Flame by John Lutz

it, but things might come down to having to try.
    “That’s right, business.”
    “What are you doing here?” the one on the sofa asked. “And please spare us any bullshit.”
    “I told you, I came to see Frank Wesley.”
    “You and him friends?”
    “More or less.”
    “It’s less now,” the man said. “Wesley’s dead. Went boom in his car, right near your office in Del Moray.”
    “A shock to hear that,” Carver said.
    The black one scowled; he was meaner-looking than Jesse Jackson ever thought of being. “Remember what I said about trying to jive us, Carver. We know Wesley drove to your office yesterday, talked to you for about half an hour, then came out and did his bang-and-burn act.”
    “Convincing act,” Carver said. Thinking, if these two knew that much, they might have been the ones who planted the bomb in the Cadillac. Almost had to be them. Not a reassuring thought.
    The black one smiled, knowing what was running through Carver’s mind. He said, “The bomb was set off by electronic signal, most likely from a garage-door opener. The explosives mighta been on board the car for a month.”
    “You sound sure of that.”
    “I am. We knew about Wesley. Knew about his car.”
    “Except for the bomb.”
    “You’re right, that was a surprise. More of a surprise to Wesley, though.”
    “So you didn’t plant the bomb?”
    “Something for you to wonder about, Carver. Maybe we got somebody rigging plastic explosives right now in that pile of shit you got parked down off Ocean Boulevard.”
    “Why would you be so mean?”
    “Because we don’t know what Wesley told you.”
    “Ah!”
    “But we want to know. And it’s time for you to tell us.”
    The Latino said, “Soon it’ll be past time. You don’t want that. Really.” He was laconic but sounded concerned for Carver’s safety. Carver doubted his sincerity. Who were these two? What did they know? One thing they didn’t seem to know was that Bert Renway, and not Wesley, had been killed in the explosion. Whatever story he told them, he thought it should ring true when the police lab established the identity of the real victim.
    “We’re busy men,” the black one said. He made a show of rotating his wrist in a neat, quick movement so his white cuff rode up and he could glance at his watch. “We’re late for night surfing right now. Best you commence to chat.”
    “Wesley came to my office to hire me,” Carver said. “He was uneasy. He thought somebody might be driving around impersonating him.”
    The black one grinned wide and white. “You sure fulla shit, my man.” A parody of ghetto slang. Letting Carver know that while he’d become sophisticated beyond street smarts, still he was unpredictable and dangerous. Not to be messed with unless you were prepared to pay the price.
    The Latino muttered something in Spanish, then stood up from the sofa. He was tall and slim. Stood calmly with his arms loose, his left hand resting atop his right one at his crotch, the right holding the blue-steel revolver pointed at the floor. In a gentle and reasonable voice he said, “If Frank Wesley was your client, he’s dead and you’re unemployed. So how come you’re down here instead of minding your business in Del Moray?”
    “Curiosity, I guess.”
    “You and the cat,” the black guy said, no longer grinning.
    Carver thought a little offense might be in order. He tried to put some indignation into his voice. “Are you guys friends of Wesley?”
    “Get this,” the black one said, grinning again. “ He’s asking us questions.”
    “Don’t know protocol,” the Latino said softly, not moving. “Got himself all tangled up.”
    The black one glared at Carver. “This ain’t fuckin’ ‘Love Connection,’ Carver. We ask, you answer. Know why?”
    “Something to do with guns?”
    “That’s it, all right. Now, here’s a question. What address did Wesley give you?”
    “This one. His condo.”
    “He tell you why anyone might be going