I swallowed the rest of my drink and accepted another from Sal. “You almost got your wish to write my obituary today, big guy—someone laid a bomb across my ignition coil.”
At first Murray thought I was joking. “That so? How come you’re here to tell about it?”
“Really happened.” When I got to the part where the head of the Bomb and Arson Squad refused to conduct a proper investigation, he shut me up and went to his car for a tape recorder. He was somewhat aggrieved at missing the story. He’d been at a conference out at the airport all day so he hadn’t seen any of the wires or the sensational reports the networks were trumpeting.
I told him everything I knew, from Saul Seligman and the Indiana Arms to the little scam among Farmworks, Alma Mejicana, and Wunsch and Grasso, to Roland Montgomery’s strange theory of me setting fire to the Indiana Arms and then blowing myself up in remorse.
When I finished Murray put an arm around me and gave me a sloppy kiss. “You’re wonderful, Vic. I forgive you for holding out on me last winter. This is a great story. All it needs is a little proof.”
“You don’t call a hunk of dynamite proof?’ Sal snapped a bottle of Holstein’s down in front of Murray. “Her dead body would impress you more?”
“It shows someone wanted to kill her, but not who.” Murray drank directly from the bottle. “You didn’t copy any of the stuff you found at Alma’s offices or at Farmworks did you?”
“I took notes at Alma’s offices, but I didn’t see any of the books at Farmworks. But can’t you track some of this stuff down through Lexis and the Office of Contracts and so on? And get someone in the county to tell you what Roland Montgomery owes Boots? That scares me more than anything—you get a big cop dogging you and he can kill you or frame you or any damned thing he wants. I’m shaving my head and growing a beard until this sucker blows up big enough that I’m not the only figure tap-dancing in the spotlight.”
Sal offered me the bottle again but I turned it down. I couldn’t spend the night at the Golden Glow and I wouldn’t survive if I left here too drunk to notice who was walking up behind me.
Murray went into Sal’s private office to make some phone calls. It was too late in the day to look up any records in the county building, but he was going to initiate a more thorough search through the Lexis network than Freeman Carter had done for me—now that we were looking for a tie-in between MacDonald or Meagher and Alma Mejicana, Murray could ask the system to pull together combinations of names that hadn’t occurred to me earlier.
“So what do you do now?” Sal asked. “Lay low until the storm passes?”
“I think I go home.” I interrupted her voluble protest. “I know, I came in scared, crying for help. I’m still scared but—” I broke off, trying to think my inchoate feelings into a semblance of logic.
“It’s like this. Now Murray has the story—he can get enough going by tomorrow even maybe to print something Friday or Saturday—if the Star isn’t too scared of Boots and Ralph. So as soon as Boots and MacDonald see things are coming into the open, they’ll be shredding documents like mad, be covering their tracks on the Ryan. They’re probably rounding up a truckload of Hispanic and black workers right now with documents proving they’ve been working there since the first of March.
“If they think it’s still just me on my own, maybe they’ll try to come get me. And then at least we can nail a few of them in the act.”
“You and Murray?” Sal pursed up her face in high disdain.
“I’ll do the story—Murray’ll make the pictures,” I said with a lightness I was far from feeling. “No. I think I’ll be okay at home. I was panicking earlier, wondering if Ralph might dynamite the whole building just to get me. But really, he’s much more likely to wait until I’m on my own and try something different. My old guy downstairs has been on all the stations talking about the men he saw yesterday—the pair who came calling on me in person and the pair who probably put the bomb in the car. So I can’t believe they’ll risk anything there again, at least not so soon.” I hoped.
A couple of guys in business suits came in and sat up at the mahogany bar on the opposite side from me. Sal went over to fill their orders.
I played moodily with my whiskey tumbler. The one name I hadn’t given Murray was Michael Furey’s. It wasn’t that I wanted to protect Furey, but I didn’t have proof—just a string of guesses supported only by logic. His name hadn’t even been in Star’s Rolodex.
Before I started my own offensive I wanted to know how deep Furey’s involvement went with his neighborhood pals—whether he’d just put some of his daddy’s life insurance money into Farmworks when they gave him the opportunity—or done more. Like maybe borrowed heroin from the police evidence stores so Cerise could kill herself.