'It's a steady paycheck.'
'Screw steady paychecks.'
'I'm a good cop. I like the work well enough.'
'Are you a good artist?'
'Pretty good, I think.'
'Then take the leap,' Tucker said. 'Man, you are living on the edge of the Western world, on the edge of possibility. Jump. Jump off. It's one hell of a thrill, and it's so damned far to the bottom that you'll never crash into anything hard or sharp. In fact, you'll probably find exactly the same thing I found. It's not like falling down at all. You'll feel like you're falling up!'
Tony and Frank followed the brick wall to the driveway, past a jade-plant hedge that had thick juicy leaves. The unmarked sedan was parked in the shade of a large date palm.
As Tony opened the door on the passenger's side, Tucker called to him from the patio deck, 'Jump! Just jump off and fly!'
'He's some character,' Frank said as he drove away from the townhouse.
'Yeah,' Tony said, wondering what it felt like to fly.
As they headed for the address that Tucker had given them, Frank talked a little about the black man and then a lot about Janet Yamada. Still mulling over Eugene Tucker's advice, Tony gave his partner only half his attention. Frank didn't notice that Tony was distracted. When he was talking about Janet Yamada, he really didn't attempt to carry on a conversation; he delivered a soliloquy.
Fifteen minutes later, they found the apartment complex where Jimmy Ortiz lived. The parking garage was underground, guarded by an iron gate that opened only to an electronic signal, so they couldn't see if there was a black Jaguar on the premises.
The apartments were on two levels, in randomly set wings, with open staircases and walkways. The complex was structured around an enormous swimming pool and a lot of lush greenery. There was also a whirlpool spa. Two girls in bikinis and a hairy young man were sitting in the swirling water, drinking a martini lunch and laughing at one another's banter as tendrils of steam writhed up from the turbulent pool around them.
Frank stopped at the edge of the Jacuzzi and asked them where Jimmy Ortiz lived.
One of the girls said, 'Is he that cute little guy with the mustache?'
'Baby face,' Tony said.
'That's him,' she said.
'Does he have a mustache now?'
'If it's the same guy,' she said. 'This one drives a terrific Jag.'
'That's him,' Frank said.
'I think he lives over there.' she said, 'in Building Four, on the second floor, all the way at the end.'
'Is he home?' Frank asked.
No one knew.
At Building Four, Tony and Frank climbed the stairs to the second floor. An open-air balcony ran the length of the building and served the four apartments that faced onto the courtyard. Along the railing, opposite the first three doors, pots of ivy and other climbing plants had been set out to give the second level a pleasant green look like that enjoyed by ground-floor residents; but there were no plants in front of the end apartment. The door was ajar.
Tony's eyes met Frank's. A worried look passed between them.
Why was the door ajar?
Did Bobby know they were coming?
They flanked the entrance. Waited. Listened.
The only sound came from the happy trio in the courtyard whirlpool.
Frank raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Tony pointed to the doorbell.
After a brief hesitation, Frank pressed it.
Inside, the chimes rang softly. Bong-bing-bong.
They waited for a response, eyes on the door.
Suddenly the air seemed perfectly still and oppressively heavy. Humid. Thick. Syrupy. Tony had trouble breathing it; he felt as if he were drawing a fluid into his lungs.
No one answered the bell.
Frank rang it again.
When there was still no response, Tony reached under his jacket and slipped his revolver from its shoulder holster. He felt weak. His stomach was bubbling acidly.
Frank took out his revolver, listened closely for sounds of movement inside, then finally pushed the door all the way open.
The foyer was deserted.
