Harry said, “Oh, is that right? I’m being set up? Then how come Catlett said I should send you out to get it, since you haven’t done a fucking thing for me since you got into this?”
Karen watched Chili start to smile and for a moment it surprised her. Smiled and shook his head and said, “Harry, I was wrong, I’m sorry. You’re not the one he wants to set up.”
Harry was not the Harry she had known for fifteen years; he was too quiet. But pouty, acting offended, Harry realizing he was into something he couldn’t handle—that was it—and afraid of looking dumb.
Chili said, “Give me the key. If it’s there and I don’t see a problem, I’ll get it for you.”
Karen watched Harry turn his head to look at Chili as though he had a choice and was appraising him, thinking it over.
She watched Chili shrug. He said, “It’s up to you, Harry. But don’t do it yourself, I’m telling you.”
She watched Harry put his hand in his coat pocket and bring out the key. He didn’t hand it to Chili, he laid it on the table between them. He said, “A hundred and seventy grand. I wonder if I’m ever gonna see you again.”
Harry left after that, which was fine with Chili. He and Karen went downstairs to sit at the bar for one, not sure if they’d eat here or go someplace else. She was full of questions, asking about the limo guys and how they made their money. Then asking if he was going out to the airport later this evening. He told her he was thinking of waiting till tomorrow around noon, when there’d be a lot of people there.
Right after that was when Karen said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. A friend of yours from Miami called the house.”
“Tommy Carlo?”
“No that wasn’t it. I wrote it down,” Karen said. “Ray something. Ray Bar-bone? . . .”
22 
The way the lockers in the Delta terminal worked, you put in three quarters for twenty-four hours. If you expected to use the locker any longer than that, you left two bucks inside for each additional twenty-four hours and a locker attendant would come by and check the time and collect the money. Chili had to read the instructions, printed on each locker, twice before he figured it out. He did this before walking past the bank of lockers where C- 018 was located, noticing the lockers on both sides of it had keys sticking out. He liked that as much as he liked all the travelers here today. This LAX, ten-thirty in the morning, was a busy airport.
Next thing he did was check the Arrivals monitor to see what flight he was waiting for if anybody should ask. The one that caught his eye was 83 from Newark, due in at twelve-forty. He imagined Debbie coming out of the gate carrying a makeup kit full of pills and with that pissed-off look she had. Hi, honey, how was the flight? It was awful. The food was awful, the stewardess was a snip and I have a headache. He seemed to be thinking of Debbie and his situation more, still married to her, since meeting Karen, even though he wasn’t thinking of Karen in any serious way beyond—he was-n’t sure what. The thing he liked about Karen, his past life and associations didn’t seem to turn her on or off. She was natural with him, didn’t put on airs. Also she was a knockout, she was smart, she was a movie star, or had been, and was starting to give him a certain look and call him Chil. All last night after the business with the stuntman, she had looked at him in a different way, he felt, than she did before. Like she wanted to know things about him. And she was quieter, even while asking a lot of questions, though she didn’t ask if he was married or anything too personal. Dropping her off he thought she was going to ask him in. He believed she came close before changing her mind for some reason. Still looking at the Arrivals monitor he noticed Flight 89 from Atlanta up there, the one Bones had connected with from Miami and arrived on yesterday. Karen called him Ray Bar-bone, but didn’t ask about him, so he did-n’t tell her what kind of pain in the ass this fuckin Bones was turning out to be: the way he kept showing up, Christ, for twelve years now, here he comes again, Bones the mob guy and playing it for all it was worth, but basically second-rate muscle, Bones could be handled. As long as he didn’t have that big colored guy with him. Chili thinking he didn’t need that one too, he already had a colored guy on his back, the dude. What was this? The first time in his life having trouble with colored guys.
In the gift shop Chili bought an L.A. Lakers T-shirt, purple and gold, and a black canvas athletic bag, a small one. The T-shirt went in the athletic bag inside the paper gift-shop bag. He looked around at the souvenirs, all the different kinds of mementos of Los Angeles, at the wall
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of books and magazines. There was a scruffy kid about eighteen who looked promising, checking out the skin magazines. Chili went up to him and said, “You want to make five bucks, take you two minutes?” The kid looked at him but didn’t answer. “You go over to those lockers across the aisle there and put this in C-017.” The kid still didn’t say anything. “It’s a surprise for my wife,” Chili said. “But you have to do it quick, okay? While she’s in the can.” That sounded as if it made sense, so the kid said yeah, okay. Chili gave him the paper bag his purchases were in, a five-dollar bill and three quarters. The kid left and came back with a key that had C-017 on the round flat part of it.
What Chili didn’t do was look around the terminal to see if he could spot any suits—the way in movies you saw them standing around reading newspapers. That was bullshit. Maybe you could spot them if you were out here all the time doing business. Maybe the limo guys could spot them and that’s why the hundred and seventy grand was sitting untouched in the locker. Chili had no doubt it was there or this wouldn’t be a setup. The suits grab you with something incriminating, with what they called “suspected drug money,” or there could be more than cash in the locker, some dope, to make the bust stick. There was no sense in looking around, because if it was a setup Catlett would have called it in and the suits would be here dressed all kinds of ways watching locker No. C-018, here and there but not standing anywhere near the locker, so why bother looking?
What Chili did, he left the airport for a couple of hours: drove over Manchester Avenue where he found an Italian place and had a plate of seafood linguine marinara and a split of red. While he was here he wrote the Newark flight number and arrival time on a piece of Sunset Marquis notepaper. It seemed like a lot of trouble, the whole thing, but it was better to have a story just in case, not have to make one up on the spot.
By half past twelve he was back in the Delta terminal waiting at the gate where 83 was due to arrive at twelve-forty. It was on the ground at five past one. He watched all the passengers come off the plane and out through the gate till he was standing there by himself. Okay, he turned and walked down the aisle now to the bank of thirty-three lockers, three high, where C-018 was about in the middle. He looked both ways, taking his time, waiting till a group of people was passing behind him, giving him a screen, giving him just time enough to open C- 017, grab the black athletic bag, leaving the gift-shop bag inside, and close the locker. He got about ten yards down the aisle, heading for daylight, when the black guy in the suit coming toward him stopped right in his path.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you come with me, please?”
Now there was a big guy in a plaid wool shirt next to him and another guy, down the aisle, talking on his hand radio. All of them out in the open now. The black guy had his I.D. folder open. They were Drug Enforcement. As Chili said, “What’s wrong?” acting surprised. “What’s this about?” The black guy turned and started off.
The one in the plaid shirt said, “Let’s follow him and behave ourselves. What do you say?”
They took him to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY the black guy opened with a key. It was bare and bright inside the office, fluorescent
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lights on. Nothing on the metal desk, not even an ashtray. There were three chairs, but they didn’t ask him to sit down. The one in the plaid shirt told him to empty his pockets and place the contents on the desk, actually using the word
“That’s right,” Chili said.
“What’re you doing in Los Angeles?”
“I’m in the movie business,” Chili said.
They glanced at each other again. The black guy said, “You’re an investor, is that it?”
“I’m a producer,” Chili said, “with ZigZag Productions.”
“You have a card in here?”
“Not yet, I just started.”
