Hard Cash (4 page)

I raised a hand. "Mrs Lane," I said.

She saw me and swaggered over, getting lots of
attention along the way. I invited her into the booth, and she slid into it
like a cat into a warm bed. She offered a no-nonsense handshake across the
table.

"Call me Erica."

This close, I saw hard, defiant eyes, glinting
with the brown of hot fudge, forming a stunning complement to her short, wavy
black hair.

"And please call me Jack."

"What happened to your face?" she asked,
checking out No-Sleeve Steve's handiwork.

"Xeroxing accident."

It zipped past her. We ordered coffee, then she
began. "I'll get right to the point. I flew in last night. This morning, I
talked with Detective Madden about my husband's death. During our conversation,
your name came up. He said you were a witness. He also said you had other
information."

I stirred my coffee for a moment while I gathered
my thoughts.

"Erica, I, uh, nothing is certain right now.
What I have is really just a lot of innuendo and circumstance."

"Does any of it concern John Brendan
Blake?"

I hoped she didn't catch my surprised reaction.
"Well, his name did come up. However, as I said, nothing is certain."
Trying to shift things around, I said, "But tell me, where do you know
Blake from?"

She opened a packet of Splenda and emptied it into
her coffee. After stirring it a moment, her eyes rose up to meet mine.

She said, "What I'm about to tell you does
not leave this table." When I nodded, she said, "He came to Texas a
month or so ago. He wants to build a hotel on South Padre Island in the worst
way. I don't know if you know this, but it's a big, big tourist area." She
took a careful sip of coffee. From her grimace and quick exhale, I could tell
it was still way too hot. "Anyway, to make a long story short, he managed
to piss off both South Padre's Public Works Director and the Town Planner in
one meeting. And those are the very guys who can get you your building permits.
I don't know what he did, but the upshot of it was that they told him he would
never get a permit to build anything on South Padre, especially in District
D."

"District D?"

"That's the Gulf side, right on the open
water. Zoned for big hotels. It's where Blake wanted to build his resort."

"Go on."

"Anyway, if those two say you're out, you're
out." Her voice carried the singsong accent of border English. It drew me
in.

"So the door was closed?"

"Well, he came across the bridge to Port
Isabel looking for help. Did anyone tell you that I'm the mayor."

"I'd heard that."

She tried her coffee again. It had cooled a little
by then and you could see her relax as she swallowed it. She clasped her hands,
long, slender fingers interlacing in front of her on the table. Her French
manicure gleamed in the overhead coffee shop light.

"So, I told Blake that I'm well-acquainted
with the South Padre people. You know, the small-town good-old-boy
and girl
network of friends on both
sides of the bridge."

"Right."

"Okay. Now, keep in mind, this was going to
be the nicest hotel on the island. A sixty million-dollar project."

The way she uttered that figure, I could tell I
was supposed be impressed. Maybe even gasp at its very dimension. I wondered if
she knew she was sitting in a seven hundred million-dollar hotel, and that was
considered middle of the pack for Las Vegas.

Her body contours softened, as her voice modulated
downward to hush-hush level. "Blake came to my office and told me he would
do anything to get those building permits. Anything. You get my drift?"

My eyes told her I got it. "How much money
did he want to pay them?" I asked, suspecting that I knew the approximate
figure already.

"A hundred thousand." Her
matter-of-factness surprised me. "And in fact, last week, to demonstrate
his good faith, he showed up in Port Isabel with a big envelope filled with
cash, the whole hundred thousand. He gave it to me one afternoon and I said I
would call South Padre and tell them the money was here."

"And did you?"

Her eyes shot me a sharp are-you-kidding-me glare.
"You're god-damned right I did."

"Where does your husband fit in to all
this?"

She looked away to the back of the coffee shop.
"Can we get the waitress? I'd really like something to eat."

"Sure." I waved a couple of times and
finally flagged down our waitress. Erica ordered an egg-white omelet with
pancakes, toast, and orange juice. I ordered poached eggs and a refill on my
coffee.

"So where was I?" she asked.

"Your husband."

"Yes. He's — he
was
a real
estate salesman in Port Isabel. But you know, even though that sounds like a
glamorous, big-money job — you know, selling real estate in a
warm-weather town — he's always had a tough time making ends meet. I was
the more ambitious one. I came up through the ranks — activist, Board of
Adjustments, City Commissioner — and finally was elected mayor a few
years ago. Then I got re-elected last year. It doesn't pay much in terms of
salary, but there are a lot of perks attached. Lots of free stuff, if you know
what I mean."

"I know what you mean." The way she
looked and talked, I was pretty sure free money from ambitious out-of-town
builders was one of the perks.

"Anyway, I called South Padre about the money
and said, you know, that I had it, the whole hundred thousand. They said they
would accept it, which meant his hotel permits would be greenlighted. This was
in the afternoon. I told Blake everything was all set, so he flew back to Las
Vegas that evening, and Ricardo was supposed to deliver the money the next
morning."

"So I take it he never delivered it."

"This is where it gets fuzzy. He went over to
South Padre that morning, and the Public Works Director apparently tod him
they've had to revisit the whole thing. Said he didn't really have time to
think it all the way through. Said there were other people in the pipeline who need
to get taken care of. Said it was going to cost Blake another hundred
thousand."

That didn't sound right. I said, "Why would
the guy do that after agreeing to Blake's initial deal? I mean, there are
standards of honor, even in bribery."

The waitress appeared from nowhere, bringing our
breakfast and pouring me a fresh cup of coffee. Erica drowned her pancakes in
syrup, forming a wide pool all around them.

"That's a nasty word, Jack. Don't use it.
You've got to understand something. We've got our own way of doing things down
there. All these big developers come to town — they've been coming for
over thirty years now — thinking they're just going to steamroller over
all us little Mexicans. They think we don't know what we're sitting on. And I
say 'we', because what's good for South Padre is good for Port Isabel. We're in
it together."

As I pushed my poached eggs around on the plate, I
wondered what her cut of all this was supposed to be. I guessed it would be
pretty major. In fact, glimpsing her jewelry, it wasn't too big of a stretch to
imagine the second hundred grand being all her idea.

She dug into the omelet with more enthusiasm than
I would've figured. After washing down the first mouthful with a big swig of
orange juice, she continued. "I would guess that the Public Works Director
just wanted to spread a little more of Blake's money around, you know, just to
make sure everyone over there got a taste."

"I'm sure." I sipped my new cup of
coffee. It was much better. Then I said, "Did you tell Detective Madden
all this?"

"Well," she replied in a measured voice,
"not all of it, really. I left out the part about the money. I said that
Blake asked me if I could somehow intercede on his behalf, you know, 'talk' the
South Padre guys into giving him his permits." She sliced off a large
wedge of the syrup-soaked pancakes. Her fork plunged into it, and she rammed
the whole thing into her mouth.

"So when you told Blake about the revised
deal, what'd he say?"

I shouldn't've asked that question so soon. She
hurriedly chewed the pancakes and moved them around in her mouth before
swallowing, then let out a one-note chuckle. "What do you think? The shit
hit the fan — pardon my French."

She returned her attention to the omelet,
furiously pushing it around on her plate before taking another heaping forkful.
I let her eat, then she said, after another big pull at the orange juice,
"He accused me of torpedoing his entire deal and pocketing the money
myself. He threatened me and my family. That was a big mistake."

Looking at her, feeling her steely presence, I
could see how she wouldn't be cowed by Blake's threats. But she'd never seen
Julius and No-Sleeve Steve up close.

I said, "Where is the money? Did you keep
it?"

"Hell, no. But if I had it, you can bet I'd
keep it. Nobody talks to me that way." She grabbed a piece of toast and
slathered more butter on it than I thought was appropriate.

"But you don't know where it is?"

"No, and I wish I did," she said through
a mouthful of toast. "Ricardo had it with him when he went over to South
Padre, but he wouldn't've given it to them if they wanted more."

"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Maybe he did give it to them."

She shook her head. "No way. Because he knew
that Blake wasn't going to play ball for the second hundred thousand."

"And there was no point in handing over the
money if there wasn't going to be a deal?"

She said, "Right. So I can only assume that
he took it upon himself to fly out here to Las Vegas. Maybe to talk some sense
into Blake. Ricardo was very effective face-to-face, you know." She
polished off the orange juice and said, "Now, Jack, it's your turn. Tell
me what you know."

I moved around in the booth, looking to get
comfortable, but not quite hitting the target.

"I held his head as he died." When I
said this, she stopped chewing and put her fork down, slackening her jaw a
little. "I didn't actually see him get hit, but I saw the vehicle that hit
him, saw it as it drove away. I don't know exactly how or why it happened. I
got to your husband right away and he died just a few seconds later."

For the first time, her eyes mellowed as tears
appeared to well up within them. I didn't see any make their way out onto her
cheek. She reached for the napkin on her lap, then slowly lowered her head and
dabbed at the area around her eyes. From the angle I had, I couldn't tell if
there were any real tears.

I added, "I really don't think it was
deliberate. You can't be sure of killing a man by running him down. There are
much more reliable ways."

"Did he say anything about the money? Anything
at all?"

This bitch
has got a one-track mind.

"No," I lied. "Nothing about the
money. He didn't really say anything. He just groaned a little, then he passed
away."

She ordered a refill on her orange juice, probably
to take her mind off crying. I could tell she wasn't on friendly terms with
tears. After another minute of silence, she composed herself.

Her voice resumed its business rhythm. "Jack,
Detective Madden told me you were a private investigator at one time. Can I
hire you?"

"Erica, I'm no longer in th —"

"I want you to help me get that money. I'll
give you ten percent of it. That's ten thousand dollars."

"No, thanks."

"Fifteen percent," she said, dropping
her fork on her plate. The clatter got the attention of people a couple of
booths down. "Fifteen thousand dollars. Come on!"

I put my napkin to my lips, then said, "I
must decline your offer, Erica. This is something I don't care to be dragged
into. Besides, if your husband gave Blake his money back, there's nothing
anyone can do about it." I started to rise from the booth.

She put a hand on my forearm, tugging me back down
into the seat. Then she said, "Jack, you're already in it. I'm offering
you serious money. You've got to help me!"

The waitress set her orange juice on the table and
Erica took a few gulps from it, washing down her latest oversized chunk of
pancakes.

I said, "Help you do what? What are you
getting at?"

She swished her napkin across her mouth and took a
deep breath. "Again, do I have your assurance that everything we've discussed
here today is confidential?" I said she had that assurance. She continued.
"I have Blake on tape agreeing to offer the bribe to the South Padre
officials."

"On tape?" I changed positions in the
booth to face her directly. "How did that happen?"

"I have a taping system in my office. I use
it for my own protection against any 'he said-she said' confrontations. The day
he came to see me, I just pushed the record button out of habit. I have the
whole thing on tape. Him offering the money, saying it should be enough to get
the permits, and on and on."

"And just what do you plan to do with this
tape?"

She snickered. "What do you think? Once he
knows I have it, he'll probably come on board for the full two hundred thousand
just to keep the tape from getting out."

My stomach roiled in disgust. Then I said,
"But what about your boys over on South Padre? Won't they be implicated if
the tape comes out? Wouldn't that bring down your little house of cards?"

"No chance," she said. "All I have
is Blake talking about the bribe. You know, saying he wants to offer it to see
if it will do any good. Asking me to be the go-between. I knew the tape was
running, so I didn't agree to anything, and I didn't mention that the South
Padre officials had accepted his first offer."

"Very neat. Very … efficient." I almost
spit the words out.

She said, "Blake will have to play ball when
he finds out about the tape. He'll want to, actually. And you can help me get
it from him." She scarfed up the remainder of her omelet.