Once a Mutt (Trace 5)

by Warren Murphy

  “When you start resenting things, I know something’s wrong. Besides, you sound like death warmed over.”

  “I’ve been drinking too much,” Trace said.

  “Why?” Sarge asked.

  “I need ten thousand dollars,” Trace said.

  “A sex-change operation? At your age?”

  “Not until I get this one down right first,” Trace said. “You got ten thousand dollars?”

  “No,” Sarge said. “Every penny I had is in the new agency. You know how much office chairs cost?”

  “For Christ’s sakes, Sarge. You didn’t have to go wasting your money on chairs and stuff. Didn’t you ever learn the joy of being frugal?”

  “The last time you were here, you told me my office looked like a locker room,” Sarge said.

  “I said it smelled like a locker room. A seventy-nine-cent can of air freshener would have done just as good as new chairs. And anyway, you don’t have to take everything to heart. If you spend all your money everytime somebody complains, what are you going to have left for a rainy day?”

  “Hopes for sunny and clearing,” Sarge said. “Listen, I don’t have the ten, but I can get it.”

  “From the sharks?” Trace asked.

  “Of course, from the sharks. Where else would I get ten thousand dollars?”

  “Pop, if I wanted to go to the loan sharks, I’d go myself,” Trace said. “I don’t need you to go for me.”

  “Then why don’t you go and get the ten thousand from the sharks?”

  “’Cause I can’t pay it back,” Trace said.

  “Well, I’ve got to admit it,” Sarge said. “That’s a new wrinkle in borrowing. It might make it a little tough for you at first, until people catch on to your new system.”

  “You’re not being helpful,” Trace said. “I’ll be able to pay it back eventually. Just not right away. And not on any schedule.”

  “Look,” Sarge said. “I could get it from the sharks and I could pay it back. Then when you get it, you can pay me back.”

  “Naaah, I don’t like dealing with middlemen. You think Mother’s got ten thousand?”

  “Probably, but she wouldn’t lend it to you,” Sarge said.

  “Why not? I’m her son.”

  “She doesn’t trust you,” Sarge said.

  “I said I’m her son, I didn’t say I was trustworthy. What has trust got to do with anything?”

  “Got me,” Sarge said. “She wouldn’t lend me anything to start this business, I don’t think she’ll lend you money for a sex-change operation.”

  “I’d bet she’d lend it to one of those idiotic cousins I’ve got,” Trace said.

  “What cousin?”

  “I don’t know. Try Bruce. They’re all named Bruce.”

  “I imagine she’d lend it to Bruce,” Sarge said.

  “Why would she lend it to a nephew and not to me?” Trace demanded.

  “It hasn’t got anything to do with you, except that she doesn’t really like you. Ever since you got divorced.”

  “That’s why she doesn’t like me?”

  “Don’t feel bad. She doesn’t like anybody. She doesn’t like Cousin Bruce either.”

  “But she’d lend him the money,” Trace said.

  “Not because of him. It’d just be to show her relatives that she can afford to lend somebody ten thousand dollars. Your mother is a very prideful woman.”

  “If she lends it to me, I’ll promise her that I’ll tell all the relatives. I’ll send them telegrams and Mass cards.”

  “Hold the Mass cards,” Sarge said. “All the relatives are Jewish.”

  “All right, scrap the Mass cards. You think it’ll work?”

  “No. She still won’t lend it to you.”

  “I shouldn’t even ask?” Trace said. “What can she do except refuse?”

  “You underestimate your mother. First of all, she’ll refuse for sure. But then, she’ll always remember. For the rest of your life, you’re going to hear her telling everybody about the time you tried to get her to give you her last ten thousand dollars, which would have put her in poverty and taken away all her security because, well, you know, her husband drinks and no one seems to care about whether she lives or dies in her old age, not like some children who seem to care about their—”

  “Enough, enough,” Trace said. “You’re bringing tears to my eyes.”

  “Did you try borrowing from Chico?” Sarge asked.

  “Of course I did. She was my first hope. She wouldn’t lend it to me.”

  “Why not?” Sarge asked.

  “She said I’d lose it.”

  “Got a good head on her shoulders, that girl,” Sarge said. “If you married her, maybe under the law you’d have a right to loot her savings account.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Trace said. “It’s not a bad idea. Anyway, I just called to see how things were. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Mother and I are both fine. I’m out working, so I’m happy, and she’s staying home, complaining about being neglected, so she’s happy. What do you need ten thousand dollars for?”

  “I invested in a restaurant. Some start-up expenses that I didn’t expect.”

  “A new restaurant?” Sarge asked.

  “Yes,” Trace said. “Down the Jersey shore.”

  “Did you know that seventy-five percent of all new restaurants go under?” Sarge asked.

  “No fooling, Pop. I never heard that.”

  “It’s true, son.”

  “I’ll never forget it again. Give my love to Mother.”

  “You’re not going to call her?”

  “Of course not. I never call her,” Trace said.

  “Hey, if I win the Pick-Six lottery, I’ll give you the ten grand outright,” Sarge said.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Trace said. “Try fourteen grand.”

  Trace pressed the handset button with a finger, dropped the receiver on the bed alongside him, and lit a cigarette. This was getting serious. Chico wouldn’t give it up, Sarge didn’t have it, and the only one left was Bob Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity, and that was a dead end without making a telephone call. Despite being a millionaire, Swenson never had any money. He was always stiffing Trace on bar tabs and hotel bills. Any money he might have in his pocket, he always spent on women. He frequently complained to Trace that his money was tied up.

  “When does it get untied?” Trace once asked him.

  “The minute I die. Then watch my wife untangle the twisted web of my finances. She’ll have me liquidated before I’m cold. Until then, I can’t touch anything. It’s the only reason I don’t leave that woman.”

  There was nobody else. There was no hope. It was all over.

  When disappointed, lash out. That was Trace’s philosophy. He called Walter Marks’ office at Garrison Fidelity.

  “Let me talk to Groucho,” he told the woman who answered.

  “I beg your pardon,” the woman said.

  “You’re new there, aren’t you?” Trace asked.

  “Who is this calling?”

  “You know how I know you’re new? Because only the new ones ask ‘who’ when I ask for Groucho. Walter Marks. Groucho. I want to talk to him.”

  “And you are?”

  “Trace. Devlin Tracy. And now you’re going to say that you’ll see if he’s in. Trust me, he’s in. Just punch this call right into his office.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in, sir,” the young woman’s voice said coldly.

  The secretary put him on hold. Trace hung up.

  He got up and finally unpacked his clothes. He put his kit of toilet articles in the bathroom and wondered why everybody laughed when he suggested that someone manufacture a joint mouthwash and after-shave lotion.

  He found an ice-cube machine in the hall and put some ice cubes and the rest of his dwindling vodka supply into a plastic water glass.

  He sang three choruses of “Finlandia, Finlandia All the Way,” lit a cigar
ette, smoked it, and tossed it into the butt can, then lit another. He turned on a soap opera, but after three minutes, despairing of ever understanding any of it, he turned it off and dialed Marks’ number again.

  “Hello,” said the same woman’s voice. “Mr. Marks’ office.”

  “Hello, my dear,” said Trace, dripping oil. “My name is Devlin Tracy and I would enjoy greatly the honor of speaking with Mr. Walter Marks if you would be so kind as to put me through.”

  “Did you just call?”

  “I?”

  “It was you, it was you, and when he wanted to talk to you, you weren’t on the line, you hung up, and he yelled at me for cutting you off.”

  “Do not worry, my dear. I will set things aright.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “But that’s what you get for being a peckerhead,” Trace said.

  Marks’ voice clicked onto the line. “Who you calling a peckerhead?” he demanded.

  “Not you, Walter, old friend. It would be too hard to explain. Why don’t we just let the subject drop?”

  “All right. Let it drop. What did you want?”

  “I just wanted to report in and tell you that everything is going swimmingly on the Paddington case,” Trace said.

  “Really? You figure out yet how you’re going to save us two million dollars?”

  “I expect a major breakthrough in a day or two,” Trace said.

  “Are you serious? Is there something there? He’s alive, isn’t he? That prick is alive and trying to steal money from us.”

  “Right now,” Trace said unctuously, “I could speak naught but supposition to you. In a few days, I should have everything tied up.”

  “That’ll be real good if you can do it,” Marks said.

  “Yes. The other side seems to be impressed also,” Trace said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that…Well, it was made clear to me by certain people involved in this matter that perhaps certain silences on my part might lead to financial reward later on.”

  “You mean they’re trying to bribe you?” Marks demanded.

  “I couldn’t really comment on that at this time.”

  “How can they do that? The nerve of those bastards. How can they do that? The nerve of those bastards. How can they do that? Who did it?”

  “Perhaps they inspected my bank balance,” Trace said. “Perhaps they’ve heard that I am in a small financial pinch right now and could use some monetary assistance.”

  “Monetary assistance?” There was a long pause, then Marks said, “Wait a minute. Are you trying to con me into lending you money for that bound-to-fail restaurant?”

  “Did I mention a restaurant to you?” Trace asked.

  “No. That’s why I’m suspicious.”

  “I don’t need any money from you,” Trace said. “In fact, in the near future I may never need money again. And as for the restaurant, I would rather not be involved in any project that has you associated with it, however slightly.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that,” Marks said.

  “On the other hand, I might be more resistant to temptation if I had an advance on my retainer,” Trace said.

  “Your retainer’s already been paid six months in advance. As soon as I did that, you started talking about quitting. Not a chance.”

  “How about paying me in advance for this Paddington case?”

  “You haven’t found out anything yet and I want you to know that I don’t believe for a minute your bullshit about being on the verge of a great discovery. We had detectives, real detectives, look into that case and they couldn’t find anything. I just put you on it so you’ll at least do something for your retainer.”

  “Real detectives, Groucho, huh?”

  “That’s right. Real detectives. With license and so forth.”

  “Your goddamn detectives couldn’t find a freaking bass drum in a phone booth,” Trace snapped.

  “How’s that?”

  “They never found out, did they, these real detectives, that Helmsley Paddington was the big man around town in Hollywood? They never found out that he was out traipsing around with Hollywood starleteenies while Mrs. P. was home minding the dogs. They didn’t find that out, did they?”

  “I never heard that,” Marks said.

  “Of course, you didn’t. You know so little, Groucho. But I, Devlin Tracy, I know all.”

  “I’ll believe it and you when I see something concrete.”

  “I’d like to see something concrete. Wrapped around your ankles,” Trace said. “As you bubble downward.”

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Marks started.

  “And concrete boots can kill you,” Trace said.

  “I don’t want to listen to any more of this. I think you’re drunk.”

  “Well, listen to this for a moment. That big goddamn package you gave me with the file on the Paddingtons…”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t have their insurance application. I need their doctor’s name in New Hampshire.”

  “All right. Hold on and I’ll look for it.”

  “No,” Trace said. “I’ve got other things to do. You get it and ship it up here by messenger. Leave it at the desk of Ye Olde English Motel. Groucho, I’ll never forgive you for making me stay in a place like this. I’ll pick it up when I get back from my travels today.”

  “Travels? Going somewhere?” Marks asked.

  “Always on the job,” Trace said.

  “I’ll have the stuff delivered. It should have been in the folder.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Are you sure? Or did you just overlook it?”

  “I would much rather have looked hard for it than to have to talk to you on the phone and ruin an otherwise perfect day,” Trace said.

  “You’ll have it today,” Marks said.

  “Thank you, Groucho.”

  “And don’t call me Groucho to my secretaries anymore.”

  Trace hung up.

  He took a shower and, when he came out of the bathroom, saw that the level of vodka in his bottle was perilously low. He knew the motel didn’t have room service, but he called the front desk to see if someone was available for running an errand. He dialed the three-digit number and let it ring ten times before hanging up. Then he dialed the hotel operator and got no answer from her either. Finally, he dialed nine, got a local line, and dialed the motel’s outside telephone number.

  The operator answered on the first ring.

  “Ye Olde English Motel,” she said.

  “Is this motel in operation?” Trace asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is Mr. Tracy in three-seventeen. Is there someone around who can run an errand for me? Go to the store?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “I’ll pay somebody for it,” Trace said.

  “There isn’t anybody available. But the shopping center is just across the street.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t go out in the daylight,” Trace said.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman sniffed. “The liquor store delivers, however. Their number is 555-0029.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” Trace said.

  How did she know I wanted the liquor store? he wondered as he dialed the number. He ordered two quarts of Finlandia delivered to his room.

  As an afterthought, he asked, “Do you sell any food there?”

  “Just junk,” the clerk said. “Potato chips, like that.”

  “Peanuts?”

  “We’ve got peanuts.”

  “Send over six bags of peanuts,” Trace said. “Bags, not cans. And smoked sausages. You got Slim Jims?”

  “Right.”

  “Send over two of those.”

  “Two, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m trying to gain weight.”

  Trace was watching the six-o’clock news, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible jumble of Connecticut place-names, when the
telephone rang. It was Elvira.

  “Am I still your deputy sheriff?” she asked.

  “Shore are, podner,” Trace said.

  “Okay. I thought you’d be interested in this. I just saw what’s her name, Maggie, leaving the Paddington house in the red station wagon.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s headed your way. That road exits right at your motel. I thought you might want to keep an eye on her.”

  “Thanks,” Trace said.

  “Give me a call later. Maybe we can get together.”

  “Okay,” Trace said as he hung up.

  Should he try to follow Maggie or not? He’d rather stay in the room and drink and watch television. The A-Team was going to be on tonight. He thought about it for a moment, but even while he was thinking, he was taping the small recorder to his waist and slipping into his shoes.

  Four minutes later, he was sitting in his car, the engine running, just inside the entrance to the motel’s parking lot. The red Saab station wagon drove by and Trace turned out into traffic following her.

  She made a right turn onto the Post Road, drove only a half-mile, and turned into the driveway of a large bowling alley.

  Bowling? Trace hoped not. The clatter of ball against pins was more than his head could take.

  He sat in his parked car and watched Maggie get out of the Saab. She was tall, blond, and very beautiful. She was wearing a body suit and sneakers, and Trace thought it didn’t look like any bowling apparel he had ever seen.

  When she went to the door of the bowling alley, he left the car and followed her. Just inside the door, he saw a sign that said HETTIE’S HEALTH SPA with an arrow pointing upstairs. He glanced through the glass doors leading to the bowling alley, but did not see Maggie at the manager’s counter, so he walked upstairs.

  A pretty young clerk sat behind a desk just inside the door to the spa. The spa itself seemed to be one large room with several Universal machines, some heavy weights, and treadmills and specialized body-building equipment along the walls. A half-dozen people, both men and women, were working out, but he saw no Maggie.

  The clerk smiled at him inquisitively.

  “Just came up to look around,” Trace said. “Do you have a brochure or something on your prices?”

  It took him a moment or two to explain to the clerk that he was not interested in lifetime, annual, semiannual, quarterly, monthly, or per-visit membership, but just wanted to look at a brochure. When she finally surrendered one, he sat down in a chair that commanded a view of the spa and pretended to look at it.