The Man in the White Linen Suit

by David Handler

  “Unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head in amazement.

  “Anyway,” Mel continued, “she said that her friend Shauna—”

  “Last name?” Very pulled his notepad from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Reininger. Shauna Reininger, who runs East Hampton’s top beauty salon and does Mrs. James’s hair and nails whenever she’s out there. It was Shauna’s case that I’d settled that day. She’d been trying to get out of her lease and move elsewhere because her landlord had failed to make good on the improvements he’d promised. He was trying to hold her up for an entire year’s rent. Mrs. James said, ‘Shauna told me you argued that bastard down to one month’s rent and also spoke to her in plain English so you didn’t make her feel stupid.’”

  “Just to be clear,” I said, “was her bare foot still in your lap at this point?”

  “Uh, no. She’d put her sandal back on.”

  Very shot an irritated look at me. “Please go on, Mel.”

  “Mrs. James is married to a much, much older man. An extremely wealthy one at that. And she’s not what I’d call thorough when it comes to examining fine print. Consequently, it seems that Mr. James convinced her to sign a truly awful prenuptial agreement, which basically stipulates that upon his death she will inherit none of his vast fortune, not a single one of his numerous country retreats nor so much as one cent of the royalties of his many bestselling books, which run into countless millions of dollars per year. It was really quite a deplorable agreement, in my view. We’re talking about a man who’s worth in excess of $200 million and owns prestige properties scattered from Provence to Maui, including the $4.5 million shorefront mansion on Lily Pond Lane in East Hampton, where Mrs. James has summered ever since they got married. Yet upon his death, the mansion on Lily Pond Lane would have passed to Sylvia, not to her.”

  “Except it turns out that he’s still alive and Sylvia’s the one who’s dead,” Very pointed out. “How does that affect Yvette?”

  “I can’t help you there. I’m not privy to the terms of Mr. James’s will. I just know that when Mrs. James came to me, the likelihood was that Mr. James would predecease Sylvia, that Sylvia would inherit the Lily Pond Lane mansion and that Mrs. James would end up out on her fanny.”

  “And a cute little fanny it is,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” Mel agreed, coloring slightly.

  “I don’t mean to get personal,” Very said, “but is your relationship with Yvette James strictly business?”

  Mel was blushing like a bashful schoolboy now. “Of course it is. She’s a client. It would be unethical for our relationship to be anything but business.”

  “Have a girlfriend, Mel?”

  “Our receptionist, Miss Leto, and I have gone out to dinner together a few times, but she’s made it clear she thinks of me as more of a friend.”

  “Getting back to Tommy O’Brien . . .”

  “Absolutely. What else can I tell you about him?” Mel asked, eager to help out—and to get off of the subject of Yvette’s cute little fanny.

  “Your only contact with him was that one phone call yesterday?”

  “Correct, the one phone call. He said he’d be back in touch as soon as he was able to set up a date and time, but I take it that the poor fellow died a few hours later. Horrible thing. Just horrible.” Mel glanced at his watch, which was a slim rose-gold Patek Philippe Calatrava with an alligator band. Mighty expensive watch for a small-time South Shore lawyer. I wondered if it had been a gift from a certain client. “And now, if you gentlemen will please excuse me, I’m due at the county courthouse.”

  “I STILL DON’T get it,” Very said as I lowered the Jag’s top and we got in, Lulu jumping into his lap. “This dude’s strictly a small-timer. Why didn’t Yvette hire herself a stud?”

  “Don’t be fooled by Mel’s appearance or manner, Lieutenant. I’ve been around dozens of pint-size Hollywood agents who come across like total nebbishes same as he does. They’re not. They’d stab you in the jugular vein with a Bic pen to protect their client’s interests. And if he’s got Jocko around the place, then we know he’s a shyster. Also, don’t forget that Yvette has been skating on the edge of the law most of her life. She’s right at home here at the law offices of Klein, Walker and Pignatano. Besides, she’s got Mel wrapped around her pinkie toe.” I was about to start up the Jag’s engine when I stopped. “We’ve got company.”

  Jocko Conlon had followed us out there. He moved slowly in the bright sunlight, massaging his thick right shoulder with his left hand like an aging sore-armed relief pitcher trying to hang on for one more season.

  “Nice ride,” he said to me admiringly as he approached us.

  “Thanks, I like it.”

  “I’m concerned about something,” he said to Very. “Figured I ought to mention it to you.”

  “That’s real thoughtful of you,” Very said to him dryly. “Mention away.”

  “I hope you don’t think Richie Filosi had anything to do with Tommy O’Brien’s murder.”

  “Why would I be thinking that?”

  “Because I read in the New York Post that he’s been seeing Tommy’s wife. But Richie hasn’t got a mean bone in his body. In fact, I always thought he was too nice a guy for the job. A cop has to be willing to put a scare into people sometimes. Maybe even rough ’em up a little. I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

  Very let that one slide on by. Just sat there in silence waiting for Jocko to speak his piece.

  “But Richie wasn’t like that. Anyway, just thought you should know.”

  “Okay, now I know. Thanks for the advice.”

  “Can I give you some more advice?” Jocko edged closer to the Jag, his voice distinctly more threatening now. “Go easy on the little guy.”

  “You mean Mel?”

  “He’s the sensitive type.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I put in. “I’m the sensitive type myself, but I’ve got everything I need. I’m an artist, and I don’t look back.” On his blank stare I added, “Not a big Zimmy fan, I take it.”

  He shook his head at me. “Why can’t I understand a single fucking word you’re saying?”

  “I could tell you, but I don’t think you’d like the answer.”

  “You trying to pick a fight with me?” he demanded angrily.

  Lulu immediately bared her teeth at him, letting out a low growl.

  Jocko watched her in amusement. “And I don’t understand the deal with the dog.”

  “You make it sound as if there are things you do understand,” I said.

  “Listen, you’re making a big mistake if you push me, pal.”

  “I’m not your pal. And excuse me, but did you just threaten me in front of a police officer?”

  “No, that was friendly advice. Same as I just gave Romaine.”

  “What advice was that again?” Very asked him. “I’ve forgotten already.”

  “Go easy on the little guy,” Jocko repeated, biting off the words this time. Then he turned and started back toward the cinder-block law offices of Klein, Walker and Pignatano, moving slowly and heavily. He had a rolling gait, as if the ground was shifting under his feet.

  Maybe it was.

  Chapter Eight

  We stopped off at a diner on our way back to the Sunrise Highway. It was one of those places that had huge, well-padded booths, huge, well-padded menus and very few customers. Also one of those rotating glass display cases laden with shelves of gooey cakes and pies that looked as if they’d been going around and around in there for weeks. The creepy Muzak version of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” that was playing as the perky young hostess led us to our booth segued to an even creepier Muzak version of Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow,” which I was unable to get out of my head for several hours no matter how hard I tried. When our waitress came, we both ordered cheeseburgers, fries and chocolate shakes. Lulu had a tuna melt, hold the toast. I resisted the urge to tell our waitress to hold the toast bet
ween her knees, just in case she wasn’t a Jack Nicholson fan, hadn’t seen Five Easy Pieces and would order us to vacate the premises at once. Slowly, ever so slowly, I am maturing.

  “What’s your thinking, dude? Is Yvette James shtupping Mel?”

  “Did you see that Patek Philippe he had on? If she can keep him happy with a wristwatch, then that means she hasn’t had to sleep with him. But I guarantee you he’ll do anything if he thinks he has a shot at getting naked with her.”

  “Including flattening Sylvia James with a car?”

  “Hey, the plastic Tiparillo tip that Lulu found didn’t wind up at the crime scene by accident.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to bring that up.”

  “And now you’re going to tell me that it doesn’t prove Mel was there.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you. Not unless the Willoughby PD crime lab turns up a fingerprint on it that matches Mel’s. If they don’t, then anyone could have tossed it there. Hell, it could have been sitting in that gutter for a week.”

  “I’d call that a pretty humongous coincidence.”

  “Call it whatever you like. Just don’t call it proof.”

  The waitress placed our cheeseburgers, fries and shakes before us and slid Lulu’s tuna melt under the table.

  “Personally, I agree with you,” Very admitted as he took a huge bite out of his cheeseburger. “But professionally, I have to deal in hard evidence that a DA can walk into a courtroom with.”

  I took a bite of my own burger and found it passable—although something about our visit with Mel Klein in his dreary little office had made my stomach tighten up. Jocko Conlon hadn’t done much for my appetite either.

  “Go easy on the little guy.”

  We ate in silence for a moment. Or at least Very and I did. Lulu has never learned how to eat tuna melts quietly. She slurps them. Sounds like a drain unstopping.

  Very popped a couple of fries in his mouth, munching on them. “School me—why were you going on and on about that safe in Mel’s office? I’ve never heard so much gum flapping about office safes. You even got him to offer you a crash course on metal strongboxes. What were you doing?”

  “My job. It may have gotten lost in the carnage of the past eighteen hours, but I was hired by Guilford House to find Tulsa. If it was Jocko who staged that snatch and grab outside of the copier store—and he certainly matches Tommy’s description of the guy who threatened him—then there’d be no better place to stash two copies of the newest Addison James saga than inside his employer’s fireproof office safe. You’ll notice that Mel didn’t offer to open it so as to show me how roomy and luxurious it was inside.”

  “I did notice,” Very said grudgingly. “You think he’s got Tulsa stashed in there?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “For whose benefit? Who’s behind this?”

  “I wish I knew, but there are still too many moving pieces. Tell me, Lieutenant, do you think Mel could have done it?”

  “Done what?”

  “Shoved Tommy off my roof. Tommy was five eight and a solid 165.”

  Very mulled it over as he munched on his burger. “Don’t see why not. If he’d already whacked him over the head, then all it would have taken was one good push. You liking him for it? Because I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Mel Kleins of the world get other people to do their dirty work for them.”

  “People like Jocko?”

  “People like Jocko.” Very took a gulp of his shake. “Were you gas-facing Mel or do you really stash your manuscript in the vegetable bin of your refrigerator?”

  “I absolutely do. My building’s a firetrap. And believe me, I’m not alone. Isaac Bashevis Singer’s manuscripts always smelled like rotting onions. He was famous for it. Also Norman Mailer, Maxwell Taylor . . .”

  Very looked at me, puzzled. “Maxwell who?”

  “I take it you’re not a Zimmy fan either,” I said as the sound system gave way to a relentlessly cheery Muzak version of Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe.” There’s a reason I don’t own a handgun. I just never know when I might go on a rampage, shoot up a diner’s sound system and end up with my wild-eyed mug shot plastered on the front page of the New York Post.

  “Mel’s right,” Very said. “You should get a metal strongbox.”

  “I’d much rather move back in with Merilee.”

  “Yeah, that would work, too.”

  “Lieutenant, I have an incredibly stupid question for you.”

  “I’ll do my best not to give you an incredibly stupid answer.”

  “Did the same person who killed Tommy kill Sylvia? Or is it possible that we’re looking at two different killers?”

  “Based on my experience, it’ll turn out to be the same person.” He polished off the last of his burger. “But don’t go by me. It’s not as if I’m an expert or anything. I only do this for a living.”

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time we got back to the garage on Columbus Avenue, swapped out the Jag for Very’s Crown Vic and careened our way down to Sixth Avenue in Midtown to see Norma Fives, noted ninety-five-pound rising star of Deep River and former lover of Tommy O’Brien.

  Not that it was easy. In order to see Norma without an appointment Very had to flash his shield at the supremely stuck-up receptionist and inform her that it was an urgent police matter. She spoke to someone on the phone in a low voice and then asked us to wait.

  We waited. Lulu dozed. Very paced. After twenty minutes or so, the door next to the reception desk finally opened and an exceptionally tall, athletically built young man emerged to usher us in. He was dressed in Brooks Brothers from head to toe, minus his suit jacket. He wore his striped repp tie tucked in between the second and third buttons of his white shirt so as to keep it from getting caught in his typewriter. That’s a Dartmouth thing. My idea of lame, but it’s better than the way Princetonians oh-so-casually throw their tie over their shoulder.

  “I’m Bart, Norma’s assistant,” he informed us. “Please follow me.”

  So we followed him through the door, where he made a sharp right turn, then a left turn, then a second left before he opened another door that led us to a long, narrow corridor. Bart was not easy to keep up with. He was at least six six and had the springy, loping stride that I can remember having had fifteen years ago myself and don’t anymore. The corridor’s walls were lined with the cover art of Deep River’s current top-selling books, many of which appeared to be romance novels featuring heroines with large, heaving breasts and heroes who resembled Fabio. Bodice rippers, they call them in the trade. There were spine-tingling thrillers for readers who like spine-tingling thrillers. I don’t. My real life is already spine tingling enough. Deep River also published several prestige highbrow novelists as well as a Pulitzer Prize–winning Washington Post foreign correspondent who’d just written a major bestseller about the Iran-Contra Affair.

  The editorial assistants were parked at cubicles outside of the editors’ offices. The lower-ranking editors had small windowless offices on our left. The senior editors and rising stars such as Norma had larger offices on our right with windows that looked out over Sixth Avenue.

  “Norma’s conferring with one of her authors on the phone,” Bart said apologetically when we arrived at his cubicle to find her office door closed. “She’ll just be another minute.”

  Very asked him if he could use his phone.

  “No problem, Lieutenant. Let me get you an outside line.” Bart punched a button, then swiveled the phone around and handed it to him.

  Very thanked him and made his call.

  I studied Bart, who had neatly trimmed light brown hair and a sincere, boyish face. “What’s your last name, Bart?”

  “It’s, um, Shackleford,” he replied, slightly ill at ease.

  “Thought so. You played small forward for Dartmouth, didn’t you?” I asked him as Very spoke to someone on the phone about Shauna Reininger. He wanted a man to locate her an
d confirm Mel’s story. “You’re a southpaw. Used to fire long-range jumpers from way deep in the corner. Whenever you hit nothing but net, the home crowd would yell ‘Swish!’”

  Bart nodded his head. “Graduated two years ago. You must be a real fan of Ivy League sports.”

  “Chucked a spear or two for the Crimson back in my day.”

  Very hung up the phone and said, “Hoagy’s being modest, which I have to say is shocking the hell out of me. This man right here was the fourth-best javelin hurler in the entire Ivy League.”

  “Third best,” I corrected him.

  Now Bart was staring at me with his mouth open. “My God, you’re Stewart Hoag. And that must be Lulu.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Wow, this a huge honor for me. May I shake your hand, Mr. Hoag?”

  “Make it Hoagy,” I said, waiting patiently for the numbness in my fingers to subside. Bart had huge hands and a powerful grip.

  “I am such a huge fan of Our Family Enterprise. I’ve read it four times. Are you working on anything new? Please say you are.”

  “I are.”

  “Wow, that’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”