Warren Lane Read online

  “So you extort people?” asked Schwartz.

  “I’m not in this business for humanitarian reasons,” Lane said.

  “But why pick on me? Why not go after him,” Schwartz asked, pointing at one of the other men in the photo. “He’s loaded.”

  “Yeah, so’s his gun,” Lane replied. “There are some people you just don’t fuck with. And then there are weaklings like you. You’d never do anything to put your precious family at risk.”

  Schwartz breathed a heavy sigh. “The best I can do is ten thousand dollars. And you give me all of this stuff. The electronic copies, everything. I want it all destroyed.”

  “You fucking Jews are always haggling,” Lane said with contempt. “I didn’t come here to negotiate. I came here to tell you it’ll cost fifty thousand dollars to make your problem go away.”

  “I have no cash right now. None. My son’s bar mitzvah is next month, and I have to take out a loan to pay for it.”

  Schwartz’s eyes showed a glimmer of pride at the mention of his son. Lane, eager to snuff it out, said as he picked up the envelope and stood to leave, “Why don’t you get him baptized? It’s free.”

  Lane dropped his business card on the table and glided toward the exit. Checking his phone as he walked, he saw an appointment in Santa Barbara. “Shit! I forgot about that.”

  Chapter 6

  At nine that morning, twenty minutes after leaving her house, Susan Moore stood inside a coffee shop stirring cream into her coffee with a wooden stick as she looked over the tables in search of the man she was to meet.

  Her eyes returned several times to the bleary-eyed man in the far corner who stared toward the window as if lost in a daydream.

  “He’s all alone,” said the barista behind the counter.

  Susan turned to her. “Excuse me?”

  “The guy in the corner. You keep looking at him.”

  “I’m supposed to meet someone, but I don’t know if that’s him.”

  “Well, lucky you if it is. He’s been sitting by himself for twenty minutes.”

  Susan crossed the shop and said tentatively, “Warren?”

  Startled, Mark Ready stood up and offered his hand. She shook it politely. Without introducing herself, she studied his dark hair and eyes, the symmetry and well-formed features of his face. Her eyes wandered down to his shoulders and chest and then slowly back to his face. He was younger than she expected. The resentment she felt at her unwanted attraction to him showed in her eyes, and Ready interpreted it as a negative judgment of himself. The scrutiny of her sharp, penetrating eyes and the quick mind behind them unnerved him. Seeing his discomfort, she said, “I’m sorry. My name is Susan. Susan Moore.”

  Ready looked confused and slightly intimidated. He’s hung over, she thought, and then she asked, “You are Warren Lane, aren’t you?” She handed him a card that said Warren Lane, Private Investigator. Neatly printed in black ink beneath the name it said: June 21, 9:15 a.m.

  “Um, yeah,” Ready replied as he examined the card. “You um....” He looked up from the card to find her still studying his face. He nervously looked her up and down and finished his sentence with, “...that’s a nice skirt.”

  He can’t be that stupid, she thought. But what came out of her mouth was, “This is a dress.”

  “Yeah. Right,” said Ready, smiling.

  She had already formed her opinion of him: good looking, malleable, not too bright. A screen upon which a younger woman might project her fantasies.

  “I thought you’d be a little older,” Susan said. To herself, she thought, I’d have more confidence in a man of forty who wasn’t hung over.

  “I might be older than I look,” said Ready.

  “I doubt it,” Susan replied. Her words had a sharp, unfriendly edge. The filter between what she felt and what she said was dissolving. She could feel the layers of the pearl being stripped away, exposing the raw emotion at its center. “Can we get started?”

  “Sure. Have a seat,” Ready said, pulling a chair from the table.

  Susan sat down and hesitated for a few seconds. Finally she said, “I think my husband is having an affair.”

  “OK.” Ready’s mind, slowed by the hangover, was just now beginning to assemble the pieces of what was happening.

  Susan pushed an envelope across the table to him. “There are some photos of him in here, his work address, a photo of his car, and some other information to get you started. My number’s in there too.”

  “OK,” Ready said.

  “I want you to find out who he’s sleeping with. Get a photo of her if you can. I want to know where they meet and what they do.” She stopped and looked toward the window, and her sharp, observant eyes softened in response to her thoughts. Part of her still wanted to admire her husband, the man who had helped her out of her abyss and showed her the way to confidence. His fall from grace wounded her almost as much as his betrayal.

  Ready could see the emotions play out across her face. They ended with a look of doubt and weakness, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind and call it all off. But she took a sudden deep breath and said in a faltering voice, “He’s all I’ve got, but I can’t have him anymore. I just can’t.”

  Ready was caught off guard by the unexpected vulnerability of the woman whose presence so far had only intimidated him. Before he knew what he was saying, his innate kindness propelled a promise from his lips. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll get you what you need.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She stood and slid a check onto the table, made out to Warren Lane in the amount of ten thousand dollars.

  Ready looked at the check then back at her. “There’s your retainer,” she said. “I’m sorry to run, but…” Her eyes were reddening, and she turned and walked away, saying, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Ready put the check and Warren Lane’s business card into the envelope. As he exited the coffee shop a few minutes later, he bumped into a tan, smooth-skinned man wearing an Italian suit. A few drops of Ready’s coffee splashed onto the suit. Warren Lane, scowling at the stain, said, “Watch where you walk, you stupid fuck.”

  Chapter 7

  The following morning, Ready awoke at 11:00 a.m., pleased to find himself alone in the guest room at Gary’s house, and relieved that his hangover was milder than usual. After toast and coffee and eggs, he picked up his phone and his keys, took the cash from the coffee can under the bed, and drove downtown toward Will’s office.

  What the hell am I going to do when I get there? Ready wondered. Stare in his office window? Look through his garbage can?

  He neared the building just in time to see Will’s silver Mercedes approaching in the lane of oncoming traffic. He swung his little Toyota around and followed.

  The two vehicles proceeded south down the Pacific Coast Highway to Oxnard. Ready followed Will’s Mercedes off the highway to a strip mall with a check-cashing store, a Laundromat, and a Mexican take-out. Will drove around the buildings and parked in back where Ready watched him knock on a white metal door.

  He looked at Will’s expensive grey suit and the knuckles of his big meaty fist and thought, He’s a pretty big guy.

  “Will Moore,” said Will in response to someone inside the building. The door opened and Will went in.

  A few minutes later, he came back out, examining what looked like a new passport. He slid the passport into the inside pocket of his suit, and then got in his car and drove away.

  Ready approached the building and tried to look through the window to the right of the door, but it was covered by cardboard on the inside. He went around front to the Mexican take-out and ordered a burrito. For the next hour, he sat in his car.

  Finally, he went back and knocked at the door. A man inside asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Warren Lane,” said Ready.

  �
��Don’t know you.”

  “Will Moore sent me.”

  “Will Moore?” A thin man in his fifties opened the door a few inches. A pair of glasses was perched on the end of his nose, with a thin chain that went around the back of his neck. “What do you want?”

  “I need some ID,” Ready said. The man opened the door, and as Ready stepped in, he had no idea what to do next. He thought about asking why Will would be getting a fake passport, and where he might be going with it, but how would this man know? Wouldn’t he become suspicious if Ready started asking questions about Will after he had just said that Will sent him? He pulled Warren Lane’s business card from his pocket, as if looking at it might give him some idea of what a real detective would do next. Susan’s check came out with the card.

  “What kind of ID you need?” the man asked.

  “I just need to cash a check,” Ready said.

  “License?” said the man. “Stand over there.” He pointed toward the camera and the screen in the corner.

  Ready stood against the white screen and the man snapped his photo. “Look OK?” the man asked, turning the computer screen so Ready could see it.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” Ready said.

  “What name you want on that?”

  Ready handed him the business card and said, “Warren Lane. Use the address on the card.”

  The man read the card and said, “You’re a private detective?”

  “I’m pretending to be one,” Ready said.

  The man typed the information from the card into the computer and returned the card to Ready. “Date of birth?” he asked.

  “June 27, 1987”

  The man entered the information and Ready heard the whirr of a printer starting up. “It’s going to take a minute to laminate,” the man said. “That’s a hundred and fifty.”

  Ready counted the curled bills from his pocket.

  Two hours later, he was back in Santa Barbara, standing at the counter of the bank that issued Susan’s check. He presented the new license and asked to cash it.

  The teller looked at the check and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to talk to my manager.” After searching in vain for her manager, she had a brief conversation with another teller, who handed her a piece of paper. She brought the paper to Ready and said, “Because of the amount of the check, and the fact that you’ll be taking it in cash, we’re required by law to fill out this form.”

  “No problem,” Ready said.

  The paperwork was soon completed, and Ready left the bank with a stack of hundred dollar bills.

  On his way home, he picked up two pre-paid Visa cards and a six-pack.

  Chapter 8

  As Ready was driving home, Warren Lane sat at an outdoor cafe staring at his phone. His assistant, Maxine, sat across from him watching a waiter and waitress clear plates from a table.

  “Did you notice that, Warren?”

  “Notice what?” Lane asked.

  “The waiter and the waitress. Did you see the way she touched him as she passed? Do you think they’re lovers? Or do you think she just wants to be his lover?”

  “Why would I care?” Lane asked, not looking up from his phone.

  “I was just wondering if it was the type of thing you noticed.”

  “Not unless I’m getting paid.”

  “Do you ever look at women, Warren?”

  “Not really.”

  “Men?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “You have that look about you.”

  “What look?”

  “Asexual. I sometimes think you couldn’t find anyone more attractive than yourself.”

  “Love,” said Lane as he put his phone into his pocket, “is just a lever for other people to manipulate you. And sex is just a trick nature plays on the young to propagate the race.”

  “You’re the most cynical man I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s why I’m good at what I do. There’s something dishonest beneath every honest appearance, and I have the instinct to dig it up.”

  “I would hate to see the world like that,” Maxine said. “Do you know why I keep working for you?”

  “Because I pay you a lot.”

  “Yes, and that’s the only reason.”

  “I know. Do you know why I pay you so much?”

  “Because I’m worth it.”

  “Because that’s my lever on you. You could do this job for any private investigator in town, but none of them would pay you enough to keep you in that fancy apartment.”

  “But I am worth it. You wouldn’t pay me so much if you didn’t think I was worth it.”

  “True.”

  “I just wanted to hear you say that.”

  “And now you have,” said Lane. “What did you learn about our friend Benitez?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t fuck with him.”

  “No?”

  “No. I sent you a zip file with some documents and photos.”

  “All right.”

  “Just stick to the original investigation. Dunleavy does plenty to keep you busy. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Susan Moore called.”

  “Susan Moore?” Lane said irritably. “She stood me up yesterday.”

  “Do you want the message?”

  “No. And if she calls back, tell her to fuck off.”

  The waitress left the check on the table. Lane examined it and smiled, then handed it to Maxine. “What do you see here?” Lane asked.

  Maxine studied the check and said, “She got the drinks wrong. We both had iced tea, not lemonade. But I think they’re the same price.”

  “Did you notice the table next to us?”

  “The guys in suits?”

  “Yeah,” said Lane. “They had lemonade. And they both had the special, just like us. Do you see what she’s doing?”

  “The waitress? No.”

  “She’s rolling checks. She prints a check for them and they pay it. Then she gives the same check to us, and she pockets the cash. The system never even knows we were here. As far as the system knows, one table was served and one check was printed and paid. Everything’s square.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “I waited tables in high school. It was a lot easier to roll checks back then, before everyone started using POS systems. Of course, it only works if I pay cash.” He slipped three twenties into the leather check holder.

  “You’re going to make it easy for her?”

  “Why not?” Lane asked. “A girl has to make a living.”

  Seeing the bills protruding from the edge of the check holder, the waitress collected the cash and said thank you.

  “Thank you,” said Warren Lane with a smile.

  Chapter 9

  That evening, flush with cash, Ready wandered into a sports bar and found the last empty seat at the bar.

  “Anyone sitting here?” Ready asked the young Mexican-American man sitting at the next stool. He wore a short-sleeve, collared blue shirt with his name embossed on the front. Omar.

  The man tore his eyes from the boxing match on the TV. “No, you can sit there,” he said.

  Ready took a seat and ordered a shot of bourbon and a beer.

  “I used to spar with that guy up there,” said Omar. “I fought so many rounds with him, we’re like brothers.”

  Ready looked at the boxers on the screen. “You mean the white guy?”

  “That ain’t no white guy. That’s Marco. He’s Mexican. And the other guy’s black. Only white guy up there is the ref.”

  Ready watched the boxers for a moment then said, “I don’t like violence.”

  “See how the black dude keeps dancin’ around? That’s the kind of shit that pisses Marco
off.”

  Ready looked at the names stitched into the boxers’ trunks. Ramirez was the Mexican. The black fighter was named Thomas.

  Thomas landed a hard punch to Ramirez’s right side, just below the ribs. Ramirez winced and took a step back. Pursuing him to the ropes, Thomas threw several quick punches to Ramirez’s head, none of which landed cleanly, followed by another hard left hook to the body. Ramirez’s legs buckled momentarily, but he kept his feet and slipped away from the ropes. He spent the last ten seconds of the round circling the ring to avoid his opponent.

  “Looks like your friend is doing the dancing now,” Ready said.

  “Yeah, he’s hurt,” said Omar.

  The bell rang, and Omar watched the replay of the two body shots. “Marco’s gonna knock that dude out,” he said.

  “How do you know?” Ready asked.

  “That guy drops his right when he throws the left hook to the body. He’s supposed to keep it up by his chin. Marco sees that. He’s gonna knock him out.”

  When the next round began, Ramirez jabbed and circled to his left.

  “See how that dude’s head pops back when he gets hit with the jab?” Omar said. “Marco’s got a lot of snap on his jab. Used to put big welts on my face. Used to make my girlfriend upset when I’d come home with my face all swollen. Now, look.” Omar pointed to the screen. “He’s backing up on purpose, tryin’ to draw him in. He wants that guy to throw the hook again, so he can time him when he drops the right hand. And there he goes!”

  Just as Thomas launched his left hook to Ramirez’s body, Ramirez threw a left that connected with Thomas’ chin and dropped him to his hands and knees.

  “He ain’t gonna make the count,” Omar said, shaking his head.

  Thomas was up at eight, but his legs were wobbly and his eyes were glazed. The referee waved him off. The fight was over.

  “Good fight.” Omar clapped. “Hey, what’s your name, man?”

  “Um...”

  Omar laughed. “You don’t know?”

  “Warren,” said Ready.