by John Moralee
“You think like a detective.”
You don’t, I thought.
Boone lifted his coffee to his mouth and tasted it. “Mmm. What make is it?”
“Nescafe, I think.”
“It’s strong.”
“I like it strong.”
“So does my wife,” Boone said. “She loves a strong, strong coffee. But I guess you know that, huh? I feel like I’ve known you for years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, we have so much in common. Like my wife. You two used to be a major item, she says. Not in those words, but I saw how you looked at her when you were with her at the fair. I can read between the lines. You and her dated all through high school. Of course, Abby’s matured since then. And so have you. You could go back to LA any day now. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Sheriff, if you think I’m interested in your wife, you’re mistaken.”
“As long as we understand each other.” His grin was so wide a freight-train could have driven through it sideways. “No hard feelings, right?
“Right.”
“I bet in Hollywood you had a million chicks. It’s like a harem, I reckon. Me, I’d never leave a town like that if I had your good looks. What with all the queers living there, you must’ve had the chicks coming onto you something desperate. Am I right?"
“Whatever.”
“Silicone heaven. If I didn’t have a girl like Abby, I’d be just like you. Funny that, right?”
I shrugged non-committally. I wanted him OUT of the house.
His grin widened even more. “Oh. I haven’t offended you, have I? Said something politically incorrect? I sure didn’t want to make you feel unwelcome.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Well, thanks for this –” (He shook the sandwich bag.) “- and the coffee, but I can’t stay around talking. Got duties to perform. See you again sometime, huh?”
“Sometime,” I said.
Boone clicked his finger at me as if firing a gun; then he turned and walked out.
Chapter 13
Surveillance was boring. I waited in my car down the street from Charles Van Morgan’s mansion for a couple of hours before anything happened. The first activity of the day was when the chauffeur, a Cary Grant lookalike, opened the garage. Inside, I could see two identical white limousines and a red Porsche. He removed a limousine and parked it on the drive next to the main entrance. Doric pillars supported the veranda where a half-dressed man appeared and looked down, saying something to the chauffeur. The man was Charles Van Morgan. He went back inside and ten minutes later came out of the entrance fully dressed in white slacks and loafers and a blue jacket with gold buttons. The chauffeur rushed to open the rear door. Van Morgan climbed inside, at the same time answering a call on his cellular. The limo moved off like a silent and deadly shark.
I followed (at a discreet distance, unlike the pickup that had tailed me). It soon became obvious where he was going dressed like an admiral – the Cape Mistral Yacht Club. Exclusive and snobby, the yacht club only allowed new members if you got the support of nine out of ten members in a secret ballot. It was said to contain the finest restaurant in town. But, I suspected, more deals were cooked inside than hot dinners. Van Morgan went up the boardwalk to the entrance, shaking the hand of the doorman as though they were old friends. Meanwhile, his chauffeur parked in the private lot at the end of the marina. Van Morgan could not be seen through the dark windows.
I wondered if the doorman would let me in.
After all, I was a celebrity.
Maybe he’d recognise me.
Treat me like an honoured guest.
I smartened myself up, then walked over as though I had every right in the world to go in.
“Sir? Can I see your membership card?”
He didn’t know me.
“I’m a little late,” I said, puffing. “I’m supposed to meet Mr Jackson here at eleven. I’m his guest.”
There had to be one Jackson, at least.
The doorman checked his books. “Mr Jackson isn’t here, sir.”
“He isn’t? Good, good. Means I’m still early. You don’t mind if I wait inside? It’s a scorching day …”
“The club policy is –”
“There to be a guideline, not a law book. I’d look a fool if I were standing in the parking lot when he arrives. He’d probably wonder what you were doing, keeping me waiting.”
He was not buying it. I took out my wallet and removed a ten. He coughed. I made it twenty.
“You can wait inside, sir. But you’ll need a jacket; the dress code can’t be ignored.” He removed one from a rack. I put it on. Surprisingly, it fitted well. I looked like an idiot, however. The doorman left me to go into the club’s lounge area. It was quiet and cool. The walls were adorned with oil paintings of stormy seas and ancient ships being smashed into pulp. Just the sort of thing you want on the walls of a yacht club. Some large ceiling fans stirred the air. The blades looked like oars. They were oars. The waiter was eyeing me, so I ordered a Pepsi and he brought it to my table where I could hear Van Morgan in conversation with a dark-haired man aged roughly forty, if the skin on his forehead had not been lifted. They were discussing the Dow-Jones and the state of the world markets. Japanese longs were in deep, deep trouble, apparently. It concerned them. It bored me. In a movie they would have been talking about committing a crime, and I would be recording it for the DA. But if Van Morgan was a criminal, he wasn’t admitting it today.
Yawning, I checked out who else was in the club: some local businessmen, some yacht enthusiasts, a few beautiful wives and mistresses. I also saw Abby’s father, Richard Shannow. He was a banker. Despite that, I liked him. He had treated me with respect when I’d been going out with Abby. He’d loaned my father money for improvements to the bar when everyone else turned him down. I wondered what he thought about Abby marrying the sheriff. He spotted me and moved across the room, pausing only to stub out his cigarette in an ashtray. Quickly, before he could reach my position, I hurried to him, pumping his hand, directing him away from Van Morgan. “Mr Shannow! You’re looking good. How are you?”
“Fine, Michael. Could do with trimming the old waist, but other than that, fine.” He had aged well, I saw. His hair was streaked with grey, but the grey looked good on him. “Seeing you in here is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Thank you, Mr Shannow. How is Mrs Shannow?”
“Karen died last year,” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t know.” I didn’t know what to say. Once again, my foot slipped into my mouth. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Don’t worry yourself. She’d been sick for a long time with cancer. In some ways it was a mercy when she passed on. She was in so much pain, you see. The morphine worked, but for shorter and shorter times. Near the end, I cared for her at home where she wanted to die. One morning, she just didn’t wake up. Died peacefully in her sleep. I know this sounds cold, but I sort of felt relieved.”
“I saw Abby the other day. She didn’t mention it.”
“Abby was more upset than I was. I’d known Karen would die eventually, but Abby didn’t want to believe it. She always was sensitive about mortality and very close to her mother. I remember when Abby was six she cried for a week when her cat died. I think I’ve got over it now as well as you can. I guess you know how that is, you know, losing your mother and brother.”
“It takes time,” I said. I steered him to the bar, where I bought him a vodka collins, which I knew was his favourite drink. I had a memory for drinks, the curse of being an alcoholic. “Mr Shannow, it’s good to talk to you.”
“Look, we’re both adults now – you don’t have to call me Mr Shannow. I’m Richard. Dick to my friends.” He sipped at the drink, nodding with satisfaction. “Say, Michael, I didn’t know you were a member?”
“I’m not.”
“So who are you with?”
I thought of saying Mr Jackson, but I didn’t like lying to Abby’s father.
“The truth is I sneaked in.”
He laughed. “May I ask why?”
“You may ask.”
“But you’re not saying?”
“I’m here on business, of a sort.”
“You feel out of place?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” He spoke in a whisper. “I only come here because my clients like it. All this ‘aye-aye, captain’ stuff makes me feel like a jerk. They buy $500,000 yachts like some people buy shirts. They need someone sensible to put the rest in proper investments.”
“Can I ask you some questions, Dick?” It felt weird saying his first name.
“I’m free until noon,” he said. “Ask away.”
“Do you know Charles Van Morgan?”
“He’s over there talking to Frank Reinberg.”
“I know. What’s your impression?”
“He’s rich, he’s clever, he’s an egomaniac. He owns the two-hundred footer right there, the one with the red and white stripes. He takes it out some nights twenty miles off the coast and hosts these notorious parties.”
“Notorious why?”
“Rumour is he hires hookers for his friends. And I heard one time a girl overdosed while on board. Cocaine, I think.”
“What happened to her?”
“She recovered, I think. When the police questioned him, he claimed he didn’t know she had taken drugs aboard. Nothing could be proved. It didn’t even reach the papers because he’s famous for suing them.”
“Do you know her name?”
“I don’t. Sorry.” He looked at me like a mentor would when his star pupil was about to make a mistake. “You’re not thinking of going into business with him, are you?”
“I was wondering if he’s interested in capital investments. I have some spare cash, you see.” My first ever lie to Richard Shannow came smoothly.
“Put it in the bank, Michael. Don’t take the risk.”
“Is that the banker or the friend speaking?”
“Both. He’s a lowlife. Steer clear of him. Just putting aside the fact that I don’t like him on a personal level, he has other problems. There’s a lawsuit imminent. It could cost him a fortune if he loses, that’s what I heard on the grapevine. I hope he loses.” He narrowed his eyes. “But I don’t think you’re here for that, are you? Is this something to do with your friend Scott Taylor?”
I think Richard Shannow was born with an in-built lie detector.
“Scott was the lawyer in that very case,” I said.
“Now that’s something I didn’t know. Whoa. I can see where you’re going now. You think Van Morgan killed him?”
“I think so. But I have no proof.”
“You know a funny thing? I spoke with Scott last week.”
I recalled seeing his name in Scott’s appointments book. “What was it about?”
“He asked about Heaven and Earth Enterprises.”
My heart thudded. “What did he ask?”
“Well, my bank loaned them some capital right at the beginning of Van Morgan’s ventures. That was before I knew what Van Morgan was like. Scott wanted to know how much and the conditions of the loan. It was boring stuff, but he seemed fascinated. I got the impression he was looking for something he could use in court.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. “I wish I knew. He didn’t say. Maybe it was something to do with that case you mentioned?”
“Or maybe Van Morgan himself,” I said, more to myself than Richard Shannow.
“Why don’t you ask him? See his reaction?”
It was an idea I’d been considering. “Can you introduce me to him casually?”
“Sure.”
“Say I’m interested in venture capitalism, thinking of investing.”
“I can do that.”
He picked up his vodka collins and we sauntered towards Van Morgan’s table. Richard accidentally bumped into Frank Reinberg. “Oh, sorry about that, Frank. Wasn’t looking. Frank, Charlie, have you met my friend Michael Quinn?”
“No,” they said.
They shook my hand. Van Morgan’s was dry and cold. “I think I know you.”
I thought of the pickup truck and the two rednecks. Had they traced my car? “You do?”
“You’ve been in films.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m an actor.”
“And you did that speech at the fair.”
“You were there?”
“I didn’t catch it, but I heard about it. I wrote the high school a cheque for ten grand. I like to do my civic duty.” That could have sounded like a humble admission coming from someone else. From Van Morgan it sounded like a boast. He was one of those people who give to charity only if there is a reporter nearby to take some publicity shots.
“Charlie, Frank,” Richard Shannow said, “you might be interested to know Michael has some money he wants to invest.”
“Yeah?” Van Morgan said.
I shrugged.
“How much?” Frank said.
I plucked out a figure. “Something in six, seven figures.” All zeroes, I thought. “I’m tired of the movie business, figure I’d try the other kind.”
“Sit down fellas,” Van Morgan said.
Richard pretended to see someone coming in. “Can I leave you three to talk? I have a client to see.”
Van Morgan smiled. “No problems, Dick.”
I took a seat. Richard excused himself, saying to me that he would enjoy a game of squash at the local gym sometime. He didn’t offer to play with the other men.
“You don’t have a drink,” Van Morgan said. He waved at the waiter. “My friend will have a whisky.”
“I don’t drink,” I said. He looked at me oddly. “I have an ulcer.”
Van Morgan ordered one for himself. “So, you’re into investing? It’s a good time for the domestic market, Michael. Real-estate is red hot right now. You never can own too much land, I say. No matter what goes wrong with the economy, people always need land. Even if it’s just for burying the dead. Isn’t that right, Frank?”
“It is, it is.”
“Frank bought a plot of land in LA for a hundred grand that he later sold to the Disney Corporation for how much?”
“Twenty-two million,” Frank Reinberg said. “They needed it to expand their theme park.”
I whistled.
“Tell Michael how much your investors made on that deal, Frank.”
“Two thousand per cent profit.”
“Not bad,” I said, calmly. “I’m interested in your development of Emerald Point. That is, if there’s still time to invest.”
“You are very late,” Van Morgan said. “Too late to put capital in, anyway. However, maybe some accommodation could be arranged ...”
He looked at Frank Reinberg. Reinberg nodded.
“Like what?”
“You could promote the hotel for me. You’re a celebrity actually from Cape Mistral - that means something. Maybe you could do advertising. Interested?”
“Yes. Very. But I heard something troubling about the deal.”
“Oh?”
“It might not go ahead.”
“It will.”
“I thought there was some legal difficulty? Some doctor?”
Van Morgan snorted. “That’s been blown out of all proportion. Some female biologist reckons there’s a species of snail or something needs protecting from the big, bad wolf of commercialism. It’s bull. I have a team of lawyers working on it. They say she has no chance of winning. She’s a flake. A tree hugger.”
So why are you having her watched? I thought. “You’re saying there’s nothing to it then?”
“I’ll tell you something, Michael. There’s always some shakedown artist out there who objects to something. I once had this guy sue me because he objected to the colour of the bricks in the patio of the condominium I’d built – and he was just the neighbour. Can you believe it? Another time, a labourer hurt his back showing off to some pretty girls. He wanted half a m
illion because - and I quote - no one had told him how to lift a hod correctly and it was therefore not his fault. His case was thrown out of court in ten minutes, but the damn thing cost a hundred grand in legal fees. It’s crazy. No one these days listens to common sense. You tell him, Frank.”
“It’s all par for the course,” Reinberg said.
“If you advertise the hotel, you’ll be doing some good for your community. You’ll also earn a big cheque.”
I nodded and looked as if I was seriously considering his offer. “Well, I’d be pleased to promote your venture if as you say the problems are ironed out. I’ll give you my number.” I took the car crash photograph from my wallet and dropped it on the table. I looked at it as if realising I’d made a mistake, then put it back, but not before I was sure he’d seen it.
I sensed no reaction from Van Morgan one way or another.
If he’d sent it, he was a good poker player.
Which I knew he would be.
He wouldn’t like to lose any game.
Winning was all he knew.
At any cost.
I’d shown my hand, now.
So it was his move.
I didn’t like that one bit.
“I seem to have forgotten my business cards,” I said.
“Just write it down,” he said. “I’ll think this over, too. I’ll call you back?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. He reminded me of every oily studio executive I’d met. They were guys (and gals) who said they’d call you back but never did. They were so sincere they should have written Hallmark cards. The whole breed were congenital liars. In this case, I didn’t want him to call back. I deliberately wrote the number down with two digits in the wrong order.
He stood up. The top of his head came level with my chin. We shook hands again. I was expected to leave. I left. But I stayed in the yacht club. I just waited out of sight. Van Morgan and Frank Reinberg left a few minutes later with two tall blondes. They didn’t look like wives. I watched his yacht power away from the marina, its turbines frothing up the water in its wake. The blondes were already stripped down to their bikinis, sunning themselves on the deck.
Chapter 14