CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

I’d never thought that people really pinched themselves to see if they were awake, but that’s what I did, driving back to the valley. I pinched the shit out of myself. I was awake.

Had there not been some evidence to the contrary, I would’ve seriously entertained that little social worker’s idea that this whole thing was a delusion brought on by a vitamin deficiency. As it was, that made more sense than what I was looking at. Like most people my age, I’d worried a little about becoming ga-ga. Now, senile dementia was rapidly becoming an attractive alternative.

I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even twenty-four hours since I’d been on top of the world. Today it felt like it was on top of me. “J. Spanner: Run over by the wheel of fortune.”

I parked in the visitor’s area at Sunset Grove and spotted O’Brien sitting in his usual place, apart from the others. In the shade of the umbrella his skin looked gray, washed out. His green eyes seemed paler than usual, focused someplace far away, and he didn’t notice me until I was right next to him.

“Ah, the hero of the hour,” he said, motioning me to sit down.

“More like the chump of the century.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not going to believe what’s been happening.”

“Isn’t that what you said a week ago?”

“Probably. But this time even I don’t believe it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So go ahead.”

I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I never said who we were running that search for.”

“No, and I didn’t ask.”

“I know. Well, it was Sal Piccolo. You remember him?”

“Piccolo? You mean the Salami?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure I remember him. But—”

O’Bee screwed up his face, thinking. I tried to will him not to say what he was going to say.

“But he’s dead.” He said it. Dandy.

“So I understand.”

O’Bee looked question marks at me.

“What makes you think so?” I said.

“Hell, I don’t know. I must’ve heard it or read it someplace. You know, you think ‘I knew him,’ and then you forget about it. Not like it was a friend or something, just one less person around who you were once acquainted with. Must’ve been a couple of years ago, I think. A fire, maybe.”

“I had the same idea at first—that he was dead. Then, obviously, I thought I was mistaken. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Huh? You’re confusing me.”

“You want confusion? Get a load of this.”

I filled him in about Sal—or about what Sal had told me. Then in detail about taking down Tony New the day before and returning the dough. Then this morning’s visitors, the answering service, and the trip to Beverly Hills.

“My, my, Jake Spanner.” O’Bee chuckled thickly when I finished. “You certainly lead a full and exciting life, for an old fella. Just one damn thing after another.”

“A few damn things too many, thanks. And stop laughing. This is not so fucking funny.”

O’Bee stopped laughing when he started to cough, that harsh deep kind that shook his body. When he recovered, he was even paler, and a film of sweat covered his forehead.

“You okay? You want me to get you something?”

He waved it off. “You always were a shit disturber, Jake Spanner, but this...”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve outdone myself. Wonderful, isn’t it? You got any thoughts on the matter?”

O’Bee rested his chin on his hand and stared at the brownish grass for a couple of minutes, then looked up. “Well, assuming you’re not crazy—”

“An assumption I wouldn’t make too hastily.”

“Oh, you’re crazy, all right, just not in that way.”

“You’re most encouraging.”

O’Brien grinned. “And assuming that you haven’t been haunted—”

“Yeah, I’ll accept that.”

“—then I’d say either you made a mistake and knocked over the wrong crook—”

“Or?”

“Or you’ve been set up, you dumb son of a bitch.”

I nodded. “That does seem to be the choice. Shit.”

We talked about it for a while. A mistake was possible. Stranger things happened all the time. You started looking for one thing and you turned up something else. Thought you located the right guy, only it wasn’t. I’d done it before, more than once.

But not this time. There were too many things against it. The real kicker, though, was the attaché case. No way that Sal and the kid could both have had the same kind of case. Coincidence could go only so far.

And it was just possible, I supposed, that it had been the kid who had knocked us over and grabbed the ransom. But if so, then nothing that happened afterwards made any sense.

Unless it was all some kind of setup. I didn’t have it all worked out, but it did seem to answer a lot of stuff, starting with the fact that the late Sal Piccolo was very much alive. As far as O’Brien was concerned, that explained just about everything.

Forty years ago, Sal had been known as one of the slickest, most devious, most Machiavellian characters around. He’d risen to his position of supremacy in this town, partly because he was tough, but mostly because he could out-think, out-hustle the opposition, stayed three steps ahead of them, got them so wrapped up in his convoluted schemes that they went around in circles until they ran up their own assholes and disappeared. He was that most dangerous of creatures—an unscrupulous, power-mad bastard who also happened to be smart, a ruthless villain with the talent and instincts of a con man. He would’ve made a fine politician.

And this was the guy who asked me so sincerely if I didn’t think a man could change, and even though I doubted it, got me to give him the benefit of the doubt. Christ, Spanner: you may be old, but you sure are slow.

The more I thought about it, the clearer things got. How he got me hooked, and then just reeled me in. Got me started, the sob story about the grandson, could only trust good old Spanner, solidarity among old enemies. A taste of long-past action, excitement, adventure. Pay me something, hire me, make me feel an obligation, just like when I’d been in business. Make me take my gun, just so it’s more like the old days, reinforce the idea that I was working, reestablish old patterns. Then the setup, the disaster, the failure. He figured that I still had my sense of responsibility, that I’d try to put things right. And I did. I didn’t know what got to me more: that he’d screwed around with me, or that I was so goddamn predictable that he’d been able to do it. They say that a good con man doesn’t do anything except let the mark act naturally. That damn Piccolo didn’t con me with greed, but with pride. Shit. Played me like a fucking fiddle.

Made me part of the situation, made me feel his problem was my problem as well. Then gave me just enough of a lead so that I could see the way to resolve it. Nothing too much, just enough to get me started, make it a challenge. Got me going so that old habits could take over, so that I could show that I could still do it. Pride again!

Seen in retrospect, all kinds of things made sense. I’d been pissed off at myself for not spotting the ambush, but there’d been nothing there to spot. No car, no Tony New, nothing. Just some goon that Sal had hired for a bill or two, waiting in the bushes to sap me. Not too hard, because the old dick had to recover so he could redeem himself. Just hard enough so he wouldn’t know what had or hadn’t happened, hard enough to give him a very real lump so he’d assume everything else was real as well.

And there were those little things Sal had said or done that I couldn’t figure, that had struck me as being odd, somehow out of tune. Even the best artists occasionally slip, forget a line, play the wrong note. It’s hard to sustain a performance—especially when improvising—without making mistakes. Sal had made some, but either he’d covered them or—better—he’d had me so well set up that I provided the explanations. Well, I’d told myself, he was upset, or understandably nervous, or—Jesus! Had I been his shill, I couldn’t’ve done a better job of explaining things away for him.

I saw how I’d been maneuvered, but there was a lot I didn’t understand. The connection with Tony New. How Sal had gotten onto him. The attaché case. And the whole jig the puppetmaster had made me dance. It looked like Sal had really had a lot of confidence in me after all. I supposed I should’ve been flattered in a way.

“Well,” O’Brien said after we talked all this out, “you know the proverbial shit creek?”

“You think I could use a paddle, huh?”

“Paddle, hell! You need a life preserver. I think you’ve gone under for the second time.”

“That cop, Nicholson, said about the same thing... What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should run like hell, Jake Spanner.”

I looked at him, then shook my head.

“I hope you’re not going to give me any of that stuff about seeing this through to the end. Honor, that’s what a man does, shit like that. That got you into this in the first place.”

“No. I meant that I can’t. I’ve got no place to run to. I’ve got nothing to run with. And even if I did, I don’t see how I could go far enough or stay away long enough. I figure I’ve got people on both sides with long reaches and longer memories.”

“Then you better provide some explanations they can buy.”

I nodded agreement. “It looks like I’ve got two lines to go on—Sal, and the kid.”

“And not much time.”

“Not much at all.”

“You could probably use some help.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Probably.”

“You know, Jake, I was pissed when you cut me out before.”

“I know, but I figured it was my operation. I still do.”

“Okay.” O’Bee nodded. “But this time, I want in all the way.”

“Shit. You see what’s going on here. This is no joke. It’s really scary.”

“I see it.”

I looked at him. I wanted his help, but I couldn’t see it from his side. “Why?”

For a second I saw that same look that had disturbed me in the lieutenant’s office; then he grinned. “Tradition. I told you, Jake, O’Brien always has to save Spanner’s ass.”

“You mean like some people save old tin foil or pieces of string?”

O’Bee thought a minute, then shook his head. “Nah. That stuff might be good for something one day.” He winked.