Forty Thieves (3 page)

The pair walked to the bar, stood there, and pulled from their pockets some hundred-dollar bills to make it clear that they should receive prompt attention. They had to wait their turn while the bartender worked her way to them.

When she reached their section of the bar, one of them said, “Bring us three bottles of Cristal and seven glasses. Open a tab.”

“Can’t open a tab after one thirty, Cristal is seven hundred a bottle here, and there’s no waiter right now. You’ll have to carry it yourselves.”

“For twenty-one hundred? Are you a—”

“Careful,” she said. Her eyes were metallic and steady. “If I think you’re drunk I can’t serve you.”

The other man smiled. “Yes, ma’am.” He counted the hundred-dollar bills out on the bar. She took them to the cash register, set up a tray of seven champagne flutes, and knelt to take three bottles out of a small refrigerator under the bar.

The two men walked off with their drinks, and she resumed her rounds, starting with the man at the end of the bar.

“Sounded good,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I like to set a mood.” She put a new glass of ice on the bar in front of him, held it under a spigot to fill it with tonic, quickly lifted a gin bottle over it, but kept the nail of her thin, graceful finger over the end of the pour spout.

He said, “Just keep your eye on which glass belongs to Rinosa, and we’ll be out of here for good.”

“I’m on it,” she said, pushed a fresh slice of lime onto his glass, set it before him, and moved on.

At ten minutes to two, the bartender hit a kill switch by the register to silence the music, and said into a microphone, “Last call. Last call for drink orders.” She let the music start again.

There was a last group of customers who made their way to the bar for a final drink, and among them was one of the bodyguards. He counted out seven more hundred-dollar bills, got another bottle, and walked back to the table with it.

At two o’clock, the manager of the Galaxy, a tall thin man with gray hair, appeared from his office at the back of the building with two burly men in black Windbreakers with the white letters
SECURITY
printed on them.

The security men stood flanking him while he hit the kill switch again and announced, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is now closing time. The Galaxy is closed. I’ll have to ask everyone to finish up now and head toward the front doors. If any of our patrons needs a taxi tonight, we will be happy to call one for you. Otherwise, thank you for coming, and we hope you’ll be back soon. Good night.”

The bartender removed the cash drawer from her register and the manager and one security guard took it with them. The other security guard stayed to help oversee the stream of people leaving the building. Two others, one inside the door and a second outside it, looked on.

The bartender took a large tray and made her way among the tables, clearing glasses. When she reached the table where Rinosa, the girls, and the bodyguards were, they were just standing up to leave. She took a couple of glasses, and then reached for the one Rinosa had used.

A hand shot out and snatched her wrist. It was Rinosa.

The bartender said, “You’re going to want to let go of me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But I’m taking my glass with me.”

“What?” She looked at him as though he were insane, and she had no sympathy for the insane.

“My glass. I want it. For twenty-eight hundred, I deserve a souvenir, don’t I?”

“No. I get charged for those. And by the way, thanks for the tip.”

“It was an oversight.” He smiled.

As he spoke, the quiet man from the end of the bar seemed to be passing the table on his way to the men’s room. Unexpectedly, he bumped one of the two bodyguards, his foot somehow getting between the bodyguard and Rinosa.

The man fell against Rinosa just as the bartender swung her arm in a circle to free her wrist. When it broke free, it completed the arc to deliver a chop to Rinosa’s throat.

The two bodyguards didn’t notice because they were preoccupied with the man who had bumped into them. They launched themselves at him from both sides. The man clutched the head of the one in front of him and pushed it downward as he brought his knee up, then propelled him facedown onto the floor. Instantly he brought his elbow back into the face of the second attacker, rocking him backward, and then completed his turn and punched the man twice as he fell.

He turned to Rinosa, who was holding his throat with both hands, shocked by the bartender’s blow. The man delivered a single left jab to Rinosa’s nose, and it began to stream with blood. He said, “Oh, sorry. I thought you were with those guys.” He produced a clean white handkerchief and roughly dabbed at the blood streaming from Rinosa’s nose while Rinosa tried to turn away, shouting hoarsely, “Get away from me! Get away!”

The bartender shouted, “Security!” She pointed at the two men on the floor and Rinosa. “These three!”

The security men in black jackets rumbled in across the floor like a storm front, and dragged the three battered men out the front door. The victims had revived enough to begin struggling and shouting, but made no headway at all against the broad, heavy shapes of the security men.

Three minutes later, the bartender stepped out past the steel door at the rear of the building and got into a waiting car. The car pulled away from the building and accelerated.

The bartender turned in her seat and looked down the street behind the rear window. “Looks all clear back there,” she said. “Are you okay?”

The man at the wheel said, “Me? Nobody grabbed me by the wrist. I just figured if I had to distract them while you got the glass with Rinosa’s DNA, we might as well get a blood sample too.”

“I hope you didn’t get it all over yourself, Sid,” she said. “I love that sport coat. It took me hours to pick that out.”

“I didn’t get any on me. I put the handkerchief in the plastic bag right away, and cleaned my hands with antibacterial wipes.”

She opened her purse and lifted her own plastic bag where she had put the champagne glass. “Here’s my trophy. Tomorrow morning the lab will be open and we can get the DNA tested. Before long Manny Escobar will be declared innocent and let out of jail. Maybe the end of next week.”

“Maybe the end of next month,” he said. “Even with the rush on the lab work.”

“Anyway, we did it,” she said. “And Rinosa’s DNA, legally obtained when he attacked two private detectives in a bar,
will be a match for the DNA the police found on the body.” She edged closer and kissed his cheek. “You really are a tough old bastard, aren’t you?”

“Why thank you, Veronica,” he said. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“Of course I did. If I hadn’t been so busy collecting evidence, I’d have shouted, ‘Don’t shoot him. He’s got some life in him yet.’”

“I was proud of you too,” said Sid. “That’s no lie. I do have to say the drinks were a little weak.”

“When we get home you can make us both a real one while I’m soaking my feet.” She sighed. “God, I love winning. We won’t make any actual money after the lab costs, but victory is sweet.”

“Victory is sweet,” he agreed.

The morning sun was streaming in the windows as Sid Abel drank his coffee. The phone across the room rang. It rang again. Sid looked up over the top of his newspaper at it, and then over at Ronnie, who was at her desk staring at her computer.

“Whose turn is it?” she said.

“I guess that means it’s mine,” he said as he stood up and walked to the work desk to pick up the phone.

“You should be a detective.”

He said, “Abels Detective Agency, this is Sid Abel.”

The man on the other end said, “Mr. Abel, my name is David Hemphill.”

“What can we do for you, Mr. Hemphill?” he said as he wrote the name on the pad beside the phone.

“I work for Intercelleron Corporation in Woodland Hills. One of our employees was murdered just over a year ago. I’d like to discuss the possibility of hiring your agency to look into it.”

“All right,” said Sid. “Are you free for an hour or so today?”

“I can make time for this. If you’d like to come to Intercelleron—”

“Not just yet,” said Sid. “If we need to look around there later, it would be better if we aren’t familiar faces. Can you meet us today for lunch at Merinal restaurant on Grand Avenue at twelve thirty?”

“Yes,” said Hemphill. “I’ll be there.”

“How do I recognize you?”

“I’m wearing a navy blue suit and red tie. I’m six foot three.”

“See you at twelve thirty.”

“Eyes open,” Sid said. “Keep your eyes open. Don’t blink when you punch.”

“They’re open when I hit you,” Ronnie said. “I blink when
you
hit
me.
Ow.”

“Don’t wince, either.” He walked in on her, throwing a combination of punches that were fast, but had little force behind them. “Think about your next chance to get me. This is not about me hitting you.”

“It is when you hit me.”

She sidestepped a punch, jabbed her left hard to his chest, and brought the right toward his face, but he deflected the blow with his forearm.

“Good,” he said. “That was about you hitting me.”

She jabbed again, this time bouncing her fist off his shoulder.

“Again, good.”

“Good because I missed your ugly dumb face?”

“Because you’re looking, turning this into a fight. Dodge, weave, keep my punches from connecting the way you’ve been doing, but always keep looking for your chance to hurt me.”

She saw his next jab coming, moved her head to the side slightly so his fist went over her shoulder, and brought her left into his face just as she pushed off with her right foot. The blow went to his cheekbone, and he moved his head to her right to evade it, straight into her right hook. He dodged the next punch.

“Great,” he said, and hit her with a few quick taps. “Your eyes were wide open all the way, and those shots were good.”

“Thanks, you patronizing jerk.”

“If you don’t like it, do something.”

She launched a quick attack, her arms moving as she advanced, jabbing at his eyeline with her left to blind him, and launching body blows with her right.

He defended against her attack without counterpunching, letting her feel her blows landing, watching her work out the ways to press her advantage.

The bell on the timer rang, and she let her arms hang limp, stepped into him, and leaned on him.

“That was a great job,” he said.

“My arms are so tired. I don’t think I could lift them again if I had to.”

“That’s good too,” he said. “When you’re fighting, use everything you have. Don’t save anything. There’s not going to be a better use for your energy later.”

She smiled and looked up at him. “Remember you said that later.”

“No need for intimidation tactics.” He took off his practice boxing gloves and then untied and pulled off her right one so she could untie the other.

She said, “That was a pretty good fight, though.”

“I never fight with my wife. That was a workout.”

“Let’s go up and get a shower. We’ve got to meet Mr. Hemphill.” She popped up and kissed his cheek.

They stepped off the thick gym mat, hung up their gloves, and put their shoes into the cubbyholes along the wall, then went to the stairs.

As they climbed, she said, “Thanks for being my practice dummy.”

“I prefer the term ‘sparring partner.’”

“I suppose you would.”

David Hemphill arrived at the parking structure, found a space on the roof, and got out of the Lincoln Town Car the company leased for him. He noticed that two aisles away, both front doors of another car opened and a couple emerged. Hemphill didn’t look straight at them, but he kept them in the corner of his eye as he leaned into the backseat to retrieve his suit coat and then put it on. They were both dressed in business attire, but from here he couldn’t tell more than that. They seemed to be looking at him, but it didn’t make him self-conscious about his appearance. His appearance was his best quality.

David Hemphill looked like an ambassador to some important country. He wore conservative suits in blue, gray, or black, perfectly pressed shirts, and ties held fast by subtle
clasps. He seldom used slang or rough speech. Because of the way he presented himself, the company often used him as its representative in meetings that required discretion and tact but no technical knowledge or strategic expertise. In reality he was only a bureaucrat raised a little above the middle range because of long tenure. He was in charge of personnel administration for a single section. That was the title in his personnel file—Human Resources Director, Research Section. Not mentioned in his file was his keen ability to sense when things around him were not as he had expected, and the coincidental arrival of two people had made him watchful.

He stood by the open door of this car and pretended to be checking the seat for some lost object while he waited for the man and woman to reveal which way they were going. They were walking toward him. It occurred to him that getting involved in a murder investigation might not be entirely safe. Then he wondered what he would do if this were some kind of unfriendly approach.

“Mr. Hemphill?” said the woman.

“Yes,” he said.

“I’m Veronica Abel.” She smiled fleetingly and gave his hand a shake. “This is Sid Abel.”

Another shake from Sid, this one a much larger, stronger hand, but the same duration and intensity. The couple looked like a pair of high school teachers, the sort who had seen everything at least five times, and hadn’t been particularly disturbed by it the first time.

The woman, Veronica, was talking again. “We noticed that the restaurant was a little crowded and noisy, so we picked another one on the next street over.”

The man, Sid, said, “This stairwell over here.” Hemphill went with them. He had not really been given a choice, but he wasn’t sure whether he should mind.

The alternative restaurant was a revelation. It was called Anthony’s, and it was old, with dark wood panels and a bar that ran the length of the eighty-foot dining room. There was a lunch crowd, but it looked to Hemphill to be about half composed of men who talked in guarded voices and raised their eyes frequently to be sure nobody was close enough to overhear, and couples who behaved the same way. A large man with a shaved head saw them enter and said, “Ronnie, Sid. I’ll put you over here,” and led them to a booth by the back wall.