the Plan (1995) (6 page)

Van opened his briefcase and slid out a glossy print. Mickey was looking at a very handsome man in his mid
-
fifties who could have been in a Ralph Lauren ad--closecropped gray hair, square jaw, blue eyes.

"He's a second-term governor, and all we need is t
o f
ind a guy who can steer him for us so he does what w
e s
ay: The choice of that person, Mickey knew, was critical. It was a problem that had led to the meeting in Joseph's bedroom two days later, and now it seemed to be a man named A. J. Teagarden.

Mickey looked at his father, who was losing energy .. . His eyes were still fierce and bright, but his head was sagging on his weak neck and his cough was appalling.

"Mickey, you go up there tomorrow, let's see if we can get to this governor you found."

Chapter
6.

THE CLUB WAS ONE STEP BELOW A VEGAS CARPET JOINT.

The slots were ringing and croupiers were keeping up
a s
teady drone, making the place seem more interesting tha
n i
t was.

Toozday Rohmer had started as a tall, seventeen-year-old blond dancer at the Stardust, but she'd had a fling with a pit boss who'd gotten her initiated into drugs and then into the sisterhood of the towel. It was just a short cab ride from high-roller hooking to fifty-dollar grudge fucks in seedy hotel rooms. While Solomon Kazorowski was still running the Organized Crime Bureau Strike Force in Vegas, he had trained her as an informant inside the hotel. She'd never been able to give Kaz the big bust he'd wanted but they'd become friends over the years. At Christmas he always gave her a magnum of Dom Perignon. "Real class," she'd tell him.

There was something tragic about the Tooz, and Kaz couldn't bring himself to lean on her hard.

She had been born poor in one of those farm states that begin with a vowel. She soon became a victim of her own great legs, jutting breasts, and lack of curiosity. At age forty, she was still flatbacking and watching cartoons on days off.

She and Kaz had gotten drunk together one night, ten years ago. In what seemed like an obligatory salute to their sexuality, they had made listless love on the sofa in Kaz's apartment while his marmalade cat, J. Edgar, looked on.

It had been a mistake, so they'd never done it again and had agreed to be just friends . . . and they still were, even though Kaz had been dumped out of the FBI nine years ago for too actively pursuing Alo family ties to Governor Arquette and the casinos.

The way it had happened was almost impossible for him to believe. He had taken his mother to the flamingo Hotel for dinner and the head waiter sent over a bottle of complimentary champagne and some caviar to commemorate the occasion. Kaz, who had never accepted a dime from organized crime, somehow had a lapse of reason and accepted the bottle and the tin of caviar. Maybe because it made him look good to his mother and he was showing off, letting her see what an important guy he was. Whatever caused the lapse, the underworld had hung the fivehundred-dollar tab around his neck like a dead fish. The Las Vegas press danced on his forehead. They ran a six-part story and sank his career in that magnum of champagne. All his life, Kaz had wanted to be a fed--to stand tall in a company of men fighting for justice. He knew it was corny but he believed in the mission. The Alo family had orchestrated the end of his career, had convinced Governor Paul Arquette to put the heat on with his superiors. He'd been forced to go "stress-related" and put his papers in early to save half his pension. His life had been stripped from him. After all these years, Kaz still harbored a seething resentment. Even though he was benched by the "Eye," his heart still pumped Bureau-blue. He was still looking for an opening, and was still dangerous.

"Fucking stage manager is always trying to cop a feel and this guy looks like he was bred in a mayonnaise jar," Tooz was saying. "I swear this place is a dump, the costumes don't fit. My G is climbing up my ass and I gott a w ear Clorinda's extra shoes. She's two sizes smaller." Tooz was looking at Kaz, filling time with her bitching, thinking he looked old. He still wore the horrible Hawaiian shirts, but he'd gained weight and looked ten years older than his fifty-four years. Liver spots dotted his beefy hands. Getting busted out of the Frisbees had really taken a toll.

"Well, Tooz, whatta you gonna do?"

"Yeah," she nodded sourly. "You doing okay? I heard the Licensing Board turned you down again."

Kaz had been trying to get a private detective's license so he could get some of the growing divorce work that was hitting the town. Plus there were half a dozen runaways a month that had good repos on them. Most of them were teenage strawberries on the strip: Because of the enemies he'd made while he was busting mobsters in the casino counting moms, they blocked him four times.

"Gonna have to get a job selling used cars pretty soon," he said.

"Listen, reason I called is I got something sorta strange the other day."

"What's that?"

"Well, there's a girl I dance with, Cindy Medina. Her sister works in the Coroner's Office and there's a rumor down there that when they did the autopsy blood screen on Senator Arquette, it showed he was HIV positive."

Kaz looked at her, his mind going back ten years. He always suspected Arquette was a shill for the Alos. He had gone in and swept the governor's suite in the Sands after he'd checked out, hoping to find something. He hadn't gotten anything to confirm his suspicions, but he had found a man's bikini wadded up and stuffed in the Jacuzzi drain. It had a hotel gift shop label. He'd gone down there and found out it had been put on Paul Arquette's bill by somebody he didn't know named Warren Sacks. Warren turned out to be Paul's media consultant. Warren and Paul had died together last week in the Bahamas. Kaz had his suspicion that something was going on between Warren and Paul, but nobody had anything to prove Paul was bisexual so they'd let it drop. Maybe, just for the hell of it, he ought to see what he could find out. God knows, he had plenty of time and he still had one or two friends in the Coroner's Office.

"Thanks, Tooz. You're a doll and you're prettier every day." He thought she looked tired and whorey.

"And you're aging like vintage Dom Perignon," she lied, wishing he would lose weight and get a haircut.

They leaned over and kissed. They could smell the sweat and Scotch on each other. When he left, they both felt sadder than when he had arrived.

It had taken Kaz four calls from the pay phone in the lobby to finally track down the medical examiner, Chuck Amato. Chuck was on the golf course and he finally answered his cell phone.

"It's Kaz."

"Jeez, Kaz, I'm playing golf. I'll call ya back." "Question. You handled 'the cut' on Senator Arquett
e w
hen they sent the body home two days ago. . . . Right?" "I ain't got time, Kazy. I'm hanging up a foursom e b ehind us."

"Was Paul Arquette HIV positive?" He dropped it without preamble, listening for a gasp of confirmation. What he got was silence.

"Where'd you get that?"

"It's on the street."

"Look, he was our ex-governor and our senior senator. Let him R
. I. P
."

"R
. I. P
.? What's that stand for, rot in purgatory? The guy was shacked up with hoods all his life."

"I gotta go."

"I've gotta take this evasive answer to mean yes." "Don't do this to me, Kaz. Besides, what difference does it make? He's dead."

"I have a piece nobody else has. Believe me, it makes a difference."

"Go fuck yourself. I'm gonna get beaned with a gol
f b
all I don't get outta here." And he was gone.

Kaz knew he'd hit pay dirt. Ten years ago, he'd hung an illegal wire on Paul's house. Kaz was the only one who knew that. Back then, Paul Arquette had occasionally been sleeping with Penny Alo. He'd been saving that info to use at just the right moment on Joseph. But before he could use it, he'd been canned.

Solomon Kazorowski got into his old, gray Chevy Nova and drove slowly back to the Lazy Daze Hotel. It was a flophouse and cost him ten dollars a night. He climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment and stuck his key in the door and opened it. There was a note from what was loosely called the Management. He was a week behind on his rent. The note was a warning shot. He didn't know how he was going to pay it unless he sold the Chevy. He wadded up the note and dropped down on the bed. The springs creaked with age but Kaz was smiling.

How can I get these flickers with this? he thought. And his new roommate, a black and white tabby named Jo, jumped up on the bed and looked at him.

"I wonder if Pauly gave it to Penny? That would be something worth knowing," he said aloud. "I wonder if Joseph found out and had Pauly killed?" The black and white cat sat on the bed, licked his paws, and purred. "What if that shark attack was bullshit?" The unanswered questions tumbled in his mind like criminal laundry.

Chapter
7.

DAWN BROKE LIKE A CHEAP WINE COOLER SPREADING AN
ugly red stain on the gray ocean. A sadistic constructio
n c
rew was working a jackhammer in Ryan's head. Hi s s tomach was on an E ticket ride. By eight o'clock whe n h e had started to feel like he might live till noon, his agen t c alled. Jerry Upshaw was raging.

"Look Ryan, I don't know what you expect from me, but I can't represent a guy who's calling the head of Drama Development a Jew faggot and threatening to knock his teeth out. Jeez, what the fuck is that?" Jerry had been Ryan's agent since his hit television show The Mechanic.

"Jerry, this is really pissing me off. I never called him a Jew faggot. I just said it was his fault the picture turned out bad."

"The bottom line is I can't represent you any longer." "Jerry, look . . ."

"Hey, no looks, bunky. I've got other people I have to try and sell to Marty Lanier. If I keep you on my list, it's like I'm saying I don't care that you threatened his life and called him a Jew faggot. It's like I'm in tacit agreement. End of story. I'll send your other material back to you. Good luck, Ryan." And the line went dead.

End of story, Ryan thought.

He looked out at the beach. A man on horseback was coming toward him, riding the horse carefully in the dry sand. It reminded him of the day that Matt had died. Ryan and Linda had been up in Santa Barbara having a weekend together while Matt had been sent off to stay with friends in northern California. It had been Ryan's idea. He'd insisted on it.

He'd sent Matt away to die.

He and Linda had driven up to the Biltmore in Santa Barbara for the weekend.

Linda wanted to take a walk on the beach and they had ended up almost a mile down the strand sitting on the sand, looking at the water. A man on a beautiful Appaloosa had ridden up the beach. Linda was on her feet, talking to him.

"He's beautiful," she said, rubbing his shiny coat. "Where'd you get him?"

"Intrepid Farms," the man said. "They raise the best Appies on the Coast."

Linda ran her hand down his flanks and withers, looking in the horse's eyes, smiling and cooing at him, giving him affection.

It was two o'clock and they hadn't eaten so they walked back up the beach to a restaurant on the pier that overlooked Santa Barbara Bay. They sat out on the sundeck and ordered beer and sandwiches. Then Linda started to obsess about the horse.

"I really want a horse like that. Did you see him? He was gorgeous." Linda was becoming nervous.

"Yeah, really great," Ryan said, seeing tension around her eyes, stripping beauty from her.

"Intrepid Farms. I'm gonna call." She bolted and Ryan, startled, followed. Linda was already talking on the wall phone in the bar.

"Operator. . . . It's got to be there . . . Intrepid, I-N-T-RE-P-I-D."

Finally, she slammed down the receiver. There were tears in her eyes.

And then she was grabbing the phone book, tearing at the Yellow Pages under "Breeding Farms." Nothing.

"It's gotta be there. It's gotta be there!" Her frenzy was building and it was scary.

He finally got her back to the sundeck and they sat looking out over the sparkling bay. She drank her beer but silent tears were coming down her face.

"Ryan, we've got to find it." She was begging. He'd never seen her like that and he'd known her for fifteen years.

He paid the bill quickly and they left the deck.

"It's got to be someplace nearby," she said without logic, almost running to the car.

Ryan drove his red Mustang down random streets looking for a sign. They asked at half a dozen gas stations. It was a silly exercise, but he didn't know what else to do. She was wild with anxiety.

"Intrepid Farms," she said over and over to herself, her desperation growing. Ryan looked at his watch. It was three-fifteen. And then, suddenly, Linda got very still. She sat looking at her hands in her lap.

"We can go home now," she said, her voice limp. "We can keep looking."

"No, it's okay."

The phone was ringing when they arrived at the Bel Air house.