Dead Men's Dust

    'Yeah,' Rink said. 'I could hear the cogs turning from here.'

    I shook myself into the here and now. 'So what did I miss?'

    'Rhet Carson's a major player. Head man of one of the outfits out here.'

    'What? Like the Mafia?'

    Barker gave a little laugh. 'The Mafia doesn't hold much sway any longer. Not if you're looking for the old- time Godfather type. But you could say he was a key player in the local underworld. Nowadays your most successful mobsters shun the old-style Cosa Nostra methods. Carson's a top-flight business executive. Runs his business from a downtown commercial center, even advertises on the cable networks.'

    'His business being?' I asked.

    'Banking,' Barker said. 'But more specifically, moneylending.'

    I said, 'You telling me he was money laundering? What better front than to use your own bank?'

    Barker snapped her fingers. 'You've got it, my friend. There have been a number of high-profile investigations into his business, lots of supposition, but nothing that would stick. There was the rumor that he was laundering counterfeit dollars for some outfit from the East Coast, but the case never really got off the ground. He's laid low for the last coupla years, kept his nose clean, spent more time on his boat. I'm thinking Carson was maybe about to get back in the business again.'

    I'd had my suspicions since our last talk with Louise Blake. What the something big was that she'd referred to.

    Forged money has never been a big problem in the U.S., obtaining decent paper being just about impossible. But I also knew that it was a ploy of some terrorist groups to flood countries with fake currency. Kind of destabilized the value of the dollar, bringing down the almighty American Dream. What they couldn't achieve with bombs, they made up for in Mickey Mouse money. Petoskey and Hendrickson would have been making top dollar, selling to the enemies of the USA.

    And Rhet Carson had wanted in on the action.

    To Cheryl Barker, I said, 'But without the drawback of being the middleman this time?'

    'It's a fair assumption,' Barker said.

    'This outfit he was working with, do you know who runs it?' I asked.

    'Not personally,' Barker said. 'I suppose I can find out.'

    'I might be able to give you a couple of names.'

'You already have your suspicions?'

    'Yeah. A couple. Could be a guy called Sigmund Petoskey. He has his base in Little Rock, Arkansas.'

    Barker shook her head at that. 'Nah. The mob I'm talking about was rumored to be up in Virginia, maybe Georgia, I can't recall.'

    'How about Hendrickson?' I asked.

    'Like I said, I don't know the names personally. Hendrickson? Sounds familiar. I'll find out.'

    Rink gave Barker his cell phone number.

    Barker, looking every bit the cowgirl, tipped the brim of an imaginary Stetson our way. 'I'd best be on my way. Dallied a little too long. Dispatcher's probably wondering if I've got myself shot dead and is already planning a search party.'

    I shook hands with Barker, wondering if we'd ever cross paths again. Probably not. Then Barker and Rink hugged as if they'd been intimate once. I didn't ask. Barker then turned to her car and slid behind the wheel. She gave us both an exaggerated wink. 'I'll be in touch.'

    We watched her drive off, her vehicle almost concealed by the plume of road dust churned up by her wheels. After she was gone, we stood kicking our heels.

    'So what's the plan of action?' Rink finally asked.

    'Marina del Rey's about as good a place as any to start,' I suggested.

32

john telfer was leaking blood. ordinarily that would have been good. But not under these circumstances. Not when the bleeding got in the way of Cain's plans. Not when it could alert a nosy observer to Telfer's plight. Anyone with an ounce of brains would immediately tie a bleeding man to the recent events occurring at the not-too-distant harbor.

    'We have to do something about your wound,' Cain said.

    Lying flat on the bottom of the dinghy, Telfer grimaced up at him. Cain sat at the rear, guiding the outboard motor with one hand. With his other, he held the now-empty pistol aimed in Telfer's direction. The waves were choppy, causing the rubber boat to lurch as it breasted each successive wave.

    'Feeling nauseous?' Cain asked.

    'What do you care?' Telfer grunted.

    'I care. Isn't that enough?'

    Telfer twisted his face. 'The only thing you care about is getting your hands on the money.'

    'Not true. I also care about your well-being.'

    'Yeah. Right.'

    Cain shrugged. 'Think what you will,' he said. He made another scan of the horizon. Off over his right