R Is for Ricochet Page 9

  "Your father tells me Beck's married. Doesn't his wife figure into the equation somewhere?"

  "That's a marriage of convenience. They haven't been intimate for years."

  "Oh, come on. Every married guy says that."

  "I know, but in his case, it's true."

  "What a crock of shit. You think he'll leave her for you? It doesn't work that way."

  "Wrong. You are so wrong," she said. "He has it all set up."

  "Like what?"

  "This is all part of his game plan, but he has to bide his time. If she finds out about me, she'll take him for everything."

  "I know I would."

  "He told me last night he's close to pulling it off."

  "Pulling what off?"

  I got the double whammy - the big imploring eyes, plus the arm clutch denoting her earnest intent. "Promise you won't tell."

  "I can't promise you that! What if he's planning to rob a bank?"

  "Don't be dumb. He's getting his finances in shape. Once he has his assets under wraps, he'll broach the subject of divorce. By then, it'll be a done deal and what's she going to do? She'll just have to face facts and accept reality."

  "Would you listen to yourself? You're telling me he's worked out a way to cheat his wife. What kind of man is he? First he runs around on her and then he rips her off? Oh wait. Skip that. Just occurred to me that you ripped him off first so maybe you're the perfect pair."

  "You don't even know what love is. I bet you've never been in love in your life."

  "Don't change the subject."

  "Well, it's true, isn't it?"

  I rolled my eyes, shaking my head in despair. "You are such a nincompoop."

  "So what? It's not hurting anyone."

  "Oh, right. What about his wife?"

  "She'll come around eventually, once it's out in the open."

  "Are there any kids?"

  "She never wanted kids."

  "That's a blessing at any rate. Look, babe. I know where you're coming from. I was once involved with a married man myself. At the time they were separated, but they were married all the same. And you know what I learned? You have no idea what goes on between a husband and wife. I don't care how he represents the relationship, you shouldn't tread on sacred turf. It's the same as walking on hot coals. Doesn't matter how much faith you have, your feet are going to bum."

  "Tough. It's too late. It's like playing craps. Once the dice leave your hand, you can't do anything but watch."

  "At least break it off until he's free," I said.

  "I can't. I love him. He's everything to me."

  "Oh shit, Reba. Go see a shrink and get your head on straight."

  I watched her face shut down. She turned abruptly and started walking away, addressing her comments to me over her shoulder as the gap between us widened. "You don't have a clue what you're talking about. You only met the man once so you can keep your friggin' opinions to yourself. It's none of your business and it's none of Pop's." She walked on, heading toward the parking lot. I was left with no choice but to trot along behind.

  We barely spoke during the drive to her father's house. By the time I dropped her off, I figured that was the end of the line for me. She was out of prison. She was home. She had her driver's license back and a closet full of clothes. Nothing she'd done - namely, screwing - was in violation of her parole so her actions and behavior were no concern of mine.

  She got out of the car and retrieved her packages from the backseat. "I know you mean well and I appreciate your concern, but I've paid for my sins and now my life belongs to me. If I make bad choices, it's my tough luck. It has nothing to do with you."

  "Okay by me. Have a good life," I said.

  She closed the car door. She paused and leaned in the window briefly. I thought she meant to say more, but she decided to let it ride. I watched her until the front door closed behind her and then I headed r for the office. Once there, I typed up an invoice, billing Nord Lafferty the five hundred dollars a day for the two days I'd worked. I put the bill in an envelope, which I sealed and addressed. On the way home, I drove past the post office, where I slowed to a stop and dropped it in the box at the curb.

  9

  For supper, I fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich slathered with mayo and heavy on the salt, vowing in a vague and insincere way to rectify my diet, which is woefully short of fruits, vegetables, fiber, grain, and nutrition of any sort. I'd intended to make an early night of it, but by seven I was feeling restless for reasons I couldn't name. I decided on a quick trip to Rosie's, not so much for the bad wine as a change of scene.

  To my surprise, the first person I saw was Henry's older brother Lewis, who lives in Michigan. He stood behind the bar with his suit jacket off, his arms bare to his elbows and plunged in soapy water while he washed assorted glasses and beer mugs. I crossed to the bar, saying, "Well, this is a surprise. Where did you come from?"

  He looked up with a smile. "I flew in this afternoon. William picked me up at the airport and put me straight to work."

  "What brings you to town?"

  "Nothing in particular. I needed a change. I came up with the plan on the spur of the moment. Charlie was busy and Nell wasn't in the mood, so I booked a seat and made the trip by myself. Travel's invigorating. I'm full of beans," he said.

  "Well, good for you. That's great. How long will you be here?"

  "Until Sunday. William and Rosie are putting me up. That's why he's teaching me to tend bar, so I can earn my keep."

  "Does Henry know you're here?"

  "Not yet, but I'll call him as soon as William lets me take a break."

  He rinsed the last of the beer mugs and set it on a rack to drain, then dried his hands on the white towel he'd tucked in his waist. He put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me and shifted into bartender mode. "What are you drinking? If memory serves, you prefer Chardonnay."

  "Better make that a Coke. Rosie's changed 'vintners,' though the term hardly applies. The wine she's serving has all the subtlety of solvent."

  He hosed me a Coke and placed it in front of me. For a gentleman of eighty-nine, he was the picture of efficiency, his manner brisk and relaxed. Watching him, you'd have thought he'd been tending bar all his life.

  "Thanks."

  "You're entirely welcome. My treat."

  "Well, aren't you nice! I appreciate that."

  I watched him amble toward the far end of the bar to wait on somebody else. What was going on? I'd never known Lewis ,to fly out unannounced. Had William put him up to it? That seemed like a bad idea. I turned and glanced over my shoulder at the smattering of patrons. My favorite booth was occupied, but there were numerous other seats available. I carried my Coke and crossed to a table near the entrance. Fresh air wafted in with each opening and closing of the door, thus dispelling some of the accumulated cigarette smoke, which lay on the air like fog. Even so, I knew I'd get home smelling like soot and have to hang my clothes on the shower rod overnight to eliminate the stink. My hair was doubtless already reeking, though I wear it too short to hold a strand to my nose. Smokers listen to these prissy-ass complaints as though the charges were trumped up simply to annoy and offend.

  I was scarcely settled when I sensed the welcomed shift in air current that signaled someone entering the place. Cheney Phillips stood in the doorway. I felt one of those lurches you experience on a plane that leaves you wondering if the flight will be the last you take. I watched him scan the assembled patrons, apparently looking for someone who hadn't yet arrived. His clothing was the usual mix of expensive fabrics and fine tailoring. He favored crisp white dress shirts or soft-collared silk in shades of cream or buttermilk. On occasion, he shifted to a tone-on-tone, usually in dark hues that lent him a faintly sinister air. Tonight, he wore a cinnamon sueded silk sport coat over a rust-colored cashmere turtleneck. I lifted my hand in greeting, wondering if the sweater was as soft as it looked. He sauntered over to my table and pulled out a chair. "Hey, how's by you? Min
d if I sit?"

  I gestured assent. "Our paths cross again. I haven't seen you for months and now I've run into you three times in the past four days."

  "Not entirely accidental." He pointed to my glass. "What the hell is that?"

  "Coke. A soft drink. It's been around for years."

  "You need something stronger. We have to talk." Without waiting for my response, he caught Lewis's eye and gestured, indicating the need for service.

  I turned in time to see Lewis hustle out from behind the bar and head toward our table. "Yes, sir."

  "Two vodka martinis, straight up. Stoli if you have it, Absolut if not. And a side of olives." Glancing at me, he said, "You want ice water?"

  "Oh, why not?" I said, ever the bon vivant. "This is Lewis Pitts, my landlord's brother. You've met Henry, haven't you?"

  "Of course. Cheney Phillips," he said. He rose to his feet and shook hands with Lewis, who said a few pleased-to-meet-you-type things with the usual pleasantries thrown in. I found myself noting the texture of Cheney's hair, springy dark brown curls that looked as soft as a poodle's coat. I'm not a dog lover at heart. Doggies tend to bark their bad breath in my face, preparatory to jumping up and parking their cumbersome paws on my chest. Despite numerous sharp commands, most dogs behave any way they please. There's the occasional exception. The week before, in a rare moment of goodwill, I'd stopped to chat with a woman who was walking a breed I'd never seen before. She introduced me to Chandler, a Portuguese water dog who sat on command and gravely offered to shake hands. The dog was quiet and well mannered with a coat so curly and soft I could hardly keep my hands to myself. Why was I thinking about that now? Having missed the bulk of the conversation, I tuned in as Lewis was saying, "Be right back." It was like waking up in the middle of a TV movie. I had no clear idea what was going on.

  As soon as he was gone, I turned to Cheney. "I take it you're here to meet someone."

  His attention was focused on faces halfway across the room, his gaze shifting at precise intervals like a corner-mounted camera. He'd been a vice cop for years and he had a letch for hookers and dope dealers the way some guys are fixated on the size of a woman's boobs. His eyes flicked to mine. "Actually, I came in looking for you. I stopped by your apartment and when I didn't find you there, I figured you'd be here."

  "I didn't realize I was so predictable."

  "Your best trait," he said. His gaze caught on mine again and the effect was unnerving. I glanced at the bar, the front door, anywhere but him. Where was Lewis and what was taking him so long?

  Cheney said, "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

  "Sure."

  "We have an interest in common."

  "Oh, really. And what would that be?"

  "Reba Lafferty."

  The answer was unexpected and I could feel my head tilt with curiosity. "What's your connection to her?"

  "That's why I went to see Priscilla Holloway. I heard someone was driving down to CIW to bring Reba back. I didn't know it was you until I saw you that day."

  Cheney glanced up at Lewis, who'd appeared with our martinis on a tray. He set them down with great care, watching the liquid tremble. The stemware was so cold I could see ice flakes sliding along the outer surface of the glass. The vodka, just out of the freezer, looked oily in the light. I hadn't drunk a martini in ages and I remembered the sharp, nearly chemical taste.

  I can never decide what makes Cheney's face so appealing - de mouth, dark brows, eyes as brown as old pennies. His hands are big and it looks like he busted his knuckles pounding someone in the chops. I studied his features and then caught myself, thinking 1 should slap my own face. I'd just lectured Reba on the folly of a dalliance with a married man and here I was idly entertaining the very thought myself.

  Cheney said, "Thanks, Lewis. Can you run a tab for us?"

  "Of course. Just let me know if you need anything else."

  Once he was gone, Cheney lifted his glass and tapped its edge against mine. "Cheers."

  I took a sip of my drink. The vodka was smooth, forming a column of heat that sank down my spinal cord and into my shoes. "I hope you're not saying she's in trouble."

  "I'd say she's teetering on the brink."

  "Oh, no."

  "How well do you know her?"

  "You can make that past tense. I did the job I was hired for and now I've moved on."

  "As of when?"

  "We parted company this afternoon. What's she done?"

  "Nothing so far, but she's close."

  "So you said. Meaning what?"

  "She's been seeing Alan Beckwith, the guy you met in here Monday night."

  "I know when I met the guy, but what's that to you?" I could hear hostility creep into my tone at the implications of what he'd said. Someone was apparently watching me the same night I was watching Reba carry on with Beck.

  "Don't be crabby."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out that way." I took a deep breath, willing myself into a more sanguine place. I said, "I don't understand where you fit in. And don't make me guess. I really hate that shit."

  Cheney smiled. "I'm talking to some guys who have an interest in him. Her, too, by association. You have to understand this is all highly confidential."

  "I'm crossing my heart," I said, and made an X on my chest.

  "You know anything about Beck?"

  "I'm an innocent. Well, wait. That's not entirely true. I know his father owned the Clements, so I'm assuming the man was a major player in his day."

  "The best. Alan Beckwith Senior made a shitload of money in a number of franchises, mostly real estate. Junior's been successful, but he's worked all his life in the shadow of his dad. Beck never measured up. From what I've heard, it's not like his dad made judgments about him, but Beck was conscious of the gap in their accomplishments. His old man went to Harvard and graduated fifth in his class. Beck's academic career was undistinguished. His college was good, but strictly second tier. He ended up with an MBA, but gradewise, he wasn't even in the top twenty-fifth percentile. That's just how it went. His achievements were modest compared to his dad's and I guess the older he got the worse he felt. He's the kind of guy who swore he'd be a multimillionaire by the time he was forty. At thirty, he was stalled out and getting desperate to make good. You know the saying 'Money's just a way of keeping score'? Well, Beck took that to heart. Five, six years back, he decided his prime goal was to outearn his dad. Since he couldn't manage it playing straight, he took a left-hand turn. He realized he could make a lot more money if he offered his services to people who needed to have theirs washed."

  "Money laundering?"

  "Right. Turns out Beck has an aptitude for financial shenanigans. Since he deals in high-end real estate, the basic infrastructure was already in place. There are half a dozen ways to fiddle funds when you buy and sell property, but the mechanism's slow and there's too much paperwork. With money laundering, you want to minimize the paper trail and put as many fire walls as possible between you and the source. His early efforts were clumsy, but he's getting better at this stuff. Now he's set up an offshore company - Panamanian dummy corp called Clements Unlimited. Places like Panama, you can hide a lot of dough because the bank secrecy laws have been tight there since day one. 1941, they took their cue from the Swiss and went to coded accounts. Unfortunately for the bad guys, the numbered account isn't what it once was. Swiss banks don't offer the same level of protection, because they've taken so much flak for providing cover for thugs. They've finally recognized the necessity for getting along in the international banking community and that's motivated their signing treaties with a host of other countries. In effect, they've agreed to cooperate where there's proof of criminal activity. Panama isn't as eager to please. They've got lawyers who create companies in bulk and sell them off to customers who want to sidestep the IRS."

  "You're talking about shell corporations, right?"

  He nodded. "You can create a sham company according to your specifications or yo
u can buy one ready-made. Once you have a shell in place, you funnel money from the U.S. by way of the shell to any financial haven you choose. Or you can set up an offshore trust. Or you do what Beck did, which was to buy himself a bank-in-a-box and start accepting deposits."

  "From whom?"

  "He makes a point not to inquire too closely, but his primary client is a big-time Los Angeles drug dealer, ostensibly doing business in scrap gold. Beck also dry-cleans money for a major pornography mill and a syndicate that runs a network of hookers and whorehouses down in San Diego County. Guys in the sin trades accumulate millions in cash and what can they do with it? Live lavishly and your neighbors will start to wonder about the source of your wealth. So will the IRS, the DEA, and half a dozen other government agencies. There's never a shortage of folks who need to run dirty money through the sluice and have it come up clean. The neat thing from Beck's perspective is that, until recently, what he's doing wasn't illegal in and of itself."