The Devil's Due (9 page)

Simon sipped his tea and considered what lay ahead. They'd learned precious little last night during their frolic with Alan Grant. He was clearly in some sort of trouble and either or both Roth brothers were involved. Where the other man or the girl, Ruby, fit in, Simon wasn't sure, but her desperation was troubling.

Simon pushed out a long, frustrated breath and lifted the cover to his plate. No use in letting it go cold.

“Not gonna wait for me?” Elizabeth said from the doorway behind him.

“I was wondering if you were ever—” The rest of the sentence and the thought melted away as he turned and saw her.

Elizabeth leaned against the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his oxford shirts. The hem fell just about mid-thigh and his eyes lingered there before working their way back up to her face, eyes still drowsy with sleep. The shirt was absurdly large for her and she'd done a poor job of rolling the sleeves up. So poor, in fact, that one sleeve was already unrolling itself. The hand she perched delicately on her hip in mock annoyance was swallowed by the fabric.

Simon felt the familiar rush of desire. Elizabeth always made him feel that way, but at her most unassuming the effect was stunning. It was, however, more than passion that coursed through his body at the sight of her. It was hope and faith and promise. It was everything good in the world infused in a single moment. It was having her as his wife.

Elizabeth offered him a sleepy smile, and pushed off from the doorway. “Good morning.”

She leaned down to kiss him. Simon cupped her cheek, still warm from sleep. “Good morning, yourself.”

Elizabeth took a seat at the table and rubbed her hands together in greedy anticipation. “Is this what I think it is?”

She took off the cloche and her smile answered her own question. “Eggs Benedict.” She took in a deep, satisfied breath, enjoying the rich, delicate aroma of a perfect Hollandaise sauce, poured herself a cup of coffee and settled in to breakfast.

Simon shook open his linen napkin and laid it in his lap.

He filled her in on his conversation with Wells, emphasizing as Wells had, the potential for danger regarding Benny Roth and his mob connections.

Elizabeth washed down a bite of eggs with a sip of coffee. “Bootlegging isn't exactly a booming business anymore. I mean it won't be for long anyway. Prohibition's almost over. Beer's legal in a few days and the rest of it will be legal in a few months.”

Even though Simon had spent nearly two months living through Prohibition when they'd traveled back in time to New York, he'd never given much thought to what it meant when the Amendment was repealed. Organized and not-so-organized crime had built an enormous and profitable industry that was going to cease to be in a few months. “That's a great deal of income that's not easily replaced. Might make a man desperate.”

“You think he might be blackmailing the others for money? Alan or his brother?”

“That's possible,” Simon conceded. “Wells wanted to look into it.”

Elizabeth eagerly started to say something, probably along the lines of singing Wells' praises, but quickly schooled her expression.

Simon popped a piece of toast into his mouth. “Despite his sometimes,” Simon said searching for the right words, “excessive charm, he is a good man and good at what he does. I fear that before this is over, we will need all the help we can get.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “Alan's definitely in trouble. I hope we can get him to trust us.”

“I have faith.” Simon said as he tossed aside his napkin.

“You do?”

“In you.”

Jack didn't usually drink before noon, but people didn't exactly go to Jilly's for the ambiance. The place stunk of stale beer and even staler people. Even compared to other speakeasies, Jilly's was a pit. It used to be one of Benny Roth's best joints, a place to get a cold beer and warm girl. Now, all that was left were the dregs — faded pictures over the bar, peeling wallpaper stained with too much cigarette smoke and a clientele one step up from the drink tank.

Jack hunched over his drink and recreated in his mind's eye what and who was around him. It was an old habit and a damn good one for a spy to have - he'd memorized the room as soon as he walked in. He stared down into his drink and replayed what he remembered.

A man gently snored face down at a table behind him. His arm was wrapped around his beer glass like a child holding his teddy bear, and a racing tip sheet stuck out of his front right jacket pocket. Another sat at the far end of the bar, unshaven, unwashed and staring blankly at the dingy mirror beneath a faded picture of Lillian Gish. Flat soulless eyes stared back in his reflection. Jack had seen that look often enough. Too often. First in the Depression and then in the war. It was a man who'd been carved out. Life had scraped away any last bit of hope and all that was left was a shell.

Jack sipped his whisky and let the burn of it as it trickled down his throat remind him he wasn't one of them. He was playing a part. Just a part. No one paid attention to a drunk, especially one who was already liquored up before lunch. Jack mumbled to himself and scratched his stubbled cheek.

He'd heard that Benny Roth made the rounds each day at about noon. Check on the till, throw his muscle around, make sure people knew his face. Benny liked to be in the spotlight. But in this hole it was pretty dim.

Right on cue, the bright California sunshine raced into the room through the open door and ran away as it shut. It took Jack's eyes a minute to adjust from the flash of light. Two men had entered. One with muscles for brains and the other was Benny Roth. He swore under his breath as he looked around the bar.

“Waste of damn time,” Roth said to no one in particular. He yanked a chair back from a table and brushed away the dust and crumbs with his hat before sitting down.

The bartender, a flat-nosed man who reeked of cheap cigars and camphor oil, nodded and ducked into a back room. Roth's bodyguard took up sentry position at the door. Jack could feel his eyes boring into him. The last thing he needed was trouble. His stomach rumbled. The eggs he'd had for breakfast must had been as old as the waitress who'd served them. The bodyguard kept staring and Jack met his gaze with a confused squint, and then offered the idiot a sloppy smile and a loud burp. It seemed to do the trick and the bodyguard turned his attention elsewhere.

The bartender came back into the room and handed Roth a sheet of paper. Jack could smell the fresh glass of whisky on the man's breath across the room. The man rubbed the back of his sweaty neck and waited nervously. Whatever he'd handed Roth, it wasn't good news.

“Pathetic,” Roth said when he'd finished reading. “I thought we'd at least get a few more months out of it.”

“Yeah, well,” the bartender said, “beer's always been our best seller and—”

Roth slowly turned in his chair and looked up at the man whose voice trailed off helplessly.

“You think I'm stupid?” Roth said.

“No!”

“You think I don't know what tomorrow means?” The man started to protest, to try to dig himself out of the hole he'd dug, but Roth didn't give him the chance. “Get out of my sight.”

The man hurried behind the bar and busied himself with polishing a stack of dirty glasses. Roth took out a silver cigarette lighter and set fire to the piece of paper. He held it in the air in front of him as the flames grew. The light from the small fire danced in his eyes.

The front door opened and two men filled the doorway. The silhouettes gave them away in an instant. Broad shouldered and fat bellied. They wore round-brimmed military caps and an air of confidence well beyond cocky. The light from the small fire danced on the gold of the shields pinned to their chests.

“Takin' up arson, now are ya, Benji?” one of them said as he took off his cap and tucked it under his arm. His face was ruddy and pockmarked with dozens of deep scars. It left him looking half-made of clay and half-made of man.

Benny Roth made a sour face and forced a laugh as he let the paper fall to the floor and crushed out the remaining flames with the heel of his shoe. “Are you offering lessons, McCray?”

McCray's beetle black eyes flashed at that and his partner shot him an anxious look. McCray shrugged it away with a casual wave of his hand and a thin smile. The two men joined Roth at the little table.

McCray looked around the bar. His eyes fell on Jack. A small jerk of the cop's head was the only message Jack needed. Without a word, he followed the unspoken order and took his drink to the far side of the bar. Keeping his gaze down, he sat down heavily in a chair against the wall and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

He swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of his throat. God, he hated crooked cops. He'd grown up with them in Chicago and, dope that he was, he thought things would be different out here. But it was just more of the same. There were more crooked cops than palm trees in LA. They hooked their badges into every criminal enterprise in the city, even ran their own rackets.

Jack slumped against the wall and waited. If he knew anything about them, they were arrogant enough to talk openly. After all, what could anyone do? Call the cops?

Satisfied, McCray put his hat on the empty chair next him and spread his hands out. “So. We're here.”

“We're wastin' our time, Willie,” his partner said, leaning in conspiratorially, but speaking loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “This place is a dump.”

“Shuddup,” McCray said. The impatience and scorn in his voice brought his partner up short. McCray glared at him so long the other cop visibly flinched and then nervously started pulling on his fingers. Finally, McCray barked out a laugh and clapped his partner on the shoulder. “Butch has got a big mouth, but Roth, I gotta say, he's right. This place ain't up to scratch. The Shooting Star Club, maybe, but this…you know, we got standards.”

“You gotta use your imagination,” Roth said. “Good sized back room, second floor lookout, a little paint. Look like a million bucks. But the real value, you know, it's what I bring.”

“Oh, so we need you. Here I thought it was the other way around.”

McCray's partner laughed.

Roth chewed the inside of his cheek before replying. “I did good business for seven years. I built up a name and I got connections.”

“He's got connections,” McCray said to his partner in a voice full of false praise and then his voice was flat and cold as he turned back to Roth. “You got nothin'.”

Roth sneered. “You call Mammoth nothing?”

McCray leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Mammoth's somethin', but, uhm, you're the wrong Roth. Unless somethin's changed, big brother holds those strings.”

“Today he does.”

“That's a hot potato,” McCray said shaking his head.

“You leave my brother to me,” Roth said. “He'll come around. One way or the other.”

Alan Grant's Beverly Hills mansion was even more impressive in the daylight. Elizabeth walked toward the large, iron gate complete with the Charles Foster Kane cursive “AG” set in the middle while Simon paid the cabbie. She wrapped her hands around the cool metal and pressed her face between the bars for a better view. Last night, she'd been too tired and a little too tipsy to take it all in.

It was as if someone had taken a large Southern plantation and plopped it down in the middle of Beverly Hills. At the end of the long drive and beyond the weeping willows and tall oaks, the broad elegant façade of the antebellum South looked back. It was odd and out of place and yet, made perfect sense. It was one of the things she'd always loved about California and Los Angeles especially, the diversity.

She heard what sounded like a goose honking in the distance and pushed her head harder against the bars to try to see around the side of the hedge.

“Were you planning on squeezing through?” Simon said from behind her. His hand rested on an intercom box a few feet away. “Or should I buzz?”

Elizabeth pulled her head out from between the bars and gestured for him to go ahead. “I could have fit though,” she said under her breath.

After Simon explained to Peter who they were, the gate made a clicking sound and then silently swung open. Elizabeth reached for Simon's hand. He gave a quick, reassuring smile, and then kissed the back of her hand. Together, they walked up the gravel drive toward Alan's house.

Peter had barely opened the door to let them in when they heard Alan's voice call out for him. For his part, Peter just sighed and shook his head. He stepped aside and pointed toward a small round table at the center of the foyer. “Your purse is over there, Miss.”

“Peeeter!” Alan's voice echoed down the hall.

“Can we see him?” Elizabeth asked. “I'd like to make sure he's all right. After last night…”

“I'm sure he'd like that,” Peter said. “This way.” He led them down a long marble-tiled hallway to a back door. He opened it for them and gestured for them to precede him. They stepped out onto a small landing that overlooked the pool.

It was beautiful. The pool was a large glassy rectangle rimmed with curved white marble edges. A long building sat at the far edge with billowing curtains caught in the breeze giving glimpses inside each cabana. A grand open room sat between them filled with brightly colored pillows and long plush divans.

“You have guests, Mr. Grant,” Peter called out as he joined them and led them down the small staircase and into the pool area.

Alan lay stretched out on his back on a poolside chaise, fully dressed in a light cotton suit, his Panama hat resting atop his face, and what was left of a Bloody Mary dangling precariously from the fingers of his left hand. “Who is it?” he asked tiredly from beneath his hat.

“Hello,” Elizabeth said.

“Lucia,” Alan said and she could hear the smile in his voice. He barked out a delighted laugh, pulled his hat to rest on his stomach and lifted himself up onto an elbow. “My angel returns.”

It was Simon's turn to laugh. “Angel? Wait until you spend a little more time with her.”

Alan grinned and swung his legs to the ground. “Cross. You look well. Recovered from our adventure?” He seemed genuinely pleased to see them.