Stein Stung Page 15

  “Under any slimy rock.”

  There was a ruckus outside. The double doors burst open. The two widows, so recently archrivals, now stood shoulder-to-shoulder united by a common enemy, a woman who was yet a third iteration of their same physical type.

  Moody called in to his wife, “Jarlene, would you make that three urns?” He nodded invitingly to the new arrival. Her dress was blue, not black. She was wearing neither sunglasses nor a black kerchief, revealing her crimped blond hair and hard blue eyes. She was the woman the other two had reminded Stein of.

  “I presume you are Mrs. Monahan the third?” Moody bowed.

  “No. I believe Mr. Stein could have told you that.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Peering.”

  “You know this woman?” Renn asked.

  “Not as well as I thought. What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I was the last person who saw him. The last woman he held in his arms. The woman whose scent was on him when he died. That counts for something.”

  “It counts for you being a little slut.” Aloysius Monahan’s widow burned her with a withering look. Though Stein wasn’t sure—the widow could have been Frank’s.

  “I wish I had remorse for what I did but I don’t,” Barbara Peering said.

  Stein had a soft spot for her, he didn’t know why. He reminded her that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She had just been sitting there when Frank had pulled her up from the booth and made her dance with him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stein. But … that was not the first encounter we had.”

  “Excuse me?” His voice came in on high C.

  “At the previous rest stop …”

  “Oh, don’t tell me.” Stein sagged into a chair.

  “We were getting back to the car after one of my husband’s timed five-minute ‘bodily functions breaks,’ as he likes to call them. You know how you can sense you’re being looked at? There was a truck parked alongside us. He was in the cab. The way he was looking. It felt like all my clothes had burned off. And I didn’t care. I wanted to be seen. I wanted him to see me. My husband …” She sighed and in the expulsion of air was carried the history of their marriage. “Frank stayed right behind us for two hundred miles. I turned the side view mirror so we could see each other’s faces. And he could read my lips.”

  “He cannot read lips,” one of the widows scoffed.

  “He could read mine.”

  She said that she had climaxed three times while dancing with him at the café. And that she was pretty sure he had climaxed too. She said he had invited her to ride with him. To leave her family behind. She went to the ladies room to calm herself, to settle her heartbeat, maybe to write a note to her family. She opened the dollhouse-sized window to get some air. Leaning her elbows on the gritty windowsill with its veins of cracked uplifts of old paint, her gaze, at first vacant, was drawn to a furtive motion. She saw a man ducking away from the back of Frank’s truck.

  In the moment there had been far too much going on for her to give it a second thought. She did not realize until the news started coming out that the accident had been caused by an unsettled load and not by a bee sting, that she had witnessed sabotage. The man she had seen had loosened the ties securing Frank’s load. Even now, when she closed her eyes she could still see that man scuttling away to the edge of the parking lot, half shrouded by a row of hedges. She had not been able to see the whole car he got into—only in through the front window, where clear as day, the woman who sat waiting for him was … she turned dramatically to the right, then to the left. “One of you.”

  “That’s a goddamn lie,” one of the widows screamed. “Take that back!”

  “Ladies, please. Let’s keep the body count down to one, shall we?” Renn asked Barbara Peering if she got a good look at the man. Sadly, she admitted, she had not. But when the car had backed into a Y to peel out of the parking lot, she had noticed an odd hood ornament on the front of the car.

  ***

  It was a guilty pleasure, he knew. But Stein loved driving Lila’s Lexus. There was something, goddamn it, to having money. Not that Lila was rolling in it. She was the least well off of all her trust fund girlfriends. She worked three mornings per week as a teacher’s aide and reading assistant. Not because she had to. Her husband left her pretty well off. The house was close to being paid for. The mortgage payments came out of the trust. She had Mercedes the housekeeper and Lexus the coupe. She probably would have to cash in some of the Microsoft stock that was owned by the trust to cover the unexpected upkeep, but she’d talk to Richard about that. As annoying as all that might be, she had the awareness to know that most people would trade their problems for hers in a moment. How Stein fit into this picture, he still didn’t quite figure. For either of them.

  The Moodys had given him the names of three likely places to find Henny Spector. He was heading toward the first, trying to come up with a game plan to disengage Hollister from Spector’s clutches. But he couldn’t get his mind off Frank Monahan. Two wives and a backup. The man had some mojo working. And cute little Barbara Peering. Ready to throw everything away for a ride on the wild side. As clueless as Ned Peering was about the inner life of the woman he married, in Stein’s heart he wanted her to stay with her husband; even if she’d had the chance to run off with Monahan, he wanted her to stay with Ned. It blew his mind to realize that when he was younger he would have rooted for the upheaval, and that now he had slid to the side of stability.

  He was thrust from the mental sauna of self-examination by a sharp bump at the rear end of the car. He was startled to see a big-ass SUV on his tail. A glance at his speedometer confirmed that he had been dawdling, down to a dreamy forty-five. He toed the pedal and in seconds was cruising at sixty. Doing sixty in his Camry on this road would have been an adrenaline ride but in this baby it was a walk in the park. He glanced up to confirm that he’d put distance between himself and the other vehicle. The sonofabitch still lurked centimeters from his bumper.

  Stein threw both arms up in the classic what-the-fuck gesture. He could play jet fighter pilot too. He eased off the pedal to make the SUV slow down and then gunned it. A wide receiver’s stop-and-go pattern. By that analogy, the SUV was a two-hundred-thirty-pound cornerback with the speed of a free safety and the hitting power of a linebacker. Stein could not shake him. The fucker nudged him again.

  Stein floored the Lexus into overdrive. He was practically thrown back in his seat. The response was instantaneous. The car went from solid to liquid and liquid to gas. It erupted right under him and threw him into Mach I. He was frightened he wouldn’t be able to handle the speed and flexed his ankle off the gas, allowing the transmission to shift out of low and into fifth. The damn SUV was still tongue-licking his tailpipe.

  He tried to see who the hell was driving but of course the windows were tinted. There was nothing in front or behind him that would offer any protection. No cluster of homes. No gas station, no general store. Ahead there was a driveway and turnout. He pulled over abruptly, went into a controlled ninety-degree skid, churned up a whole hell of a lot of dust and jumped out of the car to confront the driver of the SUV, who had stopped within five feet of him. Even as Stein slammed the car door behind him, strode under a full head of righteous indignation, he knew this was among the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. He had the gigantic impulse to give it a big Ooops, to whirl around, leap into his car and head back from whence he had come.

  Any lingering optimism that he had overestimated the level of danger he was dissipated with the emergence of the driver. He was a five-foot-nine-inch cinderblock of a man with a face like a pumpkin that had been smashed in and then frozen solid.

  “You.”

  His voice was a combination roar and snarl. Stein had never been to Siberia, but he was certain that the gamey, goaty, cheesy aroma that swelled from under the man’s silk shirt was an emanation of his tundrous homeland. The long slender Tanto blade that he shoved in front of Stein’s face was proba
bly Chechnyan. The point of the knife was embedded into the rump of a lustrous orange-colored fruit.

  “What called that?” he demanded.

  Stein reasoned that the man wanted to know the English word for the fruit. It was a fairly aggressive strategy of asking for information but under the circumstances he put judgments aside and informed him in English it was called an orange.

  With a flick of the wrist, ghastly and elegant in its economy, the man propelled the orange from the tip of the blade, and used gravity to halve the fruit into two perfect hemispheres as deftly as if he’d cut the throat of his wife’s lover.

  “Look that,” he challenged Stein. “What see?”

  “It’s a beautiful piece of fruit.”

  The man jabbed the point of his knife against each of several small, solid gray pips. It was easy to see them being the eyes of a torturee. “What call those?”

  “Pits, I guess. Right?”

  Stein’s choice of terminology was not satisfactory.

  “Is for make grow,” the man growled.

  “Seeds. Right, of course. Seeds.”

  “Seeds. Yes. This piece of shit you call piece of fruit was to be seedless mandarin. Look seedless to you?” He pressed one of the fragrant sections close to Stein’s face. In his enthusiasm he squeezed too hard and a spray of juice bathed Stein’s shirt and face. “You know why is seeds?” the man thundered. “Seeds is make from bees! Bees must to stay out of orange groves.” He swept his knife in a swift backhand arc that left no doubt of its message. He turned his disdainful look toward Stein, tossed him the fruit. “Bees you keep?”

  “Me? No.”

  “No. Too soft. What you are, car salesman?” He threw a disdainful look at the Lexus. “Piece of shit Japanese.” He got back into his own vehicle and left Stein at the side of the road. The scent bearing up out of the freshly cut orange filled his senses. Stein shoved the quartered section into his mouth and savored the taste all the way down. Seeds notwithstanding, it was one tasty piece of fruit.

  ***

  Given all that had happened to him, Stein was due the modest stroke of luck that Henny Spector was at the first of the three places Renn Moody had suggested. A cluster of motorcycles was parked out front of a dive with a sign that said GOOD EATS. Stein left Lila’s car out front, the only Lexus parked among the Harleys and Ford pickups and the one yellow Corvair convertible.

  There was not the slightest doubt in Stein’s mind that Henny Spector was the man he was looking at. The chicken insignia on his denim jacket was a clue. One of his eyes was looking behind to see who was chasing him and the other was scanning ahead for the next person he could cheat, another clue. What cinched it was that somebody had yelled across the room, “Hey, Henny!” and Henny had answered.

  From the table that Stein strategically chose at the end of the bar he was able to observe the man operate—passing through the crowded barroom in a seemingly patternless route. Yet at regular intervals he stopped at or was stopped by small clusters of people. A honeybee in a field of clover. The encounters were brief. Generally Henny spoke. Generally people listened or nodded. Sometimes one of the others might speak. Henny would listen. And invariably money would change hands in transactions that were not likely to find their way onto IRS 1040s.

  Stein’s plan, if such a word could be applied to the vague strategy he had begun to formulate, was to find a casual way of engaging in conversation with Henny. From there, he was pretty sure he’d find the way to ease Hollister out of Henny’s grasp. Though he still couldn’t fathom why anybody would buy or lease empty or depleted hives. Somebody had to be making money. That, he knew, was the end game. He couldn’t see through to the “how.”

  At a nearby round table, Henny drained the last inch of foam from his beer mug. Stein took this as a sign he was leaving, and came to readiness for his faux casual encounter. His quarry, however, exited by the other door. Stein applauded himself for having anticipated this possibility and positioning himself alongside a window that looked out to the parking area. He glanced out to see in which direction Henny’s yellow Corvair was headed.

  Stein delayed following for a few moments, left a twenty on the table, and sashayed unhurriedly out the door leaving no trace of himself behind. (As if anyone were paying the least bit of attention to him.) Outside, he ambled to his car with studied disinterest. There was no need to rush, which would tip his hand. He’d give Henny a few minutes’ head start.

  However, the Hennymobile had stopped in the road a few dozen yards from the tavern. Stein quickly found a subterfuge, a legitimate reason that he was not getting into his car and driving. There was a persistent spot in the middle of his windshield that needed cleaning. He searched for a cloth. He wiped and buffed and elbow greased. He checked his fluid levels. All the while glancing out of the corner of his eye. At last the Corvair moved. Not frontward but in reverse. It stopped and idled ten feet from where Stein was obsessively wiping.

  “I think you got the spot,” the driver observed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You wanted to talk to me, right?”

  Stein feigned guileless disinterest. “What would make you think that?”

  Henny tapped his index fingers against the back of his head. “Eyes all over.” He threw the Corvair into drive and headed down the road, trailing oil leakage and dark smoke. All Stein could do was follow. Despite everybody’s low opinion of Spector, Stein’s impression of him was not that bad. He had a sense of humor. Plus he didn’t have half the car under him that Stein did, but he hugged the line, took the curves skillfully, didn’t ride the brake. Credit where it’s due.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stein half-expected Henny Spector’s place to resemble the salvage yard where Butch and Burleigh lived, the crazy twin brothers with the blown-out knees. But no. There was no sculpture garden of propane canisters at Chez Spector, no redneck graveyard of deceased refrigerators. His driveway passed beneath an arbor of manicured citrus trees, some in heady blossom, some bending under the weight of ripe fruit. It led to a ranch-style house, not ostentatiously large, not thoughtlessly suburban, but neat and homey and well kept. The Brahms Violin Concerto was playing on the stereo, which delighted Stein, as it was one of a select few classical pieces he could recognize immediately wherever he came in on it.

  “I have many beverages,” said Henny. “Have you come as a friend or a foe, so I know what to serve you?”

  “I’m good with just the company for right now.”

  There was a long leather sofa that faced a TV. A photograph—at closer look, a painting—hung on the opposite wall above an oak dining table. It was muscular and kinetic and mystical at the same time, depicting an eighteen-wheel open bed diesel barreling through a storm of white so intense the truck was nearly invisible. Stein was surprised by the title: Route 99 to Fresno.

  “I didn’t know you had blizzards here,” he remarked.

  “Everyone makes that mistake. It isn’t snow. It’s garlic paper and butterfly wings. Yeah. Very first time I drove through this valley I got in behind one of those big open-framed delivery trucks hauling a million heads of garlic. Skins were blowing off like the tail of a comet. At that very moment a huge cloud of white butterflies flew from one side of the road to the other.” He gestured toward the painting. “I still haven’t quite gotten it right.”

  “You painted this?”

  “I know. Liberals hate it when Philistines make art.”

  A bay window diverticulated out on the far side of the room. A cushioned window seat followed its contours. A music stand was placed artfully to the side. In the stand was a guitar. Stein’s friend Winston Van Goze, because he had perfect pitch and great weed, roadied when he needed bread, and had tuned every high-profile guitar in the music biz. With him, Stein had seen them all, and knew that the axe he was looking at was a Martin D-28 probably worth forty grand. His estimate increased tenfold when he noticed the small photograph of the instrument being played by its original owner during
a pre–Ed Sullivan show live performance of “Heartbreak Hotel.”

  “That for real?” Stein said.

  “Pretty fucking cool, huh?”

  “So let me ask you something. Empty bee boxes?”

  “You come to the point, don’t you?”

  “We’re both busy men.”

  “Ah, but you’re my guest.”

  Henny filled a pair of glasses with a murky-looking liquid he poured from a decanter. He proffered one to Stein.

  “What is it?”

  “Try it.”

  Stein brought the glass to his lips and stopped. Henny read his thoughts and smiled. “Shall we switch glasses?”

  Stein took the dare and toasted to mutual trust. The taste was unfamiliar. Bitter but rescued by a vein of sweetness.

  “Do you like it?

  “It’s interesting. What is it?”

  “Pomegranate mixed with banana. Pomegranate’s the next big thing. I promise you.”

  “Let’s talk about the current small thing. Hollister Greenway? The kid’s in over his head.”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know. From whatever little Ponzi scheme you’ve got going here.”

  Henny drained his glass and licked his lips in appreciation. “You fucking his wife? That little Ruth Ann? I bet she’s a screamer.”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “That’s the first time I ever saw a hippie take umbrage. Very interesting visual.”

  “I’m not fucking her, if it’s any of your business.”

  “Pretty much everything that goes on in this valley is some part of my business. Which is why I’m surprised that a man of your historical stature would make two visits to our little neck of the woods and only be interested in small change like Hollister Greenway.”

  “You thought enough about him to make him a partner.”

  “Hell, I just ran into him by chance at the feed store. It could have been anybody.”

  “And what would you want to be playing for?”

  “You called the game. You call the stakes.”