“At India Basin? Yes.”
“And you know everything?”
“I know about the fencing operation. And the big gin heist. And that this store is a drop for goods on their way to the Blind Center. By the way, do you know Clemente has skipped town?”
“A business trip to Los Angeles is not what you call ‘skipping town.’”
“A hastily manufactured trip, wasn’t it? What’s he doing there? Waiting to see if the whole operation falls apart? If it doesn’t, he returns quietly. If it does, he runs. The Mexican border is an easy two hours drive.”
The grocer shook his head stubbornly. “You do not understand.”
“I understand more than you think. For example, I understand there are other drops, at other grocery stores in the neighborhood.”
He began to pace up and down the aisle. “What is it you want from me? What is it?”
“Just some straight answers, for a change. How do you coordinate all those drops so Neverman knows when to pick up the merchandise?”
“I can see you will not give up.” He plucked a loaf of soft white bread from a shelf, and his slender fingers squeezed it rhythmically.
“No, I won’t give up. The fencing operation has fallen apart. The FBI is probably at India Basin now. You may as well tell me about it.” As I spoke, I stared in fascination at Mr. Moe’s hands. They squeezed the bread until it hung limp, doubled over.
The grocer’s eyes followed mine to the strangled loaf. “What am I doing?” he exclaimed. He hurled the bread back on the shelf and flung his arms wide above his head. “What am I doing?” He tried to push past me, but I blocked him.
“No, Mr. Moe,” I said. “You’re not going near the cash register.”
“What is wrong? Why not?”
“Because you have a gun stashed behind that counter. All the local grocers do.” I brought out my own, holding it at waist level, where it couldn’t be seen from outside the store.
Mr. Moe stared at the weapon. His tongue darted over his dry lips.
I said, “Lock the door, pull the shades, and we’ll talk.”
He did as I told him. I motioned him over against the freezers. “Now tell me how you coordinated the pickups from the drops.”
The grocer folded his arms over his chest. “The gun is not necessary. I will tell you. It does not matter now.”
“I feel better with the gun between us. Talk.”
“Sebastian coordinated the pickups.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, that was his real job for the Center. When he came in to restock the racks, the grocers would tell him if there was merchandise to be picked up. When he returned to the Center, he would relay this information to Neverman. Sebastian has an excellent memory — I believe he perfected it by memorizing racing forms before he went blind.”
“And Gus — what was his part?”
The grocer shrugged. “He led Sebastian.”
It was probably a larger role than that. “All right. And for acting as your courier, Clemente allowed Sebastian to stay on at the Blind Center. And gave him so little money he was forced to steal already stolen goods and peddle them on the side.”
Mr. Moe’s eyes widened indignantly. “That is not so! Sebastian had fifty thousand dollars invested in the operation. We all had some money tied up in it.”
“But not as much as Sebastian.”
He was silent.
I thought of Sebastian’s settlement from Standard Oil. He’d said he lost it in a bad investment. The fencing operation was the worst he could have chosen. “Tell me how this all came about.”
Mr. Moe hesitated, staring at my gun. “When Sebastian was first referred to the Center, Clemente took a liking to him. They held long conversations while Clemente taught him to play chess by touch. Finally, Clemente announced he wanted to take Sebastian into our scheme. He felt it wise to have a patient involved, who could report if any of the other patients became suspicious. And, of course, Sebastian had fifty thousand dollars that we could use to finance our purchases.”
“So Sebastian gave Clemente his money.”
“Yes.”
“And, in turn, received a share of the profits.”
Mr. Moe was silent again.
“Oh, so he didn’t receive any money. That was why he stole. He’d invested all he had, and you people used it as capital and didn’t return a cent.”
“I admit it was not fair. But he did receive food and shelter. And we paid him back.”
“When?”
“Today.”
I recalled Clemente and Neverman discussing paying back a loan. “Why did you people suddenly decide to return his investment?”
“Sebastian demanded it, as soon as he heard of the gin purchase. He said he would leave us alone if he got it, but otherwise he would go to the police. We wanted him to leave — his actions lately had been strange. He took things, as you said. He was a risk we could not afford.”
A lot of people had threatened to go to the police in the last few days. Sebastian was lucky he hadn’t ended up dead. I said, “So Clemente paid Sebastian off.”
“This morning he gave him a cashier’s check for the full amount. That is why Clemente had to fly to Los Angeles: to make arrangements for the disposal of the gin. You see, to pay Sebastian, he had to borrow from the Blind Center funds.”
Tampering with federal funds was no laughing matter. Clemente would want to replace the fifty thousand quickly.
“All right,” I said, “now I want to know how this whole thing got started. It can’t have been going on any longer than the Blind Center’s been here. How’d you get connected with these folks, Mr. Moe?”
His hooded eyes shifted away from me.
“How?”
“Before he went to prison, Neverman used to sell his overloads to me. Not very often, though. I was never a big dealer, and after he was arrested I became frightened and stopped altogether. Naturally we did no business when he returned. He could not find a job. No trucking firm would hire him.”
“But then the Blind Center relocated here, and Neverman renewed his acquaintance with his old counselor, Clemente. With your help, they developed their fencing scheme.”
“No, they came to me with the complete plan. I blame it all on Neverman. Herb Clemente is not a bad man. I do not think he intended to become so deeply involved. But after years in social service, a man becomes cynical and desperate. He does things he never dreamed he would and thinks nothing of it because he has seen much greater evil.”
It was probably true, but I ignored his amateur psychoanalysis. “Neverman put you in touch with Clemente, then. You and your grocer friends were to be a buffer between thieves and the Blind Center, so it wouldn’t get around that the Center was receiving.”
“It was best it not become commonly known.”
“That’s why you left Neverman outside when you contacted the people at India Basin last night.”
“Yes, but Neverman ruined that when he shouted and ran after you. They saw the truck and realized who they were dealing with.”
I nodded. “And the thieves will spill that to the Feds. It’s all over for you people. Now let’s get to those killings.”
Mr. Moe’s head jerked. Fear shone in his eyes. “I know nothing of those.”
“Don’t you? Didn’t Molly Antonio tell Clemente she knew he was fencing because she found evidence in an item Sebastian sold her? Didn’t Clemente tell you to kill her, that night when you supposedly went to deliver groceries?”
“No! He never said anything to me. I did not know she had accused him.” Mr. Moe’s eyes darted wildly to the gun and back to my face. “You must believe me! I went merely to deliver her food. Would I be so stupid as to leave the groceries there if I had killed her?”
Maybe, but I doubted it. “What about Neverman, then? I imagine Clemente can make him do anything he cares to.”