Hear the Wind Blow, Dear... (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

  11. Now, serious money does not come from one pot plant or two or three, it comes from a couple of hundred, at least. It comes from a veritable plantation, it comes from a sizable tract of land.

  12. The foresty land north of Wonderland Park was under the direct surveillance of two rangers, Tommy and Ricky.

  13. Rule out Ricky and his territory.

  14. That left Tommy and his.

  15. Ricky mentioned he knew, if not every tree in his section, almost every one. I assumed Tommy had similar knowledge. Several hundred pot plants up to five feet tall can't be grown, weeded, sprayed, picked back, debugged, harvested and whatever in complete secrecy, especially in an area that's regularly patrolled and is known intimately by an expert. Even if the patch wasn't visible from a road there would still be tire tracks and other signs of regular visitations.

  16. Therefore, Tommy was involved. Therefore Tommy was on the take somehow.

  17. Further proof of 16: Baby had new shoes, or more precisely, snakeskin boots, an expensive set of wheels and a costly house to live in – the last two supposedly courtesy of a brother who was not only never home, as Ricky had mentioned, but non-existent.

  18. Final, conclusive, proof of 16: Tommy was young, fresh-faced, innocent-looking, likable and seemingly trustworthy. He was also stupid, like most of his ilk, stupid to spend money openly, stupid to lie, but there is a type of mania common to good-looking fresh-faced boys and men, often only sons, that leads them to believe they can get away with anything – and often, for a while, they do: as I recall it has something to do with the lack of any clear definition between right and wrong.

  19. I rested my case with another drink which also helped to take my mind off the lingering headache I'd been having since Ben Hogan kindly cold-cocked me. I would have to think about him, too, some day soon, to say nothing of the amazing Mr Lubinski.

  One thing at a time, I decided. I moved over to the Two-Two-Two but didn't linger as it was as deserted as the streets of Glasgow on Tag Day. So was Sandy's, maybe something truly momentous was going on that I didn't know about, like another invasion of the bodysnatchers or a Dallas rerun. Where was everybody? I called Evonne; she was out. I called Linda with the skinny legs, even she was out. So I went disconsolately home, remembering to keep an eye out for red-faced Micks who swung southpaw, like me.

  I was up early the following morning as I wanted to have a word or two with Ricky before he went to work. I caught him on the way out, he told me. I told him some of the conclusions I'd come to the previous evening, and finished up by letting him know that his amigo Tommy didn't have a brother who got him deals on cars and shared expensive pads with him, all he had was a sister in New York and what did he think of that?

  I'm thinking what you're thinking,' Ricky said grimly. Then he swore a bit. 'I'il kill that maricon.'

  'No you will not,' I said. 'At least not yet. We have to be very clever if we want to find out what really happened, so you be good. We'll get him, I promise, somehow, soon. Now listen. You do not tell Ellena anything for now, OK? She's got enough to worry about. Segundo. You've been to Tommy's house, tell me about it.'

  'That fucker,' said Ricky. 'So what do you want to know, man? It's like a house.'

  I told him what I wanted to know. Then he told me what I wanted to know, that there was a phone in the front hall just inside the door.

  'Could be good,' I said. 'Ideally, what I want is for him to come from work tonight, pick up that phone and call his weed-growing friends up north.'

  'You're gonna bug him, man?'

  'I'm going to bug the shit out of him,' I said.

  'But why that phone?'

  'Because, Señor Watson, I can get to that phone without breaking into the house or posing as a telephone repairman or whatever, at least I think I can. Now, what you have to do is to give him an excellent reason to make him call his friends as soon as he gets home.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like this.' Mom put in an appearance then in an ancient dressing gown that had started out in life eons ago as a present from her to Pop. She waved good morning and went into the kitchen.

  'Like this. You told me once that no one knew about Chico except you and Ellena, right?'

  'Right. Except for Lucky, but he doesn't know who he is, just that he's a friend of mine.'

  'But not Tommy?'

  'Not Tommy.'

  'Do you two get off work at the same time?'

  'More or less, it all depends.'

  'Well, make it happen today,' I said. 'That would be, what, about four thirty? Then, on your way out to your cars, you tell him you're worried. Come to think of it, you've been worried all day but you can't keep it to yourself anymore. You tell him about Chico, the cabin, the sheep, your visits to him, and now he's missing. You didn't know what to do so you asked me, the brilliant sleuth who solved the mystery of the missing mutton so quickly, to look into it. This, we hope, will put the fear of God into your amigo Tommy. He probably knows by now his buddies knocked off some guy who was sneaking around, but when said guy turns out to be your brother-in-law, he'll know he's got trouble, trouble right there in Parson's Crossing. Got it?'

  'Yeah, I got it OK,' Ricky said. Then he said something in Spanish to his wife about not worrying, he knew what time it was and he wasn't going to be late.

  'We've got to figure that Tommy will get on to his pals pronto and tell them to cool it for a while, close down, lay low, just in case I'm not as dumb as I look. If he starts heading back to the office to call from there, which is unlikely as the call would have to be put through by Mae's husband at the front desk, you tag along on some pretext, you've got more to tell him, whatever, so he'll have to give up that idea. Then, unfortunately, your car won't start as you have earlier done something clever to it, like graphite-ing the plugs to make sure it won't. Of course your buddy will have to give you a lift back into town. Got it?'

  'I'm with you,' Ricky said. 'We don't want him to get to a phone til he gets home.'

  'You do have it,' I said. Mom brought me in a cup of coffee and put it down on the table in front of me. 'Of course he can always stop after he drops you off and call from a bar or a payphone somewhere but it's more natural for a guy who's had the kind of shock Tommy's going to get to run for home first and then call, it's easier and more private and he doesn't need a pocketful of change. Anyway, it's worth a try and it doesn't cost us anything significant. If it doesn't work I can always get a read-out of his phone bill and see if he's been calling anyone regularly up north, in fact I'm going to do that anyway, but if his pals always call him instead of the other way round it wouldn't help us much.'

  I then had Ricky go through his part of the action; he had it down pat and was raring to go, so I let him. Margarita blew me a kiss over the phone.

  'Thank you, little one,' I said.

  I had a second cup of coffee with Mom, who was not at her best that morning although she didn't say anything, drove to the office, where there was nothing in the mail to detain me, let alone make me rich, then took the Ventura Freeway east to Glendale. I parked in front of the retail outlet of J & M Home Security Co., which was tucked into a little side street off Brand right next to a struggling magic and joke store. I took a quick peek into the joke store's water-streaked window – same brilliant products I'd loved as a boy – fake ca ca, flies in ice cubes, soap that made you dirty instead of clean, disappearing ink, fake sick, X-ray specs. I once got a finger-guillotine trick in my Christmas stocking; my brother borrowed it and broke it.

  I knew the chap behind the counter at J & M's as I'd done a fair bit of business with him over the years. Phil was his name, he looked like your typical space cadet – granny glasses, freaked-out hair, complexion riddled by youthful acne into something resembling a flour and water relief map of the Andes, T-shirt saying something dirty in Latin. But Phil knew his business and there was an extraordinary amount of business to know as almost daily more and more elaborate, miniaturized gimmicks entered the market.<
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  He came up with a micro-transmitter the size of a dead pea, which is roughly what it looked like, or perhaps a tiny piece of gravel. With it came a small receiver, with headphones, much like a Walkman. The rig only had a range of some hundred yards but that would be more than enough. I had to buy the transmitter as it was unrecoverable and would hopefully end up unnoticed in Tommy's vacuum cleaner, but Phil let me rent the receiver for one day for $35 cash, no receipt.

  I said, 'Phil, you're the tops in my book,' and left. I resisted the temptation to drop in next door and buy a new finger guillotine. There was one in the window, too, only in the illustration on the box they showed a cigarette instead of a finger so as not to give small boys ideas they had anyway.

  On the way back I stopped at Moe's for a late breakfast of two hotdogs, mustard and relish only, and a root beer. A Mr Universe type next to me from the health club across the street was sipping a glass of hot water with a slice of lemon in it. I ordered a third hotdog from Son of Moe just to show him who was boss.

  Back at the office. I had to make sure that Tommy had gone in to work that morning, as usual. I suspected that if he hadn't, Ricky would have called in to let me know, but just on the long shot that he'd tried me and I'd been out, I called the ranger station and Mae's husband told me both men were out on the job. Then I called the messenger service I used. I wanted a particular willing boy who had done a couple of errands for me in the past, but not knowing his name I had to describe him, which wasn't hard as he was young, good-looking and had shoulder-length blond hair. The girl who took the calls told me he was already out the door and heading my way and should she put it on the bill, as usual.

  'Please do,' I said. While I waited for him I looked over the mail again. Will Mullins had sent me from the Hall downtown the material he'd promised me; I skimmed through some of it then put it all up on the bookshelf. I threw out all of the junk mail but one item, one of those teasers you get from real-estate companies promising you a valueless free gift if you'll only attend a weekend viewing of their latest tacky development project. I looked up Tommy's address in the phone book, typed it neatly on a clean envelope, and inserted the real-estate rubbish. About then my willing boy putt-putted up on his underpowered Yamaha, dismounted, took his helmet off, shook out his hair, knocked on my door and entered. He saluted me smartly.

  'A task, willing boy,' I said to him. 'A well-paying task. Be seated and I will tell you all.'

  'Nothing legal, I hope,' the kid said, sitting in the spare chair.

  I looked shocked. 'Kids today,' I said sadly.

  He grinned. He had perfect teeth. Everyone had perfect teeth but me. Except Son of Moe, he had terrible teeth, he sucked sugar cubes all day.

  'So what is it this time, Chief?' the kid asked me. 'A spot of breaking and entering? A trail job?'

  'A plain, ordinary special delivery,' I said, handing over the envelope. 'All you are required to do is deliver this harmless envelope to the address written on it. It is an address in Sherman Oaks. Sherman Oaks is west of here.'

  'And,' said the kid. He took out a green plastic comb big enough to curry llamas and lovingly rearranged his locks.

  'And,' I said, 'you drop this little bugger inside the letter slot at the same time, endeavoring to make it land as close to the wall as possible so it will not be noticed.' I handed him over the dried pea. 'Treat it carefully, my boy, it is a triumph of micro-circuitry.'

  'Looks like a mouse turd to me,' said the kid, 'but I'll take your word for it. Oh, might one inquire about one's fee?'

  We settled on a twenty for him in addition to the agency's standard charge. He unlimbered, got up, saluted again, and started for the door.

  'Might one inquire what your name is?' I said to his back. 'I'm tired of having to describe you to what's-her-name who answers your phone.'

  'My name is George,' the kid said. 'But all the girls call me Gorgeous.'

  'Well, Gorgeous,' I said, 'do me a favor. Call in and tell me how it goes, maybe there isn't a letter slot in the door, maybe there's a tin thing beside the front gate, maybe there's a dog who won't let you in.'

  'Will do, Chief,' he said.

  I wrote the office number on a slip of paper and gave it to him. He tucked it in one glove and left. I phoned the one and only punk twerp, Sara Silvetti, world's worst poet by far.

  She was in. She was busy. She was actually hard at work. Didn't I know that writing poetry was the hardest work there was?

  'No I didn't,' I said. 'I was under the mistaken illusion that working in coal mines was harder, or growing bananas or extruding aluminum. Ever so sorry. Gee, I've always thought scribbling verses was fairly easy work, you sit at a desk in a nice warm room eating popcorn and once in a while sharpen a pencil or two.'

  She sighed. 'Why do old farts always take so long to get to the point?'

  I sighed. 'All right, Mrs Barrett Bloody Browning, how much do I love you, let me count the ways, none, you want a job? Maybe two jobs?'

  'Doing what?'

  'Get over here and find out, if you can possibly tear yourself away from that couplet that just won't quite somehow come out right.'

  I hung up, set up the computer and did some work. Twenty minutes later she walked in without knocking and it hurt just to look at her. When last I'd seen her, her hair had been a wiry mop one third a modest day-glo orange, one third a discreet Day-Glow lime green, and the remaining third a restful electric blue. Now it was all shaven off except for a round patch on top that was tinted pink, it made her look like she was about to clean the bottom of a large pot. She had a black spiderweb either drawn or tattooed on one cheek and a large tear painted on the other. I won't bother describing her clothes in any detail, as who would be interested, but suffice it to say that it was the first time I'd ever seen a feather boa, a tatty fur piece and a man's old-fashioned Celluloid stiff collar around the same skinny neck. I might perhaps mention her footwear, huge cowboy boots with spurs.

  'Greetings, Gramps,' she said. 'How're they hangin'?'

  'None of your business,' I said. 'Can you still borrow that car that belongs to that friend of yours?'

  'Nah,' she said. 'His father finally lowered the boom on him. I can get another one, though. Jerry's not doin' nothin', he's got a car.'

  'A proper car that won't be noticed, I hope,' I said, 'not some dune buggy or low-rider special.'

  'It's a car,' she said. 'What else can I tell you?' 'Can you get it today?'

  'No sweat, Pops,' she said. She produced a panatella from somewhere and a box of kitchen matches from somewhere else and lit up with a lot of unnecessary dramatics.

  I told her what to do and when to do it and how much she would get if she did do it. I showed her how to work the receiver and handed it over. I told her to keep Saturday morning free because I might have another job for her then if she didn't muck up the first one.

  'Knowing how cheap you are,' she said, blowing smoke in my direction, 'how's about a fin for expenses in advance?'

  I gave her the money, anything to get that cigar out of my office and her with it. Me, cheap? Hadn't I given a generous handout to that panhandler in front of Ralph's a mere two or three days earlier?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My nose hurt. I went into the small bathroom at the back and looked at it in the pitted mirror over the sink. It looked like a nose with dirty adhesive tape on it. It made me think about Mr G. so I thought I'd have a try at finding him if it didn't take too long, if my wits were up to the struggle.

  Let us see. I knew the missus was Catholic and worked at it, thus she probably attended church regularly if not five times a day. I suspected she was local as she had come to me rather than someone else in another part of town, and not in a car. Also, when I'd seen her on the bench at the bus stop across from me she hadn't caught the 202 bus that stopped there and it was the only line that ran down Victory, and it had been half empty. Maybe she was just sitting there thinking things over and planned to catch the next one but it was al
so possible she wasn't waiting for a bus at all as she lived so close she didn't need one.

  There were two churches within a four-block distance of my office, the phone book informed me, Christ the King and Our Lady of All Sorrows. I thought Mrs Morales might know something about them as I knew she was a Catholic because the only day in the year she closed was on her Saint's Day, and I also knew she lived locally as once I'd driven her daughter home after work. I was on my way out to talk with her when the phone called me back. It was Gorgeous reporting in as requested.

  'No problem, Chief,' he said. 'Piece of cake. I lobbed her against the wall like I was shootin' marbles.'

  'Good work, my boy,' I said. I told him I'd include his twenty in a separate envelope when I paid the monthly bill from the messenger service, hung up, and dropped by Taco-Burger. It was just on noon, a little early for lunch, but a growing boy can always eat a taco or two, even Mrs Morales'. After a certain amount of obligatory badinage with her I asked her about Christ the King and Our Lady of All Sorrows.

  'I wouldn't be seen dead in Our Lady,' she said angrily, unscrewing the top of a bottle of cream soda for me. 'That Father, he only likes white people, comprende?'

  I said I comprendo-ed.

  'Now our Father Xavier, he don't look like much but he comes, day or night, rain or snow, money or not. What you want with him? You not suddenly getting religion at your age?'

  'More than that, Juanita,' I told her soberly. 'I've decided to sell out and become a monk. I wonder what summers in Tibet are like?'

  'Oh, you,' Mrs Morales said, giving my hand a playful slap.

  'Enough of that,' I said. 'And where's the hot salsa today?'

  Christ the King was close enough so that I didn't need the car; I locked up then ambled down Victory – past Lubinski, Lubinski and Levi, as it happened – then made a left, then a right, and there it was. It didn't look much like a church to me, being a rather arty combination of brick, redwood and concrete, but what do I know about churches, especially contemporary Catholic ones. It did however have a cross, a very large one, replacing the traditional steeple.