The Driver (28 page)

He checked his watch: six. He was late for his next appointment. He drove quickly across town to Pacific Heights and parked in a lot near to the Hotel Drisco. It was a boutique place, obviously expensive, everything understated and minimal. Milton climbed the steps to the smart lobby, all oak panelling and thick carpet, a little out of place in his scruffy jeans, dirty shirt and scuffed boots. The doorman gave him a disapproving look but Milton stared him down, daring him to say anything, then walked past him and into the bar.

Beau was sitting at a table beneath an ornate light fixture, a copy of the San Francisco
Chronicle
spread out on the table before him. His glass was empty and so Milton diverted to the bar, paid for a beer and an orange juice and ferried them across.

“Evening,” Milton said, sitting down.

“Evening, English.”

Milton pushed the beer across the table.

Beau thanked him and drank down the first quarter of the glass. “That name you got from the Lucianos––you do what you needed to do?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And thanks for your help.”

“I should know better than to ask what it was all for?”

“Probably best.”

“You’re a secretive fella, ain’t you?”

Beau folded the paper but not before Milton saw the news on the front page: an article on the bodies that had been dug up on the Headland. He said nothing and watched as Beau drank off another measure of the beer. “How long are you here for?” he asked him.

“Couple days. I’ve got some work to attend to.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not particularly. I ever tell you about my other business?”

“I don’t think we ever had the chance.”

Beau put the glass on the table. “I’m a bail bondsman––well, least I used to be. You have them in England?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Guess the whole thing is a little Wild West. I got into it when I got out of the Border Patrol. Probably why I used to like it so much. I don’t do so much of that no more though but it’s still my good name above the door, still my reputation on the line. An old friend of mine who runs the show while I’m away got shot trying to bring a fellow back to San Diego to answer his obligations. This fellow’s got family up here and the word is that he’s hiding out with them. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, he’s coming back down south with me. You calling was good timing––I was going to have to come up here anyways. Two birds with one stone. Now I’m going to have a look and see if I can find him.”

Milton sipped his orange juice. Time to change the subject. “So––did you speak to the Italians?”

“About the other thing? The loan shark? I did.”

“And?”

“They did a little looking into it. Like you thought––your Mr. Ramirez has been running his operation without cutting them in. Strictly small-time, just a local neighbourhood kind of deal, but that ain’t clever on his part. You want to play in that particular game, you got to pay your taxes, and he ain’t been paying. They were unhappy about it.”

“Unhappy enough to do something about it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Let’s call it a hostile takeover. You just need to tell me where he’s at and I’ll see that it gets sorted.”

“I can do that. What about my friend?”

“They’ll wipe out the debt.”

“How much do they want for it?”

Beau held up his hands. “No charge. They’ll be taking over his book––that’s worth plenty to them. His debt can be your finder’s fee. They’ll give it to you.”

Milton took his orange juice and touched it against the side of Beau’s beer. “Thanks, Beau,” he said. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, well, about that. There’s maybe something we can do to square that away. This fellow I’ve come to take back down to San Diego, there’s no way he’s going to play nice. Some of the runners we go after, they’re real bad-ass until it comes down to the nut-cutting, and then, when the moment of true balls comes around, most of them capitulate. This guy, though? There’s always one asshole in the crowd who has to be different and I’m not getting any younger. I was thinking maybe I could use a hand.”

“When?”

Beau finished his beer. “You doing anything now?”

39

THE PLACE WAS in the hills outside Vallejo. It was a clear evening and, for once, there was a perfect view all the way down to the Golden Gate Bridge and the lights of the city beyond. Beau could see returning saltwater fisherman out in their boats on the San Pablo Bay and the wide, leafy streets of the town. Beyond it, and across the straits, you could see the big iron derricks, the rotting piers, the grey hulks of battleships, the brick smoke-stacks and derelict warehouses of Mare Island. It had been a pleasant place, once––Beau remembered coming here with his father when he was travelling on business––but the cheap housing units of plasterboard and plywood that had been thrown up to accommodate the boom years after the end of the second world war had fallen quickly into disrepair. The seventies had seen the place struggle with race hatred that begat violence and unrest; the stain was only now being washed away.

Beau drove along Daniels Avenue until he found number 225. Hank had given him the address and Beau had had it checked with an investigator they sometimes used when they had runners in Northern California. It was a small, two-storey house painted in eggshell blue. There was a line of red brick steps that led up from a carport to the first-floor entrance. The brick wall was topped with imitation lanterns on the corners, the garden was overgrown and scruffy and the car in the driveway was up on bricks. It was down-at-heel, the worst house on the street, and, tonight, it looked like it was hosting a party. A couple of men in thick warm-up coats were smoking in the garden and loud music was coming from inside.

“That the place?”

“It is.” Beau drove on and parked out of sight.

“A busy place, drink, maybe drugs? That’ll make things more difficult.”

“I know.”

“Still want to do it?”

“I’m picking him up come hell or high water. You don’t ride your horse into a canyon you ain’t willing to walk out of.”

“How do you want play it?”

Beau looked at the house, assessing it. “You got a preference?”

Milton looked at him with a smile. “Old man like you?” he said. “You go around the back and get ready if he runs. I’ll go in and flush him out.”

“Alright,” he said. “You know what he looks like?”

Smith had studied Beau’s photograph on the drive north from San Francisco. “Big. Nasty looking. I’ll recognise him.”

“Goes by the name of Ordell,” Beau reminded him.

“Don’t worry, I got it.”

Beau held up the cosh. “Want this?”

“Keep it. I’ll give you ten minutes to get yourself around the back and then I’ll go in.”

Beau rolled the car around the block until he found an access road that ran between the back gardens of Daniels Avenue. It was a narrow street that climbed a hill with broken fencing on both sides, wooden garages that were barely standing and unkempt trees that spread their boughs overhead. A row of cars, covered over with tarps, was parked along one side of the road. He recognised number 225 from the peeling blue paint and settled into place to wait behind the wing of a battered old Ford Taurus.

He had barely been there a minute when he heard the sound of raised voices and then crashing furniture.

He rose up quickly.

The back door exploded outwards, the limp body of a man tumbling through the splintered shards.

He took a step forward just in time to intercept the big, angry-looking man who was barrelling out of the shattered doorway. He looked madder than a wet hen. He held one hand to his nose, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of blood that was running down his lip, into his mouth and across his chin.

Beau stepped into his path.

“Oh shit,” Ordell Leonard said.

Beau swung the cosh and caught him flush on the side of the head. He went jelly-legged and tripped, Beau snagging the lapels of his shirt as he went stumbling past him, heaving his unsupported weight and lowering him down to the road.

He was out cold before his chin hit the asphalt.

Smith came out of the house, shaking the sting out of his right fist.

“That was easy,” he said.

40

ARLEN CRAWFORD was working on the preparation for the next debate. They were in Oakland, another anonymous hotel that was the same as all the others. They were all high-end, all luxury. All the same, one after another after another, a never-ending line of them. The sheets on the bed were always fine Egyptian cotton, the bathrooms were always Italian marble, the carpets were always luxuriously deep. They were all interchangeable. It was easy to forget where you were.

He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He thought of John Smith and his threats. That certainly was a problem and, if had been left to metastasise, it would have grown into something much, much worse. But Crawford had it under control. He had been with Robinson when he reported his connection to the girl to the police. They had done it yesterday evening. He had called in a whole series of favours to arrange for a friendly detective to take the statement. The detective had come to them to avoid any whiff of it getting to the press. There would be no shots of the Governor on the steps of a police precinct house. The process of the interview looked official, just as it should, but the statement would never see the light of day. It would never be transcribed and the tapes onto which it had been recorded had already been shredded.

The detective had reassured Robinson that there was little chance that his liaison with Madison had anything to do with her disappearance. He went further, just as Crawford had suggested, saying that there was no evidence to suggest she had anything to do with the dead girls. The Governor’s conscience was salved and now they would be able to get back to the business of winning an election.

Some things were just too important to be derailed.

There was Smith himself, of course. He would need to be dealt with but that was already in hand. The background checks had turned up very little. He wasn’t registered to vote. He didn’t appear to pay any taxes. A shitty place in an SRO in the Mission District. He worked nights as a taxi driver and worked days hauling blocks of ice. He was a nobody. Practically a vagrant. They had two good men on his case now. Good men, solid tails, both with surveillance experience, the sort who could drift in and out of a crowd without being spotted. They had already got some good stuff. The man went to meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. That was useful to know. There was no family but it looked like there was a girl.

That, too, might be helpful.

Leverage.

He turned his attention back to his work. Crawford had just been emailed the latest polling numbers and the news was good. They were tracking nicely ahead of the pack and the last debate ought to be enough to nail the lead down. They had blocked out the weekend for preparation. Crawford was going to be playing the role of Robinson’s most likely rival and he was putting together a list of the questions that he knew would be difficult if they came up. Forewarned was forearmed, and all that. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. Crawford knew all the questions, drilled them into the rest of the team, drilled them into the Governor. That was a difficult proposition given his propensity to shy away from preparation and rely upon his instinct. Crawford preferred a balance, but…

There was a fierce knocking on the door of his hotel room.

He put his pen down. “What is it?” he called.

“Arlen!”

The banging resumed, louder.

He padded across the carpet and opened the door.

It was Robinson.

“Have you seen the news?”

He looked terrible: his face was deathly pale.

“No,” Crawford said. “I’ve been working on the debate.”

“Put it on. CNN.”

Crawford rescued the remote from the debris on the desk and flipped channels to CNN. It was an outside broadcast. The presenter was standing on the margin of a road with scrub and trees. It was heavy with fog, a heavy grey curtain that closed everything in. The ticker at the bottom of the screen announced that the police had finally identified all three sets of remains that had been found at Headlands Lookout.

“Turn it up,” Robinson demanded.

Crawford did as he was told.

“…the bodies of three women found near Headlands Lookout, just behind me here. The victims are 31-year old Tabitha Wilson of Palo Alto, 25-year old Megan Gabert of San Francisco and 21-year old Miley Van Dyken of Vallejo. A police official has revealed to me that there were substantial similarities in how the women died but declined to reveal their causes of death. The same source suggested that the police believe that the three women were killed at a different location but then their bodies were dumped here. Lorraine Young, Tabitha’s mother, has said that police forensic tests, including DNA, had confirmed that one of the bodies belonged to her daughter. The bodies were found within fifty feet of each other in this stretch of rocky grasslands, hidden by overgrown shrubbery and sea grass.”

Crawford felt his knees buckle, just a little.

“What the fuck, Arlen? What the fuck?”

Crawford muted the TV.

The muscles in his jaw bunched as he considered all the possible next moves.

None of them were any good.

“Arlen! Don’t play dumb with me.” He stabbed a finger at the screen. “What the fuck!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“Calm down? Are you kidding? Seriously? Those girls––you know who they are. Jesus Christ, Arlen, you remember, I know you do.”

Yes, he thought bitterly, I do remember. There were no next moves now. Check and mate. End of the line. The situation was all the way out of control and it could only get worse before it got better. He had been managing it, carefully and diligently, nudging events in the best direction and very discreetly burying all of this so deep that it would never be disturbed. That, at least, had been his intention. The girls were never supposed to have been seen again.