The Puppet Master

The Gnostie chief didn't know the significance of the report, but it alarmed him in an undefined sort of way. The old man, on the other hand, sensed in a general way what it meant, and was possessed by a cold, intense anger. Two valuable tools were endangered, tools he'd cultivated carefully and with no little risk to himself, to his life. He wouldn't take action through Thomas, though. Thomas, it seemed to him now, was nothing. A fool! Like Christman had been a fool in the last analysis.  

He'd use one of the endangered tools instead. 

25

CLOUD MAN AND STEINHORN

The UCLA researcher removed the syringe from the flat, velvet-lined box. She knew that Martti had stopped at the mens' room again when they'd returned from Canter's, but she asked anyway. 'Any last-minute business to take care of?'

'Nope. Let's do it.'

She nodded, took his hand and held the syringe against the back of it, then pulled the trigger. The syringe hissed, and she put it back in the box. Martti watched, vision already blurring. Again he closed his eyes and began to talk.

On the day after we got back, I went into Morey's for breakfast. Indian was there at his favorite table, and waved me over. There was a strong-looking guy with him I hadn't seen before. He wore well-worn jeans and a new twill work shirt. I assumed he was from Yitzhak's, probably a Gnostie.

After I'd ordered my breakfast, I went over to them. 'Martti,' Indian said, 'meet my friend Cloud Man. He's a new brother that lives at our house. He's started working for Yitzhak, too. Cloud Man, this is Martti Seppanen I told you about.' He looked at me again. 'I didn't tell him anything I shouldn't,' he added.

Cloud Man and I shook hands. A Loonie? I doubted it. The Loonies I'd met, admittedly not very many, didn't have Cloud Man's watchful, appraising eyes. They tended to be easygoing, sometimes spaced out.

'Nothing doing today, eh?' I said.

'Nah. The turn of the month rush is over. Him and me got in fifty-eight hours in four days; I'm just as glad it's come up slow now. A real slate pool table and two baby grands, for chrissake! The pool table took eight of us, up thirty-one steps to this house in Woodland Hills! You shoulda been there. We could've used your muscle.'

'No thanks. I thought Yitzhak generally didn't hire anyone but New Gnus.'

'I guess I broke the ice. Now he'll hire other guys that's religious, if they come in recommended and they ain't druggies. How you doin' with them? The Gnus, I mean.'

'As little as possible.' I didn't want anything more said about the Gnosties and myself in front of Cloud Man, so I changed the subject. 'A slate pool table and two pianos, eh? Sounds like a workout all right.'

'Yeah, and the world's biggest Murphy bed. That was on the fourth job. It must have weighed four hundred pounds, and opened out queen sized! No shit! We never did figure out how anyone got the sonofabitch into that fourth-floor apartment. It was one of those old buildings with narrow inside halls and narrow doors. We finally took it out through a bay window; used tie-straps tied together for rope. To keep it from bustin' the windows below it, we tied another rope to it, and a big guy—you know Bill Brawn? No? That's his real name! He was out on the lawn with the rope belayed around a tree, keepin' the Murphy bed away from the wall. I tell you, when we pushed it out the window, I almost shit my pants. I didn't know what would happen, whether it'd get away from us or what.'

My food came, and while I ate, we talked about this and that, mostly the Dodgers. Then I left. I couldn't help wondering if Cloud Man was an undercover Gnostie. That would account for Yitzhak hiring him, and he could have been sent by Lon Thomas. No, I told myself, not after what happened. Thomas isn't that stupid. And just because the guy might see me in Morey's now and then, he'd be in no position to learn what we're doing.

So, was he LAPD? If he was, it was none of my business, which didn't make me less curious. I spent awhile that morning with Carlos, shuffling the photos, staring at them. To the cost of Charles Tomasic's services, add my travel and lodging and everybody else's, and the charter costs for the skyvan, including Hamilton's and my earlier trip . . . Altogether those photos had cost Butzburger more than six thousand dollars, not including my hours. And I still had no idea who the kidnappers were, or how to find out; only what they looked like. The main thing I'd learned was that Christman had been abducted, that he hadn't just run off somewhere to a life of wealthy anonymity with a lady love.

Maybe that would be enough for Butzburger. I hoped not. It would be worse than coitus interruptus to pull out of this case now.

* * *

Most of that day and evening I spent on the unpromising cycle of calling and visiting informants, with the usual total lack of success. One thing had changed though. Melanie wasn't seeing me anymore. I wasn't surprised. Someone could easily have an informer in her place, one she was aware of, working for someone who wouldn't like her having anything to do with an investigator of any kind.

The next morning I slept in, then spent most of the afternoon at Gold's, working off my frustrations. Maybe I hoped, subliminally, that some ideas would grow out of my sweat. They didn't. I spent the next few working days doing other stuff, for Carlos, till he felt he had to nudge me to get me back on the Christman case again. Nudging like that was something Carlos didn't like to do to his investigators, which tells you something about my mental state at the time.

Then one morning, Carlos introduced me to a new investigative assistant who'd started with Prudential the afternoon before. His name was David Steinhorn. He had a strong handshake, and a face with no trace of illusion. I judged him at thirty-something.

Investigative contracting by public agencies had been increasing, and Prudential was getting more than its share, so Joe was trying to beef up staff. Unfortunately, a lot of applicants have romanticized ideas of the business. They don't realize how difficult it can be, how double-damned frustrating, and sometimes monotonous as hell. And when they find out, they're apt to quit, after the firm has spent a bunch of time and money breaking them in. Or they're bovine—they stand the monotony all right, but they're mentally lazy. Or they're smart and interested, but lack toughness. I don't mean pushing people around; that's a good way to get off-loaded around here. They just can't face up to some of the people you have to face up to.

After returning him to the IA pen where the investigative assistants were officed together, Carlos came back looking pleased with himself.

'I think we've got a keeper,' he said. Steinhorn, it seems, had brought a good record with him. In the army he'd