Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  He strolled past me with the same grin he'd worn for the others, but the vocal tone was tailored just for me as he delivered his orders without breaking stride: "We need to talk."

  I left my unfinished drink at the bar and gladly followed his unhurried tracks across the patio and into the house. Entry there was via a large lounge area—for want of a better name; I'd almost call it a nightclub. A full bar that would be the envy of many commercial clubs occupied an entire wall. A dozen or so heavy leather couches arranged with marble tables and computer games still left plenty of room for a decent dance floor and a small, raised stage outfitted with grand piano, drums, amplifiers, and whatnot. Two guys who looked the bartender role were working stock behind the bar and apparently getting set up for a long evening. Otherwise, the lounge was deserted.

  We went on through there and along a bright hallway past another room, which could have lobbied for a small resort hotel, before Kalinsky spoke to me again.

  This time it was over the shoulder as he veered left into another, broader hallway with doors spaced along either side. "Executive wing," he told me, with the air of a bored tour guide.

  "Naturally," I replied, but under my breath.

  We were, it seems, at the seat of government. One of the rooms we passed—actually a broader hall teed off behind an archway and sealed in glass—had OPERATIONS CENTER engraved in gold on the double glass doors. In smaller letters below: Authorized Personnel Only.

  I marked that one in the mind but had only a quick study as we walked past: no windows, big mainframe computer at the back wall, several small desks with terminals, half a dozen or so Teletypes and several stockmarket tickers, God knows what else. This was Saturday afternoon, remember, but two of the Teletypes were spitting copy and a guy in knee shorts and bright Hawaiian shirt was wrestling a stack of computer printouts.

  The throne room was at the very end, beyond another ten or twelve closed-door offices, with its own waiting room with two secretarial desks and a telephone switchboard—the old PBX type.

  Kalinsky trailed a finger along the top of the switchboard as we walked through—said, almost lovingly, "Don't use this anymore, of course, but it was JQ's pride so we keep it around for old time's sake."

  I learned later that everyone at the palace referred to the dead king by his initials (middle name was Quincy). The also-dead son was called TJ, when at all.

  Seemed to be the style here to abbreviate names. Kalinsky murmured, "In here, Ash," as he showed me into the Executive Office.

  I don't know exactly what I'd been expecting to find in there, but it must have been less than the reality because I was a bit surprised by the layout. The polished mahogany desk (Philippine mahogany, no doubt) would hold a king-size mattress, even between the swirls for the visitors' chairs, which were pedestal-mounted on swivel bases and richly upholstered in some fine leather. The executive chair, rail-mounted at the rear, was contour-molded and heavily padded with a backrest about four feet high. Had a control console built into the right armrest—I didn't know, maybe they launched missiles from Vandenberg here—and there was another gizmo built into the desk that obviously was light-years ahead of the old PBX in the outer office, some jazzy telephone setup with video monitors and taping facilities.

  Kalinsky motioned me toward one of the three scoop-outs up front. Pretty nice working environment, I had to admit as I eased myself into the imbedded chair—imbedded in the desk, that is, at just the proper height to rest both arms on the shiny surface at either side, plenty of work space directly ahead, each chair angled into the massive structure in such a way that four people could be seated there and working comfortably while almost head to head.

  I took the opportunity to orient myself as Kalinsky went around and clambered into the Command Pilot's seat. Nice, yeah, very impressive. About forty feet square, interior walls displaying heavy books from floor to ceiling, French windows opening onto a private flower garden and outside lounge, luxurious carpeting, evidence of a tiled bath off behind the desk—probably very elaborate—all the usual tycoon comforts and then some.

  "I'd offer you a drink, but JQ was death on mixing booze with business—so, no drinking in the executive wing—I'm sure you understand—we still honor JQ here."

  I said, "Sure. Not that much for booze, myself."

  "Good. Nothing against a social drink, mind you."

  "'Course not," I agreed.

  All that dispensed, my host was now obviously ready to get to that talk we both needed.

  "We know exactly who you are, of course."

  That was nice. I was not sure, myself, exactly who I was. But I knew, now, approximately who Kalinsky was. There was no doubt in my mind that he was the "we" who was now running this empire.

  "We got your pedigree. Shortly after you got Bruno."

  "Poor guy," I said quietly.

  "Yeah. You shouldn't have copped the poor guy in the balls, you know."

  "He didn't die of that," I observed.

  "How do you know that? Delayed reaction, maybe."

  "Are you suggesting that's where his heart was?"

  The guy chuckled. It was not a bad sound. But we were, after all, discussing a recently dead employee and organizational "uncle."

  "Sometimes I wondered," Kalinsky said, still grinning. The smile faded as he veered back into our talk. "I was not referring to his unfortunate death. But that was a shock, a real shock, too young for that. I meant after he came home with bruised balls. I gave him hell, too, for putting himself in that position. And for putting Karen in that position."

  "Not the name of the game," I agreed.

  "Absolutely not. That girl is—well ... you know. We all are trying to help her through this."

  I said, "Naturally."

  "Sure. Could be very damaging, very...scandalous, degrading. I mean to the family name as well as to herself, and we all are ..."

  "... trying to help her through this," I helped.

  "Naturally," he replied, turning it back to me.

  I was beginning to like the guy, though with strong reservations. Or maybe respect is a better tag for what I was feeling at that moment.

  I said, "Let's get back to Bruno. Where's the body?"

  "In a funeral chapel, where it belongs."

  I said, "But, naturally, to help him get through that ... ."

  Kalinsky chuckled again. I believe he was starting to like me too. "Pretty sharp, aren't you? Look, Ash, this family does not need notoriety."

  This "family," I was thinking as he continued talking, now consisted of a single person: Karen.

  "JQ would have done it this way. I was a punk kid fresh out of Harvard Business School when he took me under his wing, wet as hell behind the ears and not a dime to call my own. He gave me the responsibility for Karen, and by God I mean to exercise it the same way he would. So don't miscalculate my feelings in all this. She is my granddaughter, dammit, the same as if..."

  "Grandfather surrogate," I mused. "But you're far too young."

  A slow smile began at his eyes and spread warmly toward his mouth as he pushed that one around. "Better than—I thought I'd die. But it was funny, wasn't it? I mean—serious, sure, serious and embarrassing as hell, but still funny. Wonder whatever possessed her to pull something like that."

  "Exactly," I said.

  "Exactly, to what?"

  "Whatever possessed her."

  "Don't get you."

  "It wasn't Karen."

  "What do you mean, it wasn't Karen?"

  "Not herself."

  "Oh. Sure. 'Course not. That's what made it so damned funny. But she's been doing a lot of strange stuff lately, and ..."

  "Ever see her like that before?"

  "Like what?"

  "Naked."

  "Oh. Well ..."

  "Grandfatherly fashion, of course."

  I got a flash from the eyes as he responded to that one. "I was thinking of when she was a little girl—but, no, nothing like that since—hold it, there, Ash—
why do I feel that you've taken charge of this conversation?"

  I showed him a flash of my own as I replied, "You said 'Have a talk.' Talk flows both ways, doesn't it?"

  The lord of the manor produced a single cigarette and lit it without offering me one. I took the opportunity to study him closely while he did so, then I lit one of my own.

  He was less relaxed than when we came in there, shoulders a bit tight and tilted forward—aggression—chin out and reaching toward the flame as he lit up—belligerence—fingers clenched tightly onto the cigarette—fear of losing—hard, sharp pulls as he sucked up the smoke—anxious—settling back in his chair to fix me with a stern gaze—reasserting control.

  "Didn't like the navy life, eh?"

  I blew smoke back across the desk to mingle with his and replied, "Too confining. Great institution, though, if you like institutions."

  "But you don't."

  "Not usually."

  "Maverick. Love your independence. Like to run your own show. Can't really knuckle under to organizational structures."

  I showed him a very small smile and replied, "Bingo."

  "IQ of one-ninety. That's genius level."

  I waved it aside. "Genius is as genius does, or however that goes. I never put much stock in intelligence tests."

  "Trust fund from your mother's family really doesn't set you up the way you'd like to be, though. You can't afford that Maserati, Ash."

  Bingo, again, but I would not give him the satisfaction. "I do okay. Lots of sun, plenty of fresh air, come and go as I please. Why are you hiding Bruno's body?"

  He did not miss a beat. "Who says we're hiding it and why should we? Fella has a right to a decent laying-out. Simply had him removed to a decent place."

  "You removed also every official trace of the event."

  "The vulgar press loves this kind of shit. We just do what has to be done to avoid notoriety."

  "JQ would have done it that way."

  "Bet your ass. And, speaking of your ass, my friend, you really had no right to push the coroner that way, desecrate the body, all that shit. Man died a natural death. Leave him alone in peace. Why don't you become a tennis pro?"

  He was showing me that he could turn it quickly too. I was really beginning to enjoy this. "Think I'm good enough?"

  "Beat the shit out of Centrales at Carmel. Yeah, I'd call that good enough."

  The guy really had my number. And I could tell that he was enjoying calling it too.

  I wagged the cigarette at him, then snuffed it out as I told him, "This is one reason why not. You're right. I like my independence, even to the point of choosing my own poisons. Professional athletics are too rigorous."

  "You don't like rigor."

  "We already covered that. I do not like rigor. And that, I suppose, is why I should be leaving you right about now." But I made no move to go.

  He said, "You're a good team player, though. Navy thought so. Bet they cried when you left them."

  I said, "Karen is in severe difficulty."

  He said, "I know that. What the hell do you think we're talking about?"

  I saw his hand move on the armrest, a finger poising over the buttons of the console, then selecting one by feel.

  I thought, oh shit, it's a James Bond movie and now I am about to plunge through this floor into a pit of hungry crocodiles.

  But nothing like that happened. And Kalinsky went right on talking. "This really isn't my style, but I have to tell you that I like you, Ash. I guess I really expected it to go this way. I mean, I figured we'd get along fine even before I finished reading your file. This little talk really just confirms everything I expected to find. Look, we've tried everything with this kid and now we're really beginning to feel desperate. Mind you, I don't usually show my hand this way, but I guess you know already the trouble we've got. So even if you weren't worth a shit I'd rather have you on the inside than outside somewhere raising a lot of notoriety."

  The guy seemed really hung up on "notoriety"—a holdover, I presumed, from the JQ brand of public relations.

  Knuckles rapped lightly on the paneled door behind me and a guy glided silently in, placed a manila file folder in Kalinsky's right hand, then glided back out without a glance at me.

  "Something here I want you to look over. Study it carefully and make sure you understand the full ramifications before deciding either way." He removed an officious-looking document on legal-size paper and slid it across the polished surface of the desk.

  It was an employment contract, several pages of it, with maybe five lines relating what I would get and the rest laboriously detailing what they would get.

  Right up front, for me, was two grand a day plus full living and business expenses with a thirty-day minimum, payable in advance, renewable in thirty-day chunks at the pleasure of the employer. A check for the first sixty thousand was attached, made out to me, awaiting only a signature to make it operative.

  One little scrawl on a piece of paper and I would be, right up front, worth almost as much as my Maserati.

  I guess my eyes reacted a bit at that figure because Kalinsky chuckled quietly and threw in a clincher.

  "Of course you will be immediately issued all the most powerful plastic to cover outside expenses, all billed directly to the corporation. You'll never even have to know how much you're taking us for, so the salary is free and clear."

  The salary, yeah, but how free and clear would I be with someone buying me in thirty-day chunks in advance?

  I read on.

  It was a body-and-soul contract. They would own me, twenty-four hours a day and by the month. I would sleep at their pleasure, eat and drink and make merry at their pleasure—and, I presumed, kill and maim and screw at their pleasure.

  Two basically operative phrases recurred over and over: "... at the pleasure of the employer ..." and "... without regard to employee's personal conscience."

  There was a covenant on loyalty, one on secrecy, several more to cover any paranoid threat to " ... the public image, safety, and general well being of the employer."

  They even got my body if I died on duty—and I right away transposed that into the situation with Bruno.

  At the bottom appeared what is sometimes referred to as a closed-loop option; they had a binder on my life, forever, renewable at their pleasure every thirty days but never at mine.

  I glanced at Kalinsky and said, "The way JQ did it, eh?"

  He said, "Always. You want to argue with the success of it?"

  I replied, "Depends on the point of view. Success for whom?"

  "It's a standard contract. We all work under the same requirements, all of us here. The only difference is the salary. And that is never negotiable. You take the whole deal or none of it."

  "You can't really hold people to this option. Not in this country. If a guy wants to leave ..."

  "The hell we can't. We can't physically restrain him, no—can't make him stay if he's dead set on leaving. Can sure as hell make him wish he had, though. He'll never work anywhere else, for anybody, at any price, not even for himself. So think about it before you sign. Think about this, too, though. We already consider you under our influence. Can't let you walk away from it now. So; whether you sign or not, we consider that we nevertheless own a moral option, and we will enforce it."

  I carefully lay the thing on the desk while quietly

  musing, "Some American Indian tribe had this peculiar custom ... you save a guy's life ... then he owns you forever."

  Kalinsky grinned amiably. "Exactly."

  I said, "Bullshit."

  "Better think about it."

  "How long?"

  "Midnight."

  "Tonight," I presumed.

  He was still grinning, enjoying it. "Midnight tonight. I guess your only decision, Ash, is are we friends or enemies. As friends, we can be very nice. As enemies ..."

  "Another story comes to mind," I said quietly. "One about this guy who sells his soul to the devil."

  "
Devil has all the options, Ash. I'm surprised you didn't know that. It's written in original sin."

  "JQ say that?"

  "He did."

  I said, and meant it, "Bullshit."

  Chapter Six: Conjunction

  I do not mind saying that I was more than a little disturbed by Kalinsky's attitude toward my life and liberty. The guy sat there with a grin on his face and as much as told me that he was taking me over, like it or not—as though I were an open-stock corporation and he was buying up all the shares.

  The money was great, sure, but only a pervert lives for money alone.

  I would sell the Maserati before I would sign a deal like that, yet he made it quite clear that I was his, signed or not.

  So I was perturbed, yes. I did not feel that he was bluffing. He meant it, every word and wink of it, and I knew that the threat was very real.

  But I could see no profit in a showdown at that moment and, besides, I wanted some time with Karen before the walls came tumbling down. She was the client, Kalinsky was not, and I was not satisfied in my own mind that she was, indeed, in good hands.

  So I cooled it and kept the banter going with Kalinsky until another guy came along to show me to a guest room upstairs. Seemed that a formal dinner party was brewing for the evening, some twenty to thirty additional guests, and I would be expected to "keep the kid under control" during that.

  These people apparently never heard of thinking small or of finding a situation beyond their ability to manage. Believe it, a guy was waiting for me inside my room, with a mouth full of pins and a tailor's tape over the shoulder, to fit me into a tux for the occasion.

  Also waiting there was an "ice-box snack," promised by Kalinsky to hold me until dinner, consisting of cold chicken, fruit, cookies, and an insulated decanter of coffee. The room boasted a fully stocked bar, complete with several different brands of imported beer and wine—had its own hi-fi, television, whirlpool bath, and outside balcony overlooking the pool. A guy could live there, sure, in total luxury, and I found myself wondering what kind of fool it took to turn down a life like this.