Raw Deal (12 page)

He found himself lying across Driscoll’s lap at the bottom of the aisle, the two of them wedged up against the apron of the stage. The place was swarming with campus cops now. Most of them seemed no older than the students, but they were laying about with their batons in what Deal thought was a satisfactory way.

Deal got a glimpse of a kid in camel-colored slacks limping out a doorway at the back of the auditorium, glanced down to find himself still holding a shoe.

A brand-spanking-new loafer, the leather buttery-soft in his hands, a gold logo glittering brightly at the instep: a guy on a pony with his mallet raised.

“Ain’t that just the way.” It was Driscoll’s voice, the ex-cop grabbing the loafer, tossing it away in disgust. He found a handhold on the stage, helped Deal up too. “It used to be the hippies beating the shit out of the rich folks,” Driscoll said, helping Deal upright. “Now look what’s happened.”

Deal glanced around. The mêlée was over. The Cuban Youth Brigade members were gone, most of the protesters had disappeared, even the elderly couple had made it out one of the rear exits. A couple of the protesters were in handcuffs, hollering that they wanted “counsel.” A campus cop was headed toward Deal and Driscoll, a wary look on his face.

Deal coughed, felt fire in his chest. He turned to Driscoll. “There was a reason why we came here, wasn’t there?”

Driscoll was breathing heavily, swiping at the blood on his upper lip. He pointed aimlessly toward the back of the room. “There was a reason, all right. Only thing is, the little bastard got away.”

***

They were in a room on the ground floor of the control tower now. A kid in a yellow windbreaker had driven them over in a golf cart, had called an EMS team on a portable phone as they jounced along.

One of the medics, a slender Hispanic woman with long sleek hair, ran a penlight across Deal’s eyes, probed his rib cage, stood up with a smile. “Nothing for me to do,” she said cheerily. “Take some Advil when you get home.”

Deal nodded, drew a breath as deep as he dared, the pain still dancing there. He’d need a crane to get out of bed in the morning. Across the room, the medic’s partner was fixing a broad strip of adhesive across the bridge of Driscoll’s nose.

“Don’t worry about it, pardner. It’s been broke plenty of times before,” Driscoll said. He fingered the tape as the medics packed up. “Might have straightened it out a bit, in fact.”

A young cop came out of an office, closed the door behind him on more angry shouts for “counsel.” The cop consulted a clipboard under his arm, shook his head, walked over to where Deal and Driscoll sat. “One of the guys in there punched an usher, hurt him pretty bad. The guy claims he was defending his girlfriend from an attack by the usher. Either one of you see anything?”

“If it was the same little shit that hit me with her sign, she didn’t need any protecting,” Driscoll said. He rubbed the back of his neck stiffly.

Deal shook his head. “It was a sucker punch, all the way. If it’s the same kid, anyway. I didn’t see his face.”

The cop shrugged. “There’s a tooth still embedded between this kid’s knuckles. Besides, he admits it. He says it was self-defense.”

“Bullshit,” Driscoll said.

The cop gave him a look. “We called downtown. They corroborated
your
story, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not on the force anymore. You don’t have to call me Lieutenant.”

“What they told me about you, you’re still Lieutenant in my book,” the young cop said.

Driscoll looked uncomfortable with the compliment. He gestured across the room where the duffel bag the little man had been carrying sat on a tabletop, a couple of strange-looking jars beside it. “What was in the bag?”

The cop glanced at the things. “A carbide and water setup,” he said. “Stink bombs.” He turned back to Driscoll. “You saw the guy who was carrying it?”

“Not really,” Driscoll said.

Deal stared at him in surprise. Driscoll avoided his gaze, looked back at the cop. “It was kind of crazy in there, you know?”

The cop didn’t seem convinced, but after a moment he turned to Deal. “We’ve got the statements of two of our officers, a couple of professors, some of the students. That should be enough. But if we need you again…?” He left his question unspoken.

“Sure,” Deal said. “Whatever.”

“Don’t forget to put out an APB on that other guy: a kid with one shoe and a set of teeth marks on his big toe,” Driscoll said.

The young cop laughed and started away. Then he seemed to think of something. He turned back, his face solemn. “The sad fact is, that one’ll probably be sitting in class over there tomorrow, taking notes on hospitality management.” The cop jerked his thumb in the direction of the classroom buildings. “Feeling justified about what he and his buddies pulled here tonight.”

Deal rubbed his forehead where a lump had formed. You could get a lump from a stockinged foot, apparently. Something he’d have to remember. He took another look at the cop. At his nametag. Corporal Oller. Jet-black hair, olive complexion, dark eyes. “You’re Cuban?” Deal asked.

“Sure,” he said. “But I’m not crazy.” He shook his head. “You can’t really blame these kids, though. They hear it at home, they hear it on all the Cuban radio shows, they even hear it from some of their professors—they’re bound to start to believe it.”

“What’s
it
?” Deal said.

“The whole back-to-Cuba myth,” he said. “That someday soon Castro will fall, we’re all gonna get on our boats and go sailing home, make everything just like it used to be.” He shook his head. “Meantime, we all have to stand united against the commies and the pinkos here in the U.S. to make sure this all happens as soon as possible. And man, you better believe you’re with the program or you’re against it. That’s how you get stuff like what happened here tonight.”

Oller checked over his shoulder at a glassed-in office where a graying, heavily jowled man with captain’s bars sat engrossed in paperwork. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Deal. “One of the ‘Free Cuba’ groups hears that Jose Feliciano wants to do a concert in Havana, that’s it. He doesn’t even have to go there. It’s enough he was
thinking
about it. Poof! No Cuban store sells Jose’s records any longer. No Cuban is supposed to buy his stuff. As far as the Cuban community in the United States is concerned, Jose Feliciano doesn’t even exist. He might as well be dead.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Deal said.

Oller didn’t seem to hear. “I don’t even
like
Jose Feliciano,” he said. “But this stuff pisses me off so bad, I buy everything of his I can get my hands on.” He grinned. “Of course, I’m not going to drive down Calle Ocho playing it real loud.”

He might have gone on, but the captain had left off with his paperwork and was coming through the door of his office now.

“We are nearly finished here?” The captain said, giving Oller a sharp glance.

Deal stared at the captain’s nametag: J. Acevedo. He wondered what Acevedo’s feelings on Jose Feliciano might be.

Acevedo turned his gaze on Driscoll. “I heard you retired,
viejo
. You come out here to go to school or something?” He wasn’t smiling.

Driscoll stood up. “Just showing my friend here the sights,” he said. He pointed at the bulge over Acevedo’s belt. “
Viejo
means old fart in Spanish, don’t it? How is it you say lardass?”

Oller turned away, hiding a smile. Acevedo’s face went crimson. Deal wondered if he might have to try to break up another fight. “We about ready, Vernon?” he said. He stood up, getting himself between the two men.

Driscoll looked down over Deal’s shoulder at Acevedo, who glared back at him. “Sure,” Driscoll said. “Let’s leave the captain to his crayons and paperwork.”

Chapter 20

“So why did you lie to that cop?” Deal asked.

They were sitting at a battered picnic table in a back corner of Edgar’s, a bar on 57th Avenue north of Bird, where Driscoll had insisted they stop.

The ex-cop turned from the TV, where a ball game was in progress. “Leverage,” he said.

Deal shook his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Driscoll shrugged. “Maybe nothing,” he said. “Let’s see what happens.” He went back to the game.

Deal stared around. It didn’t seem like the place for another gathering of communists. Sawdust and peanut shells on the floor, making grimy little drifts in the corners, the smell of grill grease in the air, the blare of a couple of ten-year-old TVs over the bar competing with an electronic pinball game in the corner. Nobody was playing pinball, but still the machine cycled through whoops and kazoo-like noises, as if some ghost were squandering invisible quarters there. A half-dozen old geezers, the only other customers, sat at the bar, as intent on the game as Driscoll seemed to be. The Manatees and the Rockies in from Denver by cable, players with pink faces, playing on blue grass. A fly ball had just bounced off the forehead of a Rockies outfielder. Replay after replay now, the fielder’s cap and glasses flying one way, the ball another, the announcers in hysterics.

“Expansion baseball,” Driscoll said finally, shaking his head.

Deal had a sip of his beer. “Why are we here, Driscoll?”

Driscoll waved him off. “This is how you do it, Deal. Just sit tight.”

Deal took a deep breath, favoring his sore ribs, took another inch or so out of his beer. No wonder Driscoll had left the department—all that hassle having to talk to other people, explain what he was up to. On the other hand, the ache at his side had begun to subside. Maybe he’d have several beers, get into the game, see if the old codgers at the bar would make a space for him. He glanced at Driscoll, his expression bland. “You been using your Manatees tickets?” The Manatees were the hometown version of the Rockies. Some of the other detectives down at Metro had given Driscoll a season’s pass to the young team as a retirement gift.

Driscoll paused, as if he had to think about the question. He polished off his beer, made a wave toward the bar for a refill. The bartender was fiddling with the controls of one of the sets. “Naw,” Driscoll said, finally. “I keep meaning to, but…” He shrugged, shook his head. “Funny thing is, if I was still working, you couldn’t keep me away from the stadium, know what I mean? Now that I got all the time in the world, I don’t do shit.” He had his eyes on the bar. “Yo!
Garçon
!”

The bartender gave them a look, then got grudgingly down from the stool he’d been using to reach the set, drew Driscoll a beer. A Rockie in a green-haloed uniform drilled a homer into a fuchsia sky. Driscoll drummed his fingers absently on the tabletop, abruptly turned to Deal. “It’s like the agency I keep saying I’m gonna set up. Easiest thing in the world, right? All the businesspeople I know, scared shitless the cops can’t keep ’em safe? And they’re right. There’s a fortune to be made in executive security in this town.”

“Sounds good to me,” Deal said. “Do it.”

“Yeah,” Driscoll said. The bartender arrived with his beer and Driscoll took it straight from his hand. “Thanks, pal.”

Driscoll downed half the mug in a swallow. The bartender stood waiting for his money. Driscoll put down his mug, fished around in his pockets, gave the guy a bill. “What’s wrong with your TV?”

The bartender followed Driscoll’s gesture. Another green-haloed player was circling the bases, kicking up clumps of bright red earth.

“This Manatees, they are too good,” the bartender said.

Driscoll stared at him. “Right,” he said finally.

When the guy left, Driscoll threw up his hands. “I gotta get out of this town. I mean, you can’t even come into a bar, run a tab, talk a little baseball anymore.”

“Learn Spanish,” Deal said.

Driscoll seemed to consider it. “Yeah. I got plenty of time on my hands, right?”

“Is this what we came down here for?” Deal said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m ready to go home.”

Driscoll was about to answer when the front door to the place opened. A smile came over Driscoll’s face.

“
That
is why we came here,” he said, pointing at the door. “The guy is so predictable it’s scary.”

Deal glanced up, did a double take. It was the same little man who’d carried the duffel bag into the auditorium hours before, still wearing his lime-green slacks and yellow shirt, the hat perched jauntily back on his head.

The little guy was inside now, had one hand on the bar rail, was about to pull himself up onto a stool when he caught sight of who was sitting at the picnic table. In one unbroken motion, he pushed off the rail, made a smooth pirouette, and headed back out the door. Driscoll was up and after him faster than Deal would have supposed the detective could move.

Though none of the other patrons seemed to take notice, Deal watched the drama through the window of the place: the little guy scurrying through a pool of light toward an aging silver Cadillac, the plastic near its tail fins eaten away, Driscoll on his heels. The little guy got his door open, his hand in his pocket, his keys out. He’d actually made it into his seat, cranked the Caddy over, sent a blue puff of smoke from the exhaust before Driscoll caught up with him.

Driscoll reached through the open window, wadded the guy’s shirt in his big hand and pulled. The little guy came out through the open window, kicking like a minnow in Driscoll’s grasp. Driscoll held him aside with one hand, reached inside the Caddy with the other. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, turned, and jammed them into a pocket of the little guy’s guayabera.

He shook the little guy a couple of times, pointed in the direction of the bar, and when the little guy shook his head, rattled him again. Finally the little guy nodded. Driscoll set him down then, mashed his hat back into place, and pushed him toward the door.

“Say hi to Chuy-Chuy,” Driscoll said, guiding the little guy into a seat against the wall. “He’s kept his office in this place for years, right up there at the bar.”

Deal stared. “You knew he was coming? Why didn’t you say so?”

Driscoll shrugged. “After that trouble out on the campus, I couldn’t be
sure
.”

Deal shook his head, turned back to Chuy-Chuy, who listened silently, looking fearful for his life.

Driscoll slapped his hand on Chuy-Chuy’s back hard enough to dislodge his hat. “My old buddy Chuy-Chuy,” Driscoll said. “One name used to be good enough for him, but after he became a multiple offender, we gave him two, just like the golfer. Right, Chuy-Chuy?”

Chuy-Chuy shrugged. He seemed ready to bolt under the table, go for the door again. “Don’t get any ideas,” Driscoll added, nodding at Deal. “This man here will break your spine.”

“I done nothing,” Chuy-Chuy said, surly.

“Uh-huh,” Driscoll said. “What about that little number out at the university?”

Chuy-Chuy shrugged. “I didn’t do shit, man. Besides, all they wanted was to stink the place up.”

Driscoll shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, my friend. We got an explosive device, we got intent to assault, a dozen other things. A guy like you takes another fall, you can kiss your ass goodbye.”

Driscoll turned to Deal, his arm still resting on the little man’s shoulder. “I explained to Chuy-Chuy we just wanted some of his expert advice, but he’s a nervous kind of a guy. He’ll calm down in a minute.” Driscoll slid what was left of his beer to Chuy-Chuy. “Drink up.”

Chuy-Chuy hesitated, saw the expression on Driscoll’s face, drank. When he was finished, Driscoll prodded him with an elbow. “Now tell the man.”

Chuy-Chuy looked about, considered his chances. The old geezers were still intent on the game. The bartender glanced over, but turned away when Driscoll waved him off.

“Liquid paraffin,” Chuy-Chuy mumbled.

“Speak up,” Driscoll said, jabbing him again.

“I said it coulda been liquid paraffin.” Chuy-Chuy was rubbing his ribs.

“Who is this guy?” Deal said to Driscoll.

“An arsonist.”

“Bullshit,” Chuy-Chuy said.

“Shut the fuck up,” Driscoll said. He leaned across the table, his arm circling around Chuy-Chuy’s shoulders. “Chuy-Chuy is known about town as the man with the torch, the dude who loves to play with matches.” Driscoll’s thick fingers massaged the flesh near Chuy-Chuy’s collarbone. From a distance, it might have looked like they were pals. Deal could see tears welling in the little man’s eyes.

“Remember the Winchester Chemicals fire up in Lauderdale?” Driscoll said. “Chuy-Chuy lit that one.”

“The fuck I did,” Chuy-Chuy managed.

“Couple of firefighters I know sucked in some real choice fumes trying to put it out,” Driscoll said, ignoring him. “What they got now makes emphysema seem pretty.”

“Man…” Chuy-Chuy was writhing in Driscoll’s grip.

“He is also the firestarter of choice for the right-wing yahoos who burned up those travel agencies last year, the places selling tickets to Cuba.” Driscoll paused. “You may recall there was one where the pretty lady manager dropped by the office unexpectedly one night, had her little boy with her? They got there just in time for the fireworks, all there was left for her husband to bury was a handful of teeth.”

“That wasn’t me.” Chuy-Chuy’s face was white now. He could hardly get the words out.

“What
is
true,” Driscoll said mildly, “is that we couldn’t prove a thing. Cuz Chuy-Chuy has gotten very good at what he does. He hasn’t seen the inside of a prison cell for a long time now.”

Driscoll gave a last disgusted squeeze and released his grip. It took Chuy-Chuy a moment to get his breath back. “Because I didn’t do anything,” he said, gingerly rubbing his shoulder.

Driscoll turned to him, his face bland. “That may be, pal. But I’m going to suggest something to you. A guy who plays with matches is bound to get burned. In fact, somebody might find you inside that silver bomb out there one night, fried to a crisp because you forgot what you had under your seat. And I know for a fact nobody would question how it happened, you get my drift?”

“Fuck you,” Chuy-Chuy said, but he seemed a shade paler.

“So do me a favor,” Driscoll said. “Talk to my friend here. Maybe it’ll help convince me you’ve gone straight, you got the public interest in mind these days.”

“Could I get a beer,” Chuy-Chuy said.

“Sure,” Driscoll said. He snapped his fingers and the bartender hopped to.

***

“…in which case you’d want to use something doesn’t leave that gasoliny smell,” Chuy-Chuy was saying. He paused to wipe beer foam off his lip. “That’s why liquid paraffin’s good. But it’s slow. You want a fire that’s gonna accelerate quick, you might use carbon tetrachloride, the stuff dry cleaners used to use.”

Deal frowned, remembering his own trips to the cleaners. “Can’t you smell that stuff?”

Chuy-Chuy shook his head. “Not after it burns. A sniffer can usually pick it up, though.”

Deal turned to Driscoll, who explained. “It’s a detector the fire marshal uses where they suspect arson. It’s a little battery-operated thing with a wand on the end, looks like a walkie-talkie. It’ll pick up traces of carbon-based accelerators that a person can’t smell.”

“Even paraffin,” Chuy-Chuy volunteered. He’d become more voluble the deeper he’d gotten into his subject. “It can pick that up too.”

Driscoll reached into his pocket, produced the metal cap he’d found in the wreckage. “Liquid paraffin, carbon tetrachloride, they come in a can with a lid like this one?”

Chuy-Chuy glanced at it and shrugged. “They could.”

Deal stared at him a moment. “What about that detector? Is this something they used after…” He broke off. “After my fire?”

Driscoll nodded. “Any time there’s an injury.”

“Then they would have known…”

“Not always,” Chuy-Chuy said. “I seen them miss plenty of times.”

Deal wondered if he heard a touch of pride there.

“He’s right,” Driscoll said. “The things aren’t foolproof. Maybe the batteries are low, or the guy doin’ the checking doesn’t really have any reason to suspect anything, he’s not as careful as he might be.”

“The classic thing is,” Chuy-Chuy broke in, “an inspector can walk into a room that is burned to shit, he can still tell where the fire started, because fire burns up and it burns hottest from where it starts. So they take a look at your place, they figure it started at that junction box, went up and out from there because there ain’t shit left in that spot and everywhere else is just charred.”

“So the case is closed,” Deal said. “It was an electrical fire.”

Chuy-Chuy shrugged. “Not necessarily. Somebody could know the same things what I just told you. He soaks a rag in paraffin, stuffs it in the junction box for a starter, uses the carbon tetrachloride to spread things quick. Inspector could have missed it.”

“Could we go back over it now?”

“After all this time, the place been open to the weather and all? You had a firebug in there, you’d have a hell of a time proving it now.”

Chuy-Chuy waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. The perfect crime. A piece of cake for the accomplished arsonist. Deal had felt sorry for him a few minutes ago, writhing in Driscoll’s grasp. Now he felt his own hands twitching, ready for a turn at the little man.

“Guy knows his stuff, don’t he?” Driscoll said it dryly.

“Isn’t it kind of dangerous when you light it, being around those chemicals?” Deal asked.

Chuy-Chuy shrugged. “Guy who did your place,
if
that’s what happened, he could have been miles away when it went up.”

Deal stared at him, uncomprehending.

“There’s a couple dozen ways. He could have used a timer. Or say the phone lines come in through the same service box. All he has to do is bare a couple phone wires, then call you up in the middle of the night, spark jumps the lines, there she goes.”

Deal felt a sickness deep inside. Had he heard the ringing of the phone? Him fighting up out of the bedclothes. Someone calling at that time of night? And the smell of smoke, the fear, Janice coming awake, groggy at his side.