“Since you got me all mixed up I’ll probably vote for Perot.”
“I’d rather not talk politics.”
Nell sat down next to him on the sofa, and said, “I’ll bet your sisters spoil you rotten. Want some of my ice cream?”
“Does this mean we’re … involved?”
She didn’t answer, but she put down the bowl and scooted closer.
“The thing that drove me wild was your broken nose,” he said. “It’s so sexy.”
“My most masculine feature,” she said.
“I told you I was probably gay …”
“Except for the sex part,” she said. “Right?”
“Riiiiiiight,” said Fin Finnegan.
Jules was tired, but quite satisfied with his day’s work. He felt he looked cool and collected in gabardine slacks and an oversized cotton shirt with a yachting crest on the pocket. He wore the shirt for the freedom of movement he’d need during the action he’d planned. Instead of tasseled loafers, he wore boat shoes, for traction on the greasy asphalt in the truck yard.
Jules almost went back out to the yard again, but that was pointless. It would work or it wouldn’t. He was ready or he wasn’t. He had a small liquor cabinet in his office, so he opened it and poured himself a shot of Scotch. He held the glass of Scotch in a half-extended arm. His hand did not shake.
Bobbie was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac half a block from Shelby Pate’s house. He’d have to head in the other direction if he left. Bobbie simply had to know where he’d go if he left his house on a night when his crime partner lay dead in a Tijuana morgue.
She knew that what she was doing was foolhardy, and that her boss would go cosmic if he found out about it. She knew that Fin and Nell would react in a similar fashion, but she believed that Shelby Pate might hook up with the man who’d masterminded the theft of the navy shoes if only to tell him that Abel Durazo had been killed. Any meeting with Jules Temple would help to cement her case, or at least assist in the interrogation after they arrested Shelby Pate on Monday morning.
At 4:45 P.M., he lumbered through the open doorway. He propped the dangling door in place, but didn’t bother to secure it with nails. He didn’t pick up any of the clothing that was strewn all over the property. He got on his bike, put on the black helmet, and roared away, not noticing the Hyundai that was never far behind.
At twilight, Shelby Pate parked the Harley in the parking lot of Green Earth Hauling and Disposal. He thought Jules Temple hadn’t arrived because his yellow Miata wasn’t in front. But he looked up at the second story and saw a light on in the boss’s office so he rightly assumed that Jules Temple had parked inside the truck yard.
Shelby wondered why the boss would do that, and while Shelby was wondering he removed a paper from his pocket and took a hit of meth. He already had a buzz, but he needed a little boost. Then he was ready.
He slid a buck knife inside his belt and made sure it was accessible. He would’ve preferred a gun, but it was too late to go shopping for one. He wasn’t really worried though, because even if Jules Temple went shithouse when he heard Shelby’s terms, what could he do? The dude needed the manifest. He didn’t know that the manifest was gone-gone with the fucking boots!
Shelby strode through the unlocked front door and climbed the darkened stairs, hearing music coming from a radio in Mary’s office, and when he got to the landing, he looked in.
“I’m in here!” Jules Temple’s voice came from his own office.
Shelby followed the voice and found his boss sitting at his desk, apparently signing payroll checks.
“Maybe you’d like to sign one a them fer me,” Shelby said, without smiling.
“What the hell’s this all about?” Jules demanded. “And what’s this about Durazo not coming back? What happened?”
“Stabbed by some dudes in T.J.,” Shelby said, plopping down in the client chair in front of Jules’s desk. “He’s dead.”
He wore the same clothes that he’d worn to Tijuana the night before, except for a change of T-shirts. His hair still had sand in it. He was as unshaven and scruffy as usual, and he stank to high heaven. Jules curled his lip when he smelled him.
Shelby’s black T-shirt said BLACK SABBATH across the front, in blood-red letters.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Jules asked.
“When I left him he looked dead. He could come back tonight though.”
“Is that a joke?”
“This is the Day of the Dead,” Shelby said. “Flaco might come home to his momma if she puts a bottle a beer out for him. Flaco loved beer.”
“I may be dense,” Jules said, leaning forward on his elbows, “but I don’t understand you.”
“It don’t matter,” Shelby said.
“So why did you wanna see me?”
“Since you’re here that means you got a general idea,” Shelby said.
“None at all,” Jules said.
“I got something that belongs to you.”
“What’s that?”
“A manifest. One you made out.”
“I make out lots of manifests,” Jules said.
“Not like this one. There’s no manifest like this one.”
“Did you and Durazo steal from North Island?”
“Yeah. A couple thousand pair a shoes.”
“You fucking idiot!” Jules couldn’t help blurting it.
“I ain’t in no mood fer that,” Shelby warned. “I came to do business.”
“You say it’s my manifest? Then give it to me.”
“In time,” Shelby said.
“Do you have it with you?”
“It’s in a safe place,” Shelby said.
“I wouldn’t want anybody else knowing my business,” Jules said. “You live with a woman, don’t you?”
“The bitch threw me out.”
“If anyone else knows about it, I wouldn’t be interested in doing business with you.”
“Nobody knows,” Shelby said, “’cept you and me.”
And that sealed Shelby Pate’s fate. Jules Temple didn’t believe that this freak was savvy enough to arrange for a third party to hold the manifest. Jules believed that the manifest was probably in a bedroom drawer or some obvious place, and that it would be thrown away when Shelby Pate’s property was disposed of. After his death.
Jules certainly believed that he’d have to pay Shelby Pate for the rest of his life and never see the manifest anyway, if he were to succumb to blackmail. So as Jules saw it, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by proceeding with his plan.
But things were moving too fast. He needed one more drink, and then it’d be dark enough. Then he’d be ready.
“Tell me about Durazo,” Jules said. “Tell me about his death. It’s terrible.”
“He died. There ain’t no use talkin about him. There ain’t no use thinkin about him. I came here to talk business.”
“There’s plenty of time to talk business,” Jules said. “But I’d like to send a check to Durazo’s family in Mexico. I think he had a family in Tijuana, didn’t he?”
“I don’t wanna talk about no fuckin dead people,” Shelby said.
Jules could see those dilated pupils even from across the room. Jules had to placate the monster. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly late enough. Dark enough.
“He was your friend, wasn’t he? You wanna help his family, don’t you?”
“I wanna help me!” Shelby lurched to his feet.
Jules felt a jolt of fear and panic. Those wild eyes! His immense size! “Wait a minute!” Jules said. “Calm down! I just asked for the sake of the man’s family. Okay, okay, we’ll talk business.”
Shelby sat, but leaned forward, as though he might leap across the desk and strangle Jules at any moment.
Jules said, “Do you want a drink?”
“No,” Shelby said.
“Do you mind if I have one?”
“Let’s talk business, dude.”