“Oh. Yes,” she said, decoding the accent at last. “Let me see if our sales manager is free.” She lifted the receiver on her phone, pressed a button in its base, asked, “Whom shall I say is here?” and raised her eyes expectantly.
“Francisco Ortiz,” one of the men said.
“Cesar Villada,” the other one said.
Wiggy noticed that they did not flash gold badges or identify themselves as detectives. Maybe they were associated with Mr. Holt in some other way. Maybe they were from Eagle Branch, Texas. Maybe they were good old buddies of Frank Holt’s, here to inquire how come he was now dead. In which case, Wiggystill felt he ought to get out of here fast.
“Miss Andersen,” Charmaine said, “there are two gentlemen here inquiring about Mr. Biggs.” She listened, nodded, looked up at the two men again. “May I say what firm you’re with?” she asked.
“Villada and Ortiz,” Ortiz said.
“Villada and Ortiz,” Charmaine said. She listened again. “Is that a bookstore?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s a bookstore,” Villada said.
“In Eagle Branch,” Ortiz said. “Texas,” he said. “Villada and Ortiz, Booksellers.”
Charmaine relayed the information, listened again, put the phone receiver back on its cradle, rose, and said, “I’ll show you in.” She turned to Wiggy as she came around the desk, said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir, won’t you have a seat?” and walked off with the two men Wiggy now knew owned a bookstore in Eagle Branch, Texas, which sounded like total bullshit to him.
He went over to the wall on the left of the elevator doors, and sat on the bench there. He looked around the room at the posters hanging on the walls. He’d never heard of any of the books. In a minute or so, Charmaine came back. Instead of going to her desk, though, she walked over to where he was waiting, and sat beside him on the bench.
“So,” she said, and smiled. “How can I help you, sir?”
“On Christmas night,” Wiggy said, “somebody up here phoned for a limo. I want to talk to whoever that might’ve been.”
“That’s very fanciful,” Charmaine said, and smiled coquettishly.
“Are you a writer?”
“No, I’m a drug dealer,” Wiggy said, and grinned like a shark.
“I’ll bet,” Charmaine said.
“I run a posse up in Diamondback,” he said.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
“Who do I talk to about this limo was called for?”
“Ifanyonecalled for a limo, it would’ve been Douglas Good, our publicity director. But no one was here on Christmas night. We closed on Christmas Eve at three in the afternoon, and didn’t open again till the following Tuesday. But I’ll see if Mr. Good will talk to you.”
“Just tell him Mr.Bad is here,” Wiggy said, and grinned again.
KAREN ANDERSEN was telling the two Mexicans that Randolph Biggs did indeed work for them, and so had Jerry Hoskins. But she hadn’t seen Randy since their sales conference in September, and Jerry had been the victim of a fatal shooting on Christmas Eve. Was there anythingshe could do for the gentlemen?
The gentlemen explained to her—in halting English which she nonetheless understood—that Jerry Hoskins, who until recently they had known only as Frank Holt, had purchased from them a hundred keys of excellent cocaine …
“I beg your pardon,” Karen said, looking astonished.
… for which they had been paid in hundred-dollar bills…
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry,” she said, “but …”
“Yes, we’re sorry, too,” Villada said.
“Because the money was bad,” Ortiz said.
DOUGLAS GOOD was a black man who did not appreciate brothers who looked or sounded like Walter Wiggins.
“Two girls named Sheryl and Toni,” Wiggins was telling him.
“Yes?” Douglas said.
“West Side Limo,” Wiggins said. “The Starlight Bar.”
“Mr. Wiggins …”
“Somebody here called a limo from West Side to take two girls named Sheryl and Toni uptown to a bar named the Starlight on St. Sab’s and Boyle on Christmas night,” Wiggins said. “St. Sebastian’s,” he explained.
“Somebody from Wadsworth andDodds called a limo …”
“Is the information I have.”
“… for two girls named Sheryl and Toni?”
“That’s they names. The ladies owe me some money, bro.”
