Potshot

Chollo turned back toward me.

"But I got something else," Bernard said.

Chollo waited. Loose in his chair. Peaceful.

"We ought to do what he says."

"Because?" Chollo asked.

"Because we said we would."

"And we ca

"Bernard J. Fortunato's word is good," he said.

All of us were quiet, staring at Bernard. Finally Tedy Sapp spoke.

"You're so fucking little," he said. "I didn't know you had a word."

"You got to keep your word more," Bernard said, "if you're small."

Chollo was looking past me, toward the road.

"Hello FedEx," he said.

A Federal Express truck pulled up in front of the house and the driver got out with an envelope.

"Mr. Spenser?" he said.

"Me," I said.

He handed me the letter. I signed his little Etch-A-Sketch, and he went to his truck and drove away. I opened the envelope. Inside was a thick sheaf of computer printout. I slipped it back in the envelope and looked around the porch.

"You guys come to any conclusions?" I said.

"Bobby Horse and I will stay," Chollo said.

"Me too," Tedy Sapp said.

"Vi

I looked around the porch. With the possible exception of Sapp, these were bad men who had done bad things.

"Okay," I said.

No one had anything else to say.

"Whyn't you read that list?" Hawk said.

Chapter 56

I READ THE transcripts first. There were three: one George, who seemed to be a drug dealer, one Henry, who sounded like a bookie, and one Lou (female) talking about water resources in a place called Potshot (no state mentioned). The entry was dated a month before she lured me. Some of it was the kind of trivial chatter that people have before they settle in. Then I came to it.

TANNENBAUM: Fix us a couple more drinks, will you baby?

LOU: I'd love to.

TANNENBAUM: Oh man, that hits the spot.

LOU: To you, Morrie.

TANNENBAUM: Preacher's fucking us. I think he knows about the water.

LOU: Steve told him.

TANNENBAUM: That fucking blow. He's like a loose fucking ca

LO U: I can fix it.

TANNENBAUM: How you going to fix it?

LOU: I know a person who will do it.

TANNENBAUM: I don't want you hiring nobody. Lotta deals go south 'cause some fucking hired guy can't keep his fucking mouth shut.

LOU: Person I'm thinking of will be fine. He'll do anything I say.

TANNENBAUM: You fucking him?

LOU: Just enough.

TANNENBAUM: To keep him under control?

LOU: Un-huh.

TANNENBAUM: That what you doing to me?

LOU: Nobody can keep you under control, Morrie.

(Sound of sexual activity.)

TANNENBAUM: Come on you little bitch. You know you want it.

LOU: Morrie, I'm not going to fuck you right here on the floor.

TANNENBAUM: You'd fuck me in the middle of the I-S freeway if you needed to.

LOU: Come on Morrie. Let's go to bed.

It was pretty clear that they were talking about Steve Buckman's impending murder, though no one quite said it. And the Feds were willing to let some guy named Steve get "fixed" rather than reveal their bug on Ta

I thought about Lou with Morris Ta

Then I wondered who the someone was that would do anything she told him. I knew of two guys in Potshot that she might control-Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker. Given what I was learning about Mary Lou, there might have been twenty others. Anyone who would bop Morris Ta

I went through the logs looking for familiar names. There were none. If anyone else from Potshot was talking to Morris Ta

Chapter 57

VICKI WAS DOING turquoise today. Turquoise sundress, and a turquoise headband restraining her dark hair. Her long fingernails were turquoise, and she wore a heavy turquoise and silver necklace with matching earrings.

"Mr. Ratliff isn't in," she said after she'd admired the way I walked to her reception desk.

"When do you expect him?"

"I don't know," she said. "He's… he hasn't been in all week."

"Have you talked with him?"

"I called his home. I was worried. All I got was his machine."

"On which you left a message?"

"Several," she said.

"And no call back?"

"No."

"You report him missing?"

"I called Chief Walker," she said. "He said that he was sure nothing untoward had happened."

"Untoward?"

"That's the word he used," Vicki said.

"I love a good vocabulary," I said. "Don't you?"

"Of course."

Walker's words must have comforted Vicki. She didn't seem consumed with worry. She was still looking at me like an appraiser. I wondered if the look were lustful. I sucked in my stomach.

"Give me his home address," I said. "I'll go check on him."

"I don't know if I should," Vicki said.

"Of course you should."

"You are a detective," she said.

"You bet I am."

She appraised me some more. It seemed a cool appraisal, but it might have masked lust. I smiled reassuringly. Big smile. Wide. Friendly. Honest. You can count on me. She smiled back, and wrote Ratliff's home address on the back of a business card and handed me the card. I must use that smile only for good.

Mark Ratliff's house was small and stuccoed and faux Spanish, with red tile on the roof. A BMW sports car was parked under a carport to the right of the house. Several days' worth of the Los Angeles Times were scattered near the front door. I looked at them. The earliest was last Tuesday; the most recent was this morning. I rang the bell. No one answered. I walked around the house. There was a small patio out back and a sliding door that opened onto it. The locks on the sliding doors often worked badly. I tried the door. It didn't open. I looked inside. The door was held in place by a short stick that prevented it from sliding. Sticks worked well. I walked around the house again. No alarm signs. No protected by stickers in the windows. I went back to the patio, took my gun out and broke the glass in the sliding door enough so I could reach in and remove the stick. Then I slid the door open and went in. It was cool. The air-conditioning made a quiet sound. Everything else was still. The house was empty. I would look carefully, but you almost always know when a house is empty as soon as you walk in.

The house was orderly but not anal. Beside a Barcalounger in the living room was a copy of the Los Angeles Times, dated last Monday. It was scattered on the floor, the way it would be if someone had been reading it. On the floor next to the right side of the Barcalounger, among the newspaper pages, was a squat glass with a half-inch of water in it. I picked it up and sniffed. Scotch maybe. The ice had melted.