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Chapter 18
I drove over to my office. I left Reba in the car, the VW idling, while I ran in and grabbed the manila envelope from my desk drawer. In the car again, I passed her the envelope and watched her out of the corner of my eye as I circled the block and headed for Passages. She removed the photographs and studied them as though viewing vermin through a microscope. She put them back in the envelope without a word, her expression impossible to read.
I found what was possibly the last space in the underground parking garage, which stretched like a low-ceilinged gray cavern that ran the length of the mall. We hiked to the escalator and went up to level one, where all the shops were located. Manila envelope in hand, Reba walked two paces ahead of me, forcing me to trot to keep up with her. She didn't seem as hyper as she had been, and for that I was glad. "Where are we going?"
"Dale's."
"Why Dale's? That's a dive."
"Not true. It's a Santa Teresa landmark."
"So's the dump," I said.
Dale's was strictly a no-frills bar. People went there to drink, pure and simple. I could feel the now familiar conflict arise: should I be protective and suggest we go somewhere else, or keep my mouth shut and let her take responsibility for the choices she made? In this instance, self-interest prevailed. I wanted to meet Marty Blumberg.
We entered the place, pausing in the open doorway to get our bearings. I hadn't been in Dale's for years, but it looked much the same – narrow room with a bar ru
The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies' hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures – baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens – their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.
At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn't sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.
"So where is he?" I said, looking around the room.
"What's your hurry? He'll be here in a bit."
"I thought we were having di
"Well, they do. Seven-way chili." She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. "Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination."
"That's only six."
"You can have it plain."
"Oh."
The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of "It's All in the Game": "Many a tear has to fall…" I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.
A waitress appeared. Reba asked for iced tea and I ordered a beer. I'd have ordered iced tea myself, but only to demonstrate a virtue I didn't actually possess. In the face of her sobriety, I was acutely conscious of every sip I took. I was also worried the minute I turned my head, she'd snatch up my beer and suck half of it down.
As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said "Serves 40," which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. "You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck's participation," I said.
"Glad you asked. I didn't think you'd pursue the subject."
"Here I am," I said. "Care to fill me in?"
She paused to light a cigarette. "It's simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it'd be a Cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: 'Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.' The city pla
I waited for the rest.
"I can tell by the look on your face you're not getting it," she said.
"Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky."
"Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he's nice?"
I stared, feeling dense.
Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.
"Payoffs?"
"Exactly. That's where the money went – the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn't realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento – Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation – but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help."
"But that's political money laundering."
"Wow, you are quick," she said, rolling her eyes. "Isn't that why you're setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?"
"I wasn't sure how far you meant to go."
"Right to the bitter end."
"But when we first talked, didn't you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?"
"That's the story he gave me. I didn't figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I'm sure he's still fu
"I'm sorry. I know that's tough on you."
"Tough, but true," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction. "This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg," she said.