Hugger Mugger s-27

by Robert B. Parker

"No."

  "You talk to Becker about this?"

  "The sheriff?"

  "Un-huh."

  "I can't discuss this sort of thing with some policeman."

  "Oh."

  "I wish to hire you," she said.

  "To do what?"

  "To find out what happened to Walter Clive."

  "What can I do that the cops can't do?"

  "You can report to me," she said. "And maybe you won't pussyfoot around the Clive family quite as much as the local police."

  "That may be," I said. "But if they don't want to talk to me, they don't have to."

  "They have shut themselves off, since Walter's death. They have shut me out. They have shut my son out."

  "Are you in Walter Clive's will?" I said.

  She was silent for a time. I waited. She crossed her legs the other way. Which gave me something to do while I waited.

  "Why do you ask?" she said.

  "I'm a nosy guy," I said.

  She was silent again. I waited some more.

  "I was supposed to be," she said.

  "And?"

  "The attorneys tell me I'm not," she said.

  "How long were you with him?" I said.

  "Eight years."

  "Did he say he'd take care of you?"

  "Of course."

  "Do you feel there was chicanery?"

  "God, don't you talk funny," she said.

  "It's not my fault," I said. "I've been sleeping with a Harvard Ph.D."

  She smiled. Her teeth were perfectly even and absolutely white. The effect was dazzling, even though I suspected orthodontic intervention.

  "I've done that," she said.

  "Hopefully not with the same one," I said.

  "Hopefully," she said.

  "Do you think somebody doctored the will to cut you out?" I said.

  "I don't know what to think," she said. "I don't mean to come off sounding greedy, but… I…"

  She shifted a little in her chair and crossed her legs again. She seemed to sit up a little straighter.

  "I am what would have been called, in more genteel times, a courtesan. I have been not only the sex partner but the companion and support of several powerful men, of whom Walter Clive was the most recent."

  "Did any of the others stiff you?"

  "None of the others have died," she said. "But each made a financial settlement with me when our relationship ended. I know Walter would have done the same thing, if we had parted before his death. None of these arrangements were about love. But in each instance we liked each other, and we understood what we were doing."

  "Are you okay financially?"

  "Yes. I am quite comfortable, and I shall almost certainly establish a, ah, liaison with another powerful and affluent man."

  "So hiring me is a thirst for justice," I said.

  "I want my son's inheritance."

  "You think Walter Clive should have left money to your son."

  "Our son," Dolly said.

  "Yours and Walter's?"

  "Yes."

  "Does your son know this?" I said.

  "Not yet."

  "Did Walter know this?"

  "I told him. We agreed that Walter would undergo some DNA testing."

  "Did he?"

  "I don't know."

  "He died without telling you."

  "Yes."

  "You and Walter have been together eight years," I said. "Your son, Jason?"

  "Yes."

  "Jason appears to be in his middle twenties," I said.

  She smiled again.

  "The eight years is public and official," she said. "Our liaison began a long time before that, while Walter was still married to the beatnik."

  "Sherry Lark?"

  "I became pregnant with Jason about the same time she did with Stonie. I said nothing. I knew better than to upset the apple cart at that time. I ended the relationship with Walter, and went away and had Jason, and raised him. Later when the beatnik was gone, I came back into his life. I never explained Jason, and Walter never asked."

  "Did they ever divorce?"

  "Walter and the beatnik?"

  "Yes."

  "No, they didn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I think each hated the other too much to give in," Dolly said.

  "Why didn't you tell Clive about Jason when you came back?"

  "The separation was horrible. The beatnik may be primarily interested in flowers and peace, but she tried to gouge him for every penny. Had she learned of Jason, she would have succeeded."

  "And that would have been less for you," I said.

  "And Jason," she said.

  "What made you change your mind?" I said.

  "Walter was revising his will. I wanted Jason to get what was his. No one would have to know anything until Walter's death, and then Miss Hippie Dippie couldn't do anything about it."

  "And Walter wanted proof that Jason was actually his son," I said. "Hence the DNA tests."

  "Yes."

  "Where was he tested?"

  "I don't know."

  "Was Jason tested?"

  "We donated some blood for the DNA match. I spoke to our doctor first. Larry Klein. He's a lovely man. Very cute. Jason just thought it was part of a routine physical."

  "Do you think the rest of the family knows anything?" I said.

  "To my knowledge, you and I are the only ones who know about this, and of course Dr. Klein."

  "You know he went to Dr. Klein?"

  "No. He said he had. And was waiting for the results."

  "You're sure Clive is Jason's father?" I said.

  "I said I was a courtesan. I am not a whore."

  We sat for a while. I thought about the offer. The case had its own merits, and it was also a wedge back into the situation. It is very bad for business when someone kills your client. I might see Penny again, whom I liked. I would almost certainly get a further look at Dolly's knees, which I also liked.

  "Georgia in August," I said. "Hot dog!"

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT WAS HOT in Lamarr. The sky was cloudless and the sun hammered down through the thick air. I parked at the top of the long driveway. Everything was pretty much the same. The lawn was still smooth and green. The sprinklers still worked, separating small rainbows out of the hot sunlight. On the wide veranda in the shade, two guys in Security South uniforms stood looking at me. As I got out of my car one of them walked down the front steps and over to me. He was carrying a clipboard.

  "Your name, sir?"

  "Spenser," I said. "Nice clipboard."

  "I don't see your name here, sir."

  "With an S-p-e-n -s-e-r," I said. "Like the English poet."

  "I still don't see it, sir. Did you call ahead?"

  "I certainly did."

  "And who'd you speak with?"

  "Some guy said his name was Duane."

  "I can check with him, sir."

  "Sure," I said.

  He walked a few steps away, reached down and adjusted his radio, and spoke into a microphone clipped to his epaulet. Then he listened, readjusted his radio, and walked back to me.

  "Duane says he informed you already that you're not welcome," the security guy said. He was a little less respectful when he said it. The other security guy, still on the veranda, came a couple of steps closer, though still in the shade, and let his hand rest on his holstered weapon.

  "I know," I said. "But I'm sure he didn't mean it."

  "He meant it."

  "Does Penny know I'm here?"

  "Miss Clive doesn't want to see you."

  "How disheartening," I said. "Stonie? SueSue?"

  "Nobody wants to see you, pal. Including me. I'm sick of talking to you."

  "I knew you were trouble," I said, "the minute I saw your clipboard."

  "Beat it."

  He pointed a finger at my car. I nodded and got in and started up.

  "There's more than one way to skin a cat," I said.

  Unfortunately I cou
ldn't think what it was, so I rolled up my window, turned the a/c up, backed slowly down the long driveway to the street, and drove back into town to talk with Becker.

  He was at his desk in the sheriff's substation in Lamarr, drinking Coca-Cola from one of those twenty-ounce plastic bottles shaped like the original glass ones.

  "You remember the original bottles," I said when I sat down.

  "Yep. Glass, six ounces."

  "And then Pepsi came along and doubled the amount for the same price."

  Becker grinned.

  "Twice as much," he said, "for a nickel too, Pepsi-Cola is the drink for you."

  "And nothing's been the same since," I said.

  Becker shrugged.

  "Shit happens," he said. "What are you doing back in town?"

  "I have a client."

  "Really?"

  "Yep."

  "Who?"

  "Dolly Hartman."

  "She want you to find out who killed Walter?"

  "Yep."

  "Thinks we can't?"

  "Notices you haven't," I said.

  Becker nodded, sipped some Coke.

  "Not much to go on," he said. "Plus the Clives have buttoned up tight."

  "I know. I went out there. Couldn't get in."

  "Well, I can get in, but it doesn't do me any good. Nobody says anything."

  "Dolly implied that you might be walking a little light around the Clives because they're connected."

  "Dolly's right. I'm appointed by the sheriff. But the sheriff ain't appointed by anyone. He gets elected, and that takes money."

  "And the Clives have a lot of it."

  "You bet," Becker said.

  "You getting some pressure?"

  "Un-huh."

  "Between you and me," I said. "You got any thought who killed Clive?"

  "You used to be a cop," Becker said. "When a rich guy dies, who's first on the list?"

  "His heirs," I said.

  "Un-huh."

  "Any more horses been killed?" I said.

  "Nope."

  "You think there's a connection?"

  "I wasn't getting pressure, might be something I could look into."

  "I'm not getting any pressure," I said.

  "Yet," Becker said.

  "What do you know about Security South?" I said.

  "Just what I already told you."

  "Is what you told me something you know or something they told you?"

  "Something they told me," Becker said. "At the time, I had no reason to look into it."

  "And now?"

  "Next year's an election year."

  "Not for me," I said.

  "Look," Becker said. "I'm a pretty good cop, I do say so. But I got a wife never worked a day in her life, I got a few years left until I'm eligible for a pension, I got a daughter in Memphis I send money to pretty regular. You bring me stuff that can't be ignored, I won't ignore it."

  He picked up his Coke, and drained the bottle and put it back down slowly on his desk.

  "Can you say 'stalking-horse'?" I said.

  Becker almost smiled.

  "Best I can do," he said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE BATH HOUSE Bar and Grill was jumping. It was crowded with couples dancing, couples sitting at tables with their heads close together. The bar was packed two or three deep. Tedy Sapp was at his table, alone, drinking coffee. As I pushed through the crowd, people moved out of my way. Those who looked at me did so without affection.

  "Back again," Sapp said as I sat down across from him. "You're not a quitter."

  "New client," I said.

  A waiter came by and poured Sapp some coffee. He looked at me. I shook my head.

  "Nothing to drink?"

  "Long day," I said. "It'll make me sleepy."

  Sapp glanced around the room.

  "What do you think of the scene?" he said.

  "Not my scene," I said.

  "It bother you?"

  "Nope."

  Sapp looked at me for a time.

  "Nothing much does," he said, "does it?"

  "Way the patrons acted when I came in, I figure I'm not their scene, either."

  Sapp grinned.

  "You don't look like a gay guy," Sapp said.

  "Neither do you," I said.

  "I know. That's why I do the hair color. Trying to gay up a little."

  "You got a partner?"

  "Yep."

  "What's he do?"

  "Ophthalmologist."

  "So you're not looking to meet somebody."

  "No," Sapp said.

  "So what's the difference?"

  "It's important if you're gay, to be gay. Especially me, who was straight so long, my, what would I call it, my, ah, constituency is more at ease if I'm identifiably gay."

  "And the blond hair does it?"

  "It's pretty much all I can do. I still look like something from the World Wrestling Federation. But it's better than nothing."

  "Works for me, Blondie," I said. "You know anything about the Clive family that you didn't know last time we talked?"

  "They seem to be cleaning house," Sapp said.

  "How so?"

  "Kicked old Cord out on his ass," Sapp said.

  "Stonie divorcing him?"

  "Don't know."

  "Where's Cord now?"

  "In town somewhere. I can find out."

  "Be obliged," I said.

  Sapp got up and began to work his way through the room, stopping occasionally to talk with someone. I watched the smoke gather up near the ceiling of the low room. It seemed to me on casual observation that gay men smoked more than straight men. But I was probably working with too small a sample. All I could really say was that a number of these gay men smoked more than I did. The ceiling fan turned slowly in the smoke, moving it about in small eddies, doing nothing to dispel it. The jukebox was very loud. I had a brief third-person vision of myself, sitting alone and alien in a gay bar, a thousand miles from home, with the smoke hanging above me, and music I didn't like pounding in my ears.

  Sapp came back and sat down.

  "Cord's bunking in with his brother-in-law," Sapp said.

  He handed me a matchbook.

  "I wrote down the address for you."

  "Brother-in-law?" I said.

  "Yeah, Pud. I guess he got the boot too."

  "Pud and Cord?" I said. "Getting the boot makes strange bedfellows."

  "I guess it do," Sapp said. "Who's your client?"

  I shook my head.

  "Never get in trouble keeping your mouth shut," Sapp said.

  I nodded. Sapp sipped some of his coffee, holding the cup in both hands, looking over the rim, his gaze moving slowly back and forth across the room.

  "You married?" Sapp said.

  "Not exactly," I said.

  "Separated?"

  "Nope. I'm with somebody. But we're not married."

  "You love her?"

  "More than the spoken word can tell," I said.

  "You live together?"

  "No."

  "You love her, but you're not married and you don't live together. Why not?"

  "Seems to work best for us this way."

  Sapp shrugged.

  "You fool around?" he said.

  "No. You?"

  "No."

  "You think Pud and Cord are a couple," I said, "or just orphans of the storm?"

  "Far as I know, neither one of them could make a living on his own," Sapp said. "Now that they don't have the Clive tit to nurse on, I figure they're splitting the rent."

  Sapp's slow surveillance of the room stopped and focused. I followed his glance. Three men stood inside the door. Two of them were large, the third was tall, high-shouldered, and skinny. The large ones looked fat but not soft. None of them looked like they had come in to dance. Without a word Sapp got up and moved softly toward them, his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders bowed a little forward. One of the big guys had a red plastic mesh baseball cap on backwards, the li
ttle adjustable plastic strap across his forehead just above his eyebrows. The other man was fatter, wearing a white tank top, his fat arms red with sunburn. The three men stood close together at the door, looking around and giggling among themselves. They were drunk.

  The tall skinny one with the high shoulders yelled into the room. "Any you sissy boys want to fight?"

  Sapp stopped in front of the three men.

  " 'Fraid I'm going to have to ask you boys to leave," he said gently.

  "Who the fuck are you?" the skinny one said.

  "My name's Tedy Sapp."

  As he spoke Sapp moved slightly closer so that the skinny one had to back up slightly or risk being bumped.

  "Well, we got as much right as anybody else to come in here and have us a couple pops," the guy in the baseball hat said.

  "No. Just step back out, gentlemen, same door you came in, there'll be no trouble."

  "Trouble," said the guy in the hat. "Who's going to give us trouble? You?"

  "Yep," Sapp said. "It'll be me."

  He brought his hands up slowly and rubbed them together thoughtfully in front of his chest, the fingertips touching his chin.

  "I never met no fag could tell me what to do, pal. I want a drink."

  "Not here," Sapp said.

  "We getting us a fucking drink or we going to kick a lot of fag ass," the guy in the hat said.

  "Not here," Sapp said.

  The guy with the hat said, "Fuck you," and tried to push by Sapp. Sapp hit him with the side of his left hand in the throat, and hit the skinny guy on the hinge of the jaw with the side of his clenched right hand. The guy in the tank top backed up a couple of steps. Sapp began punching, not like a fighter but like a martial arts guy, both fists from the shoulder, feet evenly spaced and balanced. He hit the guy in the hat maybe three times and swiveled a half-turn and hit the skinny guy two more. Both men went down. Tank Top looked at Sapp and then looked at me. I realized that I had moved up beside Sapp. Tank Top helped his companions to their still-shaky feet.

  "No trouble," he said.

  "None at all," Sapp said.

  Tank Top guided his pals out in front of him and the door swung shut behind them. Sapp looked at me and grinned.

  "Planning to jump in?" he said.

  "No need," I said. "You have learned well, grasshopper."

  THIRTY

  I WENT TO see Rudolph Vallone, the lawyer for the Clive estate, who also represented Dolly Hartman. He had a suite of offices upstairs in a Civil War-era brick building next to the courthouse, right on the square in the middle of Lamarr, where he could look out his window at the pyramid of cannonballs and the statue of the Confederate soldier that grounded the town in the lost glory of its past.