The First Rule of Ten (24 page)

Mike tipped the screen in my direction, and together we watched a slide show of Liam O’Flaherty’s steady descent from choirboy to felon. First, a pink-cheeked cherub, dressed in white.

“Catholic. First communion,” Mike muttered. There he was again, a few years on, holding a soccer ball high. There was the clean-shaven, unlined face of the petty thief, getting booked into adolescent detention. And booked again, this time with a smirk, and a small but nasty red goatee.

We watched as Liam grew meaner and scarier with each mug shot, like a nightmarish version of computer-generated age simulation. It culminated in a grizzled, 40-year-old Liam, beefy and bald, smiling defiantly into the camera, booked in Dublin for some felony or other. I sat back, as at least one jigsaw piece snapped into place with a satisfying
click
. My guess was correct. Young or old, Liam O’Flaherty was most definitely Brother Eldon Monroe.

I fished my checkbook out of my jumbled office supply drawer, directly beneath the silverware holder. I made out a check to cash, for $4,000, and handed it to Mike.

He studied the handwritten check as if it were a fossil. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while. You are so very old-school.” He looked at the amount and smiled. “Home office time?”

“Home office time. Keep the change, buddy. That’s all there is left.”

I sent Mike off to research home office equipment, and got to work.

First I called Zimmy.

“Ten, what’s the news?”

“I think I may be onto Barbara’s killer.”

“No kidding.”

“He’s a bad man, Zimmy.” I filled him in on Liam’s past, and the connection to TFJ & Associates.

“Can you prove this?”

“Not yet, but I’m getting closer, I can feel it.”

“You be careful, Ten.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m well protected, thanks to Bill Wilson.”

There was a long pause.

“I didn’t know you were a friend of Bill W’s,” Zimmy said.

“Well, not a friend exactly,” I said. “But he did custom-build me a fine thirty-eight-caliber Supergrade.”

Another pause.

“I think we got our Bill Wilsons confused,” Zimmy said.

I promised to keep him informed, and set myself the task of finding out more about Thomas Florio, the one Stooge I hadn’t yet laid eyes on. I made a few notes but felt a little hamstrung with only my phone as a search engine. This lack of proper equipment was getting old fast.

Tank batted his bowl with his paw.

Right. Lunch first, then Florio.

I slapped together an avocado and Swiss on rye for myself, and a can of mixed grill for my man. As I lifted the sandwich to my mouth, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Darn.

Then my gut twanged. I stepped out of sight just as a pewter-colored Maserati snaked up the drive like a sleek and shiny eel. The owner stepped out. He was equally sleek and shiny, a sharp-dressed guy in his 30s, slim and compact, with wavy black hair and gold-rimmed aviator shades. I disliked him on sight.

He minced his way to the house, taking care where he stepped. I was unsurprised to note that his shoes were made from the tanned and bumpy hide of some unfortunate two-toed African bird. So that’s what thousand-dollar ostrich leather loafers looked like.

I smiled. Talk about answers arriving by easeful attraction as opposed to stressful pursuit—this was the ultimate in effortlessness: the very guy I wanted to meet was making an actual house call.

I opened the door, and he stepped inside. Then he spotted Tank, and he backpedaled out.

“Allergies,” he said, pursing his mouth and sniffing, as if the word itself triggered a reaction.

I glanced at Tank. His whiskers were laid back and starchy, a sure indication of extreme dislike. I couldn’t argue with him. This guy was a weasel of the first order.

I joined the varmint outside, and he handed over a business card, pinkie curled in the air like a little flag.

“Thomas Florio,” he said, his nasal voice a high-pitched whine. I looked at the embossed card.

Thomas Florio, Jr.,
it read. Junior. That meant there was a Senior out there somewhere, responsible for this creep.

He didn’t waste any time coming to the point.

“I called your friend Zimmy Backus,” he said.

“How is Zimmy?” I asked.

“He’s fine, but he refused any further discussion of the business deal I was proposing. He said I should speak to you from here on out.”

“Okay. But he’s already turned you down once. Why did you call him again?”

Florio nodded. “Things have changed since we last talked. My company stumbled across some unpaid royalties. I wanted to let him know this is no longer speculation—there’s a guaranteed payoff involved.”

A guaranteed payoff, or someone deciding to sweeten the deal, someone maybe growing a little more desperate to get Zimmy to sign?

“How much would Zimmy get, after your fees and other expenses?”

“About seventeen thousand.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but it suggests there’s plenty more out there.”

As long as I had Florio standing in my doorway, I might as well trawl for as much information as I could. I decided to pull the pin on a little grenade and toss it his way. See where it landed.

“I’ve been talking to Buster Redman’s widow, Beulah,” I said. “Nice lady. And your other client? Poor Freda Wilson? I’m sure you know she’s taken ill.”

I had to hand it to Florio. He barely blinked. He did appear to reappraise me, though.

“You’re quite the sleuth, aren’t you, Mr. Norbu?”

I kept my voice bland. “Time will tell,” I said. “I do find myself curious about what you guys are up to.”

“Us guys? Which guys are you referring to?”

“You. Barsotti. O’Flaherty.”

Florio’s smile was tight. “Looks like your curiosity has been working overtime.”

“It’s certainly working all the time, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what have you learned from this curiosity? Have you met Barsotti, met O’Flaherty yet?” His voice was rising in pitch. Pretty soon he’d be silently whistling for dogs.

I was still feeling remarkably relaxed, myself. “I haven’t met Barsotti, but I’ve had binoculars on him a few times.”

“Where?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Pig farm, car dealership, his house in Beverly Hills.” I observed Florio closely.” Visiting his girlfriend out in The Valley.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly at the word
girlfriend
, so I elaborated.

“She’s quite the little equestrian, isn’t she? Very impressive in the saddle.”

But Junior had his own agenda, and he was sticking to it. “I wouldn’t know. So, what about Zimmy? Will you talk to him about the contract?”

Impatience climbed my spine. I was tired of his pursed mouth and one-track mind.

“I’ve got things to do,” I said. “So if you’ll excuse me.”

Florio was glaring at something over my shoulder. I glanced back. Tank had moved to the sliding glass door and was fixated on Florio, his tail flicking from side to side like a windshield wiper.

“Big cat,” he said.

“He is indeed,” I said.

“I’m not much of a cat person, myself.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “He’s equally picky about people.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Florio said. “And while we’re handing out warnings, remember what curiosity did to the cat.”

“Get the fuck off my property.” I said.

I went back in the house and got my Wilson out of the safe. I jacked a round into the chamber and joined Tank at the glass door. Together, we watched Florio get in his car and head back down the driveway.

“Weasel,” I said. Tank ambled away. A few moments later I heard the
crunch-crunch
of cat teeth nibbling on dry food. Tank’s appetite is a sensitive barometer of his feelings, and I was happy to see that Florio’s visit hadn’t put him off. I considered this a challenge, so I ate my sandwich as well, but I didn’t taste a bite.

Fucking pinkie finger in the air. Who does he think he is, Queen Fucking Elizabeth?

Dial it down, Tenzing. Way down.

I huffed around the house, until I realized I was just looking for something else to resent, kind of like a cranky hat looking for a hook. I decided to make tea for myself. Proper Tibetan milk tea. I poured some milk in a saucepan, and added loose black tea, and a healthy dose of sugar. As it came to a boil, I checked my e-mails. I had one from Mike, with a home address for Jeremiah Star Trek Cook’s surviving spouse, Camille.

Good. Taking action would help me calm down.

I poured the fragrant tea through a strainer, into a cup, and lifted it to my lips, happily anticipating the aromatic brew.

My hand froze. The metallic taste had returned, an astringent sharpness in the back of my throat. This time it lodged in my taste buds. I drank my tea anyway, but the chemical flavor lingered, like a hint of menace at the base of my tongue. Talk about disappointing.

I may occasionally confer with cats and old friends using unconventional techniques, but that doesn’t mean I’m automatically woolly-brained. I ran through every rational explanation I could think of that might cause this particular taste to arise. Had I started taking some different vitamin and mineral combinations? No. I’m a creature of habit, and I’d swallowed the same handful of supplements for years. Was my body having difficulty with something I’d eaten? I couldn’t think of anything unusual I’d ingested, except for Julie’s sautéed morels and Potatoes Anna. No way they were the cause—too delicious, and, more to the point, too digested by now.

I filed the experience under “Cause Unknown” for the time being.

The cricket choir trilled from my pocket.

I checked the screen. I didn’t know the number, but the prefix was 310, the moneyed code of lawyers, agents, and other persons of swank. I decided to answer. Who knows? Maybe easeful attraction was still at work.

C
HAPTER
24

The voice was rich and smooth, like good coffee. “Mr. Norbu?”

I agreed I was.

“Mr. Norbu, my name is Thomas Florio.”

My mind froze up for a moment, trying to reconcile this soothing timbre with the nasal whine of the Thomas Florio who’d paid me a visit. Then I realized, of course, this must be Thomas Sr.

“What can I do for you?”

“Apparently my son just paid you a visit—without my knowledge, I assure you. He called me to relay details of your conversation together. He was quite agitated. I wish to apologize to you for his behavior. Tommy has often proved challenging for Mrs. Florio and myself. The trials have not lessened in adulthood.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “He did strike me as having too much accelerator and too few brakes.”

Florio chuckled. “Well put, Mr. Norbu, well put. Professionals have labeled it ‘poor impulse control,’ but I like your description better. I have enjoyed many blessings, but my desire for a serene family life continues to elude me.”

“I wish you success in attaining that goal,” I said. “Thank you for calling, but there’s no need to apologize.” I glanced at the time. Much as I was enjoying our little love fest, I needed to get back to work. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes, yes there is, Mr. Norbu. I’d like to discuss some information that emerged from your conversation with Tommy.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to discuss this matter in person, rather than over the phone. I suppose I might be considered very old-fashioned these days, but I much prefer to meet face to face.”

There was something very likable about this man. With his mellow voice and courtly manner, he was hard to refuse.

“Okay,” I said. “How can we make that happen?”

“I propose that we meet at the Jonathan Club. Do you know it, Mr. Norbu?”

I did, the same way I “knew” a lot of icons: by reputation only, and from a distance. I’d driven past their blue awning downtown many a time, but I’d never made it inside. The Jonathan Club was elite and expensive, a favorite haunt of L.A.’s well-to-do aristocracy. Not too many boys and girls in blue on their membership list.

“I’m familiar with the club. When would you like to meet, sir?” Florio’s graciousness was contagious.

“I’m here now, Mr. Norbu. I come here almost every day. Would you consider joining me for a drink?”

“I can be there in two hours,” I said. “I have to make another stop first.”

“Excellent. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

I don’t go out much to begin with, and since I got laid off, I had moved my formal wear, so to speak, to the far end of the closet. There was no way my jeans and T-shirt would make it through the front door of the Jonathan Club. I riffled through my hangers and came up with gray slacks, a halfway decent striped button-down shirt, a black wool sport coat, and a relatively clean blue tie with yellow stripes. I rolled the lint-remover over my pants and jacket, hopefully sticky-taping off any stray Tank-hairs. After I’d gotten dressed, I modeled the new me for Tank.

Not bad, he seemed to say, for an ex-cop.

I was never more grateful for the Shelby. Driving into the parking structure in my Toyota would have resulted in banishment to the hinterlands. I felt sure my brash Mustang would be a welcome addition to the luxury sedans stabled in front.

But first, a trip to Pacific Palisades. I had just enough time to follow up on Mike’s information, and pay a quick visit to Jeremiah Star Trek’s widow. I pulled into the driveway of a spectacular two-story Spanish home, way up in the Highlands off Sunset. A fountain trickled merrily from behind a wooden gate to one side, and the front door’s knocker was a cast-iron lion’s head, clasping a ring in its jaws. I lifted the heavy ring and let it drop with a loud
clang
. Then I pushed the electric buzzer, for good measure.

After a few minutes, the massive door swung open. A handsome woman in her 70s, her blue eyes framed with white wavy hair, met me with a smile that would melt snow. Mrs. Cook seemed to approve of my jacket and tie.

I introduced myself and told her why I was there. Her eyes darkened, and she ushered me inside.

I stepped into a California version of a medieval castle, complete with stained-glass windows, thick velvet curtains, and a pair of hand-carved gargoyles, sculpted out of what looked like animal bone.