Her name, according to one of those little wood-and-brass identifiers, was Teresa Melendez. She was young and dark and buxom and ripe-looking, the kind of woman who would weigh two hundred pounds someday if she was not careful about her diet. She said, “What can I do for you?” in a bored monotone with not too much accent. This was the first time I’d been here, but Eberhardt had paid a couple of previous visits; if she recognized him, she gave no indication of it.
“We’d like to see Thomas Lujack,” I said.
“He’s not here.”
“Has he been in today?”
“No.”
“How about Coleman Lujack?”
“You have an appointment?”
“I think he’ll see us without one.”
I gave her one of the agency cards with both Eberhardt’s and my name on it. Ms. Melendez didn’t even glance at it. She put her back to us and went away through a doorway, not hurrying, showing off her hips under a tight leather skirt. Eberhardt watched with considerable interest, until I said, “And you engaged to be married soon, you old lecher.” Then he scowled and looked at a spot on the wall, pretending he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Ms. Melendez came back pretty soon and said that Mr. Lujack would be right out, why didn’t we have a seat. So we each had a seat. The chairs were as uncomfortable as they looked. “Right out” translated to five minutes; then the near inner door opened and Coleman Lujack favored us with his presence.
He was not much to look at-a drab, rabbity version of his brother, who by most standards qualified as dapper and handsome. Coleman was in his early forties, a couple of years older than Thomas; slight of build, sparse of hair the noncolor of lint. His brown suit didn’t quite fit him properly, his blue shirt was wrinkled, and the knot in his tie was crooked. If he’d had ink-stained fingers, you would have sworn he was a minor company clerk.
He greeted us diffidently, put dampness on my hand when he shook it, and ushered us inside to his private office. It was small and windowless, and as disheveled as he was. Judging from a couple of sporty prints on the walls, and a carved and painted mallard decoy on one corner of his desk, shooting ducks was what he liked to do in his spare time. Trying to shoot ducks, anyway. As nervous as he was, I would have put my money on the ducks. I would also have been afraid to hunker down in a blind with him and a loaded shotgun.
Coleman removed catalogs from one of the two visitors’ chairs, mates of the ones out front, and plunked them down on top of a boxy piece of furniture that pretended to be a solid-block table but was actually a common variety of floor safe. He said, “Sit down, sit down,” and then went behind his desk and did the same himself. He lit a cigarette before he said, “Why are you both here? You find out something to help clear Tom?”
I said, “No, not yet.”
He waited for me to go on, and when I didn’t he asked in his nervous way, “Well, then? What can I do for you?”
“Your brother didn’t come in today. Why?”
“He had an outside appointment.”
“Who with?”
“One of our suppliers in Emeryville.”
“What time was the appointment?”
“Eleven this morning, with lunch afterward.”
“You talk to him today?”
“No, not since last night. Why are you-”
“You saw him last night, after work?”
“At my home, yes.”
“Social occasion?”
“We had business matters to go over.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Around seven-I don’t remember exactly.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Until nine.”
“You’re sure it was nine? Not eight or eight thirty?”
“It was nine. He mentioned the time, said he’d better be getting home. He called Eileen to tell her he was on his way.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Working with us, you mean? No. But my wife was home.”
“Did she see your brother? Can she verify that he didn’t leave until nine?”
“Yes, sure,” Coleman said, frowning. A long ash broke loose from his cigarette and fragmented on the desk; he brushed it off agitatedly. “Why are you asking so many questions? Has something happened?”
“Well, for one thing,” Eberhardt said, “Nick Pendarves was almost run down and killed last night. Outside the bar he frequents. He says your brother was driving the car.”
Coleman gaped at him. “You … are you serious?”
“Don’t we look serious, Mr. Lujack?”
“But my God! You can’t believe that Tom …”
“Not if he was with you at nine o’clock.”
“He was. I told you he was. Pendarves didn’t tell the police Tom tried to kill him …?”
“Not as far as we know,” I said. “What he did do was make some veiled threats. I was there; I heard him.”
“Threats? What kind of threats?”
“The nonspecific kind.”
“Christ. He wouldn’t do anything violent, would he?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Tom … does he know about this?”
“I tried to call him last night. From what you tell us, he was at your home. I told his attorney about it this morning.”
Coleman shook his head. “You’re sure Pendarves is telling the truth? He really was almost run down?”
“Yes.”
“Does he claim he actually saw the driver of the car? If he does, then it proves he’s an unreliable witness-”
“He doesn’t. He’s assuming it was Thomas.”
“The same sort of assumption he made three weeks ago,” Coleman said bitterly. “Damn the man. Damn him.”
Eberhardt said, “That’s not the only reason we’re here, Mr. Lujack. There’s another little matter we’re interested in.”
“I don’t … what matter?”
“Illegal aliens.”
There was a silence. From the factory came the steady hum and whine of machinery, a voice yelling something in Spanish; in here, the only sound was the quickened rasp of Coleman’s breathing. He had quit looking at Eberhardt and me. His eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he removed another cigarette from the pack, lit it from the butt of the one he had burning. The office was already thick with smoke, and what he added to it now made me cough. I swatted at a drift of the pale death, sent some of it back his way.
“Well, Mr. Lujack?”
“What about illegal aliens?” he said to his hands.
“You or your brother should have told us you were employing them.”
“Why? It has nothing to do with your investigation.”
“Maybe it does,” I said. “It’s a can of worms anyway- one Pendarves might just open up on you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Something he said last night. He knows you’ve got a factory full of undocumented workers, and he’s got a mad-on against your brother. He might decide to blow the whistle to the INS.”
“Christ! As if Tom and I don’t have enough problems …”
Eberhardt said, “Nobody forced you to hire illegals.”
Coleman spread his hands defensively. “A lot of small businessmen do it these days. It’s a matter of economics-”
“It’s also against the law.”
“I know that. But companies like ours have to cut costs to stay in business. Our profit margin-”
“We’re not interested in your profit margin or your excuses,” Eberhardt said. “All we’re interested in is how it affects the job we were hired to do. Somebody killed Frank Hanauer, and that somebody had to have a reason.”
“It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with our hiring practices.”
“No? What makes you so sure?”
“It just couldn’t, that’s all.”
“Did Hanauer approve of employing illegals?”
“Of course he approved.”
“No trouble between him and your brother about it?”
“No. None.”
“Trouble between Hanauer and an illegal?”