On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard. Страница 28

I crossed State Street and loped down the hill toward Green. It was just past eight o'clock and the temperature sign on the bank at State and Pearl read 87 degrees. The high-intensity arc lamps clicked on in the blackening dusk. In the orange glare the street looked like the portals of hell, though less populated even on a Saturday night. Dale Overdorf had been a washout, I figured, but I kept thinking there was something I'd missed or hadn't picked up on. I went back over the conversation in my mind. When Overdorf had gone into his "cocksman" characterization I'd thought about dropping the good news on him, but concluded I might need to come back to him, and so failed to contribute to his worldly education. But there was something else. I didn't yet know what.

The captain at La Briquet led me past the sweat-drenched pols, lobbyists, and high-tech entrepreneurs waiting for a table. We crossed the main dining room to an alcove in the back. One table was occupied by a bishop and two lesser spiritual operatives celebrating a secular ritual involving a Lafite-Rothschild '76 and a coq au vin. At a second rear table were three men in blue-black suits,

horned-rimmed glasses, and five o'clock shadows. They were listening thoughtfully to a slim black-eyed woman with a briefcase on her lap who spoke at the speed of light: "You know goddamn well the senator is not going to go along with this shit, so why waste our time with a couple of raggedy-ass proposals our people have looked at ten times already, and want to puke every time we . . ." The juke box was playing Telemann.

The banquette in the rear alcove was occupied by Crane Trefusis and Marlene Compton, the blonde who sat outside his office. She was holding an unlighted cigarette, and the captain, deftly producing a silver lighter as a magician might from his sleeve, held out a small blue flame, which Marlene utilized with the bored indifference of a woman not unaccustomed to having small blue flames produced for her benefit.

I thought, Trefusis is going to suggest to Marlene that she go powder her nose. Trefusis said, "Marlene, why don't you go powder your nose?" She went. I flopped the bread bag full of checks onto the linen tablecloth alongside a slim vase containing a single yellow rose.

"Seventy-two," I said. "Local banks."

Trefusis stuffed the bag into a side pocket and from his breast pocket retrieved a fat brown envelope.

"Seventy-two, U.S. currency."

"Where'd you get it?" I said.

"Hard work."

I folded the envelope in half and jammed it into the back pocket of my khakis. It bulged.

I said, "Did Dale Overdorf kidnap Peter Greco?"

He didn't blink. "Not that I know of."

"I didn't think so."

"Overdorf is never sober after five p.m. Friday. He'd be incapable of it on a weekend. That would be his alibi, Strachey, and a damned good one in court. Where did you get Dale's name, if I may ask?"

"It came up."

"Dale is quite reliable during the week. He runs errands for our security chief, fills in, handles special assignments."

"Uh-huh."

"For a man with your reputation, Strachey, I'm amazed you would even consider such a possibility. Even though I know you'd love to discover that Millpond is involved in this idiotic kidnapping in some way. Or even the vandalism."

"You're right, I waste a lot of time. But occasionally it pays off. And it's always instructive. In a general sort of way."

"Yes. You must know a great deal about the manner in which life in our time and place is lived."

"I do."

"Perhaps you'll write a book someday: Memoirs of a— Gay Gumshoe. Are people in your profession still called gumshoes?"

"That went out with Sam Spade. Anyway, most of us don't get gum stuck on our shoes while we're pounding the streets. I'm sure I won't. In here."

"Then perhaps you're spending your time in the wrong types of environment in your search for criminals these days, Strachey. As I look around this room, I see none."

"I count six or eight, but never mind. Is the reward money all set?"

"It is on deposit with my personal attorney, Milton Hahn. A public announcement will be made when you and the police have authorized me to proceed with it. I spoke with the chief after you phoned me today, and he concurs that this is the proper approach."

"Glad to hear it. The chief and I have never agreed on much."

"He alluded to that."

"Here comes your food," I said. "And your receptionist. She seems quite . . . receptionable."

"You notice such things? You're even more versatile than I've been told, Strachey."

"It's an old habit I picked up in the seventh grade. But it never amounted to much."

"You boys through with your man talk?" Marlene said. "God, I could eat a horse."

The waiter, standing by a serving trolley and causing flames to break out all over a chunk of dead animal, winced.

"See ya in church, Crane," I said.

He laughed.

Heft.

I turned the corner from Green and headed back up State. I picked up a Coke, a burger, and three large fries at McDonald's and walked back to my car in a lot on South Pearl. I ate and drank and went over the whole thing in my mind. My eyes ached. I wanted to close them, but I didn't. I knew I'd missed something already, and I couldn't risk missing anything more.

I stuffed the bag of McDonald's debris under the car seat and drove back toward Central through the reeking heat. I wished I'd paid the extra eight hundred three years earlier and gotten a car with air conditioning, and the hell with Jimmy Carter, wherever he was. Though Timmy, of course—Timmy the eco-freak-with-a-vengeance—would have disapproved.

Timmy. That bastard. Timmy.

14

• I tracked down Mel Glempt at his

apartment on Ontario Street. He repeated to me what he had told me on the phone earlier in the day, that he had been leaving the Green Room just before midnight and saw a tall man in a policeman's uniform mug and deftly blindfold a smallish fellow, and then quickly shove him into the back seat of a large dark-colored car, which immediately sped away heading west. Glempt said that in the dimly lit parking lot he had not gotten a look at the cop's face, nor at the person in the driver's seat. Glempt came up with no additional details. He said he had told his story to two police detectives who had come by, and that they had been "polite."

On out Central, I pulled into Freezer Fresh and asked a pale, long-haired kid with bad skin if Joey Deem was on that night. The kid blinked, took a step sideways, and said, "I'm him."

"You kidnap anybody?"

This time he stepped back and looked at me as if I were batty. "What?"

"I didn't think so. But let's try another one. Did you paint rude slogans on Dot Fisher's barn?"

He took another step back and banged into the nozzle of the chocolate glop machine. His eyes darted about to see who might be overhearing our exchange. A line was forming behind me. The kid's mouth opened in an attempt to form words.

"How about the threatening phone calls and the 'you-will-die' letter? Those yours too?"

"I don't know what you mean," he blurted, his mind trying to get a message through to his lower body to settle down, quit spasming.

"You want a new transmission for the T-bird in your front yard. It'll take you two years of busting your ass at this place to save enough money to pay for one. Your dad told you he'd buy you one if Dot Fisher sold out to Millpond and he could sell his property too. Mrs. Fisher was uncooperative and you decided to urge her in your unmannerly way to cooperate. Have I got it right?"