Potshot

"How you doing tonight?" he said.

I nodded slightly. I'd seen these guys before. Maybe not these particular ones, but enough guys just like them so that I was pretty sure what they were. I could feel Susan stiffen slightly beside me. The small guy in the flowered shirt moved a little to my left, balancing off the surfer, who was a little to my right. The valets apparently knew these guys, too. They had disappeared.

"You Spenser?"

I hooded my eyes and spoke through my teeth.

"Who wants to know?" I said.

Beside me Susan made a sound that was a little like a snort, but more elegant.

"She thinks I lack originality," I said to the surfer.

"Very, fu

"I think this guy could get very dead," the little sharp guy said in a flat voice.

"Life on the edge," I said. "You guys want something or is this a cabaret act?"

"We want to know your interest in the Buckmans."

"Why?"

"Fuck why. Answer what I ask you or we'll mess you up bad. The broad too."

I looked at Susan. "Broad?" I said.

The surfer was right up against me, which was a mistake. Still looking at Susan, I put my knee hard into the surfer's groin. He gasped and doubled over and I shoved him back into Tino. Tino almost fell, but he didn't. He steadied himself and sort of shucked the surfer off of him, and put his hand toward his hip.

"No," I said.

I had my gun out and steady on his navel. He stopped, his hand half under his flowered shirt. The surfer was squatting on the ground, holding his crotch and rocking gently. I could hear him breathing in gasps. Beside me, Susan's breath was moving in and out a little more quickly than normal. But I'd heard it move faster.

"Turn around," I said.

Tino turned. I stepped forward and took the handgun off his hip and dropped it into the side pocket of my J. Press blue blazer. It felt heavy in there. I didn't want the jacket to sag, but it was one of the hazards of crime fighting.

"Get the blond bomber on his feet and into your car and out of my sight," I said to Tino. "Nothing fancy. I would be pleased to shoot you and watch you die."

Tino didn't look scared. But he didn't look stupid either. He helped the surfer to his feet and into the car that still stood, valet-less, at the curb. He gave me a very sharp look as he went around to get in on the driver's side.

"This ain't over," he said.

"It is for the moment," I said.

Tino got in, slammed the door, put the car in gear, and floored it away from the curb, leaving the smell of burnt rubber to linger after the car was gone. I put my gun away. We looked at each other.

"You do know how to show a girl a good time," Susan said.

"I do," I said.

The valet drove up and parked my car at the curb. He got out and held the door for Susan. A second valet hustled up and held the door for me. I gave him a ten-spot and got in the car.

"Have a nice night," the valet said.

"You too," I said.

And we drove off.

Chapter 28

SUSAN AND I didn't talk much on the way back to Beverly Hills. But when we went to bed we made love with unusual intensity.

There's a positive side to everything.

In the morning after breakfast, Susan went to the health club and I went down to the Parker Center, where Samuelson introduced me to an ID technician who showed me mug shots for maybe four hours. I never found Tino, but I found the surfer. His name was Jerome Jefferson and he'd been arrested six times for assault. One conviction. No time. They gave me his last address, which was three years old. I pocketed it for later.

"Never heard of him," Samuelson said when I went back to his office, "which means only that he hasn't done anything bad enough to get our attention."

"Or you haven't caught him at it," I said.

Samuelson shrugged.

"Six assaults? Whatever he is, he's a gofer," Samuelson said.

"How about OCU?" I said. "This wasn't his own idea. Somebody sent him."

"I'll call over there," Samuelson said. "Sheriff's department, too."

"If they don't know Jefferson," I said, "try Tino. My guess is that Jefferson's the slugger and Tino's the shooter."

"Or at least that's the way it was supposed to work out."

"The way it was supposed to work out, I was supposed to get faint with fear and go right home," I said. "And never make audible mention of Steve or Mary Lou Buckman again."

"Audible mention," Samuelson said.

"I'm sleeping with a Ph.D.," I said.

"You might want to talk to your friend del Rio again," Samuelson said.

"Again?" I said. "You're keeping track of me?"

"We're keeping track of del Rio," Samuelson said.

"He's not exactly my friend," I said.

"Well he must like you. If he didn't, I'd be looking into your death."

"Or his," I said.

Back in my rental car, I picked up Sunset down from the Civic Center, turned up the air-conditioning, and headed west. Jerome Jefferson's last known residence was a three-story white stucco apartment building on Las Palmas just below Fountain. It had the sort of slick, sleazy look that only Los Angeles has fully mastered, with tiny useless balconies of green iron outside the windows.

There was no listing for Jerome Jefferson at the entry. I rang the bell marked SUPER. And after my third ring, he woke up from his nap and slouched to the door in his slippers. He was wearing an oldfashioned undershirt and plaid knee-length shorts. He had a two-day stubble, mostly gray. His long, limp hair was mostly gray, and showed no sign of shower or shampoo.

"No vacancy," he said.

"I don't see why," I said.

"Huh?"

"Implied criticism," I said. "I'm looking for a guy named Jerome Jefferson. Big guy, blond hair. Looks like a boozer."

"He ain't here," the Super said, "and he ain't coming back. The management company evicted him."

"Rent?"

"Yeah. Fucker never paid. Company kept telling me to talk with him. You know him?"

"I've met him," I said.

"Then you know what'd be like to try and talk with him. They don't pay me enough for me to get my teeth kicked in."

"You know where he went?" I said.

"Heard he moved in with some broad he was scoring in West Hollywood."

"Address?"

"Got no idea," the super said. "Maybe they know at the company, they been trying to get the rent he owes them."

There was a sign beside the entry that read MANAGED BY SOUTHLAND PROPERTIES, with an address in Century City.

"You know his friend?" I said. "Smaller guy. Thin. Big, sharp beak."

The super shook his head.

"I hope you find the bastard. You look like you might give him trouble."

"I might," I said.

"You got the build for it anyway."

"Thanks for the encouragement," I said.

He nodded blankly and closed the door and shuffled off back to his nap.

Century City is a cluster of expensive high-rises just below the Los Angeles Country Club that occupies a former movie backlot between Santa Monica and Olympic. There was a big hotel there, and a shopping mall and a theater and a supermarket and the offices of anyone on the west side that wanted a good address. Southland Properties was on the fifteenth floor of a building on Constellation Avenue, with a nice view of the Century Plaza Hotel. I was passed along the chain of command at Southland until I was in the office of their financial compliance manager, whose name, according to the nameplate on his desk, was Karl Adams.