Dying Embers (30 page)

I stepped out and took my cane off the floor in the back seat. “I was looking forward to the check.”

“Don't hold your breath.”

“Keep these?” I said and showed her the red pack of cigarettes.

She snatched them out of my hand. “Not on your life,” she said.

• • •

I found Detective Archer A. Flynt with his backside parked in my wing-back chair. He didn't stand up when I walked into my office, and I had to step over his feet to get around the desk to my chair.

“Let's dispense with the pleasantries,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the knees of his gray wool suit.

“Okay,” I said, and leaned my cane on the edge of my desk. “Just hang my license back on the wall and get the hell out of here.” I plopped into my chair. “How's that?”

“Won't get it,” he said, raising his eyebrows and wrinkling the forehead under his gray flattop haircut. “I was in the courthouse this morning. I want the names of the people you paid off and how much you paid them.”

“Nobody and not a dime. Anything else?”

“Did you ever give money to Detective Gerald Van Huis?”

“He came over to take a vandalism report. I gave him a soda.”

“Five dollars?”

“No.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Nope.”

“Five thousand dollars?”

I shook my head.

“You're lying,” he said and sat back in the chair.

“You're insane.”

Flynt reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, produced an evidence bag containing a book of raffle tickets, and flopped it onto my desk, then stared at me over fists folded in front of his face.

“They pay you for this?” I said. “You get a paycheck every week?” I laughed.

“You lied. I can prove it.” He sat straight in his chair. “It's all I need.”

“I like you, Flynt. You've got style. You're a fucking idiot, but you got loads of style.”

“I've got your license,” he said and stashed the evidence bag in his pocket.

“You don't have my license. You've got a piece of paper.”

“I want your pocket ID.”

“Can't have it,” I said.

“You have to surrender it.”

“Bring someone from the licensing bureau and I'll give it to them.”

“They report to us.”

“I report to them,” I said.

“Put it in the envelope I left and I'll mail it.”

“Pete Finney. That's my attorney. Go see him—and for God's sake, don't leave out the raffle tickets.”

Flynt rocketed to his feet. Looming over my desk, he lifted his side of my desk off the floor. “No Goddam pervert is walking around with a detective's ID in his pocket,” he said, teeth bared and sinews standing out from his neck.

“You're absolutely right,” I said.

Flynt's face fell blank and his mouth dropped open. That's when the plywood came off my window and someone outside yelled, “Hey, Hardin, I got a present for you.”

A
FAT AND FIFTYISH LEPRECHAUN
in a lime-green “Monkey Wards'” polyester suit leaned over and stuck his head in the window. What remained of his hair resembled cotton batten glued behind his ears. He said, “Ahh, my name is Billy Clements.”

I heard the boot impact Billy's backside. He let out a scream and thrust his hands out like Superman. Detective Flynt released the edge of my desk and caught Billy. The impact backed Flynt up a couple of steps, but he kept his feet. Billy clutched Flynt—one arm over Flynt's shoulder, the other around his midsection—until he found his feet.

“Detective Archer A. Flynt, State Attorney General's Office,” I said and waited for Flynt's startled eyes to meet mine, “this is Billy Clements, Sales Manager, Prestige Import Automobiles.”

“I … I don't work at Prestige Imports anymore,” said Billy as Flynt pushed him away. “Strictly Station Wagons, Inc. on Alpine just before Ann Street.” Billy flicked out a business card like a switchblade. “Drives like a car instead of a truck.”

Flynt stared at the card and then at me. Billy sheathed his business card.
Ken Ayers, decked out in full scooter trash, sat in the window dangling his feet over my credenza. “Oh, shit” was written on his face, but he made a single wave of his hand and said, “Hi.”

Flynt scowled at me and said, “What?”

I rocked my chair back. “Poker,” I said. “You want to sit in?”

Flynt focused narrow eyes on Ken and then me. “They came in the window?”

“Army buddies,” I said. “Sometimes a little too playful.” I fished a deck of cards out of my top desk drawer and tossed it on my blotter. “Nickel, dime, quarter. Low card in the hole is wild. What do you say? Want to sit in?”

“I want your pocket ID,” said Flynt.

“I'm not going to give it to you. You don't have the authority to ask for it.”

“We'll keep it unofficial,” said Flynt. “Maybe you can get it back later.”

“Leave the license you took off the wall.”

“I'll see you in court.”

“I'll see you personally hang the license back where you found it. In the meantime, you're on private property. Good afternoon, Detective.”

“Suit yourself,” said Flynt. “You should cooperate. Things could work out.”

Whatever was on my face, I don't know. Flynt shook his head and left.

“So go ahead,” said Ken Ayers, sliding off the window sill to step onto the credenza.

Looking sheepish, Billy backed a step toward the door. “I did it,” he said. “I'm sorry. I broke your windshield. Twice.”

With a hand on the sill, Ken stepped off the credenza. “I thought you were nuts until I heard that part about the hydraulic leak. Tracy was steady bitching about that leak. It's the power steering pump. I've replaced the line twice. Damn thing still leaks. Howard Butler made good old Billy here buy my old lady's Jag or go to jail. With that and the money from the bank, she squared up with the dealership.” He batted the dust off his black leather vest with both hands.

“I want to pay for the damage,” said Billy. He took an envelope from his jacket and stepped just close enough to drop it on the desk with a shaking hand.

“It's ah … it's ah, three hundred dollars,” said Billy. “It's ah, all I got—my four-oh-one-kay and the market the way it is, you know—Butler wanted cash.”

I picked up the envelope and dropped it in my drawer with the deck of cards. “The car's still in the impound,” I said. “I'll have it towed down to
the shop. All you have to cover is my deductible and the tow. I'll send you a copy of the bill.”

Ken said, “I'm sure a slick, sophisticated gentleman like Billy here would be glad to let you drive his car while yours is in the shop.”

“Sure,” said Billy, his face draining as he reached into his pants pocket. He jingled loose a small ring with two keys and set them on the desk. “There's a spare set in a magnetic box in the bumper.”

“Great,” I said. “Which one is it?”

They both looked at me, incredulous, and said in unison, “The white Jaguar.”

“Cool,” I said, and felt a smile bump up against the nose brace.

“I just need a ride,” said Billy.

Ken put his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, and said, “I'm starting to get a picture of you wagging your wrinkled weenie at my wife.”

Billy fled.

Ken laughed and shook his head as Billy tore open the door, banged a shoulder on the door jam, and spun into the hall. “You were square with my wife,” said Ken. He leaned on my desk. “Now we're even. I ought to kick your ass just for GP's, but it looks like somebody took care of that.”

“You read the newspaper?”

“Nah, I got shit to do. Just tell me where I can find the dude and I'll go shake his hand.”

“In the fridge, down at the county morgue.”

Ken stood straight. “Oh,” he said. He sat in the wingback chair. “Your old lady whack him out?” He crossed his ankles and stretched out his legs. “Trade you even up—sight unseen.”

“State secret,” I said. I opened the file drawer in my desk, scooped the folders to the front, and nested my telephone in the back of the drawer. “Maybe we can do some business.”

Ken clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “Hardin, you're a trip,” he said.

I pushed the drawer shut. “Tell me about the Chingos.”

“Punks,” he said. He laughed. “Tracy's still pissed. I wouldn't drop by for dinner anytime soon.”

“And the Chingos?”

“Grifters mostly. How's this come out to be business for me?”

“Think of yourself as a consultant.”

Ken folded his arms—a practiced move that made his biceps bulge—his
drooping moustache making a comic frown of a serious face. “What's it pay?”

“What it's worth,” I said. “So far the Chingos are punks and grifters. I can get that from the newspaper.”

“Guy named ‘Loo-wheess' is the president.” Ken tilted his head to the right, “I don't know his last name. Street name is ‘Poco Loco' because he is a crazy weasel-ass little fuck. Likes to say the Chingos are Mexican Mafia, but I think that's bullshit.”

“Why?”

“Chingos are too fat. Mexican Mafia is hungry. They'd eat through these guys like mice in the cupboard; leave ‘em laying in the gutter in their skivvies.”

“How did they get fat?”

Grifters—like I said—con games, everything from ‘I found a wallet in the street' to telemarketing charity scams. They run crooked dice and card games, whores, and protection in the Mexican stores down on Grandville. If you're a wetback you see the Chingos for green cards, driver's licenses, and social security cards. They even got legit businesses. A couple of tanning parlors to launder money, some palm reading joints, and Luis owns the Rabbit on Wealthy Street.”

“The college hangout?”

“Was. Now it's a titty bar. How am I doing?”

“Couple yards,” I said.

Marg knocked and leaned around the doorframe wearing a blouse best described as a mauve silk T-shirt. “Hate to interrupt all this male bonding,” she said, “but I have an appointment with the cable company. If you're leaving through the window I'll lock the door.”

“This is hardly worth my time,” said Ken. “You can lock the door after me.”

I sorted two fresh Franklins from the envelope Billy Clements had surrendered and pushed them across the desk.

“Jesus Christ,” said Ken, “I'm paying myself.”

“I can have Marg cut you a check.”

Ken snatched the bills. “I do my business cash,” he said.

He walked out.

Marg shut off the light in the front office. I heard her lock the door. Just as well—without my monitor I couldn't see who walked in. Ken was at the window pushing the plywood back in place and bitching.

“Hardin, I could have traded murder one down to drunk and disorderly with that,” he said.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands in my lap. “Still can,” I told him. “It ain't like the prosecutor has been my best bud lately.”

Ken moved the wood aside and bent down to look me in the face. “So what the hell are you doing?”

“Background stuff,” I said. “I have a client up to his ass in Chingo alligators and I need to drain the swamp.”

“That Lambert guy?”

“Thought you didn't read the newspaper.”

“It was on the tube.”

“He's taking a cruise of the SS Kent County. The Chingos want big money not to kick his ass, again.”

“That's their kind of gig.”

“I don't like their kind of music,” I said. “You can't buy any singles. I think all they're selling is albums.”

“Maybe you need a different disc jockey.”

“Maybe a couple.”

Ken moved the lumber aside and sat in the windowsill. “Tell me about it,” he said.

My telephone started ringing, muffled in the desk drawer. “I need a couple of guys to play lullabies. Every night Lambert gets a good night's sleep, the job pays a grand.”

“Each,” said Ken. “In cash.”

“Done,” I said.

“Won't work,” said Ken, shaking his head.

“You said the Chingos were punks.” My telephone kept crying about being stuffed in the drawer.

“We can handle the music for the cruise, but the natives in the village'll get to beating their drums and doing a fucking war dance. Could get ugly all over the island unless you parley with the chief and get his mind right.”

The answering machine took the call. Wendy's voice said, “Pick up if you're there.”

“I'll get his mind right,” I said.

“I want to be there,” said Ken. “This I got to see.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “When can you line up the DJ's?”

“Call me,” said Wendy. She hung up.

“I'll call ya,” said Ken.

“Not on this phone.”

Ken slid his fanny back and squatted outside the window. “You got my
number,” he said, “use a payphone.” My telephone started to jingle and vibrate in my drawer again. Ken lined up the plywood with the window opening and wedged it into the bottom rail. Over the top of the wood he said, “Cash—no bullshit, man.”

“Bullshit and no cash,” I said.

Ken banged the panel into place.

The telephone rang as I took it out of the drawer and set it on the desk. I figured it was the FBI testing the line but when the answering machine picked up I heard Hank Dunphy's voice.

“… Light and Energy Applications. I'll keep this brief. There's no need to return the call. We've had to forfeit Mr. Lambert's considerable bail. As a result we will not be able to pay your invoices. Mr. Lambert was under considerable duress when he offered you employment with this firm, and considering the fact that his current situation takes him out of the corporate loop, I am afraid that it is left to me to inform you that you will not be employed by Light and Energy in any capacity. Under no circumstances will the Board of Directors agree to submit corporate assets to the extortionate demands of criminals. Should you require any clarification on these matters, please contact our attorneys at Traxmire, Tulley, and—”