We went through a blue-tiled entry, down two steps, and into a room not quite the size of Pauley Pavillion. It was very bright, the outer wall all glass and opening out on a balcony lush with greenery. The glass was open and, very faintly, you could hear the cars below like a whisper. The place was done in pastels: gray and blue and raspberry and white. The tile gave way to carpets, and ultramodern Italian furniture sprouted up out of the carpet. Barry Fein was sipping cognac at a hammered-copper bar. The copper clashed horribly with the pastels. So did Barry. He was short and skinny and dark, with close-to-the-skull hair and furry arms and furry, bandy legs. He was wearing red plaid Bermuda shorts and a dark blue tee shirt that said RKO Pictures. There was a hole in the shirt on his left shoulder. He was barefoot.
He said, “You the guy from Gary?” Charles gave him the envelope.
“Indiana?”
He looked at me, cocking his head. “Garrett Rice, stupid. Gary. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
“Well, not really.”
“Whattaya mean, not really?” He finished the cognac, then refilled the snifter from a bottle of Courvoisier. There was a hard pack of Marlboros and a heavy Zippo lighter beside the bottle and a large marble ashtray filled with butts. Maybe I could introduce him to Janet Simon and they could have a smoke-off.
Barry Fein opened the envelope and looked in and saw Ronald McDonald. “What the fuck is this?”
I said, “Can I get my wallet out and show you something?”
Charles put his fists on his hips and stared at me thoughtlessly. Barry said, “Aw, shit, you ain’t a cop, are you?”
“Unh-unh.” I got out my wallet, went over to the bar, and showed him my license. “It’s very important that I find out if Garrett Rice has tried to sell you two kilograms of cocaine.”
Barry grinned at me and looked at Charles. “Is this guy serious or what?”
Charles smiled benignly. Perhaps repartee was beyond him.
I said, “Listen to me. I’m sorry I used a ruse to get up here, but I didn’t think you’d see me if I played it straight. I’m not here to bring you trouble. Garrett Rice may have stolen two kilograms of lab-quality cocaine from a very bad man. Now that man wants it back and he’s holding a little boy hostage. I think if Garrett stole the dope he’ll try to move it. You’re a guy he might move it through.”
Barry Fein shrugged and jerked his head at Charles. “Get rid of’m.”
I looked at Charles. “I’m in a rush here, Barry. He won’t be able to do it.”
Barry shrugged again. Charles whistled sharply between his teeth, and a moment later another Charles walked in from the balcony with a watering can. Five-eight, blond, muscled, white shirt and pants and shoes. Twins all the way down to the big knuckles.
Barry said, “Jonathan, we got some trouble here.”
Jonathan set the watering can down and came over to stand a little in front of me, Charles a little behind. They stood with their feet spread for balance and their hands loose at their sides. Jonathan had the same perfect skin and vacant eyes as Charles. Idiot angels. The two of them reminded me of the kids down in Westwood who thought they were tough. Only these guys weren’t down in Westwood. And they probably were tough.
“Attractive, Barry,” I said. “Bet they’re great in bed, too.”
Charles said, “It’s time to leave,” and stepped in to take my arm. I threw Barry’s snifter of Courvoisier on Charles. Jonathan hit me hard twice, not as hard as he should’ve because I was moving, but hard enough to hurt. I shoved Barry off his stool, making Jonathan hop back to keep from getting bowled over. Charles was coming at me sideways and planting for a spin kick when I grabbed the big Zippo and set him on fire. The Courvoisier went off with a blue alcohol whoosh. Charles screamed and slapped at his face and dropped to the carpet. Jonathan yelled, “Hey!” and forgot about me. He tried to turn Charles onto his belly to smother the flames. I broke one of the barstools across Jonathan’s back. He was tough. He tried to get up, tears leaking down along his nose, then fell over and moaned.
Barry was down on his hands and knees where he’d fallen, staring at me, saying, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” over and over. I grabbed his hair and pulled him up. He said, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
I shook him. “You think I’m playing with you, Barry? Tell me about Rice.”
Barry looked at me with eyes like pissholes in fresh snow and tried to scramble away. I slapped him. “Stand still!”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you set the sonofabitch on fire.”
“What about Rice?”
“No, no. I ain’t heard from Rice in a couple of weeks.”
“He hasn’t tried to sell any dope to you?”
“I swear to Christ.”
“He ask you where he could?”
“No. No.” He looked over my shoulder at Charles, then at me, then back to Charles again. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
I shook him again. “Your card key.”
“What?”
“Your card key. What you use to open the gate downstairs. Give it to me.”
We went to the near end of the bar and took the card key out of a brass tray where it sat with keys and change and a black alligator wallet.
I said, “Rice had two keys of lab-quality cocaine. Not all that common, so if he tried to shop it around, people would remember. Ask around. I’m going to come back here tomorrow, and you’re going to have something for me. Right, Barry?”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
I bent down and checked Charles. His shirtfront was browned and his hair was singed and he was starting to blister in a couple of spots, but that was about it. Cognac burns off fast. His eye flickered open and he looked at me. His lashes were gone.
“You’ve got to be a lot better than you are to get away with a spin kick, Charles. They look great on the mat, but in real life they take too long.”
I stood up.
“Remember this, Barry,” I said. “Don’t fuck with the Human Torch.”
Barry said, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
I went back along the hall, down the elevator, and collected my gun from the guard, who nodded and told me to have a nice day.
28
Until I heard from Barry Fein, there weren’t a whole lot of options left for me to pursue. I could go back to my house and brood about things there. I could cover ground I had already been over and brood. Or I could go to my office and brood, and maybe be there when the Eskimo or Duran called. I drove to my office.
The fourth-floor hall was empty. Office doors were closed the way they always were; none was cracked open, no one peeked out of the broom closet. I went down the hall as quietly as I could, not even making the little shushing sound shoes will make on carpet. I took my gun out, held it down along my thigh, and keyed the office lock with my left hand. Wouldn’t this be a sight for the insurance secretaries across the hall. Oh, look, Elvis is scared someone’s going to shoot him again! When the knob turned I pushed open the door and went in low. No one shot me. No one was pressed along the ceiling, waiting to drop down. The Eskimo wasn’t crouching under the desk. Safe again.
There was one call on the answering machine. The auto parts clerk, telling me that if I didn’t want the shifter skirt he knew plenty of guys who did. I turned off the machine, opened the balcony doors, and sat at my desk to wait. Sooner or later Duran would call or send the Eskimo. He’d have to. He lost two men last night and the woman and he wouldn’t like it. Maybe Poitras was right and he’d like it so little he’d just say aw fuck it and send somebody to blow me away. Or maybe he’d just say, Give me the dope now or I’ll kill the kid. Then what would I do?
The air was warm and moist and a small breeze was blowing in from the south. Down the coastline, toward
