his story on as thick as peanut butter, saying he and his partner “had made a few mil” in the market and wanted a place to spend it. They got an immediate meeting. The predatory gleam in the lawyer’s pale green eyes suggested that the bait had done its job well. He looked from one man to the other. “I believe in getting right down to business,” he purred. “You said on the phone that you’re interested in foreign investment.”
“We’re primarily interested in Mexico,” Zavala explained.
The attorney wore an expensive sharkskin gray suit and had enough gold and diamonds on his fleshy hands to sink the Titanic. All the tailors in the world couldn’t hide the brawler’s body, and no amount of jewelry could have obscured the coarse ness ingrained in his every word and move. The NUMA men were dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and windbreakers. It was a studied casualness. In California, the only ones who look like millionaires are those who aren’t.
Hanley took in Zavala’s Latin American looks. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said expansively. He smiled in an attempt to exert charm, but the V-shaped mouth in the fleshy face made him look like a fat vulture. “Did you have a specific area in mind?”
“We like tortillas,” Austin said with a straight face.
A look of incomprehension appeared on Hanley’s florid features. “Pardon me,” he said, not certain he had heard correctly.
“You know, tortillas,” Austin said, making a circular motion with his finger. “We hear it’s a fast-growing business.”
Recovering nicely, Hanley replied, “And so it is. A booming sector in the expanding food services area.”
Austin had the feeling that the answer would have been the same had they told Hanley they were interested in making mud pies. He and Zavala had decided to use the direct approach that had worked so well in drawing a strong reaction from Pedralez.
Zavala smiled and said, “We’ve been hearing about a tortilla plant in Baja California, outside Ensenada, that might be for sale real cheap.”
Hanley’s watery eyes narrowed under the prominent brow ridge. “Where’d you hear that?” he growled.
“Around.” The corners of Zavala’s lips turned up in a mysterious smile.
“Sorry, gentlemen, I’m not familiar with any Baja tortilla plant.”
Zavala turned to Austin. “He says he’s not familiar with that one.”
Austin shrugged. “We’re surprised at your answer. Enrico Pedralez says you’re very familiar with the property. He gave us your name and said you arranged the deal for him.” Hanley’s defenses went on full alert at the mention of the Mexican mob boss. He was uncertain how accountable he had to be to these two strangers. He fast-forwarded through the categories of likely threats: police, IRS, state bureaucrats. These men didn’t fit into any pigeonhole. He decided to take the offensive.
“May I see some identification from you gentlemen?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Austin said.
“In that case, if you’re not out of my office in two seconds, I’ll throw you out myself.”
Austin made no move to rise. “You could try,” he said with an icy coldness, “but I wouldn’t recommend it. I wouldn’t bother calling in your Mexican pals, either.”
Seeing that intimidation wasn’t going to work, the lawyer reached for the phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Why don’t you call the bar association while you’re at it?” Austin said. “I’m sure they’d like to hear how one of their members set up a deal with a notorious Mexican mafioso. That framed license on your wall won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on.”
The hand retreated, and Hanley stared across the desk. “Who are you gentlemen?” He practically spat out the last word.
“A couple of people who want to know more about that plant in the Baja,” Austin said.
Hanley was having a hard time trying to figure out this pair. With their athletic builds and sun-burnished faces they looked like a couple of beach bums, but he detected a hard edge under their genial image.
“Even if you had credible authority I couldn’t help you,” he said. “All discussions on that matter are covered by lawyer-client privilege.”
“That’s true,” Austin said agreeably. “It is also true that you could go to jail for making a dirty deal with a known criminal.”
Hanley’s mouth widened in an insincere smile. “Okay, you win,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I can. But let’s compromise. Tell me why you are interested in this property. It would be the fair thing to do.”
“True,” Austin said, “but this is an unfair world.” His coral green eyes bored into Hanley’s face. “I’ll put your mind at ease. Your slimy dealings are not our concern. Once you tell us who hired you for the Baja job, chances are you’ll never see us again.”
Hanley nodded and plucked a cigar from a humidor without offering his guests one. He lit up and puffed smoke in their direction. “I was contacted about two years ago by a broker from Sacramento. He had heard about my, ah, connections, south of the border and thought I would be the perfect go-between for a highly lucrative deal with no risk and little work.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Of course. But I was cautious. Everyone in California has a get-rich scheme. He knew about my ties to Enrico. So I had to make sure this guy wasn’t working in an official capacity. I had a private detective check him out. He was legit.”
Austin smiled faintly at the irony of a crooked lawyer worrying about honesty. “What did he hire you to do?”
“The people he represented wanted to find land in the Baja. It had to be remote and on the coast. Then he wanted me to handle the paperwork and red tape involved in starting a business in Mexico.”
“Baja Tortillas.”
“Yes. He wanted a Mexican to hold the actual ownership for the plant. He said it would be easier that way. It would be a turnkey operation. He supplied the plant specifications and brought in a construction crew. His clients would require access to the plant after it was built, but they would not interfere in the operation. They said Enrico could keep half the profits, and the plant would be his free and clear after five years.”
“Did you ever wonder why anyone would be so generous with what must have been a considerable investment?”
“I am paid substantially because I don’t ask questions like that.”
“Seems your friends wanted a cover operation,” Zavala said.
“That certainly crossed my mind. The Japanese ran into all sorts of flak when they tried to build a salt- producing plant
along the coast. A bunch of whale huggers made a big stink with the Mexican government. I assumed the man’s clients saw what had happened with the Japanese and didn’t want to go through the same headaches.” “Who was this broker?”
“His name was Jones. Oh yes, that’s his real name,” Hanley added when he saw the skeptical glances. “He’s a matchmaker who specializes in buying and selling businesses.”
“Who was he representing?”
“He never told me.”
Austin leaned forward onto Hanley’s desk. “Don’t jerk us around, Mr. Hanley. You’re a careful man. You would have had your private detective poke into this guy.”
Hanley shrugged. “Why deny it? The clients tried to hide their identity behind a web of corporate paper.”
“You said tried. Who are they?”
“I only got as far as an outfit called the Mulholland Group. It’s a closed corporation with ties to companies involved in large-scale hydraulic projects.”
“What else?”
“That’s all I know.” Hanley checked his Cartier wrist watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a real client.”
“We want the broker’s address and phone number.”
“It won’t do you any good. He died a few weeks ago. His car went off a mountain road.”
Austin had been gazing through the floor-to-ceiling window behind Hanley at a helicopter going back and forth across the harbor. It was moving closer with each pass. At the mention of unusual death, he brought his full
