Pale Kings and Princes

“Sure,” I said. “Or you’ll kill me for thinking you were Ricardo Montalban, or because you want to prove how tough Cesar is. I understand that possibility. But let’s not waste time here with it. You saying you’re going to kill me doesn’t scare me. Probably it should. But it doesn’t. And every time you say it, I got to think up a smart answer to prove that it doesn’t scare me. It uses up all our energy and we’ve got more important stuff to talk about.”

Esteva took out a long thin black cigar like Gilbert Roland used to smoke in the movies and lit it and got it drawing and inhaled and exhaled and gazed for a moment at the glowing tip. Then he looked at me and nodded.

“That is true,” he said.

He took in some more cigar smoke and let it out in a narrow stream.

“You think my wife had an affair with Eric Valdez?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You think I killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

He was silent.

“That’s why I asked,” I said.

“You think maybe she’s mad at me for killing him, she tell you about it.”

“It happens,” I said.

“Emmy don’t have an affair with nobody,” he said. “If she did I would kill him, sure. Maybe her too. But she don’t. She love me, Spenser, and she respect me. You understand that?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You have other questions?” he said.

“Valdez’s boss thinks he was killed to keep the lid on the cocaine trade here.”

“That a question?” Esteva said.

“Yes,” I said.

“What cocaine business,” Esteva said. He put the cigar in the corner of his mouth and inhaled and exhaled without removing it.

“I was asking you,” I said.

“I don’t know nothing about cocaine,” he said.

“You’re in the produce business?” I said.

“Yes.”

“And those two guys walk around with you in case a tough greengrocer tries to put the arm on you.”

“I’m rich,” Esteva said. “Lot of Anglos don’t like a rich Colombian.”

“How about the chief’s son? How come he works for you?”

Esteva shrugged elaborately. “Don’t do harm to do favors for the chief. Good business.”

“Kid drives a truck,” I said.

“Kid’s slow,” Esteva said. “Job’s a good job for him.”

“You send some people out to Quabbin Road the other night to roust me?”

Esteva shook his head.

“I didn’t think you did,” I said.

“You think I tell you if I did?” Esteva said.

“Hell,” I said, “I don’t know, Mr. Esteva. I don’t know what’s going on so I wander around and ask questions and annoy people and finally somebody says something or does something then I wander around and ask questions about that and annoy people and so on. Better than sitting up in a tree with a spyglass.”

“Well, you annoying people. That is true,” Esteva said. “One day it could get you hurt bad.”

He got up and nodded toward the two men at the bar. They fell in behind him and followed as he walked out. When they reached the lobby the two guys in overcoats stood. Cesar stopped in the doorway of the lounge and turned slowly and looked at me. I looked back. It was like staring into a shotgun. Then he turned and went out behind the rest of them.

“That’s for sure,” I said. But no one heard me.

14

Garrett Kingsley called me at seven-ten in the morning.

“Bailey Rogers has been killed,” he said. “We picked it up on the police radio. About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Where,” I said.

“Someplace on Ash Street,” Kingsley said. “You know where that is?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s up past the library.”

“Good, get over there and see what’s going on.”

“Do I get a by-line?” I said.

“We’ve got a reporter and a photographer on the way down there. But it’s got to be connected.”

“To Valdez?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll take a look,” I said. “You know anything else?”

“No. That’s all, just the initial call on the police radio.”

“Who’s the reporter?” I said.

“Kid named Murray Roberts,” Kingsley said. “I don’t know who the photographer will be yet.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I was showered and shaved and dressed for running. I took off my sweats and put on my jeans and a pink sweater. I took off my S&W .32 and put on my Colt Python. Leather jacket, sunglasses, and I was ready to solve something.

There were four cruisers, including one from the State Police, at the top of Ash Street. An ambulance was pulled up at a slant on the right-hand side of the road in front of an Olds-mobile Cutlass with a small roof-top antenna. The front door of the Cutlass was open. Two EMT’s were at the door, one had his head inside, one stood behind him leaning on the roof with his left hand. The buzz and chatter of the police radios filled in the background. A yellow plastic police line had been strung around the scene. There were four or five Wheaton cops and one state trooper inside the line, and maybe twenty civilians in various stages of dress from bathrobe to suit and tie outside it. Somebody’s yellow Lab was sniffing the tires of the State Police cruiser. Henry, the pot-bellied Wheaton police captain who had tried to roust me on my first visit to the Wheaton Library, was standing behind the Olds, his arm around Caroline Rogers. He looked uncomfortable.