I nodded to Field.
“And this is George Callen.”
Callen was very wrinkled, though not any older than these others, I didn’t think. My guess was weight loss. His hair was dark blond and combed-over. He had big dark blue eyes that threatened to burst from the pouches. An ugly man.
I nodded to him, as well.
“But the problem, Mr. William Wilson,” Kraft said, “is that you are not Charles Vanhorn.”
“No one is, anymore,” I said.
The four faces looked blankly at me. Poole had his steak knife in his fist, resting on the table.
“You must know that Charles Vanhorn was murdered day before yesterday,” I went on cheerfully. I began cutting my prime rib. My knife would stay in hand for a while, too. “Him and the two guys who were protecting him. Poorly.”
Poole almost smiled. “That doesn’t explain your presence.”
“I was Vanhorn’s partner,” I said. “But this hostile welcome from you gentlemen makes me think I probably shouldn’t give you any name other than one you have right now.”
“His partner, you say,” Poole said.
“That’s right. Silent partner. Now he’s my really silent partner.”
“You killed him?”
“No. Did you?”
Of the four, only Poole did not respond by letting his jaw drop open, at least a little.
“I came here,” I said, “because I have the same interest in the possibilities of offshore banking in the Caymans that my late partner had.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Poole said.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said with a shrug, and cut my prime rib for another bite.
A doorbell rang and Dan came quickly out of the kitchen, nodding at his guests, and going to answer it.
“I wonder,” Kraft said, frowning, “who that could be.”
I said, “Not Charles Vanhorn.”
Then Dan was back and with him was a handsome black man in the nicest suit in the place, double-breasted gray with an olive silk tie on a striped dress shirt. Tailored, not Chess King.
“Gentlemen,” Dan said with a smile and with an open-handed gesture to the newcomer, his other hand on the African-American’s shoulder, “this is our seminar leader… Seymour M. Goldman.”
Oy vey.
TWELVE
Dan ushered the handsome, impeccably attired financial guru around the table, where he was introduced to the individual seminar participants, each of whom stood and shook his hand, nodded, smiled. Myself included. To Goldman’s credit, though, he had first paused at the ladies’ table to smile and half-bow. They looked at him the way a chubby teenage girl looks at a chocolate sundae.
With the exception of Lu, of course, who already had the man of her dreams handy.
As far as those introductions went, the real names of the attendees—not their phony check-in “John Smith” aliases—were not only given to Goldman, but already known to him.
Poole, who seemed to be the table’s spokesman, gestured to an empty chair and said, “Help yourself to the buffet, Mr. Goldman, and then join us, if you would.”
“Thank you,” Goldman said, with another half-bow, displaying a charming Caribbean-tinged English accent, “but I have already eaten and should prepare for tonight’s presentation.”
I’d had my fill too, of the food and of the tight-lipped company at this table, and rose and said, “Happy to give you a hand, Mr. Goldman.”
“Very kind, Mr. Vanhorn.” Which was the name I’d given him when I could see everybody was dropping the “John Smith” routine. And though my fellow attendees knew I wasn’t Vanhorn, of course, that was the name Goldman and Dan (as far as anybody knew) expected to hear.
The financial guru had a high-end rental ride outside—a silver Olds Cutlass, fitting for an offshore pirate, I thought—and from there I helped him haul in an easel and some big cards with graphs and charts and a few mounted posters of his beautiful island paradise, to spice up the boredom of how to dodge taxes.
We did this quickly, as it was colder out now and we hadn’t bothered with a coat or anything. Back inside, I pitched in, setting up, which included wheeling around, from where it had been tucked against a hallway wall, a cart with a TV and a professional videotape player, provided by the lodge.
“I need to tell you,” I said, “that I am not Charles Vanhorn.”
“Actually,” he said, with that crisp appealing accent and a flash of smile, “I knew that. Word of Mr. Vanhorn’s demise reached me when I arrived in Chicago this afternoon. But I’m afraid I must insist upon an explanation.”
I noticed he hadn’t insisted until after I helped him haul his shit in.
“I’m the late Mr. Vanhorn’s business partner,” I said. “I was aware of this meeting and thought it best I fill in.”
“I see.” He frowned. “Well…actually I don’t see. With your business partner dying so recently, I would think you would have other, better things to do.”
“Well, I am interested in what banking has to offer in the Caymans,” I lied. “But I’m also here because of the circumstances of Mr. Vanhorn’s demise, as you put it.”
His eyes narrowed, his head cocked. “I understand that the circumstances are…troubling.”
“Murder usually is. I don’t know for sure, but I strongly suspect that one or more of your participants here were responsible for that demise.”
“Oh my.”
The mildness of his reaction made me smile. “I don’t think you’re in any danger, Mr. Goldman, but it’s only fair that you know there are underlying circumstances here.”
“I understand, Mr., uh…?”
“We can get to my real name later.” No we wouldn’t. “For now, it’s better that you call me Vanhorn.”
“Mister Vanhorn,” he corrected with a smile.
He was a cool customer, all right.
“Might help me to know,” I said, “who arranged this seminar—who requested it?”
He took a few moments to consider his reply. “My understanding is that Mr. Poole, representing this small consortium of business associates, through our friends in Chicago, arranged things with their hotel here.”
I figured I knew what “Chicago friends” he meant, but I hadn’t realized Hefner had been bought out by the Outfit. Not that I was exactly shocked.
Everything was set up and ready for the presentation, so I figured I better get back to the table with my ugly friends. Maybe a second helping of cherry crisp was in order.
But first I asked the guru, “So—is Goldman an alias? If you don’t mind my asking.”
He laughed. “I don’t mind, and it isn’t. I actually am Seymour M. Goldman, Jr. My mother was native to the Caymans, my father wasn’t. I take after my mother. She’s a Catholic and so am I.”
“Hey, some of my best friends are Catholic.”
Another laugh, then a shrug. “But, I have come to find, as the representative of banking interests in the Caymans? My name can be…helpful.”
Before the presentation began, Lu and the other females were sent off to their respective rooms. Time for the meeting of the He-Man Woman Haters Klub—no Girlz Allowed. Dan was still around, supervising the clearing of the kitchen, making sure everybody had what they needed.
But he did not attend the first session of the seminar, pausing to make an announcement at the door, on his way back to the main lodge.
“I hope this retreat is a profitable one for all concerned,” he said with a smile. “I’m staying on site throughout your weekend, so if you have any needs, just call the desk.”
The four booking agents of murder paired off on the facing couches by the fire, in front of which the easel and the TV on its stand were positioned. I had the couch with the windows to my back, facing Goldman and his dog-and-pony show.
Tonight was just an opening salvo and, accordingly, brief. In that charming English-Caribbean accent, the financial guru explained the development of what he termed “bank
secrecy” in the Cayman Islands, whose government worked hard at preserving its financial industry’s integrity. On the TV a short travelogue played, with the expected sun and sand and ocean representing “the Cayman Islands, a British colony only an hour by jet from Miami.”
But the key selling point came quick—that this colony was “free from all forms of direct taxation and currency constraints.” The country’s laws were designed to invite international business with a minimum of regulatory control.
It was a broad strokes introduction, flavored with facts and figures—500 banks now operated in the Cayman Islands, and 16,000 businesses were incorporated there—and the participants were listening with the rapt attention of guys in the front row of a strip club. But this wasn’t about stuffing dollar bills in G-strings. This was about a lot more G’s than that, but it was dollars, all right. Lots of them.
After about an hour, Goldman wrapped up, saying tomorrow morning he would detail various options they might like to consider, followed in the afternoon by one-on-one consultations and recommendations.
Poole stood and led a round of applause, hollow in the low-ceilinged, open-raftered room.
“Great job, Mr. Goldman,” he said. All that plastic surgery gave his grin a Phantom of the Opera tinge. “Wonderful stuff. Could you get, uh, Mr. Vanhorn’s help again, and clear your things out of the way for now? We have some serious partying to do.”
I was Mr. Vanhorn, remember, even though everybody knew I wasn’t.
While I helped Goldman move his gear off to a corner, Poole stood in front of the fireplace, saying to his fellow murder brokers, “Go up and get your girls, fellas. I’ll do the same. And, trust me, we’ll have more than beer tonight to help us celebrate.”
Kraft asked, “Celebrate what, Hank?”
Poole shrugged. “Having more than beer.”
I went up to the third floor to fetch Lu. She was watching a Murder, She Wrote rerun as she sat in one of the rough-hewn, fur-cushioned chairs we’d pulled over earlier.
I sat next to her. “I guess we’re partying this evening.”
“You learn anything much from that Guess-Who’s-Coming-to-Dinner Jew?”
“He’s Catholic, actually. Yeah. I learned it’s good to be rich. Did you learn anything from the sewing society?”
Her eyes were still on the tube, where the mystery was getting explained by Angela Lansbury. “I did. Seems only the also-ran Playmate of the Year has any kind of ongoing relationship with anybody. She’s Poole’s mistress. Old-fashioned word, huh? Better than shack job, I guess. The others are working girls.”
I frowned. “I never saw street corners with the likes of them.”
“And you won’t. We’re talking high-ticket call girls. I gather they are from the Outfit’s typing pool. Only they don’t type.”
“None with history with any of my fellow chauvinists downstairs?”
“I didn’t say that. I think these girls have been escorts for most of those beasts before. Just aren’t going steady with any of ’em, shall we say.”
“They aren’t going down to the malt shop together.”
“Just going down.”
“Let’s us go down. Downstairs, that is.”
We did, taking the stairs again, with music coming up to greet us—“Like a Virgin,” which is what the four beauties were dancing to. Unintentional irony or smug sarcasm? You decide.
In any case, the flying pheasant carpet between the two couches had flown, the seating scooched back to make more room for the girls to dance. The beauties had not changed the outfits they’d worn on arrival, with the partial exception of the redhead, who had removed her denim jacket to reveal a neon lime-and-gray t-shirt with a plunging neckline, to show off the boobs she had undoubtedly bought. And worth every penny, I’d say.
“Join in,” I whispered in Lu’s ear.
She nodded and got to dancing with the other babes. Or boogieing or whatever the fuck they were calling it. These kids today.
The couch by the windows where I’d sat earlier had been shoved to one side, and in its place sat a big blocky wooden table with bottles of gin, vodka, rum and bourbon. A tower of red Solo cups and an ice bucket shared the space, and on the floor next to the table squatted the Styrofoam chest of iced soda and beer. Also on the floor back there was the source of the music, a big boom box, really cranked.
Poole, who already seemed a little drunk, brayed over the sounds, “Help yourself, kiddies! I got plenty more upstairs if we run dry!”
Obviously Poole had come prepared to violate the notion that only soda and beer would be served at the retreat. Not being a rule breaker by nature, I helped myself to a can of Diet Coke.
On the left, as I faced the dancing girls, pudgy Kraft sat next to skinny Field—the worst Laurel and Hardy impersonators ever. On the right sat pruneface Callen, alone at the moment. I joined him.
“The Power of Love” started up, a song I actually liked. Huey Lewis. Now and then one of the girls would pogo to it. Worse things to watch in the world.
I said to Callen, “We need to talk.”
The wrinkled face managed to convey what we all know: those four words, strung together like that, are nothing anybody wants to hear. Especially from a lover, but also from somebody attending a murder bookers convention, however exclusive.
“About?” he asked. Even his voice sounded wrinkled.
“I wanted to give you some food for thought.”
“Not especially hungry.”
“How about a warning? Can you make room in your belly for that?”
His eyes were cold and dark and hard, nothing at all like their saggy settings. His nod was barely there. But it was there, all right.
I said, “I think my business partner, Vanhorn, was murdered by one of us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The five of us who broker murder contracts. Does that spell it out enough?”
The barely there nod again.
I went on: “I think somebody among us is trying a power play. I think one of us killed Vanhorn as an opening gambit. For a wholesale takeover of our business. To become one overall broker.”
“Impossible,” he said, and huffed a sneering laugh. “Ridiculous. There are a good two dozen of us operating in the continental United States alone. We need regional set-ups.”
“Where do you work out of, George?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Vanhorn was in Wilmette. Which is Chicago. Do you know where Hank and Joe and Alex operate from?”
A shrug. “Cleveland. St. Louis. Des Moines.”
“Midwest. A good chunk of it, anyway.”
Again the barely there nod.
I said, “Somebody’s trying to take over the region.”
His eyebrows tensed, making his forehead wrinkle even more. “You have proof?”
“Just a friendly heads-up. Remember me, if my warning works out well for you.”
He shrugged again, but those cold dark eyes were moving in thought. Barely moving. But moving.
I had similar conversations with the others. Whether any of them figured out what I was doing—noticing that I’d quietly buttonholed each of them in the noise—I couldn’t tell you. But the subject even seemed to sober Poole up. Temporarily.
“A power play?” he said, gesturing with his sloshing Solo cup. We were standing off to one side, talking over “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” (I swear) but with no one close enough to hear us over it. “You can’t be serious.”
“What part of Vanhorn shot in the head can’t you buy?”
The eyes narrowed in that face of stretched skin. He leaned close. “This is a dangerous line of enterprise we’re in.” He was slurring now. “Vanhorn could’ve alienated our Chicago ’sociates. How should I know?”
“Maybe you better find out.”
He shrugged and spilled a little booze. “Coulda been a straight-up home invasion, y’know. Place is isolated enough, wealthy area. If there’s anyth
ing to it, Chicago will let us know.”
“Unless Chicago’s behind it. Maybe they want their own people in and independents like us out.”
The capped teeth flashed. “Indies like you? I didn’t even know who the fuck you are, Mr. Will-i-am Wilson. I never heard anything about Vanhorn having a silent partner.”
“That’s why you don’t hear anything. They’re silent.”
“Why don’t you stay that way?”
And he scowled and drifted off.
By the time “Sussudio” by Phil Collins came on, I’d talked to them all, and Poole was not the only one drunk enough to imagine he could dance—they all did. It was funny for a while. Then at a certain point you were embarrassed to be human. This did not seem to be a species worth belonging to.
A slow song started up—“You Give Good Love,” Whitney Houston—and the four men danced with, or was that dry-humped, their dates. Ah romance.
The former runner-up Playmate of the Year was getting publicly pawed in an embarrassing, overt way by the now very drunk Poole. One hand on her ass, the other on a breast. When the song finally stopped, she squirmed out of his grasp and pushed him away and ran off. Crying maybe.
Poole grinned at everybody, since we’d all become his audience, and shrugged and said, “Chicks!” In that charming way gentlemen do.
Then, with all eyes on him, Poole reached in a trouser pocket and withdrew a small black-capped bottle of white stuff.
“Anybody interested in dessert?” he asked, and headed toward the dining room.
Everybody followed him, except Lu and me and the most embarrassed guest at the party, Seymour M. Goldman, Jr., who throughout had been awkwardly standing on the periphery with a drink in hand and a frozen smile on his face, and after all, where else would it be?
I went over to him.
“What wise man was it that said,” I asked, “are we having fun yet?”
“Zippy the Pinhead,” Goldman said, an answer that—especially in his British/island accent—made my estimation of him rise, as did what he said next: “I don’t care to be a part of this. Actually, I can’t be a part of this.”
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