Deal with the Dead

by Les Standiford

  Some secret treasure trove, he thought. A key, one photo, and two news clippings: his father’s hidden legacy.

  He folded the clippings back into the packet, then stuck the papers into the pocket of his shirt. Deal glanced at the key again, hefted it in his hand. After a moment, he leaned back in his office chair and stared up at the creaking ceiling of the portable building, wondering just what he had done to earn this present place in the cosmos: His wife gone away from him to live, treading the narrow path between normalcy and god-knows-what each day, his earnest-to-a-fault daughter torn by confusion, a killer’s brother come to town intending to end his life, a shadowy CIA type apparently bent on blackmailing him, and now his suicide father sending messages from the grave.

  What to do about it all? he wondered, and could hear his father’s voice in answer: “You’ve got your health, boy. Soldier on.”

  Sure, Deal thought. What other alternative was there? He took another deep breath then, stood, and went toward the door to do just that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Too bad we didn’t bring a fishing pole,” Frank Wheatley called to his brother. He braced one hand on the console of the roaring Cigarette, the other locked on a windshield brace. His hair flew straight back in the slipstream like it had been frozen into place.

  Basil, who was at the wheel of the big boat, gave him a withering look. “Yeah, you could be trolling for something at forty knots.”

  Frank shrugged. “Sailfish can do that. They can hit fifty or sixty in short bursts.”

  Basil looked at him again. “Sailfish? How would you know?”

  “It was on TV this morning,” Frank said. “The Caribbean Sports Channel.”

  Basil turned back to the undifferentiated waterscape in front of him. Seas three to four feet, a slight tailwind, nothing but clear skies ahead. “You see any sailfish out there, Einstein?”

  “Not right now,” Frank said. “That’s why we need bait.”

  Basil didn’t bother to respond. Any kind of answer would only encourage his brother. As far as he knew, Frank had been fishing exactly once—if “fishing” was the right term. The two of them had gone out to Dishman’s Lake one afternoon, in search of a hundred-pound catfish said to lurk in the murky depths of the long-abandoned quarry waters. They’d climbed to the top of one of the surrounding cliffs, and Frank had lobbed a chunk of concrete block, with a burning stick of dynamite attached, down into the deep waters. The concussion had sent about a thousand goggle-eyed perch, carp, and suckers floating to the surface, along with a few catfish, but nothing remotely close to the hundred-pound range. Basil had thought the incident proved the story about the catfish was bullcrap. Frank had argued that they simply needed to come back with more dynamite.

  “Wouldn’t you like to have one of these babies back on Ramapo?”

  Basil glanced at Frank out of the corner of his eye. “Are you talking about this boat?”

  “I’m not talking about sailfish,” Frank said.

  Basil snorted. “George Washington could throw a dollar across Lake Ramapo. You couldn’t get this thing out of idle before you’d have to turn it right around.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “But women like a fast boat.”

  “What if they do?” Basil asked.

  “It doesn’t have to go fast, it just has to look fast. Something like this, you’d just park it at the dock, sit back, and wait for ’em to flock on board.”

  “There’s a plan, all right.” Basil’s voice was getting sore from all the shouting. He wondered why nothing ever seemed to stop his brother.

  “The guy back at the dock on Paradise told me they had twin ’Vette engines in this thing.”

  “Is that right?” Basil said.

  “You imagine how fast a Corvette could go if it had two engines in it?”

  “Pretty fast,” Basil said.

  There was silence for a few moments. Basil knew that his brother was staring at him, but he was not going to give him so much as a glance in return.

  “How come you’re trying to be agreeable?” Frank asked.

  Basil glanced up at the sky, so blue it hurt to look at it. “Because it’s a nice day,” he said. “Perfect day for a boat ride.”

  “A long boat ride,” Frank said. “I don’t see why we couldn’t just fly where we’re going.”

  “You know why,” Basil said.

  “We could have used different names. It’s not like we haven’t done that before.”

  Basil finally turned on him. “Are you getting tired of this line of work, little brother?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Because if you are, the old man’s still holding a place for you back at the scrap yard in Jersey.”

  Frank gave him a petulant look. “You know what I’m saying.”

  “And you know what I’m saying. The minute you start trying to cut corners, try to make it easier on yourself, that’s when everything goes to shit. The boss has a plan, we have to follow the plan.”

  “I was just thinking—”

  “Thinking?” Basil said. “Thinking?”

  “Oh, forget it,” Frank said. “If that’s the way you’re going to be.”

  “Somebody’s got to keep a hand on the controls.”

  “That’s what we count on you for,” Frank said.

  “See, the way you look at it, we’re going to waltz up there to Miami, everything’s going to go just the way we want it to, we’ll get in, see who we have to see, do what we have to do, in and out—no muss, no fuss.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Frank said defensively. “That’s the way the Zen do it.”

  “The Zen?”

  “They’re a kind of monk,” Frank said. “They want to shoot an arrow, they think about it hitting the bull’s-eye before they pull the string. They want to hit a tennis ball to a particular spot, they see a picture in their minds before they even swing. The point is, you want something to happen a certain way, then that’s the way you picture it beforehand.”

  “This is something else you saw on TV? Monks playing tennis?”

  “Guys who’d studied with the monks. A couple weeks ago. One of those British channels.”

  Basil stared at his brother. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” he said finally.

  “You’re just jealous,” Frank said, “because I keep an open mind. I’m willing to grow. You, on the other hand, you think you already know everything. That makes you an old man, Basil. Old before your time.”

  Basil nodded. He thought about just reaching out, giving Frank a three-inch punch to the breastbone, send him right over the rail, let him swim with the sailfish. But exasperating as he could be, Frank was his baby brother. He might have been blessed with the body and the looks of a movie hunk, but somebody had wrapped up the package before all the parts had been installed. Hardly Frank’s fault.

  “You’re right, little brother,” he said. “You are the creative side of this team.”

  Frank stared back at him, suspicious, but Basil knew the flattery had already begun to do its work. “But these Zen you were talking about,” he continued, “they’re Chinamen of a sort, aren’t they?”

  Frank nodded. “I think so.”

  “Well, that’s something else about Miami.”

  “What is?”

  “There’s no Chinese there,” Basil said. “Lots of just about everything else, but very few Chinese.”

  “So?”

  “So, you go into a new place, you want to be tuned into the operative vibrations, if you know what I mean. You seen what happens when one of those karate guys puts a bunch of moves on Clint Eastwood, right?”

  “He pulls out his Colt and shoots them in the nuts.”

  “Bingo, little brother,” Basil said. “So we want to end up like Clint, not like the guy with the hole in his balls.”

  “So over the side with the Zen,” Frank said. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me.�
��

  “All I’m saying is, stick with the plan.”

  “Get in and get out quick, but be ready, just in case.”

  “That’s it,” Basil said.

  “No going through customs, coming in or going out.”

  “Carry whatever you damn well please along with you.”

  “Like guns and stuff.”

  Basil smiled. “And stuff.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “We’re on the same page now,” Basil said, pointing at the horizon where tiny nubbins that were really seaside skyscrapers had come into view. “Miami, here we come,” he said. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw his little brother draw back the string of an imaginary bow and let an arrow fly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’d need a court order, identifying yourself as the executor of the estate,” the young woman behind the marble-topped desk was saying. “Along with a death certificate, of course.”

  Deal stared across the cool stone surface that separated the two of them. “Carla Acevedo,” her nameplate read. She was clad in a conservatively cut black suit that failed to hide the lush figure beneath. She wore a bright red shade of lipstick that contrasted with her sleek dark hair and matched her polished nails. He suspected that in some other context, and shorn of the need to conduct a megabank’s business, she might seem attractive. Assuming she owned a human personality, that is.

  “I don’t know what your assistant told you,” Deal said, glancing toward the outer office where Russell Straight sat in a chair that looked too small to contain him, leafing through a magazine under the eye of the equally no-nonsense receptionist. Deal had suggested to the man that he make his own way along to the Terrell job site, explain to Gonzalez that he’d been hired on, but Russell had demurred, citing Gonzalez’s dubious attitude. In the end, Deal had given up and brought Straight along to the bank. It was only a few minutes out of the way, after all.

  “I’m not interested in accessing anything at the moment,” he said to Carla Acevedo. “I’d just like to know if my father kept another safety deposit box here.”

  The look she gave him wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t give out that information. Not without authorization. If it were your privacy involved, I’m sure you’d want us to do the same.”

  “If I were dead,” Deal said, “I don’t know that I’d care a whole hell of a lot.”

  Carla Acevedo stared back at him. “Nonetheless…” she said, in her careful, unaccented speech.

  Deal couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the word spoken aloud. How were you supposed to argue with nonetheless?

  He put the key down on the marble desk top. It made a little clinking sound in the plush quietness that surrounded them.

  “Maybe you could just tell me if this looks like one of your keys. I mean, there wouldn’t be much point in me coming back here with a bunch of paperwork if this is the wrong bank.”

  The woman glanced down at the key, then back at Deal. “Our policy—” she began, but Deal cut her off.

  “I could stand over there by the entrance to the vault,” Deal said, pointing outside. “Ask everybody who goes by, ‘Does this look like yours?’ We’re not talking state secrets, for God’s sakes.”

  The woman gave him a speculative look. Maybe she’d already pressed the security button under her desk, he thought. Get this lunatic out of here. He mustered a good-natured smile to show that he was harmless. “I’m just trying to save us all some time,” he said.

  After a moment, she dropped her glance to the key, as if she were noticing it for the first time. “How old is that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Deal said. “My father’s been dead for almost ten years.”

  She glanced up at him. “The bank was entirely remodeled after the consolidation,” she said at last. “The vault as well, the boxes, all the keys changed out. That was before my time, I’m afraid…”

  “Isn’t there anybody around who would remember?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then glanced at her watch. Maybe she had a lunch date, he thought. If that was the case, he knew he’d be out of luck. Finally, she sighed and picked up the key. “Do you mind if I take this?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Please.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she said. She stood and came around her desk, nylons whisking, a discreet floral scent washing over him in her wake. She was through the swinging glass door, into the outer office, and past Russell in a few long strides.

  Russell also turned to watch her go, Deal noted. When he turned back, his gaze met Deal’s through the glass. Deal smiled but Russell went back to his magazine without an acknowledgment. At least we know you’re human, Deal thought, settling back in his chair.

  He sat for a few moments, contemplating the list of all the things he had to do yet in this day, things he’d put off in order to butt heads with officers of banks. He’d managed to reach six on his list, knowing he’d never get half that much accomplished, and how about placing that ad for a secretary, when he heard the suck of air at the swinging door again. In the next moment, Carla Acevedo was back, trailed by a stoop-shouldered man who looked like he’d passed retirement age long before. “This is Mr. Nieman,” she said. “He’s been with the bank for a while.”

  And then some, Deal thought.

  “I owned too much stock in Gables Federal for them to show me the gate,” Nieman said. “Otherwise I’d be in mothballs.”

  “He likes to joke,” Carla Acevedo said, her smile strained.

  “Nothing funny about it,” Nieman said, though he didn’t seem particularly upset. Deal had also noticed Nieman was holding the key in his hand.

  “My name’s John Deal,” he began, starting out of his seat.

  Nieman waved him back down. “I know who you are,” he said. “Your father was a customer from the days Hector was a pup. I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  “Thanks,” Deal said. “It’s been a while, in fact.”

  “Has it?” Nieman said. “Time tends to get away from you when you’re older.” He blinked pale blue eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses as Carla Acevedo shifted impatiently beside him, from one foot to the other. Nieman gave her a look then turned back to Deal, unhurried.

  “Your father used to bring you in here in short pants,” Nieman said. “He was a fine man. He’s greatly missed.”

  Deal nodded. “I appreciate it, Mr. Nieman.”

  Nieman seemed lost in thought for a moment. Carla Acevedo had her lovely lips pressed tightly together. Finally, the old man seemed to remember the key he held in his hand. He glanced down at it, then back up at Deal.

  “The young lady here says you wanted to know if this key belonged to one of our boxes.”

  “That’s right,” Deal said.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Nieman said. “Our original keys were brass. We never used silver. Ever. For another thing, we kept the numbers consistent, even after the remodeling.” He paused after that word, as if it had caused something to stick in his throat.

  “Three-twelve was never registered to your father,” he continued. “It belongs to the widow of a dairy farmer from Miami Lakes. She’s had it for fifty years—”

  “Mr. Nieman—” Carla Acevedo tried to interrupt.

  “The old biddy used to call me down every time she wanted to open ‘her war chest.’ I won’t go into the reasons for that.”

  “We’re really not authorized—”

  “Never mind,” Nieman said, waving her concern away. “We’re not naming names. And Mr. Deal isn’t going to tell anyone anyway, are you?” Neiman glanced at him mildly.

  Deal shook his head, trying to keep a straight face. “Well,” Deal said. “I appreciate all your trouble…”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Got me away from wool-gathering. That’s about all I do around here anymore.”

  Carla
Acevedo mustered a smile. “Actually, Mr. Nieman’s vice president in charge of special projects for the bank.”

  “Oh, yes,” Nieman said. “I dream special projects up, and if they cost anything, the fellows at headquarters shoot them down.” He dug into his pocket for a card and handed it over to Deal. “Once upon a time, we sponsored the Orange Bowl parade, all by ourselves. Give me a call if you come up a spare million or two to underwrite something charitable, Mr. Deal.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” Deal said, grinning now.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Nieman said, handing over the key as well.

  “I’ll keep checking around,” Deal said, slipping the key back into his pocket, visions creeping into his head of himself trooping through an endless series of banks, an endless succession of Carla Acevedos to encounter. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nieman,” Deal said. He extended his hand to Nieman’s. The old man’s palm was parchment-skinned and nearly fleshless, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Try a couple of the foreign banks down Brickell,” Nieman said. “The Brits favor silver in everything.”

  “Do they?” Deal was glancing at his watch, wondering if he’d be able to make it to the job site before everyone broke for lunch.

  “I started my career in banking with a branch of the Bank of London,” Nieman said. “With our own private dining facility. Sterling on the tables there, of course, sterling safe box keys, sterling everywhere you looked.”

  Deal didn’t have to ask what the man thought of the ultramodern decor all about them. “I appreciate your words about my father.”

  “I meant every one of them,” Nieman said. He held up his wavering hand in farewell. Deal gave Carla Acevedo a nod and then went out to collect Russell Straight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I got the distinct feeling this Sams is a spook, all right,” Vernon Driscoll was saying over the thwacks of hammering coming from inside the Terrell guest house.