The Driver

“I think her disappearance might be co

“You think the Governor has something to do with that?” Crawford managed to splutter.

“I didn’t say that. But he might know something that could help find her, one way or another.”

Crawford felt like he was losing control of the conversation, and, beyond that, his tenuous grip on the whole situation. “That is all speculation,” he protested. “Dangerous speculation with no basis in fact. And it has nothing to do with the Governor.”

“Of course it does, Arlen! I was seeing her and then she disappears. Maybe something has happened to her. Of course it’s relevant. At the very least, I need to speak to the police. Maybe I can help.”

Smith pressed. “You’ve no idea what happened?”

“Of course he doesn’t know!”

Smith ignored him; he moved around slightly so that he was facing away from him, placing his shoulder between himself and Robinson so that Crawford was temporarily boxed out of the conversation. “If there’s anything you can tell me, sir, I would appreciate it.”

“I can’t think of anything. Really — I can’t.”

Crawford pressed himself back into the conversation. “What are you going to do?” he asked him.

“That depends. You need to speak to the police. I think you should do it right away. I’m not an expert at these things — crisis management, I suppose you’d call it — but it would probably be best for you and your campaign if you’re seen to be volunteering information. Maybe they can keep it confidential, I don’t know. But you have to speak to them. I’ll wait until tomorrow and then I’ll tell them what I know.”

“We’ll tell them,” Robinson said. “Right away. Thank you for speaking to me, Mr. Smith. I really do appreciate it.”

The Governor had a dazed look on his face. He shook the man’s hand, an automatic reaction after these long months of campaigning, and made his way out of the kitchen. Crawford turned to follow, then paused, turning halfway back again, wanting to say something to the man, something that might make the problem go away, but he didn’t look like the kind of person who could be intimidated or bought off or deflected from his course in any way whatsoever. His posture was loose and easy and he returned Crawford’s angry stare with implacable cool. It was u

Crawford turned back to the door again and hurried after the Governor.

He was waiting for him in the service corridor.

“We need to think about this, sir.”

“What’s there to think about? It’s obvious what we have to do.”

“We mustn’t act hastily. Everything is at stake.”

“I have to speak to the police.”

“That’s a bad idea. A terrible idea.”

“No, Arlen. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Jack, please — this doesn’t have to be a threat. All he has is what Efron told him.”

“But it’s true.”

“All he can say is that you were at the same party as she was.”

“And I was seeing her.”

“No-one can prove that.”

“It doesn’t matter if they can or they can’t. She’s missing. Those girls have turned up not five miles from there. Maybe this is co

“No, I don’t. But if you are determined, then, alright, fine — but let me speak to them.”

“No,” he said. “It has to be me.”

38

Milton got into his car and drove. He wasn’t sure how to assess the meeting. Had he scared Robinson enough? He was confident that he had. The Governor had gotten the message but it was obvious that Crawford held significant influence over him. There was a base cu

He checked his watch: six. He was late for his next appointment. He drove quickly across town to Pacific Heights and parked in a lot near to the Hotel Drisco. It was a boutique place, obviously expensive, everything understated and minimal. Milton climbed the steps to the smart lobby, all oak panelling and thick carpet, a little out of place in his scruffy jeans, dirty shirt and scuffed boots. The doorman gave him a disapproving look but Milton stared him down, daring him to say anything, then walked past him and into the bar.

Beau was sitting at a table beneath an ornate light fixture, a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle spread out on the table before him. His glass was empty and so Milton diverted to the bar, paid for a beer and an orange juice and ferried them across.

“Evening,” Milton said, sitting down.

“Evening, English.”

Milton pushed the beer across the table.

Beau thanked him and drank down the first quarter of the glass. “That name you got from the Lucianos — you do what you needed to do?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And thanks for your help.”

“I should know better than to ask what it was all for?”

“Probably best.”

“You’re a secretive fella, ain’t you?”

Beau folded the paper but not before Milton saw the news on the front page: an article on the bodies that had been dug up on the Headland. He said nothing and watched as Beau drank off another measure of the beer. “How long are you here for?” he asked him.

“Couple days. I’ve got some work to attend to.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not particularly. I ever tell you about my other business?”

“I don’t think we ever had the chance.”

Beau put the glass on the table. “I’m a bail bondsman — well, least I used to be. You have them in England?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Guess the whole thing is a little Wild West. I got into it when I got out of the Border Patrol. Probably why I used to like it so much. I don’t do so much of that no more though but it’s still my good name above the door, still my reputation on the line. An old friend of mine who runs the show while I’m away got shot trying to bring a fellow back to San Diego to answer his obligations. This fellow’s got family up here and the word is that he’s hiding out with them. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, he’s coming back down south with me. You calling was good timing — I was going to have to come up here anyways. Two birds with one stone. Now I’m going to have a look and see if I can find him.”

Milton sipped his orange juice. Time to change the subject. “So — did you speak to the Italians?”

“About the other thing? The loan shark? I did.”

“And?”

“They did a little looking into it. Like you thought — your Mr. Ramirez has been ru

“Unhappy enough to do something about it?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Let’s call it a hostile takeover. You just need to tell me where he’s at and I’ll see that it gets sorted.”

“I can do that. What about my friend?”

“They’ll wipe out the debt.”

“How much do they want for it?”

Beau held up his hands. “No charge. They’ll be taking over his book — that’s worth plenty to them. His debt can be your finder’s fee. They’ll give it to you.”

Milton took his orange juice and touched it against the side of Beau’s beer. “Thanks, Beau,” he said. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, well, about that. There’s maybe something we can do to square that away. This fellow I’ve come to take back down to San Diego, there’s no way he’s going to play nice. Some of the ru