Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  I asked, “You’ve worked with him on all of them?”

  “All but the very first.”

  “How does he manage them so quickly?”

  “Advance planning. He does comprehensive research and goes in with a strong game plan. And he pushes everybody mercilessly, including himself and those of us on his team. He’s brutal to the few employees who survive the bloodbath. He’s a whiz at getting answers out of the banks and creditors, is even better at getting action out of his investors. To tell you the truth, I’ve seen no evidence that he’s ever slept.”

  Zola paused again, dark eyes reflective. “Of course, there’s a downside to all that. T.J.’s easily bored. Once he’s got a firm stabilized, he’s itching to get on to the visionary stage. Once the vision begins to become reality, he’s already thinking about where he wants to go next, sifting through the offers that’ve come in.”

  “So he doesn’t see things through?”

  “Sometimes. Keystone Steel, company we turned some seven, eight years ago, is a perfect example. Big mill in southwestern Pennsylvania on the fringe of Appalachia. The last one operating in that area, and about to go bust. T.J. had it stabilized, but then he got a vision and jumped ahead too fast. Saved the company, but at an awful human cost. And then there’s the problem of his temper; he’s just too volatile for his own good. He’ll get in a big fight with the board, make it impossible for them to go on working with him.”

  “How often does that happen?”

  “Once or twice a turnaround. He manages to smooth it over but again, at a terrific cost.”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s get back to the way he treats his people. Lucrative or not, why do such talented individuals as the two of you come each time he calls?”

  Lattimer said, “As I told you, it’s the chance of a lifetime to see someone like T.J. do his stuff.”

  Zola nodded. “When he’s good, he’s very, very good. That’s really something to be a part of. And when he’s bad … well, it’s still damned interesting.”

  I’d asked the question to see if either would betray hidden resentment or animosity, but both responses seemed genuine. After a moment I said, “I’m wondering how T.J. got to be so good at this line of work. You don’t just decide to become a turnaround man and hang out your shingle. What is there in his background that qualifies him?”

  Zola looked perplexed. “An M.B.A. from Harvard doesn’t qualify him?”

  “He attended Harvard?”

  “Both as an undergrad and as a graduate student.”

  But how had his cross-country ramblings permitted time for that? “When?”

  Zola chuckled. “I’m surprised an old friend like you didn’t know. Or maybe I’m not. Man’s got a mania for privacy, that’s for sure. Anyway, it’s a fascinating story. T.J. was one of those child prodigies you hear about: reading at an adult level when most kids are learning their ABC’s; fiddling with advanced calculus when the others are still having trouble with their multiplication tables. By twelve he’d finished high school and was taking college courses. Started Harvard at fourteen and earned his degree in two years. A year after that he had his M.B.A.”

  “And then?”

  Zola shrugged. “Time off to grow up, I guess. All I know is that he did his first turnaround about fourteen years ago—something to do with agriculture north of here. Then he contacted me about helping turn Avery Equipment in L.A., and we’ve been kicking corporate butt ever since. It never occurred to me to question him about the time between Harvard and then; I didn’t need to check on his background because I’d seen him in action.”

  I was fairly sure Suits wouldn’t want his associates to know he’d acted as an itinerant peddler of mostly illegal commodities during those years, so I didn’t respond to the question implied in Zola’s tone. In truth, I was having difficulty digesting this latest piece of information about the life and times of Suitcase Gordon. Finally I forced my attention back to the business at hand and said, “Now I’d like to talk about the reason T.J. wants to hire me. Mr. Zola, earlier you mentioned the ‘alleged assassin.’ Is that your phrasing or T.J.’s?”

  “Mine. I believe he used the term ‘hit man.’”

  “Ms. Lattimer, has he also commented on the situation to you?”

  She nodded. “Same terminology.”

  “Does either of you have an opinion about what’s going on?”

  They exchanged glances. “Well,” Lattimer said, “something’s wrong.”

  “She knows that, Carole. What she’s asking is if the hit man theory holds water.”

  I turned to Zola. “Does it?”

  “Only if the hit man’s preposterously incompetent. T.J. claims he’s made four different attempts by four different means.”

  Unorthodox as well as incompetent. “So what’s happening here?”

  He shrugged.

  “Is somebody trying to kill him?”

  Lattimer said, “This may sound strange, but I’d like to believe someone is. If not, T.J.’s becoming a head case, and we’re all going to be in trouble.”

  “Paranoid?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s exhibiting some classic signs.”

  “So which is it—hit man or head case?”

  Again they exchanged glances.

  Zola said, “I vote for head case.”

  Lattimer nodded.

  * * *

  “It happened right here,” Suits said. “You can see where the bullet hit the pillar.”

  We were standing next to his vintage silver Corvette in the lower-level parking area of his building. On the copter ride back across the Bay he’d told me of two additional attempts on his life: a hand pushing him into traffic while he stood on a crowded street corner in the financial district—shades of an old Hitchcock film, I’d thought—and a shot being fired at him as he parked in his assigned space late one night the week before last. I took a close look at the nick that he indicated on the support pillar. Yes, it could have been made by a bullet. But given its height, it could just as well have been made by a car.

  I wondered if Suits had watched many of the dozens of TV movies depicting shootings in parking garages.

  “How come the security guard didn’t respond?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t around when I drove in. And it was only a pop—the shooter probably used a silencer.”

  TV movie, all right.

  “You called the police?”

  He nodded.

  “They find the bullet?”

  “… No.”

  “What action’re they taking?”

  “They’re investigating.” The set of his mouth was turning sullen.

  “If you have the name of the officer in charge of the case, I’ll check on its status.”

  “I’ve got his card someplace upstairs.” Suits moved toward the nearby elevator, but I stopped him.

  “You’ve used the term ‘hit man’ to Russ Zola and Carole Lattimer. Do you think there’s a contract out on you?”

  He looked down at the concrete floor, scuffed at something with the toe of his sneaker.

  “If you do,” I went on, “let me reassure you. A pro wouldn’t have bungled it. He’d have come to town, made a quick hit, and been long gone. And in the unlikely event that he failed on his first attempt, he wouldn’t have used a different method the next time. That’s not the way the pros operate.”

  Suits mumbled something to the floor.

  “What?”

  “I said, I know how the pros operate. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that whoever’s trying to kill me has a personal reason, may even be somebody close to me.”

  I ran my thumb over the nick on the pillar, trying to tactfully phrase what I needed to ask next. “Suits, you’ve been working pretty hard this past year. Russ Zola says he’s seen no evidence you’ve ever slept—and he was only half joking. You’re not using cocaine or—”

  “You don’t believe me.” He didn’t sound angry, merely defeated.

  “I
didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Suits …”

  He turned his back to me, began walking toward the elevator. “I am not using coke or anything else,” he said wearily. “Drugs are a roller-coaster ride that’s not worth the price of the ticket. I am not imagining these attempts on my life; I don’t have much imagination, except as it pertains to my work. I am not paranoid; paranoid people are not self-aware, and I am—painfully so.” He lifted his hand toward the elevator call button, then let his arm drop to his side.

  When he faced me, his lips were twisted in a lopsided, self-mocking smile. “You think I don’t know who and what I am? Try this, then: Remember that bullshit I handed you this morning about how I slunk out of town after our substance-induced fling because I wasn’t ready to settle down? Well, do you know why I really left?”

  I shook my head.

  “I left because I knew I was a runty, funny-looking guy with a mediocre personality who’d just happened to get very lucky. You were the prettiest, nicest, smartest woman I’d ever gone to bed with, and I knew you’d never let it happen again. And I also knew that if I stayed in town I wouldn’t’ve been able to leave you alone. That would’ve only made us both miserable. I just plain didn’t want to put either of us through that.”

  “Oh, Suits—”

  “No.” He held up his hand. “Spare me any kindness at this late date. I don’t need it, I don’t want it. What I do need and want—” He looked down at the floor again. A shudder passed through his slight frame as he tried to control runaway emotions.

  “What I do need and want,” he went on after a moment, “is for you to help me.” He looked up and met my gaze; his eyes were jumpy with restrained fear; odd pinpoints of light flared in their depths.

  I stepped forward and took his hand; it was icy. I looked more closely at his face to make sure he wasn’t conning me. His skin was ashen, pulled so tight it seemed brittle.

  I said gently, “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Five

  It was after seven when I got back to the office; Mick had given up on me and gone home. I stood in the little room over the Victorian’s entryway, which someday would belong to my assistant, looking over the new equipment assembled there. The lights on the answering machine glowed; the display panel on the fax broadcast the word “standby.” After a moment I went over to the computer and ran my finger across its keyboard. Felt something akin to a mild electric shock, even though it was turned off. And realized it was emotional static.

  For years I’d resisted becoming computer literate, turning over accessing the databases I routinely needed to my former assistant, Rae Kelleher. I’d told her I wasn’t good with machines, that I couldn’t even type properly, but the real reason was my fear of becoming trapped in the office, far from the action and interaction I thrive on. Now—at least until I could winnow out a promising assistant from an unpromising crop of applicants—I would have to learn to use the computer in order to keep the cash flowing.

  But why not? I thought. I’d once said I wouldn’t have a microwave in the house; now I defrosted and cooked entire feasts in record time. While my earthquake cottage was under renovation I’d mastered electrical wiring and become a fair plumber’s helper. My stomach had once lurched at Hy’s suggestion of piloting the Citabria upside down; now I was impatient to solo and kept pestering him to teach me the fancy stuff. Compared to understanding the circular flight computer, learning the Apple would be a piece of cake.

  And all this had come about because of a crazy week last June when I’d undergone a series of severe emotional shocks as well as an ordeal that forced me to call upon resources I hadn’t suspected I possessed. After that there was no going back. I’d stepped off the high dive into a new future, and now I was treading water as fast as I could.

  I turned away from the Apple and went into my office, noting with approval that my new sofa and chair looked exactly as I’d pictured them when I saw them in the showroom. My rose from Hy had also arrived; it stood in its bud vase on the corner of my desk, and Mick had even thought to add fresh water.

  The roses—a single long-stemmed beauty delivered every Tuesday—were Hy’s way of keeping us close no matter how long the separation or how great the distance between us. Initially they’d been yellow; after we became lovers he changed their color to an exotic tangerine; but after that harrowing time last June when I’d almost lost him, he changed it once again—to a velvety blackish red. We’d talked about his reasons for the other color choices: yellow because I wasn’t traditional enough for red or sentimental enough for pink; exotic tangerine because it described our passion. But this strange deep red? Neither of us had so much as mentioned it.

  I went over and touched the flower’s soft petals, breathed in its rich fragrance. Red—the color of love, the deeper the better. Red—the color of shed blood, the product of violence. Which? Both had been components of that tumultuous week. …

  My fingers tightened on the stem of the vase. Suddenly I wanted to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. Better yet, seize the rose, rip its petals off, and trample them.

  After all we’d gone through during that week, after all we’d almost lost, after all the commitment I thought we’d made to each other, Hy was once more out of reach. Had, since he dropped me at Oakland Airport in early July, been off on an uncharacteristic spate of traveling whose significance I failed to understand.

  Postcards arrived and phone calls came. The plain white cards—Hy wasn’t the picture-postcard type—bore both U.S. and foreign postmarks and messages of no consequence. The calls were brief, filled with superficial chatter: Yes, my business license had come through. No, I hadn’t taken on any clients yet. Yes, the weather was hot and muggy in Miami—or rainy in London or overcast in New York. No, he wasn’t exactly sure where he’d be going next. I’d filed the cards in order, listed the dates and cities of origin of the calls. Neither gave a hint of an organized itinerary; neither revealed the purpose of his travels.

  For some time now Hy had expressed dissatisfaction with his participation in the environmental movement; he felt his confrontational style was outmoded, his fund-raising ability limited. In June he also had been forced to face his past and reassess his future. Like me, he’d opted for change, but so far I hadn’t a clue as to what form that change would take. All I knew was that his travels were not the typical idle wanderings of a man with a good deal of money and time on his hands.

  I also suspected that somehow his movements were connected to a mysterious nine-year hole in his life—a period that had almost destroyed him and about which he’d told no one, not even me.

  I didn’t know what hurt more—his refusal to open up to me or his absence right now when I needed him most. I’d set out on the riskiest venture of my life: for the first time I was working alone without the support of an employer; money was flying out the door, but clients weren’t flying in; my sister had saddled me with a teenager with criminal tendencies. And now I’d been presented a first case that was potentially lucrative but riddled with complications. I needed to talk with Hy, my touchstone, but I hadn’t the faintest idea of where in the world to reach him.

  I eyed the rose malevolently. Plucked it from the vase and fingered a petal, contemplating a perverse variant on the old he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not game, involving atrocities I’d have liked to commit upon my lover. Then I replaced it, straightening its greenery. No sense in trivializing the situation; no need to add childishness to my roster of character defects.

  Forcing my attention back to Suitcase Gordon, I decided to go upstairs and see if Rae was home. In the past I’d often benefited from her insights; maybe she could cut to the core of my uncertainty about taking him on as my first client.

  Rae lived in a big skylit room in the attic. She, Ted, tax attorney Pam Ogata, and corporate-law specialist Larry Koslowski were the last holdouts from the days when All Souls was a poverty law firm in the strictest sense of the ter
m and offered its underpaid staff free rooms as part of their meager compensation package. The four stayed because they enjoyed the camaraderie, and more often than not many of us who lived elsewhere could be found there after the close of business, sitting in on their poker games or pitching in at their potlucks.

  I knocked on the frame of Rae’s Moroccan-curtained doorway, and her voice called for me to come in. I swept the curtain aside, ducked my head to avoid a low beam, and entered. The room was dimly lighted; Rae sat cross-legged on the floor under the roof’s steep angle, wearing her ratty plaid bathrobe and peering at her face in an illuminated makeup mirror perched atop the trunk where she kept her jeans and sweaters. She saw me in the mirror and grinned, her freckled nose crinkling. “Hey, I was just thinking about you,” she said.

  “Really?” I sat down on the mattress and box spring that were all that remained of her treasured brass bed. It had gotten crushed while the skylights were being installed last spring and, true to form, Rae had spent the insurance money on a trip to Tahoe and some clothes. I saw that one of the new outfits, a clingy skirt and tunic in a russet color that complemented her auburn hair, was laid out on the mattress. “Date tonight?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. But I’m running late, and that’s one reason I was thinking about you. You really ought to curb your nephew.”

  “What’s Mick done now?”

  “Cornered me in my office when I was trying to finish up and asked me a bunch of questions about the business, some of which I couldn’t answer.”

  “Sorry about that. He’s going home at the end of the month.”

  “Oh, I didn’t really mind.” She leaned closer to the mirror and began applying eye shadow. “I just hate having some kid know more about my job than I do.”