32
Rogers had found nothing of substance by the time I left for the airport to meet Craven and his entourage. It was mostly an uneventful flight to Detroit except that I did get to meet Malone’s real traveling secretary, a hard-nosed woman by the name of J.C. Whitmore. She sat next to Malone the whole trip and took care of his every little whim. I had the privilege of sitting next to Pee Wee Lunden, baby brother to Reno Lunden. Since I had already had the delightful pleasure of meeting Reno, it was nice to sit next to his brother, Pee Wee, and discover that he had an equal amount of personality. In fact, Pee Wee may have been just a tad more obnoxious than his older brother. Reno seemed to be a quiet ogre. Pee Wee could make noises wide awake or asleep. He passed most of the trip snoring and whistling. He awakened in time to catch the food being served. He belched and complained during that interval.
By the time we arrived in Detroit, I felt like wrestling an alligator. Since I had no gun with me, I couldn’t shoot anyone. Wrestling seemed more appropriate for my mood.
Whitmore and I were standing together while Malone was on one of the airport phones. Pee Wee, Reno and Georgio were roaming around trying to keep an eye on their boss as well as us. They looked very much out of place. I decided that those three would have been out of place anywhere. I was out of place myself.
“Worked for Malone long?” I asked attempting to be polite.
“Twelve years.”
“He travels a lot.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means he takes a lot of trips and requires the assistance of a traveling secretary.”
“I am not just a traveling secretary. I work when he doesn’t travel.”
“Good,” I said trying to defuse her steamy disposition.
“I’m a trained nurse as well as a business associate.”
“Really. Do much nursing?”
“Only for Mr. Malone.”
When I remembered that Craven Malone was ninety years old, I decided it was a good thing that she was a trained nurse. A lull came in our stimulating conversation and I walked over to the shop selling magazines, books, and Detroit souvenirs. I was standing in the back corner of the shop when a stranger approached me. He was carrying a briefcase.
“Clancy?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Washington said to give you this. Said you might need it here in Detroit.” He handed me the briefcase.
“Here’s the key. Locked for security.”
I took both the case and the key. He was gone before I could even say thanks. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with this loaner when I was ready to leave Detroit. Maybe Rosey would call me and tell me. Or I could dump it in the water like I did the last weapons I had here in Michigan days earlier.
I returned to Whitmore who was now sitting down.
“Nice briefcase. Buy it in there?” her eyes glanced across the way to the shop.
“Naw. Ran into an old friend. Something I might need while here.”
“Hope it doesn’t set off some bells and whistles before we leave,” she said.
“Me, too.”
Malone finished his phone call and walked over toward us. He had a strange look in his eye as he approached.
“Something wrong,” I said.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Beg your pardon?” I said, a little confused.
He looked at J.C. Whitmore and pointed to me.
“You know her?”
“She’s with us, Mr. Malone. It’s okay. You hired her. It’s okay. Let’s go get a cab and get to the hotel. I think you need to rest.” Her tones were motherly. She hadn’t spoken to me that way.
Malone, Whitmore and Reno got in the first cab. That left me, Pee Wee and Georgio to share the ride in the second one. Thrill a minute.
We were staying at the Hotel Pontchartrain on Washington Boulevard. Four star luxury. Beat most of the places I stayed. Malone had booked three adjoining suites for us. I had the outstanding pleasure of rooming with Whitmore, and we were in the suite next to Malone. I was happy to draw Whitmore out of that menagerie. It could have been a whole lot worse. The three ogres shared a suite. Malone shared his suite with no one.
I was watching Whitmore unpack. Georgio brought in two hang-up bags that I had failed to see before now.
“These clothes are for you,” she said. She hung the bags on the right side of the closet. It was a large closet.
“I am to be his traveling secretary.”
“I know. Think you can handle the charade?”
“I’ll watch you closely and learn.”
“You being smart?”
“No. Honest. Think I should watch Pee Wee?”
She finally smiled. Up till now, I wasn’t sure she knew how.
“They’re not too bad when you get used to them.”
“You’ve had twelve years.”
“Not really. Georgio has been around that long. Pee Wee and Reno are relatively new. They replaced a couple of guys who retired.” She said retired in a funny sort of way.
“Euphemism?”
“You bet. Malone caught them stealing.”
“Oh.”
“He have those memory lapses often?”
“More and more frequently now. Probably early Alzheimer’s.”
“Could be just good old fashioned hardening of the arteries.”
“That, too. Considering the fact that the man is over ninety, I think he’s in remarkable shape.”
“Granted. But the memory loss thing could become a serious problem. He have a will?”
“Of course.”
“You the executrix?”
“No.”
“What happens if the memory goes and does not return?”
There was a knock on our inter-suite door. Malone’s side.
“Don’t know, but I imagine it would be bad,” she said as she walked over and opened the adjoining suite door.
“What would be bad?” Malone said as he entered the room without being invited. Memory lapses, but great ears.
She forced a smile at him but didn’t answer his question. He looked around as if he owned the place.
“You like this, Clancy?” His attention moved elsewhere.
“Very nice.”
“One of the best in Detroit. I like to stay here whenever I’m in town.”
“You didn’t stay with your son?” I said.
“Hell, no. I’d sleep in a tent by the river before I …” his voice trailed off without finishing the line. I got the idea.
“Thanks for the wardrobe,” I said hoping to move away from the delicate subject I had invaded.
“You try them on yet?”
“Haven’t had time.”
“Well, do it. We’re going out this evening. We can mourn for my slob of a son tomorrow. Tonight we party. Choose something… ah, on second thought, you help her, J.C. We’re going to George and Harry’s tonight. You’ll love it.”
He left the room. Places to go and people to see. One could only imagine what kind of CEO he had been in his early years. A shaker and a mover. No time for frivolities. Whatever he wanted, he got.
“George and Harry’s?” I said when the door closed behind him.
“George & Harry’s Blue Café. Great food and good music, if you like jazz.”
“You like jazz?”
“I don’t like music period. Jazz is especially distasteful. But I like the food there. Mr. Malone pays me well.”
“For going with him?”
“For being seen with him. He says it keeps the gays away. Nothing between us except business. I wouldn’t do that.”
J.C. Whitmore was a stern talking, tough acting woman, but she was attractive enough with some slight modifications. She wore her hair short, but not so you would mistake her gender. I was a few inches taller, but we appeared to be about the same size. I did notice that her hips were broader than mine, but that was probably due to sitting at the computer for Craven Malone and doing whatever b
usiness she did. She appeared to be in her early thirties. No lines under the eyes as yet.
“Nor I. So, what do you recommend I wear to the Blue Café?”
She opened both bags and began a rather serious selection process. It appeared that J.C. was all business all of the time. She handed me a short, white dress with a very low line in front. I am not what anyone would call chesty, so I smiled and declined the offer to reveal more than I had.
Without a word or a facial sign, she hung the white, plunging neck-line next to the bag and retrieved a short black dress that was more modest in my estimation. It fit and actually made me look halfway good. Personal opinion. Operative word being halfway.
“This one appears to fit,” I said after changing into the black one. “What do you think?” Girl talk.
“It’s a dress.” Thank you, J.C. I needed that vote of confidence for this gig.
I should have known better than to expect a friendly exchange. Undaunted, I persevered to be Miss Personality with Miss Hard Nose.
“You have a guy back in Norfolk?”
“What? A boyfriend?” she sneered at me.
“Something like that. A regular, someone you date?”
“Date? Don’t be absurd. Men know better than to bother me.”
“How do they know that? You give off a scent?”
“I was married once. Didn’t last long.”
“Painful?”
“For him.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I am. I had to spend seven years in prison because of him.”
“Sorry to hear that. He get you involved in something?”
“No. I killed the bastard after he raped me.”
33
George & Harry’s Blue Café was better than billed. I happened to like jazz, so the evening was enjoyable even with a ninety year old and Bad Ass Whitmore. Appropriately enough she spent the evening downing Whiskey Sours. She was drunk before ten, but it didn’t help her disposition. I remained sober in order to stay alive.
Malone had Red Snapper Keywest, something the waiter recommended. It looked good, but I was in the mood for something a bit feistier. One of the house favorites was their Bayou Jambalaya, a Cajun stew of chicken, seafood and spicy sausage. The menu said it was simmered in Creole Sauce. The best part was that it was served over corn bread. Brought back fond memories of the corn bread I grew up on. It was just as good as my Mama’s, but I would never tell her that.
Whitmore was well past sobriety when her Chicken Alfredo came. She played with it for twenty minutes while Malone and I enjoyed our meal. Our bodyguards sat at another table and they each ordered the 18 oz. Prime Rib. Carnivores supreme.
The jazz artist of the evening was a local talent who played the sax and sang some. I preferred the sax to his singing, but he was obviously a favorite among the other patrons. The background musicians – trumpeter, guitarist, and clarinetist saved us from listening to the soloist acappella. Whitmore even applauded, but that didn’t count since she was past drunk. Malone seemed to be non-committal about the music of the night.
“You come here often?” I asked him during one of the softer tunes and no singing.
“Every visit. Know George and Harry personally. Good people. Was here the first night they opened. Have some vested interest in the place.”
“Financial?”
“That, and I love good food.”
“I take it you and your son didn’t see eye to eye on many issues,” I said, changing the subject.
“He wouldn’t listen to me at all. Too damn independent. Headstrong. Figured he knew it all and could do no wrong. I offered him guidance, and he refused at every turn. He did do one smart thing.”
“What was that?”
“Make Andy the editor of the magazine.”
“But you don’t like the magazine.”
“Correct. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it should be run efficiently so as to make money. Remember, it’s one of the companies my corporation owns. I like making money.”
“Even money made from sleaze?”
“You working for me for free or you plan to accept my money made from sleaze?”
“Not all your money is questionable.”
“True enough. How will you know which dollar is and which isn’t.”
“I’ll smell them.”
He smiled and finished his glass of Bordeaux Blanc. He looked at his watch and gestured to the three pigs at the other table. I figured it was time to leave.
“Take care of J.C. She’ll need you to tuck her in,” he said to me.
I wanted to say something about charging him extra for this, but I decided against it. I was being paid handsomely for my charade here in Detroit, so the least I could do would be to help poor old soused J.C. back to our hotel suite. I was glad that it wasn’t Pee Wee that was drunk next to me in the cab. J.C. sang Beach Boys’ songs all the way back across town. By the time we reached the Pontchartrain, my estimation of the jazz singer of the evening was improving.
Georgio helped me carry J.C. to our suite. She was more like a feather for him than a person. I made a mental note not to cross Georgio unless I had a gun close by. Georgio dumped J.C. on one of the two queen-sized beds. She had stopped singing somewhere between the elevator and the suite. She was gone.
Georgio stood there for a moment looking at her, almost as if he expected me to tip him. I gave him my most fearsome stare and he left the room. Intimidation.
I undressed her and tucked her in. The funeral was after lunch tomorrow, so she had plenty of time to sleep it off. The silence in the room was good for a change. No small talk with a belligerent woman. Appealing.
I unlocked the briefcase to see what goodies Rosey had sent my way. The case had two handguns. The Smith & Wesson Model 360 was just like my gun except that it was a .357 instead of a .38. There was a slight difference in weight, still it had a nice balance. The other Smith & Wesson was Rosey’s weapon of choice, the 9mm 952. He couldn’t come, so he sent along his best friend. The 360 came with a shoulder holster and the 9mm had a waist holster. It was an easy call for me to take only one. I chose the shorter .357. Familiarity and comfort. I promised myself that I would avoid at all costs any kind of conflict that would require the carrying of two guns.
A limo was scheduled to pick us up at 12:30. Before the car arrived, J.C. and I had room service bring us a sampling of brunch around mid-morning. She was still craggy, but fiercely thirsty. After two or three glasses of water, she was starving, she said. I was hoping that the hangover would improve her disposition. I was wrong.
I was already dressed and resting in one of our many comfortable suite-chairs while Whitmore was running around the room in her slip, screaming obscenities because she couldn’t find the right dress to wear. Malone had the good sense to buy me several suits for that business look. I selected a dark gray one with slacks for the funeral. Black would have said more than I wanted to say at Joey’s passing. I thought that the gray was rather non-committal. I chose a light blue blouse with a French collar. Short, black pumps set off my stunning outfit for the graveyard affair.
The gray suit did two things for me. It gave me that business-look that Malone wanted and it permitted me to hide my .357 under my left arm. I hated the idea of carrying a weapon to a funeral. In fact, since my escapade with Rosey at his hideaway cabin in Virginia, I hated the idea of carrying a gun at all. Still, the reality was that I was in a dangerous business and now I was in a big city investigating a murder. I carried the gun. Survival conquered scruples.
We were all climbing inside the limo in the pouring rain when J.C. Whitmore came scurrying up looking pretty good for hard-nosed woman with a hangover. She was dressed in black from top to bottom. She was even wearing black hose. Professional mourner.
The funeral was a graveside service only. Craven Malone was the only family Joey had. That meant that the entire family showed up for the service. There were maybe fifteen people gathered for the event, counti
ng the six of us.
Some of us were standing around the grave under umbrellas while Craven and a few others were seated in chairs underneath a dark red canopy. I was half-heartedly listening to the priest languish on and on about the dearly departed, although I don’t think he ever used that expression. His long and morose sermon fit the weather for the day, but not my personality. J.C. and I were among those standing under umbrellas. The three stooges were standing off to our left keeping an eye on the proceedings. They didn’t have umbrellas. They looked out of place. I almost felt sorry for them.
“Which one is B.A. Dilworth?” I whispered to J.C.
“The one sitting to the right of Mr. Malone.”
“She looks weathered.”
“She’s mean, too.”
“You have business dealings with her?”
“Not if I can help it. Mr. Malone handles her okay, but generally he lets her run her show. That’s best for all concerned. She’s a bitch.”
I wanted to say something like “you should know,” but I refrained because the funeral was going along so morbidly well, and I so hate to ruin the ambience of any occasion.
We were drying out in a spacious room at the nearby Catholic church where Joey was a member. The priest mercifully terminated his message, and we sloshed our way to the vehicles that brought us to this place. I will admit that the good Catholic ladies of this diocese knew how to put out a spread. There were tables of food all around us and the somber tones of the priest’s message were all but lost in the gaiety that erupted once we dried out. The three stooges were not quite as gay as the rest of us.
For an old man, Craven Malone got around exceptionally well. His was an outgoing personality, and he certainly knew how to network. I watched him for several minutes before I finally decided I might as well network myself. The funeral was over and now I had to find out who put Joey in the ground.
I found B.A. Dilworth sitting alone eating raw vegetables and fruit. She was close to my height, but weighed far less. She was thin. Her face was taut, but I noticed a few wrinkles under the eyes. Her hair was a shade of blonde. She probably had it colored every week or so. She was wearing a black dress with pearls. Elegantly mournful.
One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1) Page 13