The Vig dh-2 Read online

  "I can do that," Lace said.

  The man squatted down now, even with them. "If you could, it would be some help. I got some glass I want to put in. But I don't know…"

  "Lace and me can do it," Jumpup said.

  "We paint the cut," Lace repeated.

  The man handed them each a can. "All right. Slow, though. Let me see you do a little."

  Louis Baker positioned them about five feet apart and they started spraying over the graffiti while he took the plywood off the side window.

  "What's happening here?"

  The boys, startled, stopped spraying and turned around. Louis Baker, about to put the glass into the window where the plywood had been, lowered the plate to the ground. Dido had his arms folded in front of him.

  "That's a white wall," he said. "These homeboys helping you out?"

  Louis Baker nodded. "That's right. Cleaning up the new house."

  Dido stood dead still, squinting into the sun. Without his saying a word, Lace and Jumpup put their cans down and began sauntering back down the cut.

  The two big men -one twenty-one, one mid-thirties -stood about two yards apart. Louis Baker straightened up, folded his arms across his bare chest the way Dido's were. Lace and Jumpup were off a ways, looking on.

  A car honked out in the street. Dido took a last look at the wall, shrugged and began trotting back down the cut. Business was business.

  Louis Baker, humming again, opened a can of putty.

  Chapter Five

  " ^ "

  Johnny LaGuardia couldn't understand why people didn't seem to get it. The concept was so simple, and these hockey pucks-now it looked like two in the last two days-either kept getting it wrong or just blew it off altogether.

  Here's the deal-you got a situation where you need some money. Gambling, women, speculation in municipal bonds- it didn't matter to Angelo 'the Angel' Tortoni. The banks, for one reason or another, would not help you out. Maybe they didn't see the wisdom of your borrowing money to go put it on the nose of Betsy's Delight in the fourth at Bay Meadows. Maybe you had defaulted on past loans. Maybe your collateral was already hocked. Whatever.

  Mr Tortoni-the Angel-he'd help you out. Johnny LaGuardia had seen grown men go down on their knees with tears in their eyes, thanking the Angel for money that appeared when there wasn't any cash to be found anywhere. He knew for a fact that the Angel's money had paid for college tuitions, covered a guy's 'lost weekend,' helped out some married lady who didn't want a fourth baby. This man- the Angel-took care of his people.

  And most of those Mr Tortoni helped showed him respect. They paid the vig, the vigorish-a reasonable ten points a week-until they could repay the principal. Then most of them came in, not just with the money but often with a gift to show their gratitude that Mr Tortoni had believed in them when no one else would, had fronted them some of his own hard-earned money to help them out in their difficult time.

  And most of them understood that the reason Mr Tortoni could do this important community work was because he remained a good businessman. He didn't lose out on his loans. The vigorish kept him liquid.

  That was most of 'em.

  The other ones were why Johnny LaGuardia had a job.

  He stood at the entrance to the lobby at the Ghirardelli Towers and looked back over his shoulder at the deep purple sky. Over the Golden Gate Bridge a high cloud-cover glowed deep orange, the kind of clouds he used to think, when he was a boy, had been raked by the angels.

  Someone was playing congas pretty well on the steps by the Maritime Museum and the lights above Ghirardelli Square had just been turned on. It was still warm from the day, with a light breeze off the bay-the smell of crabs cooking down at the Wharf.

  This was Johnny's favorite time of year, of day and of his life so far. He was meeting Doreen for dinner at Little Joe's in an hour. He'd have the cacciuco and a bottle of Lambrusco and then they'd go back to her place.

  He should feel great.

  But last night was Rusty Ingraham, and now he had a bad feeling about Bram Smyth, who was supposed to have met him at the bar at Senor Pico's at 4:30, nearly three hours ago.

  He ought to have a talk with Mr Tortoni, he thought. About these guys who do the ponies. Well, maybe he wouldn't, now he thought about it. Mr Tortoni didn't need two cents from Johnny LaGuardia about how he ran his business, but the fact was these guys were unreliable.

  He pushed open the lobby door and crossed the marble to the bank of mailboxes with buttons under them. Bram and Sally Smyth lived in number 320.

  He pushed the button, waited ten seconds, pushed it again. He looked at his watch, knowing that his impatience might make him hurry things. He counted off thirty seconds.

  Okay.

  One-twelve, the third button he pushed, answered. He had a delivery for Mr-he looked at the mailbox of one of the other two that hadn't answered-Ortega in 110. Could he leave it with her?

  He stood at the inner door until it buzzed. Then he quickly pushed it open and was inside. Taking the stairs up to the third floor, he couldn't get over what a joke these security buildings were.

  The third-floor hallway was wide, carpeted, quiet. The Smyths' door was immediately to Johnny's right as he came out of the stairwell. He put his ear to the door and listened for a moment. Somebody was in there talking. He knocked.

  The talking stopped. He could imagine Smyth holding a finger up to his lips.

  Come on, come on. Don't make it so hard on everybody.

  Johnny LaGuardia had several weapons that he used for various jobs, but the silenced Uzi was probably his favorite. Like the Secret Service guys, he carried it in a swivel-up holster under his arm. The thing was really small for so much firepower, easily concealed under a sports jacket.

  He moved the jacket out of the way and swung the Uzi up. There was some more movement inside the apartment.

  He could just wait. He knew that after about five minutes Smyth would creep to the door and listen, then-with the chain on-he'd open the door a crack. But Johnny had a date with Doreen, and it was getting late. He'd given Smyth every opportunity to be civil.

  He crossed to the far side of the hallway and aimed at the deadbolt. This part was fun-the way the gun made a little zipping sound and the door exploded inward. As far as the chain.

  He took a few steps, shoulder down, across the hallway and hit the door with his shoulder; the chain gave way like so much tinsel.

  Bram Smyth and, he guessed, Sally were halfway out of their dinner seats, staring at the doorway, at him. He realized he still had the gun in his hand. "Bram, goddammit," he said. He started unscrewing the silencer.

  Smyth looked like what he was-a Yuppie stockbroker. He still had his tie on, his tasseled moccasins.

  "Did we have an appointment or what?"

  Bram looked at the woman, put on a sick smile. "Hey, was that today? I thought it was tomorrow. I'm sorry, I got the-"

  Johnny shook his head. "You didn't hear the doorbell? I come up here and knock?"

  Bram motioned ambiguously. "Johnny. We're having a romantic dinner here. Were."

  Anotfier smile at his wife. Everything was under control, he was telling her, the fucking wimp, except somebody just shot my door off.

  "Sometimes you don't let yourself get interrupted." He held his hands up. "Bad timing, I guess. Right?"

  Johnny glanced at the woman, who had sat back down and was sipping white wine with her legs crossed. She was doing okay, trying to go with it, but her hands were shaking.

  Elaborately, Johnny put the gun back in his holster. He nodded at Sally, smiled at Bram. "Excuse us, would you? Bram, you mind we talk a second in the hallway?"

  They were on the rug, the shattered door pulled behind them.

  "I'll have it tomorrow," Smyth said. "I thought it was tomorrow, Johnny, swear to God."

  "Eight hundred tomorrow."

  Smyth's eyes widened. "Johnny, it's four."

  Johnny shook his head. "How long you been paying on Thursdays
now? Four months? Five? You're into next week's vig."

  The guy was going to pee on his nice suit in about two minutes. "Look, the stock business, Johnny, it's up and down. I mean one week I'm golden and the next I'm flat. You know?"

  Johnny held up a hand. "You needed money. Mr Tortoni, out of the goodness of his heart, helped you out and the deal was you pay him back any time you want, but until you do, you go the vig, capisce?"

  Smyth hung his head. "Yeah. Tell him I'm sorry. Tomorrow, okay."

  "Okay." Johnny stuck out his hand. "Your door's broken," he said. "You might want to call the maintenance people."

  Smyth looked at Johnny's extended hand.

  Johnny smiled. "What? I'm gonna break your arm?"

  Smyth let out a breath and smiled, taking Johnny's hand.

  Johnny gripped tight and brought his left hand down across the arm at the elbow, hearing the crack as Bram Smyth crumpled to the ground. He looked up at Johnny, holding his broken wing, tears streaming down his face.

  "Eight hundred," Johnny said. "Tomorrow."

  Glitsky kept telling himself that he wasn't doing this for the money. Still, the fact that he wasn't going to get any overtime made a difference. Ray Weir, the murdered woman's husband, hadn't been home in the afternoon. Many working men weren't. So Abe killed the rest of the day at the Youth Guidance Center, interviewing a potential witness to another killing. The boy, a seventeen-year-old Puerto Rican kid, improbably named Guadalupe Watson, was not a big talker. A friend of Guadalupe had put him at the curb in front of Rita Salcedo's house when her husband Jose chased her outside and shot her in the back as she ran from him.

  But if Guadalupe had been there, he didn't remember it.

  The lack of cooperation didn't exactly roll off Glitsky's back, in spite of the fact that it happened all the time. Some people didn't want to talk to cops-ever, about anything. It could only come back and get you.

  So Abe had talked and talked and waited and listened to a seemingly endless succession of yes and no, Guadalupe answering only what was asked, volunteering nothing, and in all probability lying when he did manage to mumble out a syllable.

  Then it was five o'clock, or close enough to it, so he'd gone home, had dinner with Flo and the kids and now was walking up the steps leading to Ray Weir's house, thinking about overtime, more or less. Or none.

  The front door opened on a small lobby. To Abe's left a stairway led to the upper flat of the duplex. On the wall by the stairs was a logo of an old-fashioned tripod motion-picture camera with the name Weir inside. He climbed the stairs and stood at the small landing for a moment, waiting again, listening again. Sometimes you heard things.

  This wasn't one of those times. He pushed the button by the door, didn't hear a bell ring, then knocked.

  The door opened on a man who looked like nobody, or anybody. As Glitsky introduced himself and produced his identification, he tried to get a physical handle on him.

  Ray Weir was the guy you opened your checking account with at the bank, the mid-level manager in a cheap gray suit who rode in the elevator with you, your buddy's cousin from, say, Nebraska. He had light brown hair, regular features. Neither skinny nor fat, short nor tall. A quiet, nice-guy loner type who one day might find himself walking into a tower carrying an automatic weapon.

  "Is this an official call?" he asked.

  Glitsky wasn't sure what that meant. "Well, I'm officially investigating your wife's murder, if that's what you mean."

  "You might as well come in," he said.

  Glitsky, checking in after dinner, had found out that they had located Ray from some information that had been in Maxine Weir's wallet. A couple of blues had caught up with him at work and informed him of Maxine's death. Now he seemed resigned, lost, and immediately asked Glitsky if he was a suspect.

  "Why?" Glitsky, crossing the living room, thought he might as well go for it. "Did you kill her?"

  He sat on a floral couch, motioned Abe to an easy chair. "No, but I mean, you know, with being separated…"

  "Did you want to kill her?"

  He looked someplace over Glitsky's shoulder, focusing on something so intently that Abe turned around. The wall behind him was nearly covered with eight-by-ten glossies of a beautiful woman. Glitsky stood up and walked over for a better look. Some of the pictures had the name Maxine Weir on them, and Abe tried to reconcile this stunning face with the woman he had found in a neck brace on Ingraham's barge that morning. He could not do it.

  Ray had come up behind him.

  "I wanted her to come back. I didn't want her dead."

  "How about her boyfriend?"

  "Him I wanted dead."

  "But you didn't kill him?"

  Ray's eyes went back to the pictures. "Seven years." He shook his head. "You know what it's like to be with someone that beautiful when she's in love with you? It's like nothing else. You walk in a room and you're the proudest man there. It doesn't really make too much difference what else is going on in your life. I mean, my scripts. So nobody wants them. At least I've got Maxine, I'm worth something. You know?"

  Glitsky didn't much buy the line. His wife, Flo, was a fine-looking woman, but he sure didn't define himself by what other people thought of her. He also noticed that Ray didn't deny killing Rusty Ingraham. On the other hand, Rusty wasn't officially dead yet, so he said, "Were you separated a long time?"

  "Five months, eleven days today."

  Glitsky kept coming back to the pictures. There were several nudes, tasteful, also erotic. She hadn't looked the same this morning with bullet holes in her.

  "How did she get with Ingraham?"

  He tried to laugh, but it didn't come out right. "That was pathetic. You had to know her."

  "I'm trying to," Glitsky said.

  They were back sitting down. Ray was smoking an unfiltered Camel. Glitsky saw another cigarette butt with lipstick on it in the ashtray. "Pathetic, how?" he asked.

  "It was the way Maxine was. There always had to be a dream. I guess it comes with being an actress. Maybe we writers have it, too. I think it's what kept us together so long, that shared dream."

  "What was the dream?"

  "Oh, the usual, I guess. Fame and fortune. She becomes a star and I write the Great American Screenplay." He drew on his cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. He leaned back on the couch. "Then she had the accident and met Ingraham and the dream just changed."

  "To what?"

  "All of a sudden it was just the money. For some reason, Ingraham made her feel like she was too old to be a star. At thirty-three. Look at her, she's not too old."

  Glitsky didn't have to turn around to remember what she looked like. "But Ingraham told her she was?"

  Ray shook his head. "Not so much told her as made her see that the dream-our dream-just didn't work. It wasn't realistic, like a dream has to be realistic. Jesus."

  "So what happened?"

  "She finally saw she had a chance to make some money right away, without the rejection, without having to keep herself ready for the break."

  "How was that?"

  Ray looked at Glitsky for a moment in surprise, as though he didn't understand why this wasn't common knowledge already. "Well, the insurance."

  "What insurance?"

  "She got badly rear-ended and sprained her neck something awful. Ingraham was literally hanging around the emergency room when she came in. What a sleaze the guy is."

  Is, not was. Glitsky made a mental note.

  "Anyway, Ingraham told her he could get a settlement for like a hundred grand, maybe more, and she bought that. Then she started thinking if she got that much money, she'd just invest it and retire for a couple of years. And then I became no fun because I didn't want to do that. I'd still want to write even if I was already rich." He stubbed out his cigarette. "But it wasn't her dream anymore. I guess Ingraham played make-believe with her better than me." He stared down at the floor.

  Well, motive is pretty solid, Abe thought. "What do you
do during the day, Ray?"

  Ray looked up, the question taking him off guard. "I'm a courier downtown. Bicycle demon."

  "You mind telling me where you were last night?"

  The eyes looked down and up. "I was here all night."

  "By yourself?"

  Again a pause. "I'm afraid so. Does that make me a suspect?"

  Glitsky gave him his best man-to-man. "You were a suspect before I got here. I'm trying to eliminate you because I don't have the feeling you killed somebody you loved that much. Do you own a gun, Ray?"

  "No. I mean, yes. Well, I did."

  Glitsky waited.

  "After the accident, Maxine got-" He stopped. "It was after she moved out, actually. Living alone, she wanted the protection, she said. She got really paranoid, in fact, and finally asked if she could take it and I said yes."

  "So she had it?"

  He nodded.

  "And what kind was it? Maybe we'll find it in her apartment."

  "It was just a popgun, really. A twenty-two."

  Glitsky knew the kind of wound created by that type of gun. He'd seen several of them that morning. "You know, Ray," he said. Then he stopped himself. He'd been about to tell him he was starting to look like a pretty good suspect. In fact, if there was any physical evidence tying him to Ingraham's barge last night, Glitsky would bring him in right now.

  Ray waited.

  "When was the last time you saw Maxine?"

  He thought about it. "Three weeks ago, maybe. She needed some money for rent and came by here. She said, you know, when the insurance came in, we'd both have a ton anyway."

  "You were going to split that?"

  He lit another cigarette. "Well, it was community property. Even if we got divorced. One of those weird times when California law helps the husband."

  "And you helped her out?"

  Ray looked down at the floor again. "She softened me up first."

  "How's that?"

  Ray Weir lifted his shoulders, an embarrassed kid.

  "You made love? Three weeks ago?"

  Ray was nervous now. "I know it doesn't look very good, but we are, were, still married. And she came up, looking so beautiful. Radiant, really."