Prime Suspect

by A. W. Gray

  3

  Lackey Ferguson decided on the way over to J. Percival Hardin’s house that he wouldn’t like living on the west side. Lackey thought that walking around on the lawn and making sure the gardener wasn’t fucking up the rosebushes, or sitting out by the pool and reading the Wall Street Journal while Nancy sunned on a raft in her string bikini and drank mint juleps, well, that kind of stuff would be kicks for a while. But if a westside guy wanted to take off his shirt and shoes and lay around watching the ball game, his wife would be all over him about it. Lackey and Nancy had rented a movie, War of the Roses, with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, and in the movie Douglas and Turner had been living in a house sort of like the ones in this westside neighborhood. One thing Lackey had noticed (and hadn’t mentioned to Nancy for fear she’d start getting ideas) was that Michael Douglas had come to supper in a coat and tie. Duding out for supper was something that could get old in a hurry.

  Hardin’s home was a ten-minute drive from the bank, down the red-brick paving on Camp Bowie Boulevard with its fancy dress shops and cutesy French pastry restaurants, north on Hulen Street, past clipped lawns the size of polo fields and houses with fountains in their yards, and finally east on a winding, tree-shaded boulevard which offered glimpses of Colonial Country Club. As he pulled his blue and white GMC supercab to the curb in front of Hardin’s, Lackey wondered briefly whether Percy Hardin carried his deposits to the bank, or if maybe the worried-looking guy (Graham? Yeah, Merlyn Graham) came over in person to save Hardin the trouble. Lackey couldn’t understand why the banker had seemed so worried; it was pretty obvious that Ridglea Bank didn’t lend any money to anybody who needed the loan to begin with. If a guy really needed some money he could try and get it from his brother-in-law.

  The pickup was spotless and its chrome gleamed like polished sterling. Lackey and Nancy had spent part of Sunday afternoon washing the truck and vacuuming out the inside, taking extra care with the windows to be sure there weren’t any smudges; Lackey couldn’t afford to show up in search of a contract on the bathhouse in a dirty pickup. Like he’d told Ronnie Ferias, getting the bathhouse job wasn’t a matter of life and death, but it was pretty important. Remodeling kitchens and enclosing back porches into extra bedrooms put food on the table and paid the rent, but something like this bathhouse job was pure gravy. Lackey and Nancy had set the date—August 15th—and the westside job would give them a nice honeymoon in San Francisco three months from now. San Francisco was the one place that Nancy had always wanted to go. Lackey had been there when he was in the army, and picturing Nancy strolling along on Fisherman’s Wharf with the Seabreeze whipping her dark hair made Lackey want to take her. He was going to get this bathhouse job, bank loan or no. He’d just have to figure something out. He climbed down from the pickup and crossed the lawn toward the house.

  Hardin lived in a two-story gothic of dark red stone. The house was seventy-five years old if it was a day. During the brief meeting he’d had with the Hardins in their parlor that morning, Lackey had done some looking around. He’d decided that the parlor furniture alone had probably cost more than Lackey and Ronnie had made in the past six months, and the paintings that hung over the mantel were probably good for a couple of years’ worth of remodeling jobs. The house appeared enormous as seen from the street; as Lackey drew nearer the structure loomed like Texas Stadium.

  He passed the gardener, a Mexican guy in overalls who was clipping a hedge. Lackey nodded and winked, and the gardener smiled. He’d tried talking to the gardener that morning and found that the guy didn’t speak any English, which made Lackey wish he’d brought Nancy along. The gardener paused in his hedge-clipping to mop his forehead with a handkerchief. The noon mid-May temperature was nearing ninety degrees, and Lackey decided that he wouldn’t take the job as Percy Hardin’s gardener unless they’d let him work in his bathing suit.

  He went up a stone walkway between twin two-story pointed spires and skirted a fountain on his way to the front porch. The fountain showed thick green plants waving gently beneath the surface of the water, and maybe a thousand trout-sized goldfish that wriggled about and flicked their tails among the leaves.

  Percy Hardin waited on the porch. Hardin was fretting about something, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. He was a tall, slender blond, wearing baggy navy pants with pockets in the legs, and a blousy pink Remert knit shirt whose hem was snug around his hips. His sleeves hung to his elbows. Nancy watched the fashion pages like a hawk and wanted Lackey to try the oversize look; Lackey personally thought that guys dressed like Percy Hardin looked as though their clothes didn’t fit. Lackey climbed the three steps up on the red-stone porch and said hello.

  Hardin’s lips were thin, and his eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses with silver wire frames. He reached up under his shirt to scratch his ribs, at the same time snapping the fingers of his free hand as he said, “Let’s see, you’re the . . .”

  It took a couple of seconds for Lackey to get it; it had only been two hours since he’d talked to this guy. Finally Lackey said, “Contractor. We talked about the bathhouse you want behind your pool. You sent me over to your bank to talk about interim financing, remember?”

  The fingers snapped again. “Sure. Sure, of course. Merlyn Graham fix you up?”

  “Well, not exactly. He didn’t have the interest rate I was looking for.”

  “I know just what you mean,” Hardin said. “The bastards really stick it to you for money these days. For a hundred thou, though, what the hell. I don’t know as I’d be shopping around that much.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, a lousy hundred,” Lackey said. “But all those points, well, it just rubbed me the wrong way is all. Tell you the truth, I got an alternate plan to run by you.”

  “Hey, I like that. A man that lives by his principles. Look, do you mind? I’m running way late.” Hardin went over to lean on a set of golf clubs, Ping Eye irons and woods with fuzzy headcovers inside a big pink leather bag like the touring pros had.

  Lackey thought, Do I mind what? No, the guy wants to lean on his golf clubs, I don’t mind. Percy Hardin seemed a little weird to begin with, and if Hardin wanted to lean on his golf bag, then Lackey Ferguson sure as hell didn’t have anything to say about it. “Suit yourself,” Lackey said.

  “No, I mean”—Hardin flashed a plastic smile—“would you mind carrying these out to the curb for me? My regular help took the day off.”

  Lackey permitted himself one blink, then decided that if he was going to get this bathhouse job he’d better do what Percy Hardin wanted. Just think of Nancy on Fisherman’s Wharf with the wind in her hair. Better yet, picture Nancy without any clothes, that should do the trick. “Sure, no problem,” Lackey said. Then he hefted the golf bag and slipped the strap over his shoulder and followed Hardin down the steps and around the fountain. Hardin walked with long strides, his hands swinging loosely by his hips, his head moving slowly from side to side like a guy used to giving orders and having everyone jump when he said the word.

  “Wouldn’t you know they’d pick this morning to be late,” Hardin said. “Fucking years I’ve been trying to get in the group with Norman. Finally I’m in and stand a good chance of missing my practice round.”

  Lackey wanted to say, Norman who? But he had enough to do carrying the golf clubs, so just struggled along without saying anything. The golf equipment must have weighed seventy-five pounds with all those extra wedges and crap in there, and Lackey wondered whether he could carry the bag for eighteen holes, reading the break on putts and telling Percy Hardin what club to hit. Be a tossup.

  “Of course, the real thing’s not till Wednesday,” Hardin said, “and usually the club’s closed on Monday. But NIT week they let us get in extra practice rounds.”

  Lackey said between huffs and puffs, “I thought the NIT was in Madison Square Garden.” He quickened his pace, doing his best to keep up with Hardin as they crossed the yard. The tiff grass was the color of pool-table felt and, La
ckey knew, required tons of water in the Texas heat to keep it from burning out.

  Hardin stopped and looked around. “Madison . . . ? Oh, you’re talking about basketball. Hey, pretty funny, I like that. Colonial. Colonial National Invitational, that’s what I’m talking about. I’m getting ready for the pro-am. Do you play golf?”

  “Yeah, some. Me and Ronnie Ferias and a couple of other guys go out to Rockwood sometimes on Saturday mornings. Say, you’ll meet Ronnie if we do the bathhouse. He’s my partner.”

  “Oh. Rockwood Muny,” Hardin said, as though he was saying, Oh, what a pile of shit. Which Rockwood was, Lackey supposed, big patches of bare ground in the fairways and greens so bumpy you’d miss a four-footer about half the time. Then Hardin said, “Give me a minute, huh?” and went over to say something to the gardener in Spanish.

  Lackey set the bag down; the clubs shifted and made hollow thunking noises. A towel hung from the bag ring, and Lackey used the towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Not only was it hot as hell, the humidity must be ninety percent or so, and Lackey decided right then and there that no way would he be a caddy. He was pretty impressed that Hardin could speak Spanish; in fact Lackey himself had thought about taking a night course at Tarrant County Junior College so that he and Nancy could speak Spanish to one another. But on second thought, Hardin’s Spanish wasn’t lilting and musical like Nancy’s; Hardin spoke Spanish like a guy who’d taken the language in school and liked to try it out on Mexican waiters. Lackey decided that if his own Spanish was going to sound like Percy Hardin’s, then he’d as soon not learn to speak Spanish at all. Whatever Hardin was saying to the gardener must have been pretty good; the guy stopped clipping the hedge and took off for the corner of the house with a big pass-the-enchiladas grin on his face. Come to think about it, Lackey thought, how come that gardener’s not carrying these golf clubs instead of me? At least the guy’s getting paid.

  When the gardener had disappeared from view, Hardin gave Lackey a come-on motion and continued on his way toward the street. Lackey sighed, shouldered the bag, and took off after Hardin like Gunga Din. Hardin said, “That’s one way to keep the help in line. Give them the day off every once in a while, then when you ask „em for a little extra they don’t have any argument.” As Lackey was wondering if he was included as one of the help, Hardin paused, hands on hips. “Well, it’s about time. About fucking time,” Hardin said.

  Lackey followed Hardin’s gaze. A white Lincoln stretch limo had come abreast of the house and was angling to the curb behind Lackey’s pickup. The limo was every bit as spotless as Lackey’s truck, and its windows were one-way black. “Yeah,” Lackey said. “You’d think people would be more considerate. Listen, about the bathhouse.”

  Hardin’s lips twisted in thought. Then he said, “Oh, yeah, the bathhouse. I thought we had that settled this morning.”

  “Well, I did, too. But that was before I had the problem at the bank.”

  Lackey realized that Hardin wasn’t really listening; the slender blond guy was in a hurry to make his tee time, and anything as pissant as a hundred-thousand-dollar bathhouse was something he didn’t have time to fuck with. The limo’s trunk lid sprung open with a metallic pop, and a uniformed chauffeur hopped out and hustled to the rear. The backseat window slid down with an electric hum, and a man of about fifty stuck his head outside. He wore a snow white golf shirt and had silver curly hair combed straight back. “I get four strokes a side,” he said. Then, glancing at Lackey, “Got you a new man, huh?”

  Hardin jerked a thumb in Lackey’s direction. “This guy? No, this guy’s . . . what’s your name again, guy?”

  Lackey said, “Huh?” then got it and said quickly, “Lackey Ferguson,” and then said to the silver-haired guy, “How you doing?”

  “He’s here to talk about the bathhouse,” Hardin said. “You know, that fucking deal.”

  The silver-haired man climbed out to stand on the curb. “Yeah, a honey-do. „Honey, do this and honey, do that.’ My old lady’s wanting a doghouse that some guys wish they could live in.” In addition to the golf shirt he wore gray slacks, and he was round shouldered with a protruding belly. “Well, listen, Lackey. Slide them sticks over to my man back there. We got tracks to make.”

  “Hold it,” Hardin said. Then, as Lackey was wondering, What sticks? Hardin came over and unzipped one bulky side pocket on the golf bag. He took out a pair of pale pink golf shoes, held them pinched together in one hand and said to Lackey, “Give the clubs to the chauffeur. That’s a good man.” Then Hardin walked past the silver-haired guy to sit sideways on the limo’s back seat and take one sneaker off.

  Lackey was beginning to do a slow burn, but thought about the bathhouse job and decided that Percy Hardin was something that he was just going to have to put up with. He lugged the clubs back to the trunk where the chauffeur waited. The chauffeur was a thin guy of about forty who looked as though he knew which side his bread was buttered on. He rolled his eyes at Lackey as he loaded the clubs into the trunk. Lackey went back to stand beside the limo and said to Percy Hardin, “Listen, on the bathhouse deal, I got to have some answers. I hate to push you, but me and my partner got to make some plans.”

  Hardin paused, then winked at the silver-haired man. “What’s to talk about?” Hardin said, then bent over to tie the laces on one golf shoe. On his other foot he wore only a white sock.

  “Well,” Lackey said, “it’s the financing. I’m going to—”

  “Wait a minute.” Hardin yanked the laces into a bow, then eased his stockinged foot into the other golf shoe. “Let me make sure you get the big picture here. That bathhouse. I don’t care about that bathhouse. I don’t give a shit about that bathhouse. My wife wants the bathhouse, not me. I want to play some golf. So what you need to do is, you need to talk to my wife. Okay? Now if you’re going to do the job, I’ll see you around. Let’s get cracking, Sam.” Then, as the silver-haired guy climbed into the front seat beside the chauffeur, Hardin swung his legs inside the car and slammed the door. The limo moved slowly and smoothly away from the curb as the rear window beside Hardin hummed and slid upward.

  Lackey cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey. Hey, well, is your wife at home?”

  “She was the last time I checked,” Hardin said loudly. He disappeared from view as the window closed. The limo picked up speed.

  Lackey watched the limo round the corner, then stalked away in the direction of the house. He was pissed, but forced his emotions down to a low boil. Bitching at Hardin’s wife wasn’t going to help. As he moved between the spires and went around the fountain, Lackey wondered if Percy Hardin was into something crooked. Everyone Lackey knew who did nothing but hang around Rockwood and play golf all the time was either dead broke or dealing dope, and it was a cinch that Hardin wasn’t broke. Lackey decided that if he was going to do the bathhouse, he needed to keep his eyes and ears open.

  Lackey stood on the porch with the fountain at his back and rang the doorbell. Chimes played four high notes from within the house, the sound muffled by the thick oak door. Lackey waited first on one foot and then the other, picturing himself saying to Nancy, Look, Ronnie and me got a tee time, how about taking care of this little bathhouse deal for me? Nancy would probably tell him to jump in the lake. He turned around, folded his arms and gazed across the street. Directly across from Hardin’s was a white two-story Colonial; next door to the Colonial was a brick Spanish house with a red tiled roof and a verandah. Lackey pressed the button a second time; the four chimes played one more set.

  Static emitted from a speaker camouflaged into the carved doorframe, and Lackey jumped slightly as a soft and cultured female voice said, “Who is it?”

  Lackey couldn’t come up with much of a mental picture of Mrs. Percy Hardin; Hardin had done all of the talking in his sitting room that morning while his wife had run back and forth in a terrycloth robe with a bandanna around her head, bringing coffee. In fact, Lackey couldn’t remember Mrs. Hardin having said a word. He lea
ned close to the doorframe and said, “Lackey Ferguson, Mrs. Hardin. Your husband said I should talk to you about the bathhouse.”

  There was a pop from the speaker, then she said, “You’re yelling and you’re too close. I can’t understand you, just speak normally.”

  Lackey put his hands on his waist and said as though she were standing right beside him, “Lackey Ferguson, the contractor. About the bathhouse. That better?”

  “Sure. Sure, just a minute.” Chains rattled, dead bolts slid, and the door opened halfway. “Everybody does it wrong,” Mrs. Percy Hardin said. “I’m going to have a sign printed. „Speak normally,’ or something.” She was wearing a flouncy white pleated tennis dress, and her skin was the color of a Brandy Alexander. Her legs were long and slim, and the hair she’d hidden earlier under the bandanna was honey blond, combed straight down on both sides of a center part and cut into a measured line midway between her ears and the base of her neck. At first glance she could have been a college girl; a closer look revealed little crinkles around her brown eyes. Her gaze swept him head to toe. “Well, are you going to do it?” she said.

  “Huh?” Lackey said. “Excuse me, but do what?”

  She showed a strange smile as though she had a secret and blinked. “The bathhouse. What did you think I was talking about?” Then, as she stood aside, “Hey, come on in. I’m Marissa, and if you ever call me Mrs. Hardin again I’ll fire you.” Lackey caught a whiff of perfume mixed with bath oil as he went by her and entered the house.

  The entry hall floor was stone tile. A six-foot grandfather clock stood in the foyer. Its pendulum was the size of a basketball, swinging back and forth, back and forth, ticking and tocking. The hall was about twenty feet long and opened into a mammoth den complete with floating staircase. The den’s vaulted ceiling was two stories overhead and held six curtained skylights. The staircase was around twenty feet wide and ascended to a second-floor balcony with a carved wood railing. As Lackey followed Marissa Hardin into the den, the stone floor gave way to rich brown carpet with foam padding underneath. “I’m having a shake,” Marissa Hardin said. “Come on.”