Cast in Stone Read online

  Cast in Stone

  by G.M. Ford

  A Leo Waterman mystery

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  1

  There were two Tony Moldonados. One was the lovable fat guy we all knew from the TV ads. The one who dressed up like the Wagnerian opera singer, horned helmet and all, and proclaimed “The deal ain’t over till da fat lady sings.” That Tony had a thirty-year marriage, grown children, a successful string of auto dealerships, and, as we all knew, would beat any deal in town.

  The other Tony was an entirely different matter. I hadn’t figured him out yet and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Tony number two was, if nothing else, a man of consistent habits. Unfortunately, those habits were consistently disgusting, which was where I came into it.

  Once a year, like clockwork, Tony number two went on a binge. He’d fake an out-of-town business trip, pack enough luggage for a safari, kiss the wife good- bye, and take a taxi to the airport. From the airport, he’d take another taxi across the street to the hotel strip on Pacific Highway South, find himself a roach motel, and begin the serious business of partaking of those prurient pleasures that cruel fate denied Tony number one. Tony number two was into young girls. For that matter, young anything. The younger the better. Rumor had it that he billed himself as Tony Coitus.

  For the past four years, Tony was no sooner out the door than his wife was on the phone to me. I have no idea how Rose Moldonado got hip to Tony’s meandering ways; it didn’t much matter. My duty was to see that Tony was returned safely to the bosom of his family. I wasn’t supposed to stop him; I was merely to see to it that he survived the experience.

  I’d been holed up for the past six days in the Pacific Vista Motel, a pink, U-shaped, cinder-block emporium that specialized in adult movies and a quick turnover. I was on the same floor, directly across the U from Tony’s room, with an excellent view of the seemingly endless stream of demented debutantes who stumbled in and out.

  The first year I’d been part of this little charade, in a fit of misplaced responsibility, I’d taken the room next door to Tony’s, but the sounds and smells that filtered through the cardboard walls had for weeks afterward polluted my dreams. Rose Moldonado paid promptly and well, but neither promptly nor well enough for my dreams. There were limits.

  I’d since cut a deal with the management. To reduce the chances of both apprehension and infection, they kept the rooms on either side of Tony’s vacant, made an honest effort to provide disease-free specimens, and gave me the proverbial room with a view. Not only was I paying them, but tumid Tony passed out hundred-dollar bills like candy. It was the mythical offer they just couldn’t refuse.

  I was well prepared this year. I had enough food for a rural village, a couple of good books, and a new pair of slippers that kept my feet from ever touching the matted green shag carpet, which seemed determined to stick to the soles of my shoes. This year, I’d even brought my own sheets. Those provided by the management invariably looked like a road map of northern Bosnia, embossed, I’d always assumed, with the same substance that gave the carpet its adhesive quality.

  I was up early. Tony's last volunteer, a prematurely purple prepubescent type in road warrior garb, had left at about 3:00 a.m. In spite of the massed mercury vapor lights, I'd been unable to ascertain the gender of this particular specimen. I had the feeling that it didn't much matter to Tony. Tony, I presumed, would be sleeping in.

  I rummaged in my cooler and selected an onion bagel, some cream cheese, and the last of the smoked salmon for breakfast. I washed it all down with some orange juice, cleaned up my mess, and headed for the shower, careful not to let any part of my body touch an exposed surface.

  The shower head had only two adjustments. The first provided an incredibly fine spray that was like trying to wash in fog. The other setting could have easily been used for crowd control. It had been set that way the first time I'd used the shower. I'd gotten in, turned the handle up, and immediately been hit right in the groin by a water cannon. It paralyzed me. If I hadn't been able to scoot down by the drain, I'd still be pinned to the back of the tub with a hole in my chest. Thank God I'd been wearing my new slippers.

  After about ten minutes of being alternately misted and bludgeoned, I squooshed back into the room, got out some fresh clothes, and stood up on the bed to get dressed. While I was lacing up my Reeboks, I wondered what Tony dreamed about at night, deciding that I probably didn't want to know.

  I was putting my slippers on the windowsill heat register to dry when I noticed that Tony was about to have his first visitor of the day. This was a bit of a disappointment. I'd figured he would be running out of gas by now. Obviously the man had unimagined reserves of strength. I wondered if maybe he'd been going to the health club in preparation for his yearly sojourn, which, in turn, led me to wondering exactly what would constitute a workout for a sport like

  Tony's. How many sets of what? I quickly wrote this off as something else I didn't want to know.

  This morning's repast was pretty much standard fare, about five foot seven, skinny, long blond hair grown out brown at the roots, wearing jeans, a green flowered blouse, earrings the size of hubcaps, and red shoes with impossibly high heels.

  She knocked and was instantly admitted. Obviously, Tony had been up and expecting her. All was as well as it was going to be until I managed to get out of this virus culture of a motel.

  I settled into the tape-patched coral Naugahyde chair by the window and got out my book. Nobody but John McPhee could keep me reading about oranges for two hundred pages. I was immersed in citric splendor when a sudden movement in my peripheral vision jerked my attention from the Indian River Country of central Florida to the door of Tony's room.

  I was greeted by a scene that presented limited possibilities; either Tony was broadening his area of interest to include large black men—a notion that, while unspeakable, was not beyond the realm of possibility—or we were about to have a serious problem. As I grabbed the jacket that held my 9mm from its hanger, I got my answer. The larger of the two, using the balcony rail for leverage, reared back, cocked his leg, and planted one of his 14EEEs right in the middle of the door.

  I had just begun my sprint around the third-floor balcony when the door splintered and both men disappeared inside. I was ready for trouble. I wasn't ready, however, for the scene that greeted me as I burst through the door. The smaller of the two was madly snapping pictures while the door kicker was holding down the center of the room.

  The room smelled like a stable and looked like a back room at Central Casting. Costumes of all types were scattered about the room. A pink leotard and tutu, size fifty-two stout. A sawed-off canoe paddle with a taped grip. A World War I leather helmet, complete with goggles. A yellow plastic miner's hat. A pair of white, woolly chaps, with matching vest. Swim fins. Swim fins? Jesus. Whatever his myriad failings, the man led a rich fantasy life. You had to give him that.

  To
ny was backed up against the far wall, wearing his famous Viking costume, sans the breeches, trying valiantly to cover his distended organ with his hands. This type of intrusion would have deflated me in a hurry, but not old Tony. I made it a point not to look at him.

  The girl was lying face down on the unmade bed, naked from waist to ankles, making no attempt to cover herself. Her frilly dress was up over her head. What looked like an accordion was bunched around her ankles. If it hadn't been for the shepherd's crook leaning against the wall, I probably would never have recognized her costume. Now I was certain I didn't want into Tony's dreams.

  I lowered my shoulder and launched the picture taker toward the middle of the room. He rocketed forward, tripped himself up in Zorro's cape, which was lying on the floor, and fell heavily into the back of the door kicker. They both went down in a heap. The big one started to jump to his feet. The picture taker began to reach into his coat. Staring down the muzzle of the 9mm put an immediate stop to both actions. A picture's worth a thousand words.

  "Who the fuck are you?" asked the larger of the two, being careful to keep his hands flat on the floor. The hands were covered with a lace-work of faded tattoos. He wore a mismatched gray suit over a red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt. The pockmarks on his cheek and the out-of-style Afro made him look like one of the heavies on "The Mod Squad."

  "Funny, that's just what I was going to ask you."

  At this point Tony, still clutching his organ— which, unbelievably, was still holding its own—piped in. "They said they were the police." I tried not to look at him.

  The dialogue seemed to revive the picture taker. He ran a hand over his newly processed hair and started to rise.

  "I wouldn't," I said.

  "You're interfering with official police business. If you—"

  "And if you move that right hand of yours another inch, I'm going to put one of these right between your nappy little eyebrows."

  This seemed to have the desired effect. He settled himself back on his haunches and looked to the heavy for help. These two sure as hell weren't the police, but if this went on much longer, we were going to meet the real article.

  I pointed at Tony. "Get your ass in the bathroom and get dressed." He was still holding himself. "And slam that thing in the door while you're at it," I added. He began to move.

  "Who the fuck are you?" the big one asked again.

  "I guess you could say I'm sort of the good shepherd."

  The little one was persistent if not persuasive. "This is official—"

  "No," I corrected him, "this is how it is. You and your girlfriend here are going to gather up Bo Peep and her belongings and get the flock out of here. The police shit isn't going to float."

  This was all the girl needed to hear. She slowly slid off the far side of the bed and began to collect her street clothes. Her efficiency was somewhat restricted by the full-length ruffled pantaloons around her ankles, but she was a real trouper.

  The two men began to slowly rise in sections.

  Shorty wasn't willing to quit yet. As he smoothed his suit, he mustered his best conspiratorial tone. "Listen man, this is a real sweet deal here. Do you know who this guy is?"

  Bo Peep was struggling out of the pantaloons. I stopped her.

  "No, don't get dressed, sweetheart," I told her. "Just gather up your shit and get out."

  She was a much quicker learner than the other two. She had the pantaloons up in a flash, right over the dress, and was double timing it for the door. I stopped her.

  "Take that with you," I said, gesturing toward the shepherd's crook.

  Thoroughly confused now, she picked up the crook and clutched it to her chest. Mouth-breathing, transfixed by the gun barrel, she gingerly began to edge her way past me toward the door. Once out, she turned left and hustled down the arm of the U the short way. The pantaloons had a drop seat, which was still open. Yessir, a real trouper.

  I turned my full attention to my two remaining friends. "Get out," I said.

  The break in the action had given the door kicker a chance to regroup. "Wadda you gonna do, shoot us? Huh, right here, motherfucker?"

  I didn't want to give this guy a chance to get his courage all the way back up. He was just dumb enough to be dangerous.

  "You got it, friend," I said. "Unless those are pictures of his family that your partner keeps reaching for in his pocket, I'd say I can waste the two of you and walk." It was time to end the snappy dialogue.

  "Put your hands on your heads and walk out of here. Now. Leave the camera." Shorty started to object. Not just persistent, but cheap.

  "You can steal another one later. I'm not telling you again."

  I backed to the far corner between the window and the bed. They were walking.

  "We'll find you, asshole," mumbled the big one.

  "I'll live in constant fear," I promised.

  I followed them out, folding my arms over my chest, hiding the gun under my arm, down the steps and over to a blue Ford Galaxie. They got in, backed out into the lot, and drove out onto Pacific Highway South. Someone, years before, had ripped the vinyl top off the car. The back third of the roof was a uniform rust. Somewhere in the past, a spring had broken. The hook of Bo Peep's crook protruded from the right rear window. The car had a thirty-degree list to starboard. They headed south on Pacific Highway, looking like some sort of depraved Christmas ornament.

  Tony had staged a major recovery. He was still the color of old custard, but he had managed to get dressed. He was stuffing the last of his paraphernalia into his suitcases when I got back. A remnant of shocking-pink lace was mashed in the crack of the smaller brown suitcase. It was obvious from his expression that he wasn't at all sure that I was any improvement on the other two. I decided to let him go on worrying about it. I picked up the phone and called him a cab.

  "Get out of here," I told him. He had a blue pinstriped business suit on, collar buttoned, tie in place—and yet, amazingly, there was still hair sticking out from under his collar. I'd almost forgotten what he-'d looked like in half a Viking costume. I was beginning to feel sick.

  "Just go home, partner. This is your lucky day."

  He was confused, but smart enough to know a gift horse when he saw one. He picked up all four bags and started for the door. He didn't fit. He had to put them outside two at a time and then follow them out.

  "How'd you know they weren't the police?" he asked, as he picked up the bags. "Even the police dress better than that." "Come on, seriously."

  "The tattoos on the big one," I said. I let him carry his own bags down the stairs. I guessed he was in training. It didn't bother him a bit.

  "Cops have tattoos too."

  He wasn't going to let this go.

  "Not those ball-pointed pen specials, they don't, buddy."

  The cab arrived. The driver opened the trunk and began to load the bags. Before getting in, Tony grinned at me sheepishly.

  "I suppose I should explain what was going on in there."

  I opened the cab door. -

  "If you do I'll shoot you right here in front of the driver," I said without a smile. Tony took me at my word.

  2

  I Started to put my wet slippers into the trunk, had an unexpected spasm of lucidity, and instead lobbed them into the conveniently located trash receptacle. Better safe than sorry. As I packed the Fiat with the rest of my gear, I inventoried the positives. My calendar was clear. Rose Moldonado's check would keep me going for some time. The king salmon run was just getting started on the peninsula. An extended fishing trip was in order. The ground fog was just starting to burn off. The weather, for fall, was truly gorgeous. I was depressed. Goddamn that Tony.

  I coaxed the Fiat into life and headed back to my apartment. I don't have an office. Waterman Investigations, such as it is, is just me and the answering machine in my apartment. When I'd first started in the business, I'd gone for the whole nine yards, office, secretary, the works, but it didn't work out. Now it's just me and the machine.
Most of the time, the machine and I get along quite well.

  By the time I crested the interstate, the black glass of the Colombia Tower wore the last of the ground fog like a bad toupee. I wheeled through the cars and construction and thought about a feature spread I'd seen in the Times a few months back. If the pictures could be believed, the women's lavatories in the Colombia Tower were both larger and considerably

  more elegant than my apartment. At the time, I had dismissed this incongruity as a rather dubious link to lasting fame. It occurred to me now that maybe this wasn't as out of line as I'd once imagined. After all, back around the turn of the century, when my dad was a boy, the entire downtown section of the city had been regraded for the express purpose of getting the newly fashionable flush toilets high enough above the rising tide to prevent them from becoming sewage fountains every time the tide came in. This was, historically speaking, the town that toilets built. Maybe this helped in some small way to explain Tony Moldonado.

  I stowed the 9mm in my desk, the cooler in the closet, and its contents in the garbage. The suitcase could wait. What I needed now was a beer. I decided to splurge and opened a Chimay for myself. Chimay is an ale brewed in Belgium by Trappist monks. I found it a bit pricey for day-to-day swillage, but for special occasions it provided just the right festive touch. It also provided a reasonable explanation as to why Trappist monks were silent. If they consumed much of this stuff, they were probably unable rather than unwilling to speak.

  I made my way to the living room. The light on my machine was blinking. This was something of a problem. If I listened to the messages before arranging a fishing trip, I was probably going to find somebody who wanted me to do something. If I left town without listening to the messages, I'd spend the whole damn trip wondering what in hell was on the tape and how in hell I could be so irresponsible. I already knew the answer to the last part.

  On the surface, I was still a great believer that there was absolutely no sense in working if you already had money. I was, after all, going to come into a pretty fair inheritance when I turned forty-five. My old man,