Till the Butchers Cut Him Down by Marcia Muller Page B

they couldn’t’ve topped my terms. I think somebody bought him off.”
    On the surface, his reaction to this business reversal seemed extreme. “But you don’t have any proof of that,” I said.
    “No, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of coincidence. After Stockton I went back to the office. There was a message from the head
     of my architectural firm; I returned the call. He said they’ve run into some snags on their current project that’ll cause
     a delay in getting started on mine. He suggested I should think about getting somebody else.”
    “When was he supposed to start on the terminal?”
    “Next week.”
    “He didn’t give you much advance notice.”
    “No, and I happen to know he’s already wrapped up this current project.”
    “You confront him about that?”
    “Sure. He said I must’ve been misinformed and if I wanted I could verify what he told me with the client whose project supposedly
     got bogged down.”
    “Did you?”
    “Why bother? If he’s telling me to verify it, it means the client’s backing him up.”
    “All right, I can see why you feel that—”
    “You don’t see anything yet. You know the old superstition about disasters coming in threes?”
    I nodded.
    “About ten minutes after that conversation, I get
another
call. This time it’s one of my moneymen. He’s mumbling about unanticipated losses and shortfall in cash flow—all that kind
     of vague bullshit that I know’s bullshit because I’ve slung it a thousand times myself to cover up the fact that I’ve decided
     to pull out of a deal that I’m not yet legally committed to. The gist of what he’s saying is, he’s out. You still think this
     is simple coincidence?”
    “No,” I admitted, “I don’t.”
    “You’ve got to make these guys talk. Find out who’s doing this to me.”
    “I am trying to find that out. But I doubt I can
make
any of them talk. If they’re stonewalling you, they’re certainly not going to open up for me.”
    Suits’s eyes narrowed and a muscle began to tic in his right cheek. “Then find out some other way. Tap their phones, plant
     bugs in their offices. What the hell’re you in business for?”
    Calm, McCone, I told myself. Keep calm. “Suits, what you’re asking is illegal. I don’t work that way. I suppose I could maintain
     legal surveillances on them, but I doubt that would be productive.”
    “Then what the fuck
are
you going to do for me?” The words came out high-pitched and shrill.
    I looked away, giving him time to compose himself. Realized we’d been circling above the Bay off Alameda Island the whole
     time. As the copter turned lazily, I noted bridges: the San Mateo, the Bay, the Richmond. Farther away, draped in mist, were
     the Golden Gate and the twin spans at the Carquinez Strait.
    When I turned back to Suits, he still looked aggravated, but seemed calmer. I said, “I’m not going to waste my time and your
     money maintaining useless surveillances. I do have a couple of leads on the person who attacked you last night, and I’ll pursue
     them. But I’m also going to have to look at some background information.”
    “On what?”
    “Your turnarounds. Your present associates, people you fired from GGL, people who don’t want the line moved from Oakland,
     people who don’t want the line moved to San Francisco. Your past associates on past turnarounds, people whose toes you stepped
     on back then. You.”
    “Me? Why the hell—”
    “Because someone’s out to get you, and it feels personal. You
are
the central figure here.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Suits, I know you’re a private man—”
    “You don’t
know
anything about me.”
    “More than you think, perhaps. For instance, I know that you went to Harvard.”
    A flash of surprise, followed by a scowl. “Who told you that?”
    “Russ Zola.”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    “And I know you got your start by turning a dope farm.”
    He included the back of Josh’s head in his scowl. Josh hadn’t