Pacific Beat

Chapter 22

The office manager of Cheverton Sewer & Septic was a dour, fat-nosed woman whose desk plaque read MARGE BUZZARD. Her hair was brown-gray, straight and thick, and lay upon the shoulders of a white blouse whose high, frilly neck suggested Victorian primness. Her eyebrows were thick, threatening to connect. She looked to Weir like Charlie Watts in drag on the old Stones album. To her left was an ancient punch clock in olive drab, with a slotted stand beside it for time cards. To her right was a dirty window that looked out to the oil-treated dirt that served as the Cheverton equipment yard. Next to that was a framed photo portrait of a middle-aged man. It appeared to be the only clean thing in the office.

Jim introduced himself as a researcher for attorney B. Flynn of Newport Beach. He told her whom he was looking for.

“I’ve been here ten years, and we never had a Dave Smith,” she said conclusively. “We had a Don Smith, back in ’eighty-five, one of the pump crew. He only lasted a month.”

“You’ve got quite a memory, Ms.... is it Buzzard, like the bird?”

“It’s Miss Buzzard, Mr. Weir, like bazaar with a d.”

Weir invented a tale involving Counsel Flynn settling out of court for a client in Laguna Beach. A Mr. Dave Smith of Cheverton Sewer & Septic now had a substantial sum in court escrow. “Something on the order of seven hundred thousand dollars,” he said.

“That’s something on the order of impossible, like I already told you. We don’t have any Dave Smith. Never have.”

“I’d like to see the operations manager.”

“That’s impossible, too. He’s out in the yard, and to get there you either have to go over the fence or past me. You are not coining past me to bother him about an employee we do not have. Those are the rules.”

“Rules just got changed,” he said, lifting the wooden partition in the counter and going through.

Marge Buzzard, nearly as tall as Weir, was on him in a second. She scolded up close like a schoolteacher, then blocked his way to the back door. Jim poked his index finger under her larynx, lifted up just enough, and guided her out of his way. He slammed the door behind him, latched it, and, finding the necessary item available, padlocked her in. He pocketed the key. He could hear her fists hitting the wood as he walked across the yard toward the manager’s trailer. The new red Corvette he’d seen the night with Blodgett was parked outside it in the shade.

Beyond the pump trucks and portable generators, Jim could see Duty Free sitting on her trailer, engine compartment open, and two men on deck steadying winch cables that disappeared into the opening. One was flannel shirt and baseball cap — Blodgett’s companion on the Back Bay — the other was a youngish blond with big muscles and long hair.

Jim walked over. “Operations manager in?”

“That’s me,” said Baseball Cap. He peered at Jim from the shade of his bill, then turned back to his task. “No work, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m trying to give some money away, is what I’m doing.”

Baseball Cap glanced down again. The big kid looked at Weir and shook his head. “Just bring it right over,” said Baseball Cap. “Dump it anywhere.”

“Are you Dave Smith?”

Both men leaned down into the guts of Duty Free now. All Jim could see were their rumps, legs, and elbows. When they stood back and signaled, the winch revved and the cables tightened. Jim looked to the winch operator, sitting quietly behind the glass of his cockpit, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He heard a door slam from the main office, and looked back to see Miss Buzzard clomping toward him across the yard. Her arms swung purposefully at her sides, and her eyes were fastened on Weir. She stopped three feet away from him, breathing heavily, the wind hissing past her teeth. “Remove yourself from this property immediately,” she said.

“Sorry, Miss Buzzard, but I’m in now.”

She pointed toward the chain-link exit gate. “You will leave this instant.”

Jim saw that the two men on Duty Free had risen from the engine compartment and now stood watching from the deck. The blond was smiling. Baseball Cap wasn’t.

He climbed down from the boat and came toward Weir, wiping his hands on his pants. He introduced himself as Lou Braga and offered his hand. Braga was younger than Jim had thought, about his own age, with plenty of dark hair curling out from under his cap. His face was all sharp angles, nothing round except the big Roman nose. His eyes were almost black, and his handshake was strong. “He’s okay, Marge.”

“He is trespassing, I remind you.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“I’d rather you did not,” she said. Jim noted the fury with which she glared at Braga.

“But I’m the ops manager around here, so I’ll manage this operation. Thank you, Marge. It’s all right.”

She looked at Weir with unalloyed hatred, then back to Braga. “This didn’t happen when Dick was alive.”

“I miss him, too, Marge. Go inside — it’s okay.”

Weir tossed her the key. She regarded him with a final disdainful look, then turned and marched back the way she had come.

“After all that, I hope you’re not selling somethin’. I’ll be on her shit list for months now.”

Weir explained his mission — the settlement and Dave Smith’s seven hundred grand. Braga listened closely, nodding. “Trouble is, there’s no Dave Smith here.”

“Know where he is?”

“That’s what I mean, we never had a guy named that.”

Jim wondered whether this was the party line here at Cheverton Sewer, or if Becky and Virginia had simply gotten it messed up. “He used a Cheverton credit card a few weeks ago, minor purchase. He’s got an authorized name.”

“Gotta be some mistake. You know, we’re owned by about ten other companies. He must have been with one of them.”

“He said Cheverton, gave the card number and expiration date.”

“You TRW or something?”

“I’m on the level. Never thought I’d have so much trouble giving away seven hundred grand.”

Braga nodded, studying Weir’s face. Then he turned and watched the motor of Duty Free rising like some steel Lazarus from the engine compartment. The big blond steadied the cable, jumped off the boat, and helped guide the block onto a waiting tarp. “Looks like they’re doing fine without me. Come in, maybe we could straighten this out.”

The inside of the manager’s trailer was neat and minimal: a master calendar on Braga’s desk, an old coffee can full of pens and pencils, an upturned car piston full of cigarette butts, a smudged telephone, the usual girlie calendars on the walls, and a photo of Braga and his family hanging over the air conditioner. There were a couple of faded pictures from fishing trips, too. In one of them, Dale Blodgett stood beside Braga, holding a heavy yellowtail toward the camera so it would look bigger.

They sat on either side of the battered gunmetal gray desk. “What’s the deal with Marge?” Jim asked. Braga laughed, both rows of even white teeth showing. “She’s been here too long to get rid of. Everybody’s scared of her but me. She’s not so bad, but this is her whole world, so she guards it like a Doberman.”

“Mr. Cheverton passed away recently?”

“Five years ago. He was doing a cesspool when one of the pump trucks jumped into gear, and he was standing in front of it. Knocked him out and pitched him in. It was bad.”

“That his picture in her office?”

“You don’t miss much, Weir. You a PI?”

“No. Just doing basic research work for attorneys now.”

“Used to be a PI?”

“Sheriff’s Department for a while.”

Braga nodded, studying Jim with his black unhurried eyes. “Marge loved him to death. She was bad before. After Dick died, she’s been pretty much out there. Keeps that picture of him wiped and polished like it’s the Virgin Mary or something.”

Weir accepted a cigarette from Braga, who lit his own, waved the match out, and tossed the book toward him. Braga placed the piston in the middle of the desk. “Now about this Dave Smith, there’s gotta be some mistake. Like I said, our corporate credit cards are issued from headquarters, so who knows who actually called it in. What’d he buy?”

Jim hesitated. “Minor purchase. Hardware, I think.”

“If you’re not TRW, how do you know who charges things on a Cheverton card?”

“I’m a legal researcher. That stuff isn’t too tough to find out.”

Braga shrugged. “Guess not. Thanks for the tip, though. If someone here is charging personal things to a company card, I want to know. What’s the number?”

“I’d think so.” Jim copied it from the slip Becky had written out for him.

Braga glanced at it. “What about this settlement?”

Weir remained vague: class-action suit, settled out of court; couldn’t reach him at home for over a week; Smith said his current employment was here.

Lou Braga listened without interrupting, then shook his head slowly. “Just a mistake, I guess. Maybe he was just using us to look legit or something. I don’t know. But he isn’t here, that’s a fact.” Braga waited then, as if expecting something from Jim, an air of suppressed curiosity surrounding him. He sat up a little straighter, drawing on the cigarette. “You’re Ann Cruz’s brother, aren’t you?”

Jim nodded.

“I’m real sorry about what happened.”

“We buried her today.”

“I guess they’ve got it narrowed down to that nut from Ohio.”

“There’s not much evidence, to tell you the truth.”

Jim could see from Braga’s eyes that he was rising to the bait, but he wouldn’t take it. Braga said nothing.

“So,” Jim said, “the family is doing a little investigation of its own. Trying to keep everything covered.”

“Sure. I would, too. This whole business about Dave Smith wouldn’t be about Ann, would it?”

“Not unless you know something I don’t.”

Braga smiled uncomfortably, both rows of teeth again. He raised his open hands. “Hey, hey, I was just thinking out loud.”

Jim waited.

“No, not at all. It’s just this story about a settlement seems so goddamned weird. Like a sting the cops would pull, or something.”

“How many people are verified to use the Cheverton company card?”

“Three of us here — Marge, me, and the field supervisor, Manny Rueda. But like I said, that card is issued from corporate, so they might keep some other names on it. For verification, I mean.”

“Who is corporate?”

“Cantrell Development owns us. PacifiCo owns them. They call the shots.”

“They have a Dave Smith?”

“I sure wouldn’t know. Look, I’ll make a call and find out, if that’d help.”

“I’d appreciate it. So would Smith, if he’s got seven hundred grand coming his way. Know of anyone around here who might take the number from your statements, figure out a verified name, use that card for himself?”

Braga considered. “We’ve got a couple dozen on crews. Some are good men, been with us a while. Some are kind of edgy. You take what you can get at that level. We had a breakin a couple of months back. Some junkie could have lifted the number, if he was smart enough.”

“Would you mind passing along a name, if someone comes to mind?”

“Sure. Sure will.”

“I’d like a list of your employees, too.”

Braga shook his head. “I won’t do that. I don’t give that kind of thing away. Court order comes along, I’ll be happy to. You gotta understand, Weir, I hired most of these guys. They’re my men.”.

The more Jim talked to Lou Braga, the more he liked him. And the more he believed that Braga was caught between a rock and a hard place. The hard place was Dave Smith. It was time to turn things up a notch. “You know my mother?”

“I’ve heard of her.”

“You have a friend in common — Dale Blodgett.”

Braga just nodded.

“When you can’t make the patrol runs with Dale at night — like the night you blew Duty Free’s gasket — she goes with him instead. A few times, Ann went with him, too.”

Braga looked at Jim with a mystified expression. “Every time you ask me about something, you end up knowing more about it than I do. In fact, we’ve been talking here for twenty minutes and I don’t think I’ve told you one thing you didn’t already know. I got work to do, so if you’re just fucking with me, I think I’ll get back to it.”

Jim rose and followed Braga back into the oil-covered lot.

“I need Dave Smith,” said Weir. “Bad.”

“I can’t help you,” said Braga.

Jim gave him Becky’s card, with his number written across the back. “Just in case.”

Braga nodded, then joined the big blond at the engine. Weir stood and watched a moment as both men ignored him. A few feet away from him were the life preservers, toolboxes, tarps, engine cover, and bait tank from Duty Free, all cleaned and ready to go back aboard, all arranged neatly on a new canvas tarp. The fighting chairs, removed from the deck, leaned against an old truck parked in the shade. The vigilante patrol boat, he thought. The fishing boat that catches no fish, carries a bait tank that holds no bait. Why bother putting it aboard unless they’re fishing? Jim wondered. Why bother with the fighting chairs?

“Hey Weir! Beat it now. I said I’d do what I can for you.”

Jim waved at Lou Braga, and started off toward the gate. He was sure of two things as he climbed into his truck: that Marge was watching him from the side window of her office, and, more importantly, that Lou Braga would be talking to Dave Smith as soon as Weir got his truck out of eyeshot.

Halfway down the peninsula, two Newport Beach units pulled him over. Weir sat tight. Two officers came to his truck. One loitered behind it as the other came to Jim’s window. Weir read his nameplate — Lansing — Blodgett’s buddy, drinking coffee during the hour in question. He asked for Weir’s license, clipped it to his citation board, and went back to the car for the check. It took twenty minutes. When it was done, Lansing wrote him up for a broken taillight.

“Have a nice day,” he said with a smile, flicking the defendant’s copy of the ticket into the cab of the truck. “Been feelin’ scratchy down there, treasure boy?”