The Big Enchilada

take, graft, protection, probably a few others.”
    “Hunter, don’t be stupider than necessary, huh? Stay away from the Black Knight.”
    I was obviously stepping on some toes, and my visit to the club had brought a quicker response than I had expected. I said as much to Ratchitt, but he ignored my comment. He looked around my apartment, an expression of distaste curling his upper lip.
    “What a dump,” he said.
    He wasn’t far wrong. My apartment’s decor could be described as “early motel,” but, fuck it, I didn’t care.
    Ratchitt held up his cigar. “Look at this. Made special, by hand, from Cuban tobacco brought in through Mexico. Can’t buy them anyplace. I spend more on my cigars in a week than you spend on rent in a month.” To make the point, he dropped his cigar on the floor and crushed it with his foot.
    I didn’t react. I knew I could have broken Ratchitt in half, but it wouldn’t have accomplished anything at this time. I was sure there would be another opportunity. “Your success story is an inspiration to us all,” I said mildly.
    He sighed heavily. “Hunter, I’ll try to explain it so that even you can understand. You’re a two-bit shit kicker of a P.I. who thinks he knows some stuff, and who’s trying to make waves in the pot so he can get some of the drippings. Well, you don’t know sweet-fuck-all, and you never will. But I know you. You’re a bum and a punk. Let me tell you—I’ve got a great big house in the hills with a pool. I’ve got a forty-foot cruiser at the marina. I spend more on suits in a year than you earn.”
    “And they say that crime doesn’t pay,” I said with a shake of my head, but Ratchitt just continued.
    “No cheap P.I. or anybody else is going to fuck that up. Get it? You might be able to deal with jerks like Benson and Phillips who are even cheaper and stupider than you are, but you’ve never come up against anyone like me. You fuck with me, and I’ll bury you. You can count on it.”
    I just smiled at him.
    “Like I said at the beginning, Hunter, stay out of police business.”
    “As in, ‘Crime is the business of the police’?”
    He shook his head. “So long, sucker. Just remember—if I have to see you again, it’s your ass.” He stopped at the door. “Oh yeah. You might pass the message on to your buddy, Watkins. He’s poking his nose into things that are none of his concern, and if he keeps it up, he’s going to be in deep shit.”
    He left.
    I don’t think much of cops, but to be fair, there aren’t many like that asshole. Of course, it doesn’t take many like him to stink up the whole force.
    Ratchitt was right about my not knowing what was going on, but people were starting to be bothered, and that was what I wanted. In spite of the way he sounded, even he was getting upset, and I liked that. With his house and his boat and his Cuban cigars, it would be a positive pleasure to take him down, that slimy creep. And I would. Yes, I would.
    I picked up his broken cigar. It did look like a good one.

THIRTEEN

    The Pheasant, d’Or was one of those supposedly classy restaurants around La Cienega. As far as I could tell, the main thing it had going for it was the reputation of being one of the three most expensive restaurants in the city. Apparently lots of jerks impressed themselves by eating there. I would have preferred to meet Sweet for a hot dog somewhere.
    I pulled my car into the entranceway, and a kid dressed like the palace guard from the court of Kublai Khan came over to park it. He looked at the car and then at me.
    “Are you sure you’re at the right place?” he said.
    I snarled at him and he jumped. He looked as though he thought it would be beneath his dignity to have anything to do with my heap, and he hesitated before getting in it.
    “Don’t worry,” I called to him, “I got most of the dog shit off the seat.”
    He leaped out and wiped the seat down with a rag he carried.
    I went in, and a guy who looked a little like Bela Lugosi on a bad day ran over to block my path. He, too, looked like he thought I was in the wrong place.
    “I’m here to see Sweet,” I said.
    “Gentlemen usually prefer to wear neckties in here,” he said without moving his lips, as though to do so would somehow compromise his stature.
    “That’s all right. If I was a gentleman, I’d probably prefer it 3s well. But I’m not, so there’s no problem.”
    “Sir, we have extra neckties. I will bring you one,” he hissed at