Interface (Crime Masterworks) (16 page)

‘Did he get a bus ticket at Greyhound?’

‘Yeah. I forgot that. Seattle. One-way.’

The voices at the next table rose sharply enough to cut into their discussion. One of the men was hawk-nosed, heavy-jawed, with greying dark hair brushed straight back. He wore oddly-assorted clothing: a yellow knit pull-over t-shirt, black narrow shoes, one black and one brown sock, pyjama bottoms, and a yellow sport shirt that didn’t go with anything else, especially the pajamas.

‘… don’t
know
when I can pay you back the bail money, Dave!’

‘How the hell did you end up in the slam in the first place?’ Dave was younger, long-haired, with a mechanic’s grease permanently imbedded beneath his fingernails.

‘Had a fight with the old lady and she swung at me with a butcher knife so I called the cops. But they came and took
me
. And the landlord was raising hell, I don’t know what his beef is, I’ve been there six years, he gets thirty-one dollars a week from me, he’s got a good thing going …’

They became aware of the cops’ scrutiny, lowered their voices. Wylie shook his head. ‘There’s some fucking compensations to being plainclothes at that, Hank. We don’t have to break up domestic beefs. Anyway, a few minutes after Docker bought this bus ticket at Trailways – which he didn’t use – a black hanger-on named Browne got the shit beat out of him in the men’s can there. We can’t tie it strictly to Docker, and Browne ain’t talking, just like Rowlands, but …’

‘But,’ said Henry Tekawa in a disgruntled voice. ‘None of it makes much sense, does it? Weird mixture of irrationality and cunning. And none of it ties in with a heroin OD in a Tenderloin hotel …’

‘Wait … a … minute …’ exclaimed Wylie with narrowed eyes. ‘There was a Mexican figurine busted on the floor at Bryant Street. Would of been hollow when it was whole—’

‘The lab test the pieces for H dust?’ demanded Tekawa quickly.

‘No, but they sure as fuck will now.’

Tekawa said excitedly, ‘Walter Hariss imports clay figurines from Mexico.’ Wylie started to interrupt, but he went right on. ‘Hariss and Alex Kolinski are owners-of-record, according to information I received just this afternoon, of the FarJon Hotel where Roberta Stayton died. And Vice confirms that Kolinski probably has been running a string of junkie whores out of that hotel.’

‘Roberta Stayton a junkie whore?’

‘Little hard to figure, isn’t it?’ agreed Tekawa. ‘But according to the black chick who managed the place, she was one of the string – specialized in giving head. She was down to around ninety pounds and her mouth was about the last thing she had left that anybody’d pay to use.’ Somehow, Tekawa’s brutal words were delivered with such utter disinterest that they were robbed of salaciousness or even of offense. They were merely a recital of facts.

‘Docker the bagman?’ ventured Wylie. ‘Knocking over his own drop? But even if we fall on him, I doubt like hell if the DA can tag him for Murder One on Marquez. No witnesses, he could damn well cop a self-defense plea. Marquez had a gun, fired one shot from it. If Docker had a gun, he didn’t use it.’

‘Apparently didn’t need it.’ Tekawa drained the last of his coffee, made a face at the dissolved sugar in the bottom of the cup. ‘We don’t even know Docker was a bagman, except he carried an attaché case. If someone was making a dope buy at Bryant Street, we don’t know who was buying and who was selling. Christ, none of it makes sense.’

‘There’s one other common denominator,’ said Wylie almost slyly.

‘I was wondering when you’d get around to him.’

‘Yeah. Neil Fargo. He rents the Bryant Street flat a couple of weeks ago to stash a witness – he says – and shows up at the Jones Street hotel where the Stayton woman gets it.’ He looked suddenly disgruntled. ‘Trouble is, he was screwing some Swedish chick this morning when the action was taking place at Bryant Street. And you were already there when he got to Jones Street.’

‘And he had a legitimate reason to be there,’ said Tekawa. ‘According to Stayton’s personal secretary – who doesn’t like Fargo any more than you do – he’s been hired three times in the past two-and-a-half years to find Roberta Stayton after she’s wandered off with somebody she picked up in a bar or at a ski lodge or whatever.’

‘How long was he looking for her this time?’

‘Three weeks, part of it in Mexico, according to what he says.’

‘Kinda sloppy work for a private eye with his reputation, ain’t it? With her marching up and down Jones Street under a sandwich board labelled “Come and Get it”?’

‘You said yourself you wouldn’t figure Maxwell Stayton’s daughter to be a junkie whore.’

‘There’s that.’ Wylie’s face was sullen. ‘Hell, if we could just uncover something to prove that Fargo and Docker know each other—’

‘If if if!’ Henry Tekawa threw up his hands in abrupt atypical frustration. ‘All we have is ifs. What we need is to lay our hands on Docker.’

‘W
hat we need is to lay our hands on Docker, and damned fast!’ Walter Hariss pointed a soft-tipped finger at Neil Fargo for emphasis. The inner office of the Bush Street parking garage smelled of too many cigars smoked in too confined a space.

Neil Fargo leaned against the frame of the door he had just opened, and laughed in the importer’s face. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat.

‘I fail to see what’s so funny.’

‘You are. We are. We’re running around in tight little circles, Docker’s laying back laughing at us all. Kolinski’s in the slammer.’

‘In jail? For what? I don’t understand.’

Neil Fargo straightened away from the door frame, the sardonic grin still on his face. ‘The big it. Murder One.’

‘Mur … But that’s insane! He just left here an hour ago—’

‘For the FarJon Hotel. Murder One, Walt.’ His eyes gleamed with delight. ‘The cops walked in on him just as he was feeding a massive overdose to a junkie whore named Robin.’

Walter Hariss was on his feet. His face was chalky then, as he spoke, became mottled with congested blood.

‘Overdose to … to Robin? She’s …’

‘That’s right, Walt. Roberta Stayton is dead.’ Spurious concern came into his eyes. ‘What’s the matter? Your humanitarian feeling for her—’

‘But … but … Alex wouldn’t … He knew what I planned to …’

He stopped speaking abruptly. Neil Fargo’s voice was very soft. ‘What did you plan for her, Walt, that you forgot to tell me about? Like you forgot to tell me where she was?’

But fear had entered the importer’s face and voice which far outweighed any fear he may have felt of Neil Fargo. ‘It must have been Docker!’

‘The fuzz think it was Kolinski.’

‘No, I tell you, it was Docker!’ Sweat was starting out on his face. ‘He … must have framed Alex for it. Must have known—’

‘The police have Kolinski cold, Walt. The spade chick on the desk is nailing his nuts to the wall every time she opens her mouth.’

‘She …’ Hariss licked his lips. ‘Has she mentioned … ah …’

‘The fact that you’re half owner of that hotel?’ Neil Fargo shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know. But I did.’

‘You—’

‘Sure. I checked with the tax assessor’s office this afternoon.’ His voice and eyes hardened. ‘You had to be cute, not let me know you had Roberta Stayton under your control. You think I was going to stand still for that?’ He laughed harshly. ‘You’ll come out okay, Kolinski’s the one who was running the girls out of there. You can just throw him to the wolves, since they have him on Murder One already, and end up with the whole pie.’

Hariss had gotten control of himself once more. He sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk. His features were once more impassive.

‘I’ll do what has to be done. But if that nigger says Alex gave an overdose to Robin Stayton, she’s lying and it’s a frame. Docker himself was at that hotel less than two hours ago!’

‘Docker …’ Neil Fargo’s eyes were slits. ‘Are you
sure
? He …’ Suddenly his face cleared. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered to himself. He said: ‘Who gave you that hot rocket?’

Hariss started to speak, then stopped. He was suddenly troubled. ‘The nigger.’

‘She called you up? Told Kolinski that Docker was there?’

Hariss nodded reluctantly, as if only then beginning to see what the other man apparently already had seen.

‘You listened in on the other phone?’

This time Hariss shook his head. His face had gotten gloomy. Neil Fargo clapped his hands together once, palm on palm, like a child playing pattycake. He left the open doorway for the first time, sat down across the desk from Hariss.

‘So you don’t know Docker was there, you only know the black chick
said
he was there. And you don’t even know the black chick
said
he was there, you only know Kolinski
told
you that’s what she said.’

‘Why would he lie? When Alex left here he wasn’t planning to kill anyone. He wanted information that Roberta Stayton had.’

‘Which was?’

‘Docker’s current whereabouts.’

‘For all you know,’ said Neil Fargo patiently, ‘it was Roberta Stayton herself on the phone. And she may have threatened Kolinski with something – anything. Some sort of exposure. He knew he had to take her out, fast, so he left here with a hotshot in his pocket—’

‘We didn’t have any pure stuff,’ Hariss objected. His eyes blazed with sudden, almost feminine anger. ‘Your friend Docker saw to that.’

‘Walt, get it through your head: Kolinski killed her, for whatever reason. There just isn’t any doubt about it. As for the rest of it, Docker probably
was
there. The spade chick says he was. And it was Docker who tipped the cops about Kolinski and the overdose.’

‘There you are.’ Hariss seemed only to have heard the part of it which fit his preconceptions. ‘Docker is playing some devious game of his own, aimed at crucifying me.’

‘So far you haven’t come out too bad,’ said Neil Fargo. ‘It’s Kolinski who’s in the soup.’

‘Indeed? My courier dead, my chemist compromised – and my Mexican sources are not going to be in any hurry to start dealing with me again. And it was Alex who had the street distribution net arranged, not me.’

‘So get the street layout from him on visiting day,’ said Neil Fargo callously. ‘This idea that Docker is out to get you just doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t even know you, doesn’t even know your
name
– at least not from me.’

‘From Roberta Stayton, then. He must have known her, if he was able to direct the police to her room.’

‘Yeah, probably. But he didn’t mention Roberta by name when he tipped the cops – just Kolinski. Kolinski was OD’ing
somebody
. And what reason would he have to be going after you, for Chrissake? He already got the heroin and the money that was going to buy it. He’s already fucked you and fucked me.’ His voice became momentarily strident, as if infected with Hariss’ tension. ‘What’s he hanging around for?’ He sneered suddenly. ‘He doesn’t like your face? Shit, I don’t like it either, Hariss, but I can live with it …’

The ringing phone cut him off.

‘Bush Street Garage,’ said Hariss.

An old cracked voice asked suspiciously, ‘Is Neil Fargo there?’

‘One moment, I’ll check. I’m just the car-park boy.’ Hariss held his hand over the receiver, pointed toward the wall phone over the safe.

Neil Fargo lifted the receiver, said. ‘Yeah, speaking.’

‘You put out the word on a yellow Mercury Montego, license six-three-six, Zee-Eff-Eff ?’

‘One moment,’ snapped Hariss. He punched the
HOLD
button so the caller could not pick up any of their conversation. He exclaimed, in red-hot fury, ‘You bastard, you had that license number and—’

‘It came in after Rizzato dropped around to my office,’ said Neil Fargo. He stared hard at Hariss. After a moment, Hariss’ gaze faltered. He punched back into the outside line. Neil Fargo said into the phone, ‘That’s right. You have anything on it?’

‘It just gassed up a few minutes ago at the Standard station on Tenth Street.’

‘Which station? Tenth and Folsom?’

‘That’s the one. Left the station heading south for the freeway on-ramp—’

‘You get a look at the driver?’

‘Big blond fellow with glasses. Hornrims, like. Long hair like he was one of them TV stars or something. ’Cept’n he had a limp he sorta tried to hide …’

‘Did he have an attaché case with him?’ demanded Hariss.

If the oldster noticed this was not Neil Fargo’s voice, he apparently didn’t care.

‘Was one down behind the front seat, like. I noticed it when he got in the car. Y’know, he hadda open the door and—’

Neil Fargo cut in, ‘We don’t need your life history, old man. He say anything about where he was headed?’

‘Asked which off-ramp he took to San Francisco International Airport.’

‘Come by the office tomorrow, your envelope’ll be there,’ said Neil Fargo, and hung up.

‘The airport!’ exclaimed Hariss. ‘He’s finally trying to skip.’ There was a tinge of relief in his voice. ‘We can …’

He ran down because Neil Fargo had jerked the snubbynose .38 policeman’s special from its belt holster, had flipped out the cylinder with a practiced jerk of his wrist so he could check the chambers. All were full; the detective apparently did not carry one empty under the hammer for safety. He looked up, caught the importer’s eye.

‘You can reach Kolinski’s people covering the airport?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘How many are there?’

He thought a moment. ‘Four.’

‘Good. All right, one in a stalled car on the airport turnoff overpass, so he can check that Docker actually enters the airport grounds. And a yellow Montego won’t be hard to spot from up there if Docker was bullshitting and just keeps going south. One man at the head of the escalators in both the North and South terminals. They can also watch the street entry doors in case he just dumps the car in a loading zone and leaves it there. That leaves a man free to coordinate between terminals.’

Hariss considered for a moment. ‘Yes, I see that. But—’

Neil Fargo had snapped the gun shut. ‘But, shit! Nobody tries to take him.’ He shoved the gun back into its holster. His voice was filled with contempt. ‘Your fucking people have gone up against him three times today, if we count Bryant Street, and he’s wiped their asses for them each time. Just have them keep tabs on him until I get there.’