by Davis Bunn
“I guess you could call him a researcher,” Connor said.
“Slippery word, researcher,” Sol observed.
“This is definitely one slippery guy,” Connor agreed.
“I’m assuming this means whatever he’s uncovered will not be admissible in a court of law.”
“You’d be better off presenting the judge with week-old squid,” Porter agreed.
Sol said to the chief, “And yet you’re here.”
“You betcha,” Porter said. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Rick said, “He’s actually responsible for getting your dance partner to show up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Phil Hammond,” Porter said. “He’s the reason we’re talking.”
“What does that snake have to do with anything?”
“Hammond is minority owner of Castaways,” Connor said. “Recently he tried to buy it outright. Sylvie refused. I had this idea, maybe Hammond was somehow connected to everything that’s been going on. So I hired this . . .”
“Researcher,” Rick chimed in.
“The man has uncovered some serious dirt,” Porter said.
When Connor finished laying it out, Sol Feinnes blinked slowly. Then he declared, “This isn’t dirt. This is solid gold.”
“Told you,” Marcela said.
“It’s also radioactive,” Sol continued. “I couldn’t bring this into a courtroom if I was wearing a lead-lined suit.”
“But you can use it as a lever,” Porter said.
“Oh, my yes.” Sol revealed a truly wicked grin. “You say Hammond is coming?”
“He’s due any minute,” Porter confirmed.
“Then we better plan fast.” Sol rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be fun.”
CHAPTER 56
Phil Hammond was born to play the prince. He had refined an ability to obtain whatever he wanted without raising his voice. It was a role he had perfected over many episodes, until it became his signature performance. He proceeded down the town hall’s back corridor trailed by two nervous young assistants and Harold Rhemus, Phil’s bespectacled attorney. Hammond entered the mayor’s office with a regal calm. He surveyed the six who waited his arrival with utter disdain. “Could someone please tell me what could not wait until normal business hours? I’m due to speak at an event in Santa Cruz.”
Sol was seated in the mayor’s chair. Porter stood directly behind him. The other four observers had chairs drawn from the conference room next door. Connor and Rick sat on one side of Sol, Estelle and Marcela were on the other. They faced a lone empty chair on the desk’s other side. “Mr. Hammond, I’m Sol Feinnes.”
Hammond was dressed in a tailored jacket with a herringbone weave. Striped dress shirt with white collar and cuffs. Massive gold watch. Flash tie. Italian loafers so soft they could probably be rolled up like socks. Phil demanded, “And precisely why is that important to me?”
Hammond’s pin-striped attorney said, “Sol is an attorney based in San Luis Obispo.”
Hammond flicked an imaginary bit of lint off his sleeve. “Same question.”
Sol asked, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Hammond?”
“Thank you, but I won’t be staying that long.”
Sol said, “Yours is certainly a familiar name to me, sir. I’ve been at the receiving end of several messes that you initiated.”
“Shame you didn’t learn to steer clear,” Hammond said.
Sol said, “We have a problem and we were hoping you might be able to advise.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Sol Feinnes, sir.”
“I sell advice, Feinnes. I give nothing away.” He turned away. “I think that’s more than enough wasted minutes.”
“That’s actually why I’ve been asked to speak for these interested parties,” Sol said. “We are absolutely willing to pay you the going rate.”
That stopped Hammond. “Exactly what rate did you have in mind?”
Porter said, “You get to stay out of jail. Now sit down.”
* * *
Porter Wright’s words were enough to keep Phil Hammond in the room, but he stood behind the chair, arms crossed, fuming.
Sol Feinnes gave no sign he noticed Phil’s ire. “We are locked on the horns of a dilemma. You see, our research has turned up the most remarkable set of circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree, Porter?”
“Remarkable,” Porter agreed. “That’s the word.”
“The closest casino to Miramar happens to be in Chumash tribal territory. This particular casino, as it happens, has a silent partner. One PH Enterprises, based in Nassau. It’s been hard for us to determine who actually owns the company, since that information is carefully guarded. But even the Bahamians can be forced to divulge identities if our federal authorities present evidence of potential illegality—”
Hammond turned around and said to his two young aides, “Out. Now.”
When the door clicked shut, Sol continued, “Our research has turned up the most remarkable set of gambling debts.”
“Remarkable,” Marcela agreed. “I love that word.”
“We have obtained documentation regarding the casino’s outstanding loans to three individuals. A certain judge in the San Luis Obispo regional court. A county prosecutor. And a detective assigned to the sheriff’s—”
Harold Rhemus said, “These accusations would never stand up in a court of law.”
Estelle said, “Sort of like the accusations you’ve leveled against my daughter.”
“My client has no direct involvement—”
“Stow it,” Connor said.
Sol said, “We have dates. We have amounts. We have interest accruing at the astonishing rate of twenty-six percent per annum.”
“Astonishing,” Marcela said.
“Remarkable,” Porter said.
Harold Rhemus said, “No way could this so-called evidence lead to a valid prosecution. You’d be laughed out of court.”
“Who said anything about going to court?” Sol held to an almost convivial air. “We’re far beyond such an unseemly and time-consuming action. What we intend to do is take what we know to the FBI and the IRS.”
“Tomorrow,” Porter said.
Hammond dropped heavily into the chair.
“You see, Phil, may I call you Phil? Our Chief Wright, along with the help of several associates, has pieced together a very interesting concept.... Explain it to us, Chief, why don’t you.”
Porter said, “You arranged the coke, the drop, the whole shooting match.”
“No attorney on earth could have put it more succinctly,” Sol said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“We know you’re behind the Santa Maria development. We know you’ve hidden your involvement behind the same company that owns the Chumash casino,” Porter said, “You needed a front for your projects. A local who would put the town at ease. You needed Sylvie. But she wouldn’t play your game, so you decided to buy her out.”
Estelle said, “You were going to play carrot and stick with my daughter. Pay her a salary, give her a title, let her keep her restaurant as your little sideline. But only if she did what you said. First you had to get her where you wanted.”
Porter said, “It’s bothered me since the beginning, how we weren’t able to identify even one other company or individual who was receiving drugs by sea. I mean, what’s the point of going to all that trouble for just eleven keys? Then it hit me.”
Estelle said, “You ran a scam on my daughter. You filth.”
“Mere suppositions,” the attorney scoffed.
“Oh, it’s far more than that,” Sol corrected. “Our evidence has uncovered the employment records showing that Carlos, the individual who planted the keys and has subsequently vanished, formerly worked in the casino’s security detail.”
Estelle said, “You’re going down.”
“Old Phil,” Marcela said, “you’ve stiffed your last waiter at Castaways.”
Sol said
, “I’m sure the state investigators would be fascinated with the information regarding the gambling debts of your three friends.”
Marcela said, “The best friends money can buy. Right, Phil?”
“No doubt your three friends will be convinced to turn state’s evidence against you.” Sol offered a cat’s smile, all teeth and malice. “Especially when the authorities present them with the alternative of watching their careers ground down to fragments that couldn’t be found with an electron microscope.”
Phil’s attorney clearly knew it was time to ask, “What do you want?”
“We have a few things in mind.” Sol glanced over. “Estelle, would you care to lead off?”
CHAPTER 57
Sylvie’s Monday crawled by.
There was no longer any pretense of normalcy. Rick or Marcela or Bruno or Carl usually slipped in the back door at some point, ensuring no urgent duty had arisen to cloud their day off. But today Sylvie repeatedly checked downstairs, and no one came.
By four that afternoon, Sylvie had run out of excuses to hide away. She went downstairs and made herself a cappuccino on the machine in the waiters’ station. She drank it at the bar, staring at the silent piano in the abalone-shaped alcove. The restaurant was filled with an expectant air, like the energy in a silent room before a big party. Sylvie could almost hear the laughter.
Around five, people started streaming past the windows fronting the street. Sylvie checked her reflection in the washroom mirror; then she let herself out of the restaurant. She was mildly disappointed that neither Rick nor Marcela had thought to come walk with her. After all, it was her party, at least in some respects.
But within ten paces of her front door, Sylvie found herself surrounded by smiling faces and laughter and easy chatter. She could not have named most of those who walked alongside her. Nor did it matter. Not really.
* * *
Miramar’s town hall stood six blocks farther inland from Castaways. The old-town area, with its raised sidewalks and mock gaslights, gave way to a series of modest buildings that housed the city’s offices and one of two supermarkets. The town hall was a fifties-era gray clapboard structure with a broad front veranda of seasoned redwood. The floors and walls and high ceiling of the vast main room formed an echo chamber, such that the crowd’s growing din greeted Sylvie as she entered.
That evening, the meeting hall had been cleverly divided into two sections, both of which were packed with people and items waiting to be auctioned. Three tables staffed with volunteers fanned out by the entrance, where each newcomer was handed a number printed on a three-by-five card in exchange for credit card details. It was done in such a friendly and smooth fashion that even the lookie-loos became potential bidders long before they entered the real arena.
Most of the hot-ticket items were placed in the front section, well removed from the exit. The hall’s two portions were split by a long cash bar, staffed by a dozen cheerful volunteers and offering a vast selection of donated finger food.
Ringing the walls were balloons and banners urging the growing crowd to help one of their own.
People kept rushing over, laughing and excited in their welcome. They chattered about the prizes, the night, the awful trial. Actually, Sylvie heard very little of what they were saying. Their voices and their embraces formed one great wave of affection that kept surging over her.
When Marcela appeared, she pretended not to notice Sylvie’s misty-eyed condition. “Glad you could make it on your own steam. I was about to come up with the six-wheeler and drag you down.”
“You’re saying I didn’t have a choice in the matter?”
“Of course you did. Whether you came on your own steam or mine.” Marcela beamed. “You need a drink before we mingle?”
But at that moment, the lights dimmed and Porter Wright stepped to the microphone at the center of the stage. He nervously cleared his throat, then said, “I’ve been assigned duty tonight, don’t ask me why.”
The crowd gave him a welcoming cheer. As it subsided, he went on, “We’re here to help one of our own. Where’s Sylvie? I saw her come in. . . .”
A voice called, “She’s back here!”
“Glad you could join us. Folks, give Sylvie a big hand, let her know how much we care for the lady of the hour.” He paused for a renewed cheer. “Most of the time when rotten things happen to people for all the wrong reasons, there’s not much we can do but stand with them through the dark hour. But in this case, we can really make a difference. So dig deep and buy what you don’t need.”
Porter was almost off the stage, when his wife called up, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Shamefaced, he stepped back to the mike and said, “I told Carol they should’ve gotten somebody up here who knew what he was doing.”
“You’re doing just fine, honey,” Carol said. “Now give them the good news.”
“Right. Unless you’ve been asleep for the past week, you know Connor Larkin. . . .”
Sylvie felt her heart take wings as the crowd applauded. The upsurge of emotions threatened her ability to maintain a calm façade.
“Connor Larkin is fresh from being signed on to play the bad guy in the new James Bond picture. . . .” Porter had to stop a second time.
As he waited, Connor stepped onto the stage. This time, Sylvie felt the applause squeeze her heart with a fierce yearning. She had not expected to feel such a clamor of conflicting emotions. She was the only person in the hall not cheering. Somebody patted her shoulder. Sylvie knew eyes were on her. However, she could not smile, or move, or lift her hands and even pretend to join in.
Porter said, “Connor has agreed to give a private concert for the highest bidder, and here’s a sample of what the winner will enjoy.”
Sylvie stayed where she was, silent and immobile, desperate to hear him sing one more time.
The lights dimmed a trace more, the audience went still as a sleeping infant, and Connor sang:
Something in the way she knows,
And all I have to do is think of her.
Sylvie knew without a doubt that Connor was singing to her. His music instantly pulled her back to a night of fairyland bliss, when strong arms held her and she had believed in love again....
* * *
Connor released a sigh as strong as winter’s tempest as Sylvie left the hall. He had handled some tough roles in his acting career, but nothing so difficult as completing his song and smiling his thanks to an audience he could no longer actually see.
Determined to launch the auction on a high note, he shut his eyes to the burn of lost hope and began the final song. He told himself that he had done all he possibly could, and now it was up to Sylvie. All of that helped, at least a little.
Even so, as he rose and accepted their raucous applause, Connor reflected that now he had a gut-level understanding to draw from, when he was next called upon to die beneath the lights.
CHAPTER 58
As far as Sylvie was concerned, the week that followed was one long series of unexpected bright spots.
Early Tuesday morning, she asked Estelle to meet her in the café by the guesthouse. As soon as they were seated, Sylvie declared once more, “I don’t want you to go.”
“And I don’t want to leave. My darling daughter . . .” Estelle lifted three fingers to her trembling lips. She took a long breath, clenched her hands together on the table, and did her best to smile. “There. I said it.”
Sylvie asked, “How did it feel?”
“Awesome.” Estelle must have seen the conflict in Sylvie’s features, for she did not ask how Sylvie felt hearing it. “May I come by the restaurant?”
“Can you . . . Of course.”
“There is no ‘of course’ to anything we’re doing here.” She smiled then, the joy almost palpable. “You must tell me if I become a nuisance. Otherwise, I might stop by each evening for a glass.”
“And a meal.”
“I will do no such thing. I will merely sit at t
he bar and I will watch you.” The lips trembled through the smile. “And I will be the happiest and proudest mother on the planet.”
* * *
On Tuesday afternoon, Sylvie heard from the Castaways linen supplier that Phil Hammond had bought a teacup at the silent auction.
For thirty thousand dollars.
When the delivery van pulled away, and everyone in the kitchen refused to meet her eye, Sylvie demanded, “Did anybody know about this?”
“I might’ve heard something,” Bruno replied. “I bought a vintage T-shirt.”
“Rick?”
“I tried to buy half a dozen things,” he replied. “But I got outbid every time.”
When she turned to Marcela, her friend snapped, “I didn’t get a chance to bid, since I spent all night trying to find you. Where did you go, by the way?”
Sylvie had no choice but to reply, “I need to check on tonight’s bookings.”
“You do that,” Marcela huffed. As Sylvie left the kitchen, Marcela said, “She moves almost as fast as my husband did when I asked him to bid on Connor’s concert.”
It was only later, when the town’s deputy mayor and his wife confirmed that Phil’s check for thirty grand had already cleared, that Sylvie realized Marcela had succeeded magnificently in changing the subject.
On Wednesday morning, Sol Feinnes woke her at half past six. “Sorry to call so early. But I needed to catch you before you left for San Luis Obispo. The trial has been postponed.”
Sylvie had no idea how she felt about a delay. “What does that mean?”
“I try not to deal in rumors. We should know something definite before very long. Two days at the most. You sleeping all right?”
“Surprisingly well, considering.”
“Glad to hear it. Hang in there, friend. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I know anything for certain.”
Most of the other revelations seemed timed to opening hour, when they had the most impact. At least that’s what Sylvie told Estelle when she settled at the Castaways bar that evening. Sylvie related how, twenty minutes before she unlocked the front door, Rick announced that an anonymous bidder had paid seventy thousand dollars for Connor’s private concert.