“Where have you been?”
“Scholarship.”
He silently weighed my answer. “We’re taking down the Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop. Want a front-row seat? You can sit in the command van with me and the A.G. Those guys you saw loading guns into the SUV? They work for Antonio. We’ve got probable cause. We’ve got the buy on tape, the fake paperwork. We’ve got enough now to shut down the new supply route. All the muckety-mucks from Washington signed off at last. So we’re finally going in. It’ll be fun to watch Barney frog-marched off to prison.”
I told him no thanks.
“Why not?” It was a demand, not a question.
“I’m just trying to put all this out of my mind.”
“Good luck,” he said.
On the freeway south, I made another call. I had an obligation to repay and the clock was running against me.
The walnut with eyebrows opened the door himself. He stood, slight inside his loud golf shirt, blinking at me.
“May I help you?”
I just pushed my way past him. “Where are your punks?”
He stepped outside, did a careful check of the street. The only vehicle in sight was Lindsey’s Honda Prelude. He turned back.
“I don’t even know you. Why have you forced your way into my house?”
It was a good act and he kept it up in his old-man voice, even after he had produced the Beretta and begun a careful search of me, not just for a weapon but also for a wire. When he was satisfied, he used the gun barrel to prod me into the Arizona Room.
“Now, Dr. Mapstone, you have become an intruder on my property, so I can shoot you at will and be perfectly within Arizona law.”
“But you’re curious why I’m here.”
“You do surprise me. Sit.” He hospitably waved the pistol toward a leather sofa. The room was large, decorated at some expense but still vulgar: cowboy paintings, a bejeweled saddle on a stand, a grandfather clock encased in faux adobe, and gigantic leather furniture.
I dropped into the sofa and he gingerly sat across from me, his hips barely on the seat, as if he needed to be ready to spring up at any moment.
We seemed alone, but I asked again about his teenage henchmen.
“Back home for dinner with their families. I wouldn’t want them falling in with the wrong crowd.”
“And what a mentor they’ve found. Salvatore “Sal the Bug” Moretti.”
He cocked his head in mirth.
“If we had the time, I’d love to know how you found me.”
Part of my brain sized up that angle: He didn’t know that I had followed him from the Stuffed Beaver. The honor student I interrogated with the dashboard: I told him Moretti’s house was under surveillance and his phones were tapped; if he went back or warned Sal, he’d be arrested. Tom Holden had made the call I wanted-with the persuasion of Demetrius Smith-that a California bounty hunter was after him and he needed to lay low and not risk bringing the cops to Moretti’s house. Too many days had passed, so Sal had assumed that his identity and location were secure. But he didn’t strike me as someone who would be introspective in the face of the crisis now sitting on his leather sofa. As he said, if we had the time…
So I just said four words, the lethal information I had gained from my friend the organized crime historian.
“Eugene Costa, your grandfather.”
One black eyebrow went up.
“He wasn’t just a gofer for Harley Talbott,” I said. “He was a middle-man between Talbott and the Chicago mob. The DeSimone case was bullshit, of course. But the articles mentioned Eugene Costa. Just a bit player. A nobody, unless you knew what you were looking for. Unfortunately…” My throat started to close and I slowed myself down. “Unfortunately, Robin happened to run Eugene Costa through some old property records and put that information as a footnote to the report we gave you.”
“You’re a genius.” He aimed the gun at my chest.
“She didn’t know anything. Neither did I.”
“They always say that.” His voice sounded thirty years younger and I could imagine the many executions he had carried out. In fact, I knew about ten of them. He must have negotiated a sweet deal with the feds to avoid the needle. If I were thirty days younger, I might have been afraid, might have been anxiously worried about time-just like that little boy at Kenilworth School, watching the clock. None of that was in my mind now. I settled in the sofa and spread my arms over the back, feeling the cool leather on my hands.
“You’re an idiot,” I said. “You rat out your old pals, get witness protection to resettle you here, and pretty soon you’re selling black tar heroin to high-school kids. You can take the goombah out of the rackets but you can’t take the rackets out of the goombah.”
“I opted out of witness protection a year ago,” he said. “They check in every now and again, but you know how it is, war on terror, budget cuts and all.”
“You might have gotten away with it if you hadn’t paid ten thousand dollars to that woman to kill Robin and me.”
“It would have been twenty thousand if she’d done the job right. I should have had Tom do it.”
“Like he did the job right on Jax Delgado.”
He moved his finger off the trigger, curious.
“It was meant to look like La Familia’s work,” I said. “But because you’d seen Jax with Robin, you figured she was a risk, too. So you had Holden send her his head. That way, when she ended up dead, the cops would think it was another killing by Mexican gangs. Nobody would ever suspect you. So far so good? But you learned her brother-in-law was a deputy sheriff. You backed off. You’re a careful guy. You wanted to know what Robin had learned from Jax: so you did the Judson Lee thing, gave us a cold case, quoted Napoleon on history. You provided us with just enough information that our findings would tell whether we knew the secret about Jax and you.”
He moved the Beretta to his lap, watching me intently. I remained sprawled on the sofa.
“Robin didn’t know anything.” I spoke slowly, letting each word hit him. “She was just a thorough researcher. It got her killed.” A voice in my head: David, you got her killed. I said, “You killed her and it made me curious why.”
“I don’t like curious guys.”
“That’s why you killed Jax, too. Too bad he was a federal agent.”
Moretti opened his mouth but nothing happened except a string of saliva separated between his lips.
“Oh, you didn’t know that, Sal? You thought he was El Verdugo and he’d go to work for you? Be some insurance against the cartels?”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re a crazy man!” He stood and backed away, keeping the gun on me. At a 1950s-style bar cart, he poured himself Scotch, neat. He didn’t offer me anything. Slipping the gun in his pocket, he consumed two fingers of the booze in one gulp.
“Jax Delgado was ATF,” I said. “He discovered that you were off the witness protection reservation. But it wasn’t the heroin he was after. It was the Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop, which you secretly own through your friend Barney.”
The two black eyebrows slithered up his forehead. “Smart guy. How do you know this?”
“Just destiny.”
He slapped the glass down hard and paced the large room. It was amazing how isolated the space felt, but it was designed to be that way, so people could come in their garages, watch television and play video games, and never notice what might be going on outside their front doors.
“Nobody can prove it!” His voice echoed into the high ceiling.
“I thought you old-school guys didn’t kill cops, code of honor, and all that shit.”
“It’s no shit! It’s real. This Mexican passed himself off as a contract killer. The best! I don’t kill cops. Don’t you realize I could have killed you and the girl anytime? I could have had you killed in that parking lot with those spics, but I didn’t. I am a man of honor.”