Once a Mutt (Trace 5)

by Warren Murphy

  “The number you have reached is not in service. Please do not call again. Thank you for your consideration.”

  He pressed another button that he thought would rewind the message so the machine was ready to operate again. It wouldn’t do for the telephone to ring and for him to have to answer it while he was busy drinking wine. He hated to be disturbed when doing something important. When the restaurant started to pay off, he would probably take the phone out, he thought. Anybody who wanted to reach him would have to show up on his doorstep like a supplicant and he would leave orders for the concierge downstairs to throw everybody out. Refuse admittance to anyone who didn’t have an appointment. And he would make no appointments before their time.

  He was holding down the button that he thought would rewind the tape, but it didn’t work. He released the button and heard another voice on the machine.

  “Trace. This is Eddie. I’ve got to talk to you about the restaurant.”

  Eddie. Eddie was his main partner in the restaurant at the New Jersey shore. Maybe he had some money already for Trace. That would teach Walter Marks. If Trace were rich before Marks even left Las Vegas, that would show him, with his spread-gloom attitude.

  Trace fumbled around in the little drawer of the telephone table looking for a cocktail napkin with Eddie’s phone number on it. When he found it, he called the number in New Jersey.

  “This is Trace.”

  “I’m glad you called back,” Eddie said. “Did you hear what happened?”

  “No. Where’s my share of the profits?” Trace said.

  “We’re not even open yet. What profits?”

  “Then there’s nothing good that’s going to come of this phone call, is there?” Trace said.

  “Afraid not. You didn’t hear what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Last night we had a storm.”

  “We didn’t,” Trace said. “It was nice here. Sunny all day, evening temperature in the high sixties. It was beautiful.”

  “I wish it was that way here. We had a storm like you never saw.”

  “Why are you giving me a weather report?”

  “It’s important.”

  Trace knew something was wrong because he was starting to feel sober. “Go ahead,” he said. “What happened?”

  “The goddamn ocean came up and overflowed the place. We’ve got a lot of storm damage.”

  “Spread newspapers. Blot it up,” Trace suggested.

  “Can’t do that. We’ve got real damage. I had a contractor in today to look at it.”

  “How much?”

  “It looks like it’s going to cost fifty, sixty thousand dollars to fix.”

  “You’re not asking me for money, are you?” Trace said.

  “Of course I am. All the partners have to kick in some money. That’s the only way we can fix this place up and open up on time.”

  “How much?”

  “You’re a twenty-percent partner. I need ten, twelve thousand dollars from you.”

  “I don’t have it,” Trace said.

  “Get it. We need it to do the repairs.”

  “What do you think, I’m made of money?”

  “So we’ve got to pinch a little. We all do. When we get this restaurant rolling, the money’s going to come pouring in.”

  “The only thing pouring in right now is the freaking ocean,” Trace said.

  “Well, that’s the way it goes.”

  “When do you get the insurance money?” Trace asked.

  “What insurance money?”

  “For the damages.”

  “No insurance. It’s an act of God.”

  “Bullshit,” Trace said. “It’s an act of water.”

  “The insurance company won’t pay. They don’t do that down here.”

  “I hate insurance companies,” Trace said.

  “You work for one, not me. Why do you do that anyway?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to change them from within,” Trace said. “It just hasn’t worked yet.”

  “If it had, we wouldn’t have to put up this extra dough,” Eddie said. “When do I get your check?”

  “A check I can send you right away. Ten thousand dollars I don’t have.”

  “I want a good check,” the other man said.

  “I hate you,” Trace said. “When the hell is this restaurant going to open?”

  “We’ve been delayed a little bit by the storm damage.”

  “How little’s a little bit?”

  “A month or so.”

  “Are we going to miss the summer season down there?” Trace demanded.

  “Not if you send me the twelve thousand,” Eddie said.

  “Ten thousand,” Trace said.

  “With room to grow. Send it right away,” the other man said, and hung up before Trace could say anything more.

  In order, Trace hung up the telephone, removed the modular plug from the answering machine, threw the machine in the kitchen garbage can, refilled his glass with wine, and sat down to try to figure out where to get ten thousand dollars with room to grow.

  When Michiko Mangini unlocked the door to the apartment and entered, two unaccustomed sounds assailed her ears.

  Trace was singing and something was sizzling in the kitchen.

  She looked down the length of the long living room toward the small kitchen at the rear of the apartment. Trace stood with his back to her, at the stove, singing an operatic aria at the top of his voice. As usual, he remembered only one line of the aria, so he sounded like a stuck record as he sang it over and over again.

  “Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pi-i-i-ra. Di quella pira. Di quella pira.”

  “Is that fire for dinner? What are you doing?” the young woman asked. She was twenty-six years old, small and shapely, with blue-black hair and soft dark Oriental eyes that looked bottomless in the shiny taupe of her healthy young face.

  “Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira.”

  She shouted. “What are you doing?”

  Trace turned with a big smile. He put down a pot he was holding.

  “Hello, Chico. What I am doing is cooking dinner for my honey. Did I ever tell you I love you?”

  “I’m not lending you any money,” Chico said and went into the bedroom to change.

  Later, as they sat at the small kitchen table and drank coffee, Trace explained, “It’s not like I’m trying to borrow money from you.”

  Chico had thrown out Trace’s halting attempt at dinner, something he called a sardine soufflé, and had instead cooked them steaks and asparagus and green salad. Trace had little appetite and only picked at his food, but Chico didn’t mind because she ate both his and hers.

  “It’s not like I’m trying to borrow money from you,” he said again. “Dammit, respondezmoi.”

  “Oh? Then, what is it?” she asked sweetly. She took a piece of cake from a small plate in front of Trace and bit off a large wedge.

  “I hate the way you eat,” he said. “What is it is that I’m giving you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor…”

  “Along with the ocean,” Chico said.

  “Will you listen? Levity is not called for here,” Trace said. “This is a big financial deal we’re talking about. I’m going to make you rich.”

  “Hah,” she said. Crumbs sprayed from her mouth. She picked them up from the table and ate them.

  “Moving right along,” he said. “I’m allowing you to buy into a New Jersey restaurant. One of the hottest places on the shore.”

  “It’s not even open yet. How the hell hot is that?” she asked.

  “It will be. And for fifteen thousand dollars, a mere fifteen thousand dollars, you can have half my share.”

  “For which you paid forty thousand dollars,” she said.

  “That’s right. Every cent I had in the world. I paid forty thou and now I’m willing to give you half for just fifteen thou. This is a real good deal.
This restaurant’s going to make a fortune.”

  “If it’s such a sure shot, why are you selling it off in pieces?” she asked.

  “Because this is a way for you to get financial security, for all your days. And it’s only going to cost you fifteen thousand.”

  Chico shook her head, caught a dislodged crumb in midair, and nibbled it from her fingers.

  “No,” she said finally. “I don’t trust the restaurant business. Did you know that seventy-five percent of all new restaurants go foldo?”

  “Yes, I knew that. That’s why I investigated this one so thoroughly before I invested in it.”

  “Investigate? Thoroughly? That lunatic friend of yours called, and before you were off the phone you were sending him all your life savings. You’ve never even seen the place.”

  “I know the town. Oceanbright is beautiful. The restaurant can’t miss.”

  “It’ll miss, Trace. You’re in on it, it’ll miss.”

  “Come on. Half my share for only fifteen K. You could sell it on the open market for more than that.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Trace said.

  “Then, why don’t you just take your half-share and sell it on the open market? You can do better than the fifteen you want from me.”

  “Because I want to do something for you. Because you are the light of my life and I can’t bear the thought of you working while I live a life of leisure. Don’t you see, I’m doing it for you?”

  “You want to do something for me, take the garbage out to the incinerator. Your wine jugs make it too heavy for me to lift.”

  “Let me be sure I understand this,” Trace said. “You’re going to pass up this opportunity?”

  “You understand it very well,” Chico said. “I pass.”

  “How about lending me some money, then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not good for it,” she said.

  “I’m going to have to raise your rent here,” Trace said. “I never thought it would come to this.”

  “What’s my new rent going to be?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars a month,” Trace said. “Payable one month in advance.”

  “I’ll move. Then, where will you be?”

  “The whole world’s against me,” Trace said.

  Chico retrieved the telephone-answering machine from the garbage can, plugged it back in, and rewound it to zero. All the other messages had been for her.

  She dressed in a russet cocktail dress and told Trace she had some business, which meant she was doing a favor for the casino and “entertaining” some out-of-town high roller. As she left, he pointedly said nothing, but merely turned up the volume on the stereo.

  After a couple of drinks, he called Robert Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company. It sounded as if Swenson was having a party because there was a lot of screaming and shouting in the background, almost enough to drown out Swenson’s big avuncular voice.

  “Hello, Trace. How’s Chico?”

  “Mean, avaricious, and deceitful, as usual. Why don’t you ask how I am?”

  “Because you’re fine. You’re always fine,” Swenson said.

  “What the hell is all that racket?”

  “Let me close the door. Oka y, what’s on your mind?” Swenson said.

  “Did you talk to Walter Marks today?” Trace asked.

  “Yes. He told me you were quitting.”

  “I never said that,” Trace said. “What’d you say?”

  “I said good riddance to bad rubbish,” Swenson said.

  “Thanks a lot, pal,” Trace said.

  “You don’t want to quit?”

  “I never said I was going to quit. I was just turning down one assignment and Groucho made it into a big deal, like he was taking me off retainer and didn’t need me anymore and like that. Do you think I’d quit and leave you?” Trace asked.

  “Yes,” Swenson said. “As soon as you got two nickels to rub together.”

  “Well, it’s not like that at all,” Trace said. “I’ll tell you this. I want to do that job in Westport.”

  “What’s their names? Paddington? The guy who died in the plane crash?”

  “That’s right. I want to do that job. For you, Bob. And for the company.”

  “That’s the worst bullshit I ever heard in my life,” Swenson said. “What’s the matter? Broke again?”

  “That’s not important. I just want to do that job for you,” Trace said.

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “But I can’t call Groucho and tell him I changed my mind,” Trace said.

  “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t bear the humiliation of it all,” Trace said.

  “So you want me to call him and tell him to order you to take that job?” Swenson said.

  “Something like that. But you could tell him to ask me nicely. He could plead a little bit.”

  “Trace, he needs a little stroking now and then too. Let him order you. It’s good for his undersized ego.”

  “All right. As a favor to you, he can order me.”

  “Anything else?” Swenson asked.

  “No, that was it,” Trace asked. “You never told me what that racket was.”

  “Oh,” Swenson said. “I’ve got a few friends over. The wife’s out of town.”

  “Swell,” Trace said sarcastically. “I’m going through a crisis and you’re giving parties.”

  “Crises come and go,” Swenson said. “But parties are forever.”

  It was almost daylight when Chico returned and walked quietly into the bedroom.

  Trace didn’t ask her where she had been or what she had been doing. He knew and didn’t care to think about it. She spent a long time in the bathroom, then slid into the bed alongside him.

  Without rolling over, he grumbled, “If you’d invest your money wisely in a New Jersey restaurant, you wouldn’t have to supplement your income this way.”

  “Get off it,” she growled.

  “Don’t come begging to me later,” he said, “because I’m withdrawing the offer.”

  “Good. I’d hate for it to always be between us.”

  “I’m going east tomorrow,” Trace said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got a job for the company.”

  “I thought you turned it down,” she said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  When Walter Marks called in the morning to order him to take the Paddington case, Trace was already packed.

  He said, “Okay, Walter. I’ll do it for you. As a favor.”

  “Just do it,” Marks said sourly.

  When Trace went downstairs to get a cab to the airport, Chico was still sleeping.

  He left a note on the kitchen table. It read, “I hope you know what I’m going through, trying to make our old age secure.”

  3

  When Trace arrived at Kennedy Airport in New York, a man was waiting outside the gate, holding a hand-painted sign over his head with the name “Devlin Tracy” hand-lettered on it.

  Trace ran up to him and snatched the sign away, crumpled it, and dropped it to the ground.

  “Hey, what you doing?”

  “My ex-wife. She’s got spies everywhere,” Trace said. “If she knows I’m in the East, I’m as good as dead.”

  “You Tracy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Here.” The man pushed forward a manila envelope. “They told me at the insurance company to deliver this to you.”

  “No chance it’s filled with money, is there?” asked Trace.

  “No. It’s reports or something.”

  “Well, thanks, I guess,” Trace said.

  As he waited for his bag, he looked around occasionally to make sure his ex-wife wasn’t lying in wait for him. It wasn’t that he owed her money; his alimony and child support were always paid precisely on time. It was because every time he ran into her, she wanted to tal
k.

  “Look,” he had said once. “If I wanted to talk to you, I would have stayed married to you.”

  “This concerns the children.”

  “They’re no concern of mine,” Trace said. “You spawned them, you take care of them.”

  “They need a father,” Cora had shouted.

  “Well, rent one, for Christ’s sakes. Just leave me out of it.”

  And that had ended the conversation. He had found it very satisfying because she had gone a full six months before trying to contact him again. But you could never be too sure, so he checked the people waiting around the baggage area.

  From time to time, he glanced into the manila envelope the messenger had brought him. It seemed to contain a thick file on Helmsley and Nadine Paddington. He folded it and stuck it into his back trouser pocket.

  After retrieving his bag, Trace walked over to the car-rental office, where he had to take a number and stand in line, as if he were in a bakery on Sunday morning.

  He hated car-rental companies. They were always advertising things like “One week, $119, no charge for mileage,” but after you got through with everything, the car cost you $98 a day and had a soft right rear tire. As close as he could figure out, the special $119 weekly rate was only for visiting diplomats who booked six months in advance.

  When he got to the head of the line, the car-rental clerk asked him, “What kind of car would you like?”

  “A blue one,” Trace said.

  “I don’t mean that. I mean compact, intermediate, or full size.”

  “You got a Stutz Bearcat?”

  “Very funny,” the clerk said.

  “Well, if you don’t have that,” Trace said. “I’ll take anything. As long as it’s blue. And none of that crappy sky-blue either. I mean a real dark blue.”

  Fifteen minutes of paperwork later, as he surrendered the keys, the clerk said, “Would you mind telling me why you have to have a blue car?”

  Trace said, “Because blue cars never get stopped by the cops. You watch from now on. You’ll never see a dark-blue car pulled over at the side of the road.”

  This, to Trace, was absolutely, indisputably true. That the rental clerk shook his head in disbelief didn’t change the facts; it just meant that the clerk was a fool. And who but a fool would work for a car-rental company? Of course, it took a bigger fool to work for an insurance company, he reminded himself sourly.