previous: Manipulated Again

11: The Gang of Three

Knowing people's fathers was how John Santini enlisted a substantial percentage of his army of vassals. Mine, for instance. Harold "The Horse" Portugal, onetime smalltime crook, sent to jail for thirteen years for a murder which I'd come to believe he didn't commit. He knew John Santini way back when. He didn't hook us up, but he was involved, all right.

So I wasn't surprised that John Santini knew Jessica's dad. As a matter of fact, I thought it a good possibility the moment she revealed he was a cop. John Santini knew a lot of cops.

"You two," he said. "Go outside or something. I know ... go get that shotgun and put it back in the car. I got to talk to this little lady here."

The look on Jessica's face when he called her that was similar to Gina's the first time he did the same with her. But Jessica swallowed any objection. She had more important issues to deal with.

I got off the couch and so did Henry Shoshone. Neither of us questioned how John Santini knew about the shotgun. We simply did as we were told and crossed to the front door and went outside.

Henry shut the door behind us. Reached into his jacket. Came out with a pair of cigars. Offered me one.

"No, thanks," I said. "I'm trying to quit."

"Never smoked one in your life, huh?"

"Once. After, I puked for forty-five minutes straight."

"You care if I do?"

"Knock yourself out."

We moseyed along the driveway to where the shotgun awaited us. He picked it up, placed it on the little table, parked himself on the bench. I sat down next to him.

He lit his cigar and said, "I should've known."

"What's that?"

"That he owned the place."

"I thought you owned the place."

"One of my companies owns the place. Or at least I thought they did. Some of my companies are his companies too. Sometimes I lose track."

I gave him a look. Even in the darkness, he got my meaning.

"I don't bother keeping track anymore. Truth is, what he owns and what I own are so mixed up together we might as well be married."

"Are you?"

"Married to him? No."

"Married to anyone."

"Yeah, I am. A real doll."

"Me too," I said.

We sat. Smoke curled from the cigar. Crickets chirped. Or maybe they were frogs. Sound the same to me.

"We bonding?" I said.

"I suppose we are. I suppose we ought to, since he thinks we're going to make such a good team."

"Two-thirds of a team. Don't forget Jessica."

"How could I forget her? Good-looking lady."

"I've seen her naked."

"And?"

"Like you said, good-looking lady."

More crickets. Or frogs. A helicopter flew over.

"Why us three?" Henry said.

I shook my head. "One does not ponder the ways of the great Santini."

"You ever see the movie?"

"Uh-uh."

"Me neither. Where do you think Roja is?"

"Probably not in Venezuela."

"Well, that narrows it down."

I briefed him on what I'd found out so far. Which didn't take more than a few minutes. By the time I was done there were footsteps nearby. Jessica appeared. Waved a finger. We shoved over, left and right, and she sat in the middle. Henry put out his cigar on the side of the bench.

More crickets. Or frogs.

She reached over and picked up the shotgun and mimed shooting it. "Pow," she said. "You're dead."

Henry gently removed the gun from her possession. Put it on the ground, out of her reach.

"Bastard," she said.

"He's not so bad," I said.

"Did you two know—"

"No," Henry and I said in unison.

"Bastard," she said again.

I let the night settle. Then said, "Henry, Jessica. Jessica, Henry."

"Pleased to meet you," Henry said, and they shook hands, like it was a cocktail party.

"You guys have any idea where Frankie is?" she said.

"Not much," I said. I started to tell what I knew again, but she cut me off.

"In the morning," she said. "I've got to get some sleep." She stood up, started to walk to her car, realized it wasn't there. "I rode with Debbie." First time I'd heard the redhead's name.

"We knew that," I said. "We were lurking in the bushes when you drove in."

She made a fair attempt at a laugh, and sat down again, and turned to me, and did something I didn't expect. She kissed me on the cheek. Then she turned to Henry, said, "May I?" and when he nodded did the same to him. Then she stood again. "Can I catch a ride with you gentlemen?"

"Of course," Henry said.

The two of us got up, Henry retrieved the shotgun, we started out to the street. I stopped, said, "What about Vito?"

"I think," Henry said without missing a step, "that Vito'll be just fine."

I caught up and we found a button to open the gate and we all climbed into the Mercedes.

She lived in Studio City, which wasn't far out of our way. A house on one of those back streets south of Ventura Boulevard, where Laurel Canyon starts to rise toward Mulholland. She said, "Night, gentlemen," when she got out, then opened her gate and stepped quickly up to her house. We waited until she was safely inside and the lights went on and then we moved out.

Henry drove back to Laurel Canyon. Waited at the stop sign. Said, "Left or right?"

"Left'll be quicker," I said.

"Left or right?"

"Right."

We crested Laurel Canyon, slid back down the hill to where it turns into Crescent Heights. He made the left onto Sunset and we headed east. Around Fairfax he said, "You hungry?" and when I said I wasn't he said, "Me either." Eventually we got to Western and eventually that took us to Wilshire and then we were parked across the street from his office.

I got out. So did he. "Want to check some paperwork," he said.

"See what you own and what you don't?"

"Seems like a good idea."

"What about Artemis Gluck?" I said.

"Who—oh. The dead guy."

"The dead guy," I said.

"What about him?"

"Think it was meant to be you?"

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"And?"

"What difference does it make? He's dead and I'm not." He gauged how far it was to the light, said, "Fuck it," and jaywalked across Wilshire. I found my truck and got myself home.

Gina was up, reading in bed. I pulled off my shoes, pants, and shirt, lay down with my head in her lap. "You ever met Robbie Strauss?"

"The S of S&M? Sure. Nice old guy."

"He wants to house the city's homeless."

"Seems admirable."

"Only for some reason he can't do that unless I track down Frankie Roja. Me and Henry Shoshone and Jessica Love Dooitt."

"Who's Henry Shoshone?"

"Another middle-aged schlub like me who's one of John Santini's minions."

"Is Jessica a minion too?"

"As of about an hour and a half ago."

She put down her book. "What?"

"What, what?"

"Something's bothering you."

"It's nothing."

"It's something."

"I guess it's just ... she's young."

"Not that young."

"A lot younger than you or me. I'm old enough. Being a minion fits my lifestyle."

"You don't have a lifestyle."

"And Henry, he's older than me. But Jessica? Got her whole life ahead of her. What if she's got to spend it all serving in Santini's army?"

"What if she does?"

"I don't know. It just seems wrong." I picked myself up. "I need a shower." I tramped toward the bathroom.

I was in there for twenty minutes. It didn't help my mood. Not one lousy bit.

next: Rain, Rain, Go Away