Finnegan's Week (19 page)

She leaned into him and they grabbed each other's shoulder bravely, but unsteadily. Then they stood up and that was tricky too.

The bartender whispered to the waitress: “Perfect friendship, alcohol-induced.”

“I'd
like
to go to your apartment, Fin,” she confessed to him. “But I can't do that on a first date.”

“I understand,” he said, feeling queasy, doubting that he could handle this babe anyway, under the circumstances.

“And it's none of my business,” she continued, as they lurched to the parking lot, “but I don't think you should get involved with me or that I should get involved with you. You're kinda cute, but
very
neurotic.”

“I understand,” he said, and the perfect pals were in the camaraderie mode now, standing beside his Vette, holding each other by the biceps. Foreheads pressed together in a bonding gesture. Perfect pals butting each other like rams.

“I don't think you should
ever
get married again, Fin,” she said gravely.

“The whole goddamn College of Cardinals will graduate with their MBAs and drive their kids to school in a Volvo wagon before I get married again,” Fin pledged.

“Let's go home,” she said, “before you gotta call nine-one-one.”

He managed to drive back to Old Town while Nell dozed. After he arrived, he parked and opened the door for her, noticing that she was getting green around the gills.

But she got out and gamely gave him a peck on the cheek, saying, “You give great blarney. I'll bet you get lots 'n lots of sleepovers.”

Fin wanted to show her his stage flourish, but he was listing too far and almost toppled over. He settled for his leading-man salute; then he said, “Nell, the unvarnished truth is that my orgasms are so infrequent they oughtta be Roman-numeraled like British monarchs and Rocky movies. But I'm a very sincere person. And an above-average cuddler.”

C
HAPTER
16

T
he first thing that Nell Salter did after arriving at work the next day was to take two aspirin with her coffee, her fifth cup of the morning and her fourth aspirin.

One of the other investigators passed her in the hallway and said, “You don't look too good.”

“Too much caffeine,” Nell said. “I'm so amped I could jump-start Frankenstein's monster.”

Nell kept going to the mirror to check for signs of life. Her tongue needed a shave. That goddamn little neurotic got her wasted!

Late in the morning when she felt better she phoned the office of the county medical examiner and spoke with a pathologist, a navy doctor who moonlighted at the morgue when he was not on duty with Uncle Sam.

“FedEx just arrived,” he told Nell. “The specialty lab worked at record speed. What did you tell them?”

“Only that the deceased had expired after a five-minute swim at La Jolla cove. That's believable considering all the toxic spills around here.”

“Really?”

“No, I forget what I told him. Look, I got a headache today, Doctor. Can you give me the bottom line?”

“Well, it appears that you were right. Of course, we suspected you were, given the inhibiting of cholinesterase.”

“What?”

“Has to do with the nerve enzyme level. The pesticide destroys the enzyme.”

“What did the toxicology tests say? The
bottom
line.”

“That his death is consistent with organophosphate poisoning, specifically, azinphos methyl. I think we could give an opinion that the exposure to Guthion could've caused the behavior that contributed to his accident.”

“
Indirectly
led to his death, you mean.”

“I'm not a lawyer. You'll have to talk to the district attorney about all that directly and indirectly stuff.”

“How long does it take that kind of insecticide to kill a person?”

“Depends on the exposure. One of the textbook cases tells about a preacher who decided to take a few gulps of malathion and read the Twenty-third Psalm to his flock. He got to ‘the shadow of death' and fell into the collection plate. Another one concerns a woman who died in ten minutes after soaking her tampon in paraquat.”

Nell was silent for a second, then said, “Wait a minute! Why would anyone …”

“I know, I know,” the pathologist said. “They never say
why
anyone would.”

After talking to the body snatcher, Nell wasn't sure whether she'd be better off trying to upchuck or work. With march-or-die grit, she opted for work and located a Spanish-speaking secretary to help with a call to the Hospital Civil in Tijuana, where any emergency case would be taken.

After three calls over a period of an hour, they were able to reach a Doctor Velásquez. He spoke excellent English and confirmed that there was not one but
two
patients, both young boys, who were brought into the hospital on Saturday, and who showed every symptom of pesticide poisoning.

After Nell explained the case she said, “Doctor, we know the truck was carrying Guthion. That's an organophosphate.”

“I am familiar with it,” he said to Nell. “There are a great many insecticides still being used in our country, including some very dangerous ones that you have banned.”

“Could you send blood and tissue samples to our lab in San Diego? We could verify if it's Guthion. And if possible, we'd like someone to talk to the boys and find out how they got contaminated.”

“As to talking with the boys it will not be possible,” Doctor Velásquez said. “One child is in a coma and the other one is very ill. Perhaps in a day or two he will be able to talk to us.”

“If you could get the samples to us as soon as possible, I'd appreciate it.”

“We are perhaps not as primitive as you might think, Ms. Salter,” the doctor said. “We do have a somewhat reliable laboratory. And now that you have identified the substance I would wager that our people might even be able to verify it.”

“Of course, Doctor,” Nell said. “I didn't mean to …”

“That is all right,” Doctor Velàsquez said. “I am grateful for your call. And I shall personally see to it that the laboratory work is done at once.
Personally
.”

After she hung up, Nell said to the secretary, “I just offended him. I'll bet he does a real job on this one so he can show a thing or two to this patronizing gringa bitch.”

Shelby Pate was even more hung over than Nell Salter that morning, but he had ingested his drugs of choice in far greater quantities. During the lunch break, the ox was at last able to hold down his food, and was munching his second bag of Fritos when Abel suggested that they go rest in the shade by a stack of waste drums.

When they were sitting alone, Abel said, “Joo throw away paperwork?”

Shelby looked puzzled for a moment, and then said, “Oh, you mean the manifest? Tell the truth, I didn't get home till two-thirty in the morning, and my old lady was seriously bummed. I couldn'ta chilled her out with tickets on a love-boat cruise. She says to me, she says, ‘Through your nasal canal has passed more white than they see at the Pillsbury Mills.' And me, her sugar man, I says to her, ‘I'm on'y tryin to do my part fer local lab workers.' She's a hardworkin bitch though. I gotta give her credit fer that much.”

“Throw away papers, Buey.”

“Yeah, sure,” the ox said. “There ain't nothin to worry about. Don't let that little navy cop scare ya.”

“I don' know, Buey,” Abel Durazo said. “Remember when joo get bad feeling? Now I got bad feeling about shoes.
Bad
.”

If the San Diego Yacht Club had lost its America's Cup cachet, Jules Temple might've resigned his membership. He never would've had it in the first place were it not for the fact that his father had been a longtime member. However, keeping up the membership only cost $70 a month, and Jules always hoped that he could use club connections to help in business.

When he was a teenager, Jules used to steal snatch blocks from other members' sailboats docked at the club marina, and sell them to weekend sailors. Other members' sailboats were also good places to steal liquor, and even binoculars, since most boat owners kept a good pair on board.

The San Diego Yacht Club was perhaps an unlikely keeper of the America's Cup. It was a laid-back club, far more egalitarian then the tony New York Yacht Club where the cup had resided for so long amid blazers and white ducks. In San Diego the cup lived with flipflops and Levi's, and yachtsmen talked a lot more about prime rates than crime rates, as in New York.

The San Diego Yacht Club occupied several acres across from Shelter Island on the end of the channel. The members had a swimming pool and other amenities, but the main attraction was the large private marina where millions of dollars' worth of pleasure craft floated, and no doubt distressed their owners during hard economic times. It was a square structure, two sides of which faced the marina. The building was functional but not unattractive, with a modified pagoda roof, and a crow's nest on top that added a nautical touch.

San Diego Yacht Club member Dennis Conner had probably done more than anyone to put the esoteric gentleman's sport onto America's sports pages by the introduction of financial syndicates, corporate sponsors, television coverage, and greed. His successor, millionaire Bill Koch—the Donald Trump of yacht racing—showed promise of doing the same, proving that you
could
buy an America's Cup if you were willing to scuttle more treasure than Hitler's U-boats.

Occasionally, Jules would go out for a beer-can race on a sailboat owned by an old school friend, and once in a while he'd be invited for booze-cruises on large powerboats. Jules didn't own a boat of his own and didn't want one, using the club as a place to get a decent meal and some business gossip in a high-tech city that was feeling the ominous recession as much as anywhere. San Diego was overdeveloped, at least as far as hotels and office buildings were concerned, and in the California real estate-driven economy, people were nervous. What Jules often got from his visits was free legal advice from the many lawyers who were part of the yachting community.

Jules found that the club wasn't particularly busy that weekday afternoon. There were a few visitors gawking at the old black-and-white photos of past commodores that lined one wall along the peg-and-groove corridor. And a few kids were pressing their noses to the glass case that housed the America's Cup, at least until the next regatta, when a Japanese billionaire would probably be ready to take it.

Jules walked into the bar, acknowledging a few people at the cocktail tables. There was a fair-sized luncheon crowd out on the back deck seated at tables under blue umbrellas. A sixty-foot Bertram convertible sportfisher was side-tied to the dock just below the porch. Jules saw that her name, painted across the transom, was
Peligrosa
.

He knew that
Peligrosa
belonged to a middle-aged couple he'd met in August at the Jewel Ball in La Jolla, one of San Diego's glitzier events. Jules had escorted a sixtyish widow named Barbara Gump whom he'd mistakenly thought would be easy pickings if he needed a willing investor in some future scheme, but she'd spent the evening knowledgeably discussing her blind trusts, and killed any hopes Jules may have had. She was a good friend of Willis and Lou Ross, owners of
Peligrosa
.

Jules had thought it wouldn't be all that easy to find the right legal advice because he needed counseling on a potential
criminal
matter, and criminal law was not the specialty of most yachting attorneys. But Jules was aware that Willis Ross headed a law firm that had represented an investment group that bilked a thousand people out of $180 million in a Ponzi scheme by promising a thirty percent annual income from foreign investments. Moreover, the law firm had got the lucrative job of defending the corporate head of a savings and loan that had scammed
another
thousand or so people out of their savings, for many of them their life savings, so Willis Ross was more than qualified to advise.

The lawyer, like Jules Temple, had an eye for the ladies,
young
ladies. Jules discovered that on the night they'd met, when he and Willis Ross were not taking turns dancing with each other's escorts. Since then, Jules and Willis had had a few discussions about Jules's idea to open an up-market topless dancing club.

Jules waited at the bar for a few minutes, then headed down to the dock where Willis Ross was idling his twin 1400-horsepower diesels. Willis wore baggy knee-length shorts and Topsiders, and an America's Cup Nautica jacket. He spotted Jules and waved.

“C'mon aboard!” he yelled from atop the fly bridge.

The big sportfisher had a marlin tower and outriggers for big fish. Jules had been told that the boat had cost 1.3 million dollars.

“Looks like you're ready to cast off.”

“Waiting for Lou,” Willis Ross said. “That woman's never on time.”

Willis Ross was sixty-three, and had scars from skin cancer surgeries all over his face and neck, and across his hairless scalp. He'd even lost a piece of his lip to the knife, but despite all this he'd never given up the sun and sea.

“Going fishing?” Jules asked.

“Naw. She just needs blown out and it's a beautiful day. Who wants to bill clients on a day like this?”

“Any lawyer who ever lived,” Jules said, grinning.

“Actually I've been scrubbing down the hull,” Willis Ross said. “My boat cleaner's been sick for the past month. I hate to let him go, but I'm looking around for a new one.”

“Buy you a drink?” Jules asked.

“C'mon aboard. I'll supply the drinks,” Willis Ross said.

“Why not. Got a beer?”

Jules hopped aboard and sat in the fighting chair while Willis Ross headed to the wet bar inside the main saloon. When he returned with cocktails, Jules said, “Hey, I wanted a beer. It's kinda early for heavy booze.”