“What happened to her?”
“She was drowned in her bathtub.”
“Oh my God.” The tears started working down her cheeks.
“We could be wrong, Mrs. Fisher,” Ski said sympathetically. “We could be wrong, but we need to make sure.”
She swallowed hard and said, “I was afraid to go and afraid to stay. Do you have any idea what these people are like? Have you ever met Guilfoyle?”
I shook my head.
“Guilfoyle heads security here. Sometimes he goes into what they call the rage ward. He likes to beat on them himself when they start getting out of hand. He calls it ‘playtime.’ Randy says he even brings his out-of-town friends in and lets them do things. Once, one of them broke a young girl’s fingers.”
“And you stayed here knowing that?”
“I didn’t know anyplace else to go,” she said. “It was a good job.”
“Car’s coming,” Ski said.
“Oh my God,” she cried.
“It’s Guilfoyle,” Ski said. “Now what’s the play?”
I turned to Mrs. Fisher.
“Let me handle this,” I said. “I’ll cover you, don’t worry.”
“There’s three of them…” Ski started, and the office door burst open. The man who came in was about five- eight. He was a ghost. White hair, no pigment in his skin. He was carrying a snub-nosed. 32. He looked the room over with red eyes.
“You,” he said to Ski. “In the chair.”
Ski didn’t move.
Guilfoyle came in behind the albino, shoving him aside. He was as mean-looking as the reputation that preceded him. Tall, round-shouldered, a beer belly tightening the vest of his three-piece suit, drooping dead eyes, a mouth turned down at the corners. A hairline scar etched one side of his face and he had big hands with gnarled fingers, which he kept flexing into fists. He was wearing a brown fedora with the brim snapped down over one eye.
A third thug came in behind him. More of the same. A feral-looking blond hooligan pushing six feet, who walked on the balls of his feet.
“There’s no need for rough stuff,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up,” Guilfoyle snarled.
“We’re police officers,” I said.
“No shit,” he said with a twisted excuse for a smile. “You were made before you got to Main Street.”
“I don’t know what you’re all riled up about,” I said. “We got a man in homicide named Red Marcus, who’s got a drinking problem. We were told this might be a place could help him.”
Guilfoyle snickered. “That’s the biggest lie I heard since Santa Claus.” He said to the albino, “Frisk ’em.”
Ski got a little taller when he said it. The albino reached out to get Ski’s gun and Ski grabbed his wrist.
“Nobody takes my gun,” he said.
The other thug pulled a. 38 and went toward him.
“It’s true,” Ione Fisher said. “They were just…”
Guilfoyle reached around and slapped her hard with the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor. “You speak when I say so,” Guilfoyle said.
As he said it, Ski twisted the albino’s wrist backward, snatched his gun, and threw him away like a wet bath towel.
Guilfoyle was distracted long enough for me to pull my Luger. I backed up a foot and aimed it at Guilfoyle’s head.
“Why don’t we all just relax,” I said harshly.
Guilfoyle’s snake eyes were ablaze. His tongue swept his lips like the tongue of an asp.
The albino scrambled to his feet.
The hooligan, aiming a. 38 special, stopped three feet from Ski, who was aiming the albino’s peashooter back at him.
Ione Fisher got slowly to her feet, her hand against her jaw.
“You don’t really want a lot of shooting in here, do you, Guilfoyle? Think about it. You’ll wake up all the guests in the place. Have the whole L.A. police force, the highway patrol, and half the A.G.’s staff down here?”
Guilfoyle’s eyes flicked around the room.
“You wanna check out my story? Call my commanding officer. I was about to give it to Mrs. Fisher when the little squirt came busting in here flashing iron. That any way to treat a visiting fireman?”
“We got a call there was trouble out here,” Guilfoyle said.
“You were misinformed.” I took out my card with my free hand, took a pen from a holder on the desk, scribbled a number on it, and handed it to Guilfoyle. “His name’s Captain Moriarity.”
Guilfoyle didn’t do anything for a minute. Finally he took the card, looked at it, and threw it on the floor.
I sat on the corner of the desk.
“Like I said, you don’t want a lot of shooting disturbing the residents, do you, Sheriff? Most of them are disturbed enough as it is.” I holstered the Luger.
“What did he ask you?” he said to Fisher.
“He told me about their friend and was asking about the facilities.”
“What about ’em?”
“The usual questions. How much, what the rooms were like, things like that.”
“Your pal wouldn’t like it here,” Guilfoyle said to me.
“I already figured that out.”
“You shoulda called me. Professional courtesy.”
“Why bother you? Besides, it’s kind of confidential-or was.”
Guilfoyle turned to the hooligan. “Put it away,” he said. The hooligan did as he was told, pocketing the gun he’d been pointing at Ski. Guilfoyle took out a cigar, bit the end off it, and lit it from a folder of matches.
“Just a misunderstanding,” he said finally. “We get a lot of rough trade in town. Can’t be too careful.”
“Sure,” I said. “Anybody can make a mistake.”
I got up and motioned to Ski.
“Let’s go, partner. I don’t think Marcus’d fit in here.” I turned to Ione Fisher. “Thank you for your help,” I told her, and headed for the door. Ski followed me.
“No hard feelings, right?” Guilfoyle said as we went out the door.
“No hard feelings,” I said.
We went out and got in the car. Ski didn’t say anything as I pulled away but his anger filled the car.
“Well, that went pretty well,” I joked, trying to lighten things up.
Ski wasn’t in the mood for jesting. He didn’t say a word until we were almost out of town.
Then:
“Guilfoyle doesn’t know we were talking to Fisher about Lila Parrish.”
Silence.
Then:
“Guilfoyle’s worried about some of his on-the-lam gunsels paying big bucks to hide out in Mendosa.”
More silence.
Then:
“My guess is they’re staying at Shuler’s place, that’s what got Guilfoyle’s shorts in a bundle.”
More silence.
Then:
“You kind of slapped his face in front of his boys.”
“It comes naturally.”
“You’re dreamin’ if you think it stopped back there, Zeke.”
