throw them some different meat."

      
"Oh. I see what you mean."

      
"So how about it?"

      
"How about what?"

      
"Set me up with Melissa."

      
"I don't know . . ."

      
"Hey, wait, it's her or us."

      
"I don't want their damned money."

      
"We'll have to prove it," I said. "Set me up with Melissa."

      
"I'll try."

      
"Meet me at midnight. Hollywood Bowl, lower parking lot. You'll recognize my car."

      
"Yeah, okay. I'll try."

      
"Anything beats a meat hook, Walt. Hold that thought."

      
Guilder looked like he'd have no trouble doing that. "Better her than us, yeah."