Potshot

Chapter 31

IN A DARK brown Range Rover, laden with brush gear and sonorous with stereo, with Bobby Horse driving and Chollo beside him, and me in the back seat, we cruised down Palm Canyon Drive, through Palm Springs on Racquet Club Road and into Morris Tannenbaum's circular crushed stone driveway. Beyond the house a golf course rolled toward the mountain. The house itself was modest for Palm Springs, with the usual stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof. It looked like a dozen other homes with access to the golf course, except for the tastefully understated security cameras, and the black Lincoln Towncar that sat outside with its motor running. Chollo took a Derringer from the glove compartment and put it over the sun visor. We parked beside the Lincoln. After a moment the door opened on the passenger side and a tall leathery guy in a cowboy hat and Oakley shades got out and walked over to us. Chollo lowered his window. The cowboy looked in at me in the back.

"That him?" he said.

"Si," Chollo said.

The cowboy looked at me some more, then straightened and jerked his head toward the house.

"Okay," he said.

Bobby Horse shut off the motor and we got out into the heat, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. A Filipino house boy answered and bowed us into the air-conditioned hallway.

"Please to wait here," he said and went down the hall and disappeared. In a few moments a man came out of the door where the Filipino had gone and walked toward us. He was a well-built guy, like a racquetball player, or a tennis pro. He had a crew cut. He was wearing a blue seersucker suit, and a blue oxford shirt with a button-down collar, a blue-and-redstriped tie, and horn-rimmed glasses. As he came down the hallway he was looking at Chollo. I glanced over. Chollo was looking at him. When he reached us he stopped. Still looking at Chollo, he said, "You wish to see Morris?"

"Yes," I said.

"Five minutes," he said.

"Plenty," I said.

Chollo and the suit continued to look at each other.

Then the suit said, "Follow me," and turned and went back down the hall. We followed him into a smallish room that looked out through glass doors at a modest pool, and beyond, to the green of the golf course. A big-screen television set on a high shelf was blasting out a rollicking symphony of canned laughter. The room was full of exercise equipment, Nautilus, Kaiser, Cybex; a complete set of chromeplated free weights. A flabby unshaven guy in a yellow sweatsuit was doing assisted dips on a Gravitron. There was a stair-climber and an exercycle, and a treadmill all arranged so that they faced the television. The bicycle had a reading stand attached and around it, on the floor, were scattered parts of the Los Angeles Times and the Wall Street Journal. Several half-consumed bottles of Gatorade stood around. One had tipped over and was puddling the floor. The man on the Gravitron had a thick crop of dark black hair. His unshaven stubble was gray. The contrast was a little suspicious. I noticed that the counterweight on the Gravitron was set as high as it would go, which meant that he was dipping very little weight.

"Ronnie," the man said, still on the Gravitron, "the room's a fucking mess."

Without a word, the suit who let us in went to a desk beside the door and pressed a button. The flabby guy climbed down off the Gravitron and wiped his face with a towel and took a big pull of Gatorade.

"I'm Morris Tannenbaum," the flabby guy said. "Whaddya want?"

The Filipino came silently into the room and folded up the newspapers, picked up the Gatorade bottles, cleaned up the spill and went silently out. Ronnie stayed by the door looking at Chollo, who was looking at him. Bobby Horse stood just behind me, motionless. I glanced at him. His face had no expression.

"My name's Spenser," I said. "I wonder why you sent Jerome Jefferson and his friend Tino to scare me out of my wits."

"Don't know Tino," Tannenbaum said. "Jerome must have recruited him. I sent Jerome because I thought he could take care of things. I was wrong."

"What things did you want taken care of?"

"I want you to forget about Steve Buckman. I want you to stay away from Lou Buckman, and I want you to forget about the Dell."

"Un-huh."

"And if you don't do what I want I'll have you killed."

"How come?" I said.

"Because I say so, that's how come. You think because you get del Rio to call me, and you bring a couple of his greasers to back you up, that somehow makes you different from every other two-bit cheapie I've put in the fucking ground?"

"I'm the greaser," Chollo said, still looking at Ronslie. He tilted his head toward Bobby Horse. "He's an Indian."

Tannenbaum made a little dismissive gesture with his hand, and kept his eyes on me.

"You heard me," he said.

"I did, and I'm trying to get my breath back," I said.

"Okay," Tannenbaum said. "You been told. Straight up. From me to you. Beat it."

"What's your interest in Lou Buckman?" I said. "Or the Dell?"

"This is my home," Tannenbaum said. "I do not wish to kill you here. But I'll kill you somewhere, and soon."

Tannenbaum got up and walked out. Ronnie went out after him and closed the door. In another minute the Filipino came in.

"May I show you out?" he said.

I said he might. We got back in the car, drove back out to Route 10, and headed for L.A., past the Indian bingo parlors and the places that sold Famous Date Shakes.

"Ronnie looks sort of like an accountant," I said to Chollo.

"He's not," Chollo said.

"No," I said. "He's not. You think Tannenbaum will try to kill me?"

"In your language," Chollo said, "you bet your ass."

"Well it's been tried before," I said.

"You want me to kill him?" Chollo said.

"No. But I might take a rain check."

"What's the Dell?" Bobby Horse said.

"You don't know?" I said.

"I did would I be asking?"

"But Tannenbaum did," I said.

"So his interest is not just what'shername," Chollo said.

"Lou Buckman. No. It's Potshot."

"So, what's the Dell," Bobby Horse said.

I told him.

"Tannenbaum connected with this Preacher hombre, maybe?" Chollo said.

"Hombre?" I said.

"Just like to stay authentic to my heritage," Chollo said.

"Chollo, you grew up in East L.A.," I said.

"And I'm true to my heritage," Chollo said. "I am a thug."

"And a good one," I said.

"A thing worth doing," Chollo said, "is worth doing well."

"You got a plan?" Bobby Horse said.

"I can't seem to connect any of the dots," I said, "so, I think I'll blunder around out here some more. Something's got to be connected to someone."

"There's a connection," Chollo said. "You just don't know what it is."

"Story of my sleuthing career," I said.