Tony had worked his way down to the bottom of his drink. The bartender, without asking, starting pouring him another.
“Who the hell is Brian Fox?” he asked.
“Now you’re playing games,” I said, looking at him. I flicked my head and Freeman came across the room until he stood behind Tony. Tony looked over his shoulder and got an eyeful of pink chenille.
“Jesus, what’s this?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me to show my badge,” Freeman said in a low voice. “It’s bad for business.”
Tony looked at Freeman and then at me. I waited for him to call Freeman’s bluff. Instead, he picked up his drink, gestured to the bartender and told me, “Pay the man.”
I paid for the drink. “So who was it, Tony?”
He churned his drink with a swizzle stick and answered, “Sandy.”
“I want details,” I said.
“First we gotta make a deal,” he said. “I tell you what I know but it stays here, between us. You nail him some other way.” He looked defiantly at Freeman and me.
“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“It was back about a year ago. We were in rehearsals on Edward. I came out back for a smoke and saw this kid hanging around the parking lot.”
“Fox?” I asked.
He took a swallow of his drink and nodded. “Yeah, but he didn’t say his name. He was kind of cute, so I started talking to him. I asked him what he was doing there, thinking maybe he was a hustler. He goes, ‘I’m waiting for Goldenboy.’“
“Goldenboy?” Freeman asked.
“That’s what I said,” Good continued. “He points to Sandy’s Mercedes. He’s got this license plate on it — “
“It spells out Goldenboy,” I said.
“You’ve seen it,” Good said. “He tells me he’s got to talk to Goldenboy, so I go, ‘Don’t you know his name?’ The kid says ‘Yeah, it’s Sanford Blasenheim.”‘
“Is that Sandy’s real name?” I asked.
“Does that sound like a stage name to you?” Tony asked, smiling snidely. “Anyway, I know this kid doesn’t know Sandy ‘cause no one calls him by his real name.”
Freeman asked, “So how did Fox know it?”
Tony had finished the drink and signaled the bartender for a third. “This is thirsty business,” he said to me.
“How did Fox know?” I asked.
“He gave me some bullshit story about breaking into DMV’s computer and running the license plate,” he said.
I looked at Freeman. “Is that possible?”
“The kid knew his computers,” Freeman said, “but that sounds like too much trouble. All’s he had to do was call DMV and say he was in a hit-and-run with Blenheim’s car and ask them to run the plate.”
“DMV’s pretty generous with their information,” I observed.
“They don’t get paid enough to care,” Freeman replied.
Tony, who had been listening, broke in, “But how did he know about the license plate? He wouldn’t tell me that.”
“The parking lot,” I said, still speaking to Freeman. “When he followed Jim and Sandy out to the car, he saw the license plate.” I turned back to Tony. “What else happened, Tony?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I tried to make a date with the kid, but he says he wasn’t gay. So I told him, then you don’t want to know Sandy, ‘cause you’re just his type. After rehearsal I came back outside and the kid was in the front seat of Sandy’s car with Sandy. Then they took off.”
“Is that the last time you saw Fox?” I asked.
“I saw his picture in the paper,” Good said, slowly, “the day after he was killed.”
“Why didn’t you go to the cops?” Freeman asked.
Tony looked at me. “You saw me in the play. What did you think?”
“You were good,” I said.
“Damn right,” he said, easing himself off the bar stool. “I’m a fucking good actor. All I need is a break.” He picked up his drink, took a gulp, then put it down. “I started out in that play as one of the soldiers in the first scene. Big fucking role. Two lines, two minutes. And I had to fuck Sandy to get even that. That pig.”
“But you ended up as Gaveston,” I answered. “You fuck Sandy for that, too?”
He smiled, showing his jagged little teeth. “Yeah, you could say that. I told him I knew about the kid. I told him what he could give me to keep my mouth shut.”
I nodded. “Then why did you call me?”
He set the drink on the counter with the over-delicate movements of a drunk. “‘Cause I wanted someone else to know,” he said, “and put the pig in jail where he belongs.” He looked at his watch. “This has been lots of laughs, Henry, but I’ve got a client waiting for me.”
He started away.
Freeman and I followed a few minutes later and stood in front of the bar.
“Do you still have friends at L.A.P.D.?” I asked.
Freeman half-smiled and replied, “You told that guy you’d keep the cops out of it.”
I thought of Jim Pears whom I had not believed when he told me he was innocent. “I lied,” I said.
Freeman said, “There’s still a lot to explain. Pears was in the room. He was the only one.”
“I know,” I replied. I shrugged. “Maybe nothing’ll come of it, but if it helps Jim it’s worth it.”
“Nothing’s going to help Jim,” Freeman said. He shivered from the cold.
“Get ahold of your cop friend in the morning,” I said. “We’ll get together and visit Tony. By the way, where did you get that sweater?”
Freeman laughed. “My ex-wife.”
It was after midnight when I got to Larry’s. I pulled into the garage and sat for a moment in the darkness. It was perfectly still. I began to fit things together.
Brian Fox had not gone to the restaurant to see Jim, but to meet Blenheim. It was Fox who took the back door key from the bar. He used it to let Blenheim inside. Then what? I closed my eyes and reconstructed the layout of the restaurant in my head. They went downstairs. Blenheim killed Brian. But without a struggle? How? I listened to my breathing, and rolled down the window. That part I didn’t know yet.
I had to get Jim down into the cellar, too. Could it be that he and Blenheim had killed Brian together? The garage creaked. A breeze swept through like a sigh. Or had Jim come down after it was done? Blenheim would have heard the steps from the kitchen floor overhead. Steps. I opened my eyes. There were footsteps in the garage. I pulled myself up in my seat and glanced into the rearview mirror. A dark figure merged into the shadows and was coming up beside me.
Slowly, I opened the glove compartment and got out the flashlight. I prepared to flash the light in the intruder’s eyes and push the door open on him. Now. I swung the light around and clicked it on, reaching, at the same time for the door handle. Then I stopped as the figure backed up against Larry’s car.
It was Rennie.
22
“Henry!”
I clicked off the light and got out of the car. “It’s all right.”
“I thought you had a gun,” she said, recovering her breath.
“I’m a lawyer, not a cowboy,” I replied. “I can hardly see you in here. Let’s go outside.”
