by John Lutz
Carver had rented a big Ford Victoria that he could get in and out of easily with his cane. After changing into a clean white shirt, he shrugged into the conservative blue suitcoat that matched his slacks, then knotted a plain maroon tie around his neck. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror over the washbasin; smiling back at him was a bald, middle-aged executive type. Plain vanilla, but with a no-nonsense air about him. Might be midlevel in the company, or might be the guy who could and would fire you on a whim. A real asshole with a country-club membership. Just fine, he thought.
He looked up Wesley Slaughter and Rendering in the phone directory. Then he took the elevator down to the parking garage and drove the big blue Ford out onto Piedmont and away from the downtown area.
He soon found that Atlanta was encompassed by Interstate 285, and an unwary driver could travel in circles until the gas tank hit empty, all the time thinking he was going somewhere other than around.
Carver steered with one hand, held the Hertz road map flat against the seat with the other. Finally he managed to exit from the highway and drove about ten miles before turning onto a narrow road that snaked through Georgia red-clay country. There were low rolling hills here, soft and gentle as the curves of a gracefully lounging woman. In the bright blue sky, distant birds that looked a lot like vultures wheeled on the wind and soared in unpredictable lazy patterns, as if tracing messages in the air.
At the edge of a thick wood was a large metal sign lettered WESLEY SLAUGHTER AND RENDERING, with an arrow pointing up a side road. There were several bullet holes in the sign; the graffiti of high-spirited hunters.
Carver followed the arrow and was on a two-lane concrete road that skirted the woods for about half a mile, then abruptly cut through them. Angled up a slight grade. The sun was suddenly half as bright, as if light were absorbed and hoarded by the surrounding trees. It was quiet inside the car. Carver cracked the window a few inches. It was quiet outside, too. Something about this place; even the songbirds and crickets seemed to prefer elsewhere.
He smelled the slaughter and rendering plant long before he saw it. Up close, the odor must be overpowering.
A huge semi pulling a stake trailer used for hauling livestock loomed around a bend, roared and rattled past him going the other direction, and disappeared from his rearview mirror. The sign on its trailer read MANGLY BROS. PRIME HOGS. FEEDER PIGS..
Carver drove for another few minutes, then braked the Ford to a halt when he saw the sprawling complex on the wide plain below.
The buildings were gray and vast, with flat, corrugated steel roofs broken by chimneys and vent pipes. Behind the largest structure a line of at least twenty boxcars rested on a siding. Along the side of the same building was a row of parallel truck trailers backed to a dock. Here and there among the buildings were fenced rectangular areas crowded with hogs. Hundreds of hogs, milling about and so close together their motion created a wavelike effect. A truck was backed against the chain-link fence of one of the rectangles, and several men were offloading hogs, using what looked like electric prods to hurry the animals down a wooden ramp and through a gate.
Ominous dark smoke hung like a pall above the endless blacktop lot. The afternoon sun glanced off row after row of parked cars, providing the only brightness and color in the scene below. The stench that drifted up to Carver was of warm internal organs and fresh blood, cloying and stomach-jolting. A job was a job, he told himself. Still, he wondered how the employees ever got used to coming here day after day. But he knew that any job created mental calluses; in St. Louis, he’d known slaughterhouse workers who casually drank the blood of slain cattle for nourishment and antibodies to help them fend off colds.
His mouth was full of saliva that tasted bitter. He swallowed. Yuk! Licked the same vile taste from his lips.
He pressed the button that raised the car’s power window, but as he drove toward what looked like the plant’s office, the smell found its way into the car with increasing potency. Hertz would have to hose out the vehicle with disinfectant.
He drove down a narrow dirt road he probably wasn’t supposed to be on. Saw dozens of hogs being prodded along through a slanted wooden chute. Workmen in blue denim joked and yelled for the livestock to keep moving toward a shadowy doorway. The wallowing hogs balked, bumping into each other in confusion something like panic, their tiny eyes glittering like diamonds set deep in flesh. Carver didn’t like the noises they were making. And there was something different about the smell now that he was much closer, something subtle yet familiar. Then he recognized it; he’d been aware of it in the cramped backseats of police cruisers, in stark interrogation rooms. The undeniable scent of terror. For the first time, he considered becoming a vegetarian.
He circled beyond some new-looking truck trailers lettered with the company name, then parked the Ford in a visitor’s slot along the front of a smaller brick building set well apart from the others.
When he climbed out of the car into the heat, the stench of slaughter was even thicker and more acrid. He was surprised to feel weakness in his good knee. This was nauseating. It was like being inside a castaway tire with something a week dead. He smoothed his pants, buttoned his suitcoat, and limped along the walk toward glass double doors that hinted at cool, pure air on the other side.
The smell wasn’t nearly as strong in the reception area, but the grim charnel odor of mortality still clung. The crescent-shaped room was cool, however, and surprisingly plush. Behind a long desk that was curved to run parallel with the curving, richly paneled wall behind it, sat a slim, gray-haired woman who once must have been a beauty but who’d been assailed by time. She wore oblong glasses with thick dark rims, and Carver was sure that if she removed them and revealed the flesh around her eyes she’d look close to sixty. With the glasses on, a quick glance at her would lead to an estimate of forty. The desk she sat behind was covered in front with the same thick red carpeting that was on the floor, without a break or visible seam, as if the desk had sort of grown up out of the stuff like a mushroom. There were brass-framed modern prints on the unpaneled walls, and on the curved, paneled wall, large gold letters spelled out WESLEY SLAUGHTER AND RENDERING, INC. ., above three closed doors that Carver assumed led to offices.
As he approached the woman behind the receptionist’s desk, she smiled at him and slammed a fist down on a stapler to attach some papers to a sheet of thin cardboard. Her smile and her abrupt action seemed incongruous.
She couldn’t do anything about her hands; they were at least sixty. The brass plaque on her desk said her name was Maxine. No last name, just Maxine.
She gazed up at him through the lenses set in the thick frames. They magnified her blue eyes and gave her a fishlike expression that failed to diminish the impression that in her youth she’d been quite a number. But she’d either never learned to put her lipstick on straight or she’d lost the knack. Or perhaps she’d been in a hurry this morning. Her lips were the same violent red as the carpet.
Carver planted his cane in front of her desk, returned her smile, and said, “Boyd Emerson to see Mr. Wesley, Maxine.” Nice name, Boyd Emerson. Substantial. The real Boyd Emerson was a con man who died of a heart attack in the patrol car when Carver was in the Orlando Police Department.
The woman’s fish eyes didn’t blink. The askew red lips said, “I’m not Maxine. She’s the regular receptionist.”
“Well, can you tell Mr. Wesley I’m here, please?” Carver stopped smiling and glanced at his watch. Busy and important man; no time to fuck with peons.
The woman who wasn’t Maxine didn’t seem impressed. She said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
Carver put on a puzzled and annoyed expression. Getting into this acting thing. The Boyd Emerson executive persona. “We had a definite lunch date.”
“I see. But—”
“Check his appointment book, can you? Emerson of Longbranch Feeder Pigs.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Emerson, but I don’t have to check his appointment
book. Mr. Wesley’s . . . well, he’s passed away.”
Carver did a shocked expression. Then one of grave concern. Paul Newman, one of his favorites, never did it better. “My God, when was this? I saw him just two weeks ago. He didn’t say anything about being ill.”
“He wasn’t ill,” the woman said. “It was a car accident. In Florida.”
“Christ, that’s terrible. I mean, not that we knew one another all that well. Only met half a dozen times, actually, at this function or that. But he was such a healthy, vital man.”
“We’re all grieving,” the woman said, “as you can well imagine.”
“Of course,” Carver said, “of course.” He stroked his cheek thoughtfully. “Then the contract . . .”
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, nothing. Business, but it can wait till later. When you’ve adjusted to the change here.” He bowed his head for a moment. “Something like this, so unexpected, has a way of jarring things into proper perspective.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Well, business should take a back seat at a time like this.”
“Mr. Mackey is who you might want to talk to.”
“Later’s fine,” Carver said, backing away. “Tell you the truth, I’d better consult with the board, anyway, before we move on this. Let them know what happened.”
“It was in all the papers,” the woman said. “All over the news media.” An uncertain light entered her bulbous blue eyes. Everyone in big-business circles, especially in the South, should know of Wesley’s demise. Suddenly Carver didn’t seem quite genuine.
“And I apologize for not being aware of it,” he said hastily. “I’ve been traveling. In Europe. I’m afraid the tragedy never made the news there.”
“No,” she said, “it wouldn’t.” She used a tiny gold pen dangling from a chain around her neck to jot something on a note pad. “I’ll mention to Mr. Mackey you were here, Mr. Emerson.”
“Fine,” Carver said. “You might tell him I’ll be in touch. Probably next week.”
“Of course.”
He stopped halfway to the door. Said, “I don’t want to pester you at a time like this, but could you tell me if there’s going to be a service for Mr. Wesley? Longbranch will want to send flowers.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Emerson. The remains are being sent back from Florida. Mr. Wesley will be cremated, but there’ll be a service tomorrow morning at the Norrison Funeral Home in Atlanta, then an interment where only the family will be present.”
Carver, thinking Wesley had already been cremated in his company car, sighed and shook his head. “Well, my condolences to all of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering.”
“Thank you.”
He gave the woman a good-bye nod and limped across the deep red carpet and out the door. Back into the heat and thick stench. The oppressive smell seemed even stronger. Blood and death and lies. He wondered if he’d ever get it out of his clothes. Out of his pores.
He lowered himself into the Ford and drove away. Boyd Emerson of Longbranch Feeder Pigs.
Wondering what the hell was a feeder pig?
Chapter 12
CARVER HAD A SALAD for lunch in the hotel restaurant. Iced tea and a roll to go with it. There were bacon bits in the salad. He nudged them aside with his fork.
After he paid the relentlessly cheerful cashier, he limped out to the gift shop and bought an Atlanta Constitution. Settled into one of a dozen identical, comfortable wing chairs in the lobby, and wrestled with the newspaper until it was turned to the obituaries.
Ah! There was a death notice on Frank Allan Wesley, and he was important enough to rate half a column. The praise was lavish: Wesley had been a businessman and civic leader in Atlanta since 1970, when he’d moved the main operation of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering from New Orleans to Atlanta. He’d given generously to charity, organized political fund-raisers, was a member of various lodges. Had been a major booster and financial supporter of the Atlanta Falcons football team. He was survived by a daughter, Michelle, now married and living in New Jersey, and a wife, Giselle, in Atlanta. A private memorial service, the paper said, and gave no time or location. Private was the operative word. It was fortunate that Boyd Emerson had paid his visit to Wesley Slaughter and Rendering.
Carver went up to his room, stopping on the way at an alcove where there were soda machines and an ice dispenser. He paid a clinking, clunking machine too much for a can of Diet Pepsi, got some of it back by reaching into the ice dispenser and getting a free ice cube to munch on as he limped down the hall. You had to make your own justice in this world.
His room was cooler than when he’d left it. Almost cold. But it felt good and he left the thermostat alone. The maid had been in and done a nifty job, left the drapes open wide enough to provide bright but subtle light, but not so wide as to inflict him with a view of the highway overpass construction going on outside. Most of downtown Atlanta seemed to be a construction site; the New South still being born.
He sat down on the bed and used the window light to search in the phone directory for Frank Wesley. Was mildly surprised to find a Frank A. Wesley listed. Things were seldom this easy, and people like Frank Wesley often had unlisted phone numbers. The address was 218 Cabin Lane.
Time for real detective work, Carver told himself. He reached over to the dresser and snatched the Atlanta street map he’d bought down in the lobby. Spread it out on the bed and found Cabin Lane in G-7, north of the downtown area and in a wealthy community known as Buckhead.
He scooted sideways on the mattress until he could reach the phone on the nightstand. Pressed 9 for an outside line, then punched out Wesley’s phone number. Listened to the ringing at the other end of the connection.
It would be useful to know if the 218 Cabin Lane Wesley was the Wesley who’d been killed in Florida. Save Carver some driving if he wasn’t.
But there was no answer at the Cabin Lane number.
So maybe things shouldn’t be too easy; whence would come character? Carver hung up the phone, sighed, and scooped up the street map and folded it into a bulky rectangle. He crammed it into a pocket and limped from the room.
Half an hour later he was driving north on Peachtree Road. He turned on West Paces Ferry Road, then did some winding around on woods-flanked streets lined with palatial homes that were surrounded by acres of ground. He made a right turn on Cabin Lane, where the lots were so large the houses could only be glimpsed here and there through the trees.
Number 218 was a heavily wooded lot with a wide concrete driveway blocked by heavy black iron gates mounted to flanking stone columns. Beyond the columns, chain-link fence stretched into the dappled shade of the trees and disappeared.
Carver braked the Ford and nosed in to the gates, then peered through the windshield at the heavy chain and shiny brass padlock securing them. Chain and lock looked brand-new, and there were no nicks and scratches on the gates near where the chain was draped. On one of the stone columns was a gray metal intercom box with a fancy black handle that matched the curlicued design of the gates. Class, Carver supposed.
He got out of the Ford and limped over to the box. Opened it and pressed the button beneath a speaker and mike.
Waited a few minutes and pressed it again.
No reply from the house.
As he limped back to the car, he eyed the chain-link fence more carefully and saw that it was topped by a tangle of razor-sharp concertina wire. An improvement on barbed wire, if such a thing needed improvement. Barbed wire was primarily used for keeping livestock in. Concertina wire was for keeping humans out, and unlike barbed wire, its finely honed, widely spread gap-toothed surface would slice to the bone like a razor blade as long as the slightest pressure was applied. It didn’t poke holes in trespassers; it shredded them. Even with two good legs, Carver wouldn’t have tried to scale the fence.
He lowered himself back into the car and drove a few blocks down the road, studying the estates on either side. Finally he turned the c
ar around and parked it almost out of sight in a copse of trees a few feet off the road. It was virtually invisible here to anyone driving past.
After making sure no cars were approaching, he crossed the road and limped up a blacktop driveway. Lettering on a rural mailbox said the family living here was named Vermeer. The only visible part of the house was a vast red-tiled roof with several dormers. There was a metal rooster weather vane on the peak of one of the dormers. It couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way the wind was blowing. Pointed at Carver for a second, as if he might be responsible for shifting currents, then turned away.
Halfway up the drive, Carver cut to his right, into the woods, and began making his way among slender hickory saplings. The ground was deceptively uneven, and he was careful about where he planted the tip of his cane before bringing his weight down on it. It was shady in the woods, but hot. Birds were nattering all around him, objecting to his presence. If he’d figured right, he’d be approaching the south side of the Wesley estate. He could only hope the grounds weren’t fenced all the way around the perimeter.
But they were.
After fifteen minutes of limping through low underbrush that grabbed at his ankles and cane and tried to trip him, Carver found himself face-to-face with more chain-link fence and spiraling concertina wire. Wesley had been nothing if not security-conscious. Lot of good it had done him.
From where he stood, Carver could see the side of the house. It was only one story, but it sprawled wide; a main entry with tall Greek columns and a circular drive, then vast, low wings built on each side of the soaring portico. It was constructed of beige brick and had dark brown trim and gold accents. Thick ivy twined with green lustiness up the side nearest Carver, almost reaching the roof. He wasn’t sure what kind of architecture the house represented; would have guessed neo-Grecian Ranch Glitz.