“And?”
“And, well, it’s boring to do it word for word, but I found out that Franco called him and demanded money or he’d tell the police about Peter’s Mob connections. Brewster’s going to meet him tomorrow.”
“And Brewster’s going to go himself?”
“Franco insisted.”
“Where is he going to meet him?”
“I don’t know,” Candy said. “But I’m having dinner with Peter tomorrow, and if I can find out when he’s going to meet Franco, I thought we could follow him.”
“If Franco spots us behind Brewster, he’ll think he’s been sold out and might air old Peter right on the spot.”
“It’s a chance I’ll take.” Candy said.
“As long as you can nail Brewster to the floor,” I said.
Candy put her fork down and looked at me. “Don’t use that tone with me,” she said. “Peter Brewster is a completely corrupt man, and I’m going to catch him. If there’s risk to him in that, so be it. Life’s sometimes risky.”
“What exactly are we going to catch him at?”
“I don’t know the legal mumbo jumbo. Consorting with a known criminal. Abetting an escaped felon. Conspiracy. You should know better than I do.”
“Brewster won’t go alone to see Franco,” I said.
“Franco said he had to, or he’d go straight to the cops.”
I shook my head. “Franco won’t go to the cops and Brewster knows it. Brewster will bring somebody, probably Simms, and if he’s as bad as you say he is, he’ll try to hut Franco away.”
“Why doesn’t Franco go to the police?”
“Because he’s desperate. Because he needs money bad enough to risk blackmailing Brewster, and he’s not going to throw it away. If Franco goes to the cops, he’s lost his blackmail. And Brewster will kill him if he can-or if he and his helpers can-because as long as Franco is out there, he’s like a loaded gun pointing at Brewster.”
The waiter brought us a pear tart and coffee. “Franco needs money to get out of town,” Candy said. It was a half question.
“I’d guess,” I said. “Or maybe just to live. When you’re hiding, it’s hard to earn a salary.”
“But if Simms helps him kill Franco, then won’t Simms know that Brewster’s”-she spread her hands-“a criminal?”
“Sure, but he probably knows it now. If Brewster’s Mob-connected, then I’d guess Simms is probably a Mob watchdog anyway.”
“You mean the Mob owns Peter?”
“It’s rarely the other way around,” I said.
Candy paid the checks and we left Ma Maison. A kid brought Candy’s car around and we got in. Candy drove. We went out Melrose, across Santa Monica to Doheny, and up Doheny to Candy’s place. Neither one of us said anything as we drove.
In her apartment Candy said, “Shall we have a little brandy and soda?”
I said, “Sure.”
She made two drinks. We took them out and sat by the pool and drank.
“You’ve been on the couch for some time now,” Candy said.
“Yes.
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Candy said.
The pool filter made a small slurping sound as water trickled into the skimmer.
“Not your fault,” I said. “Furniture makers have no pride of craftmanship anymore.”
“I mean that I’ve been away with Peter, not with you.”
“A job’s a job,” I said.
“Would you care to move into the bedroom to night?” she said.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with the couch.”
Her face went tight again, with lines around her mouth. “Why?”
“It’s something I’d be ashamed to tell Susan.”
“You weren’t ashamed last time. Is it Peter Brewster?”
“Partly.”
