Robert Crais_Elvis Cole_03, page 14
I said, “I’m looking for a handle on Charlie DeLuca, Walter. Do you have any ideas?”
“As I said, I don’t know him.”
“But you hear things.”
“Yes. But none of it has been of particular interest to my friends with the Justice Department.”
“I don’t have to worry about building a case or following the rules of evidence. This is private. I have reason to believe that Charlie might be involved in something that he doesn’t want the rest of the family to know about.” Rollie’s eyes shifted over to me when I said it. “You got any idea what that might be?”
Walter shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I know quite a bit about what the DeTillios are into, and the Gambozas, but really very little about the DeLucas.”
“Could be anything, Walter. Maybe he’s cheating one of the other capos. Maybe he’s ripping off Sal.”
Walter shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
I sat back in the hard chair and crossed my arms and looked at him. “Okay, forget that angle. I’ll take any dirt you can give me.”
Walter closed his eyes and drew in deep on the Lark. “There are maybe other people who might help you.”
“Like who.”
The smile. “Mr. DeLuca often used an intermediary to acquire films featuring young women of color. I’m told that he had a taste for black hookers, especially those who had appeared in films and videotapes.”
Rollie said, “Who told you this stuff?”
“A fellow named Richie. A sometime customer of mine. He spoke of Mr. DeLuca with great familiarity. He said they were associates.”
I said, “Does Richie have a last name?”
Walter gave me sad and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Rollie said, “So the man likes kink with black chicks. Mob dagos been going for the dark meat since the speakeasy days in the twenties. Sal ain’t gonna give a shit about that.”
“It’s more than just a taste for the dark, Mr. George.” The smile, the cigarette glowing hotly. “I’m told that his passion is short-lived, but that he pays very well. I would think that if anyone would know something, a person in that position might.”
“You got a name?”
“There was a woman named Angelette Silver, though she’s no longer in the trade. I believe she works in a florist shop on 122nd Street, in Harlem.” The smile. “But she may not be likely to help.”
“Why not?”
“Charlie uses them up rather quickly, you see. He can be quite a violent man.” Walter’s eyes twinkled when he said it, as if somehow the knowledge of it was delicious. Then he shook his head sadly. “Their parting wasn’t on the best of terms.”
“But he pays very well.”
The smile. “Yes. For every buyer there is a seller, for every seller, a buyer.”
Rollie said, “Shit.”
I said, “Walter, you in here ratting on the mob, aren’t you scared they’ll nail you?”
The smile, the Lark. “I’ve always been willing to sell what no one else would sell, Mr. Cole. I find it quite”—the smile grew broader and the Lark glowed hotly—“gratifying. Do be careful with Mr. DeLuca. He’s quite mad, you know.”
“That’s what they tell me, Walter. Thanks.”
“I hope this has helped you.”
“Sure, Walter. Maybe it has.”
Volpe opened the door and tapped his watch. “The guys from the Bureau are here.”
Roland nodded, and then we went out into the hall, leaving Walter Lee Balcom sitting quietly at the table, smoking and smiling a gentle smile to himself.
Twenty
Out in the hall Rollie said, “What’s this business about Charlie being up to something?”
I told him what I had.
When I finished, he said, “You figure Charlie’s got his own private little nest egg growing down in Barbados.”
“That’s what I need to find out. If he does, then I can use it to make him turn loose my client.”
Rollie nodded. “What kind of money we talking here?”
“Forty, sixty grand at a crack during the last five months. Smaller money before.”
Roland whistled. “That’s serious crime. Sal wouldn’t mind the nickel-and-dime stuff, postal scams, unregulated hijacking, that kind of thing, all the capos got something going, but fifty grand.” He shook his head.
“Could Charlie’s crew be turning that kind of cash with nobody knowing about it?”
“No way. When these guys talk about family, they really mean it. Guys in Charlie’s crew got brothers, cousins, uncles in all the other DeLuca crews. These guys get drunk together, they have barbecues. It’d be easier to keep a secret in a newsroom.”
“So if Charlie’s got something going, he’s keeping it from his own crew.”
“That’s a pretty good bet.” Rollie looked thoughtful, then watched as a trim Chinese woman came out of the elevator and walked down the hall to a door with frosted glass. She had nice calves. When the door was closed, he looked back at me. “Course, Sal might be the only other guy in the family who knows. Sal might be skimming a little off the top for Charlie ’cause it’s his kid.”
“I thought about that.”
“And if Sal’s in on it, you’re screwed.”
I spread my hands. “It’s a position I’m accustomed to. Do me another favor?”
“Name it.”
“Can you check the JD files for anyone named ‘Richie’ in the DeLuca family?”
“Sure.” Then he said, “Elvis?”
“Unh-hunh.”
“What he said in there about Charlie being nuts, you remember that.”
I gave him a smile. Dawn Patrol. Errol Flynn courageous in the face of certain doom.
I left Rollie downstairs and took the elevator up to the lobby where I used a pay phone to get the number for the New York City Florists Association. The Florists Association told me that there were four flower shops on 122nd Street, two in Morningside Heights, one in Harlem, and one in East Harlem. They had no listing for an Angelette Silver as a licensed florist, and they couldn’t tell me in which shop she might work. I copied down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the four shops, thanked them, and hung up.
I got change at the little cigar stand they have there in the lobby, then went back to the phones and called Victor’s Floral Gifts and asked to speak to Angelette Silver. A businesslike woman who sounded to be in her forties said that she was sorry, but no one by that name worked there. I thanked her, hung up, and called the Gilded Lily. A man with a heavy, masculine voice told me that he didn’t know anyone named Angelette, but that he was certain he could meet my every need without her help. I thanked him and hung up and called Rudy’s Florist. Rudy didn’t know anyone named Angelette, either, though he did know a guy named Angel. Would that do? I said that I thought not. The fourth shop was a place called Your Secret Garden. An older woman with a soft southern accent answered.
I said, “May I speak with Angelette Silver, please?”
There was an uncertain pause. “You mean Sarah?”
There were voices in the background, then something covered the mouthpiece, then a heavy male voice came on. “You got the wrong number. Nobody by that name works here.” He hung up. Hard.
Hmm.
I picked up the Taurus from the parking garage, then took Canal over to the West Side Highway, then went north past the Village and the Lincoln Tunnel on my way up to 122nd. Maybe I was on to something. Walter Lee Balcom had put me on to Angelette Silver, who very likely was living under the name Sarah, and maybe Angelette Silver could connect me either to someone named Richie or someone who knew what Charlie DeLuca was up to. If I could just keep Charlie DeLuca from killing either Karen Lloyd or me until I knew who or what that was, all of this might work out. Stranger things have been known to happen.
On the Henry Hudson Parkway at 86th Street, halfway up the island and along the Hudson River, I spotted a metallic-brown Chevrolet following me four cars back and one lane over.
I swung south on Broadway, then east on 86th, then south again on Columbus, but he stayed with me, always four cars back, once gunning it through a red light to keep his position. Pretty good. I wondered if it was Ric.
An eight-wheel flower truck was parked on Columbus in the right-turn lane at the corner of 76th Street. Traffic was backed up and horns were blowing and people who wanted to turn right had to work their way slowly around the truck. I turned right with them and slowed it down even more, staying hidden behind the flower truck until the traffic had cleared ahead of me. I goosed the Taurus half a block down, then threw it into park in the middle of 76th Street and was out of the car and walking back up the sidewalk when the metallic-brown Chevrolet came around the corner. It wasn’t Ric.
The guy behind the wheel played it well. Traffic was backing up again and more horns were blowing and the other cars were putting on their blinkers and trying to get around the Taurus, so he put on his blinker and got into line to get around the Taurus, too.
I walked out into the street behind him and went up around his car and put the Dan Wesson in through the driver’s side window. “Surprise.”
He was a medium-sized guy in his early forties with a precise manner and a nice tan and thick hair. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, left in the ten o’clock position and right in the two o’clock position, just like they teach in driving school. He was staring at the gun. “Jesus Christ, put that away. Where the hell do you think we are, Beirut?”
Around us, drivers were blowing their horns and a fat guy with a three-day stubble called us assholes and told us to get out of the street and nobody seemed to mind too much that I was holding the Dan Wesson. Just another story in the naked city.
“Take out the wallet very slow. If you jerk, I’ll shoot you.”
He did it, still with his eyes on the gun. He said, “I don’t know what in hell you’ve got going on here, but it’s not worth pulling the trigger.”
“We’ll see.” I really know how to throw a scare into them.
I took the wallet and opened it. Nothing said MAFIA. Nothing said HIRED KILLER. What I saw was a California driver’s license in the name of one James L. Grady, address c/o James L. Grady Confidential Investigations, Los Angeles, California. I blinked at it a few times and then I blinked at James L. Grady.
James L. said, “Will you stop pointing that goddamned gun at me now?”
I didn’t stop pointing the gun at him. A pretty woman driving past in a white Mercedes gave us the finger. I said, “Who hired you?”
“Peter Alan Nelsen.”
“Peter Alan Nelsen, the film director?”
James L. Grady gave me snide. “Yeah. He said he hired you to find his ex-wife, but he figured you were stiffing him and he wanted to find out. I picked you up in Chelam with the ex and the kid, and I’ve been following you around ever since.”
“Ever since.”
“Peter came in last night. He’s staying over at the Ritz-Carlton. He wants to see you.”
I stopped pointing the gun at him and he snatched back his wallet. A guy passing by in a red Nissan truck called me a shithead. So did James L. Grady.
Twenty-one
Peter Alan Nelsen had the Presidential Suite on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton, overlooking Central Park. I followed Grady’s Chevy to the curb, where we let a couple of guys who looked like they’d just mustered out of the French army have our cars, then we went inside.
James L. used a house phone and said, “This is Grady. I’m in the lobby with Cole.”
He listened for a minute, then hung up and gestured with his chin. “Elevator’s over there.”
He stayed a half step in front as we crossed the lobby, looking very spiffy in his coat and tie, like a successful exercise-equipment importer or a high-end insurance executive. He didn’t look like a guy who could follow me for a week without my noticing. If he did, I probably would’ve noticed him.
In the elevator, he leaned against one wall with his arms crossed and I leaned against another, and neither of us looked at the other. Invisible lines. The elevator was quiet and still and somehow made closer by the faraway hum of the electric motors. It was a long way up to the top floor. I said, “How come I didn’t make you?”
He shrugged, still not looking at me. “I’m good at it. Also, I didn’t have to maintain continual contact. Once I knew where you were staying and where the woman lived and worked, it was easy.”
“You didn’t have to worry about losing me because you could always pick me up again.”
“Unh-hunh.”
I nodded. “I put the plane ticket and the Ho Jo on plastic. There were the phone calls charged to my office number in L.A.”
“You weren’t trying to hide. You didn’t expect anyone to look.”
I stared at him for about twelve floors. “Fed.”
Grady smiled. “Secret Service. Fourteen years.” He finally turned and looked at me. “I’m impressed you picked me up. I was back and I was loose. I don’t get picked up even when I’m living in the other guy’s shorts. You’re good.”
I spread my hands. Maybe Grady wasn’t so bad after all.
We got off at the top floor and followed the noise to the Presidential Suite. Nick met us at the door and gave me the big smirk, then jerked his thumb through the door. “Inside, hotshot.” The Nick-ster.
Inside, a quadraphonic stereo system was blasting out Fine Young Cannibals, and the air smelled like Jiffy Pop popcorn and cigarettes. Peter Alan Nelsen was talking to a couple of guys in baggy suits out by the terrace, and a guy with a loud green tie was speaking into a phone by the bar. One of the guys with Peter was wearing a paisley ascot and was smoking a purple cigarette. Dani and T.J. were slouching on the palatial furniture, and a thin woman going for the Tama Janowitz look sat next to T.J. with her hand on his thigh. Dani gave me a little wave. There were open bottles of Absolut vodka and Jack Daniel’s bourbon on the bar, and Nestlé’s wrappers on the floor. Most of the Absolut was gone. It probably wasn’t like this when the president was in residence. Grady frowned at the mess and gave disapproving. Nope, it wasn’t like this with the president.
Peter saw us and turned away from the two guys by the terrace without excusing himself and said, “Well, it’s about goddamned time. Dani, turn off that shit and get these Broadway fruits out of here.” Broadway fruits. Always sensitive.
The guy with the ascot looked peeved. He said, “Peter, we have the backers in place. If you’ll agree to direct the play, we can be on the boards by next fall.”
Peter said, “Nick, give Dani a hand with the fruits.”
Nick pulled the phone away from the guy at the bar, then pointed at the two guys by the terrace and showed them his famous thumb-jerked-at-the-door move. High verbal. The guy with the ascot said, “I’m sure we can reach some sort of agreement,” but Peter wasn’t listening; he was already over with me and Grady. Nick and Dani hustled the three Broadway people out. The Tama Janowitz went with them.
Peter said, “Jesus Christ, you were supposed to find my kid and let me know. Instead, I gotta hire somebody to find you. I thought we were pals.” He looked hurt.
“There were things I wanted to find out and do before I called you in.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Bullshit. I didn’t hire you to do things. I hired you to find my kid. What’re you trying to do, jack up the price?” Now he was giving me suspicious.
I said, “If you had waited, I would’ve called. Karen needs to prepare the boy, and there are things going on in her life that she needs to straighten out. That’s what’s been taking the time.”
Peter grunted when I said it and looked interested, forgetting about the hurt and the pissed. “You talked to her about me?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d she say? She excited?” He was leaning forward now, wanting to hear about himself.
“She’s got a life here, Peter. She’s scared that your coming in is going to change that. You need to be sensitive to that.”
“Sure, sure. I’m sensitive. I’m caring.” He made a little hand move to show me how sensitive and caring he was. “How about my kid? Is Toby okay?”
“Yes. He plays basketball. He seems happy.”
“Good, good.” Peter was moving around now, looking pleased with the way things were working out. Karen wouldn’t be pleased, but there you go. “So maybe you weren’t trying to fuck me over. You were trying to smooth things out and that takes time. I can understand that.”
“Thanks.”
He gave me beaming. He was wearing a blousy white tuxedo shirt, black jeans, and black leather jump boots. The boots hadn’t been polished in about three hundred years. “I knew you were on my team. You’re my kind of guy. We’re two of a kind.”
I spread my hands. Two of a kind.
James L. Grady cleared his throat. “You need me for anything else, Mr. Nelsen?”
Peter said, “You got the address on my kid?”
Grady took a small spiral notepad from his jacket, tore out a sheet, and handed it to him. “Yes, sir. Home and work addresses for the ex-wife.”
Peter gave the slip of paper to Nick without looking at it. “Terrific, Grady. You’re on the A list, just like Cole. A couple of A-team players.” He made another little hand gesture to Nick. “Pay’m off, Nick-ster. Give’ something extra for the good work.”
Grady said, “Just what we agreed to, Mr. Nelsen. I don’t need extra.”
“Whatever.”
James L. started out with Nick, then turned back and looked at me. “Good work finding the woman, Cole. I’ll see you around.”
“Sure.”
He went out.
Peter strutted around the room, giving everyone more of the beam job. “I’m excited. I’m jazzed. I’m ready for action.” He strode to the bar and picked up the phone. “This is Peter Alan Nelsen. Have my cars ready in five minutes.” He hung up before whomever he had spoken to could answer, then he addressed the room. “Everybody get ready. We’re going to see my kid.”
I said, “Peter, I know you want to see your son, but going out there like this isn’t the way to do it. The boy doesn’t know you’re here.”
