Cut and Run

43

Frank Polo left the diner, watching Whit drive off in Charlie Fulgham’s borrowed Lexus. Whit was so like Eve in certain ways. Resolve. Smarts. Single-mindedness. Frank drove around an extra twenty minutes before heading home, stopping at lights, watching his back. He wasn’t quite sure who he was looking for in his rearview mirror. He imagined cops, lantern-jawed guys who’d give him the tough eye or a woman cop with a lesbian-short haircut who’d take him downtown, call him Mr Polo, be excruciatingly polite while panic tore his guts and ribs in half. See what he was made of, sitting there in their interrogation room, the cops lobbing a suggestion or two about his involvement with Paul Bellini beyond being the Topaz’s manager, about his knowledge of any criminal activities about the family. Asking where Eve Michaels was. Probably good he’d had to move the money he’d taken from the club back into the club’s accounts. It made him clean. Christ, Paul had done him a favor.

‘What you gonna do to me?’ Frank practiced saying in his mind to his imaginary interrogators. ‘Make me give the Grammy back?’ That was always a hell of a line to keep in your pocket, it made people know that they weren’t nearly as cool as you were. The Grammy, he still had that, up on a mantel in his bedroom. Usually one of the last things he saw before he went to sleep.

For a change, there were no police cars parked near the house. No lawyers waiting to talk to him, and no Bucks. He had gone to the hospital straight from Kiko’s with Whit and Gooch, but stayed in the background, not letting anyone know he was with the other two. Thank God he hadn’t come home that night to find a furious and panicked Bucks waiting for him, anxious for help.

He got out of the car, headed up to the front door. The woman was waiting for him in the eaves of the porch, dark-haired, mildly pretty, with a serious and intelligent face. Frank froze, the keys in his hand.

The man in front of her looked older than the pictures of Frank Polo Claudia remembered, vaguely, from her older sister’s record covers. He’d been short for a singing star, big black hair in a seventies flip, gaudy with chains and the requisite long-pointy-collared shirt slit open to the belly, big-heeled shoes, pants tighter than skin. This man was still short, but quietly dressed in comfortable gray slacks and a plain blue shirt, hair cropped short without a bit of gel. But there was the too-big diamond on the ring, the hint of gold chain under the modest collar.

‘Yes?’ he said. A little fear in his voice, the barest inflection. Because she was unexpected and he was tense, expecting attack or trouble from a new angle.

Claudia had given long thought on how to work this. ‘Mr Polo? I’m looking for Tasha Strong. I understand you have her address or phone number. She’s unlisted.’

‘Who are you? A cop?’

‘No. A friend is worried about Tasha and asked me to find her.’

‘See me at the club, I don’t have the dancers’ contact info at home.’ He fumbled for his house key on a thick ring.

‘I’m also looking for Eve Michaels.’

‘She’s out of town.’ Not looking at her.

‘Where could I find her?’ Claudia asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know what town she went to?’

‘You have ten seconds to get off my porch,’ he said. ‘Then I call the cops.’

‘Eve Michaels is missing, isn’t she? Won’t one more investigation fill up your date book, Mr Polo?’

He crossed his arms. ‘Eve and I had our differences. She left town for a while. Satisfied?’

‘She got a cell phone?’

‘Not for strangers to call.’

‘I’m not exactly a stranger. I’m Claudia Salazar. I’m a friend of Whit’s and Gooch’s.’ She watched his face; he gave no reaction to their names. ‘Is Eve dead? Did the Bellinis kill her? Or Jose Peron?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Frank said. ‘Eve wanted time alone.’

‘Time away from her son? Whit’s her son, isn’t he?’

Now he studied her and said, ‘I can give you her cell phone number if you want.’

‘That would be great, thanks.’

‘I don’t have it memorized,’ he said. ‘You know how it is, you press the speed dial code. My phone’s inside. You’re welcome to come in.’ Suddenly friendly, the frost gone. ‘Or wait out here.’ Like knowing he’d been too friendly.

‘I’ll come in. Thank you.’

‘I was about to make coffee,’ Frank Polo said. He stopped, tossed his suit coat onto the chair, closed the door behind her. ‘You want a cup? You could even try Eve’s cell phone from here.’

She pasted on a warm smile. Get him talking; people nearly always told you more than they thought they would. ‘That’d be great. My sister’s a big fan of yours.’

‘Oh. Well. Thanks,’ he said. Thanking her for her sister’s devotion to disco seemed strange, but then what else was he going to say? She wondered, a moment too late, if saying her sister rather than she was a big fan was an insult. But Frank Polo didn’t seem to care. ‘Whit know you’re here?’

‘Yes.’ It seemed the prudent answer. Claudia followed Frank to the kitchen, watched him putter with filter, grounds, and water over the brewer. He turned to her, leaned against the counter, and smiled again.

‘I’m a bad guy, Claudia. I told you a little white lie,’ Frank said. ‘Eve didn’t leave because of an argument. She left because of Whit.’

Claudia waited.

‘Him being her kid, looking for her. Finding her. It upset her. Deeply.’

‘I’m sure it was a shock.’

‘For me, too. I didn’t even know she had a kid.’

‘She has six of them. All boys. Whit is the youngest.’

‘Six? God Almighty.’ The coffee maker gurgled in the quiet. ‘If you’re Whit’s friend, maybe you can help convince him to give her a little space.’

‘She didn’t leave town because of Paul Bellini?’

‘Why would she?’

‘Things could be a little tough at the office now. You both worked for him.’

Frank took down two coffee mugs from a cabinet, gave her a blank smile. ‘Technically, I work for a holding company that owns Topaz.’

‘Owned by Tommy Bellini, a mobster.’

Frank shrugged, put out milk, sugar, sweetener. ‘Former mobster. Tommy’s a good guy who, in his past, did bad things. It doesn’t make him a bad person if he’s good at heart.’

‘My actions don’t matter because I define myself as good?’ Claudia said. ‘Sorry, that excuse chafes me.’

‘We all have our life philosophies.’ Frank poured coffee into her mug, pushed the sugar bowl toward her. ‘Look, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with Whit, okay? I know those words hurt. The poor kid, it breaks your heart.’

‘She leaves town right at the same time that Kiko Grace and Paul Bellini are murdered?’ Claudia shook her head. ‘I’m wondering, what triggered all this bloodshed, Mr Polo?’

‘I don’t know who Kiko Grace is.’

She watched him, sipped the coffee. ‘Kiko Grace is a drug lord from Miami. He was found shot to death the day after Paul was. Two major crime figures gone in short order. Now something or someone set that off. Maybe Eve.’ She put down her coffee.

‘You must be looking for work to keep your mind busy. Are you another PI? Or a lawyer?’

‘I’m a police investigator down in Port Leo, where Whit’s from. But I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m here as his friend.’

‘You could have told me that from the beginning,’ Frank said, almost reproachfully.

‘I didn’t want you to run from me being a cop,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to lie when you ask me, either.’

‘I’m not allergic to cops,’ Frank said. He smiled. ‘The Bellinis have lots of cop friends. Always have.’

‘Great,’ she said. ‘For my own curiosity, or a memento for Whit if Eve doesn’t want to see him again, would you have a picture of her I could keep?’

He seemed to weigh his options. ‘For Whit? Let me see.’ He set his coffee down, wandered off down a hallway. She didn’t like him out of her sight, but it was his house, she knew the risks of stepping inside. She noticed a picture of Frank and a woman hanging on a dining room wall, beyond the kitchen.

The woman was pretty, must have been drop-dead gorgeous in her shallow youth, fine-featured, high-cheekboned, thin lips parted in an honest smile for the camera. She looked normal, nothing bent or broken within her that would make her leave her family, her children, run off with an embezzler, perhaps kill him, then join a crime family. She didn’t look like a mom who’d bake cookies for the PTA but she looked like a mom who’d let you eat ice cream until you got sick. Whit looked like her, Claudia could really see the resemblance, across the eyes, the mouth, the cheekbones, and she bit her lip, her heart full for Whit.

Frank Polo came back into the kitchen, holding a small photo. She stepped back into the kitchen to meet him and he handed her the picture. ‘Took that last year on a trip to Cozumel. It’s a good likeness of Eve.’

Claudia took the photo. The same woman, wearing Capri pants and a white blouse, turquoise jewelry at her throat, smiling in bright sunlight. ‘You know, her name isn’t Eve. It’s Ellen.’ The woman named Ellen should have had a life with her sons. As she looked at the picture, an acid dislike for Ellen Mosley settled in her mouth.

‘Ellen. It doesn’t fit her. Too Sunday-school teacher.’

‘Where is she, Mr Polo?’

‘I told you I don’t know.’

‘I find it hard to believe that if she left because of Whit, she didn’t tell you where she was going.’ But her voice stayed friendly.

‘She didn’t want Whit strong-arming it out of me,’ Frank said.

‘I know you know,’ Claudia said.

‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I don’t. Having your unwanted kid show up is enough to make a woman like Eve run for cover. There’s nothing else to it.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Does that mean you’re not going to give me her number?’

He went to an address book, wrote down numbers and an address, handed them to her.

‘Tasha Strong’s phone number and address. Eve’s number. Good luck.’ Tasha Strong’s address was on Telephone Road, a major thoroughfare near Hobby Airport.

‘Greg Buckman,’ she said. ‘You know him, too.’

He let three beats pass. ‘Yes. Worked at Energis, the jerk. Bad freaking influence on Paul.’

‘A bad influence on a mobster.’

‘Paul’s not a mobster. No matter what you think. But Bucks, he’s a greedy, mean bastard.’

‘Yet, when Bucks nearly gets killed the other night, he comes running to you. To this house,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s odd.’

‘He probably thought Paul would be here.’

‘But Paul was dead by then. See, if Bucks killed Paul, he sure wouldn’t have come to your house afterwards and sat waiting for you. He’d leave Houston.’

‘People are idiots,’ Frank said. ‘Haven’t you noticed? I haven’t really talked to Bucks since Paul died.’

‘Because the police are watching you all.’

‘Are they? No one’s at my door or window,’ Frank said. ‘And like I said, it’s been nice talking to you.’

‘Bucks could turn, cut a deal. Say you and Eve are more to the Bellinis than family friends. With Paul dead, the structure may crumble and crush you underneath it.’

‘Sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing a half-assed plea deal. Because I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going on with my life. I got to get my throat into shape, practice my arpeggios and finger snaps and hip swivels.’

‘I’m glad you have your priorities.’

‘You want to help your friend. You know, I like Whit. I know it’s tough. Losing his mom. I loved my mom. She was the best person, next to Eve, I’ve known. Don’t look surprised. Eve is a wonderful person. You don’t know her.’

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ Claudia said.

‘If Eve calls,’ Frank said, ‘I’ll leave it up to her whether or not she wants to talk to you. Since you’re Whit’s friend. You got a number where I can reach you?’

‘Yeah.’ She set down the purse on the counter, dug inside for paper and pen, pulled them out. Wrote down her cell phone number. Handed it back to him.

‘You seem like a nice young lady,’ Frank said. ‘I know Whit’s your friend and you want to help him. Can I give you friendly advice?’

‘Sure,’ Claudia said, not wanting to burn this bridge quite yet.

‘Stay out of this. It’s between a mother and son. Or two people wondering if they can be a mother and son. Let them sort it out.’ He gave her his best smile. ‘You still want an autograph? For your sister?’

‘Sign it to me. I’ll make her jealous. I don’t suppose… well, you’re famous. Would you have a photo of yourself on hand?’

‘I always do,’ Frank said.

Claudia drove away from the house, sure his eyes were watching her from the window.

From her car seat, a thirty-years-younger, open-shirted Frank Polo smiled at her, the words TO CLAUDIA, YOU’RE MY GROOVE! YOUR FRIEND, FRANK POLO scrawled beneath his then-perfect chin.

Frank watched her leave. Nice young woman but clearly not the kind who would give up. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the cool of the glass.

He wanted Eve back so bad. Whit was right. The best answer was to deal with one more devil.