For the first time, Smith seemed perturbed, his face going a shade paler. “Don’t tell me that.”
“I’m telling you that,” Lucas said. “More grist for the media mills, since your relationship was well known around town. I can’t promise that won’t get out, either, but it won’t come from me.”
“He really ate kids?”
“That’s what WVUE is saying, on its morning newscasts.”
Dick closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and said, “Oh, shit.”
Smith said, “Give me a minute.”
He turned away from Lucas and stared at a pastel blue wall for at least a minute: thinking.
Then he turned back and said, “Sit right here. I’ve got to run upstairs.”
He left the kitchen, and Lucas asked Dick, “Where’s he going?”
Dick shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t take his morning pee.”
Smith was back in two minutes, “I don’t know where Deese went. You think he worked for me, but that’s incorrect, in a sense. Deese was a freelancer and he worked for anyone who could pay him, as long as he didn’t cross . . . certain lines.”
“As long as he didn’t work for your rivals,” Lucas suggested.
“You said that, not I. As I said, I don’t know where he is, but I could speculate. He has a half brother out in Los Angeles. They are close. Very close. His brother is some kind of hard-core stickup man,” Smith said. “That’s what I’ve heard, but I’ve never met him or spoken to him. He would have some resources that Deese needs, if he’s running. I know that Deese would meet him in both in LA and in Vegas, when he went to visit. That would happen every few months. The brothers like to gamble, and I think they may have an uncle out there, too. Out in the desert, near Vegas. Deese was joking about him one time. Called him a desert rat, said he mined for turquoise.”
“His brother’s name is Deese? Deese what? What’s his first name?”
“No, it’s Martin Keller or Martin Lawrence. Those are the two names I’ve heard. If either of those are his real name, you should be able to find substantial files on him. I know he’s been in prison. A couple of years ago, Deese told me that if I ever had to get in touch with him in a hurry, in an emergency, when he was traveling, I could call a number. It’s a . . . switchboard, so to speak.”
He handed Lucas a piece of notepad paper with a phone number scrawled on it in blue ink.
“That’s an LA area code. I’ve never called it because I’ve never had to, and, to tell the truth, if I ever did call it I’d do it from a pay phone, or something. He said to call only after nine o’clock at night, LA time, and ask for Martin Lawrence. That’s all the help I can give you, because that’s all I know. From one dirtbag to another, I can tell you I’d like to find that sonofabitch Deese myself. I won’t explain that, other than to say, he never should have run.”
“Why didn’t he have a cell phone you could call him on?” Lucas asked.
“Think about that,” Smith said.
“Okay. The FBI is probably wired into your testicles. And if Deese hadn’t run, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“No comment, though I’d appreciate it if you’d kill him,” Smith said. And: “I’d offer you another cup of coffee, but I have a business meeting downtown in an hour and I need to get dressed.”
“One more question: do you think, or have any reason at all to believe, that Deese had a lot of money stashed?”
Smith said, “I don’t know. I’m sure he had some, but I don’t believe he had much. The guy put more cocaine up his nose than the average country singer. That kind of habit really eats up your cash.”
Lucas stood up, nodded, and said, “I hope I don’t have to talk to you again.”
“I share that hope,” Smith said. He turned to Dick and said, “Show the marshal the way to the door.”
On the way out, Dick said, “I believe Roger misspoke. Clayton once told me his brother hung out in Marina del Rey, not in the city of Los Angeles itself. Deese said the Marina is a pussy-rich environment, which is why he’d go out there, in addition to seeing his brother.”
Lucas said, “I’ll check that.”
Dick said, “Don’t fall down the steps,” which made Lucas smile again.