The truck backed out of the parking lot and headed away from me. There was no traffic so I waited until it made the turn at the far corner before following. We left Dumpville and headed back to town. They were in a hurry now, and I was guessing Miss Legs and her three pals had something to do with that. They crossed Stemmons, weaving in and out of traffic.
We hit Walnut Hill Lane, headed east, into the middle of North Dallas. The Caddy slowed as it passed a squad car at Midway Road, and I did the same, keeping my hands on the wheel in the driver’s ed position of ten and two. The police paid us no mind.
The truck turned onto Strait Lane, a strip of asphalt famous for its five-acre lots and garish mansions hidden by elaborate stone fences and massive oak trees. Three houses past the domicile of America’s last viable third-party presidential candidate, the Caddy pulled into the driveway of a smallish place for the area, maybe only two acres and a five-bedroom ranch-style home nestled underneath two sweeping magnolia trees. I drove past, counting the number of mansions to the end of the block.
From there I drove down the alley, numbering lots until I got to the back of the home with the magnolias. I parked up against the fence of a house across the way, one down. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got two magnetic signs out of the trunk, slapping them on either side of the car. They said, “Owen’s Pest Control Service. Don’t Be Bugged by Bugs.” It was approaching the hottest part of the day, the temperature near or just past 100. A drop of sweat meandered down the side of my face.
The gate was not locked, and I stepped into the rear of a gigantic backyard, in an area shielded from the house by a small hedge planted next to the side of the garage, to hide the pool equipment and garbage cans. I peered through the vegetation. The entire back of the house was glass, opening onto a large deck, pool, and hot tub. Before I could decide the next move, a sliding glass door opened and two of the girls came out, struggling with a loaded cooler between them. They were naked except for matching yellow bikini bottoms. One of them dropped her end and turned around to pick it up. A yellow thong bikini bottom.
They continued to the pool and dropped the cooler by the hot tub. The taller of the two, a redhead with breasts the size of cantaloupes, found the switch for the Jacuzzi and turned it on. They grabbed two beers from the cooler and hopped in at the same time as the door to the house opened again and Fagen Strathmore emerged with the other two G-string–clad girls. He walked like he’d been mainlining Viagra, stiffly and with his eyes glued to the chests of his two buddies. When he was almost to the pool I took the opportunity to do a little more reconnaissance. I slipped out the gate and went around the back of the four-car garage. There was a small gap between the side of the structure and the neighbor’s fence. I squeezed through and soon found myself in the eighteen inches of no-man’s-land between the two fences belonging to Strathmore’s house and his neighbors. I stepped on one of the cross timbers and peered over the top. The side of the house was fifty yards away, hidden by more hedges. I figured there must be a walkway on the other side of the vegetation.
The overhead door was open and the Cadillac SUV sat at an angle in the middle of the garage. I looked down the driveway toward the street. No other cars were visible.
I jumped the fence and landed on the concrete, wincing at the pain in my side. As quickly as possible I made my way to where the hedges met the edge of the house. Once there I squeezed through and found myself by the kitchen door, at the end of a sidewalk leading toward the garage. The patio and glass doors leading to the pool were not visible from where I stood, nor was the hot tub. I could faintly hear squeals and giggles coming from that way.
I tried the kitchen door.
It opened without a hitch and I slipped inside, grateful for the cool air. A small entry area led into the kitchen, a vast room with two islands in the center and custom built-in appliances along the walls. One of the island counters housed a commercial gas range big enough for Emeril to sauté an entire pig. The next room was a cavernous family area where the glass door leading to the pool was located. I crawled in and peered over the edge of a large sofa. The activity in the hot tub was barely visible. I counted five heads in the churning water.
Before I did anything else, I wanted to know if the rest of the place was empty. The search took a while, but I was alone. Four bedrooms and a media chamber upstairs, expansive dining and living areas, a wine room, a library, another media room, and a master down. Not much furniture anywhere. What was there looked brand-new, just off the dealer’s floor. The master bedroom had a king-size bed and a big-screen TV. There was a bunch of forty-three-inch-inseam khakis in the closet. The nightstand held a box of condoms, a Colt .45, and a bottle of Viagra. My superior detecting skills told me that this was Fagen Strathmore’s lair.
A wallet and money clip lay on the dresser. I ignored those and picked up what I’d come inside for. A set of keys. A few minutes later I did what needed to be accomplished and returned them to where they belonged. I slipped out of the house again and went to the garage, surveying the meager set of yard tools lining one wall. A couple of items caught my eye and helped settle the best course of action.
Showtime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The hot tub was the size of a Chevy Suburban and shaped like the state of Texas. Strathmore was in the panhandle region, near Amarillo, eyes closed as one of the girls bounced up and down on his lap in the unmistakable rhythm of copulation, her bare breasts swaying in tempo with the movement. She was the redhead, young and pretty, and shouldn’t have to be exposed to people like him, no matter what her career choice. I almost felt sorry for her.
The other three noticed me but hadn’t said anything. One smiled and waved. Maybe they thought I was the gardener or maybe they were used to Strathmore inviting people in to share their bounties.
For a moment, I thought about letting the man finish the act, but my side hurt and the sun was a furnace overhead. When I was about four feet away, I wiped the sweat off my face, turned on the electric blower that I had found, the orange extension cord snaking behind me to a plug in the garage.
The girls screamed and Strathmore pushed the redhead away. He looked at what I held in my hand and I could tell that he was slowly becoming aware of his predicament.
I shut off the blower. The only sound was the bubbles from the hot tub. One of the girls, a blonde with a small overbite who reminded me of Vera Drinkwater, tried to climb out.
“Don’t do it. I’ll drop this thing into the water.”
She thought better of it, and sat back down, causing a small tidal wave in the confined area. The redhead crossed her arms over her breasts and sank down until only her head was out of the water.
Strathmore was breathing heavily, eyes glaring at me with a look that would cause sterility in lesser private investigators. He groped around in the bubbles until he found his swimming trunks. He yanked them under and fought the wave action of the tub until he could pull them on. After that he tried to regain a modicum of composure, plastering a smile on his face and reaching for his beer can. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Oswald.”
“You’ve had enough beer.” As his hand reached for the drink I turned the blower on and whooshed the can across the concrete. “Now’s the time for answers.”
The redhead started screaming, shaking her hands in front of her face like they were on fire. Fagen reached for a towel lying on the deck. I hit him with a blast of air, grabbed the towel, and found a stainless .38 Smith. Plop. It went into the deep end of the pool.
“I’m not kidding, Fagen. Any more funny shit, I’ll drop this thing in there, and you’ll fry like a piece of cheap steak. Be the main course, right after an appetizer of hooker soup.” I blew a stream of air into the face of the screaming girl and then turned off the blower. “Honey? Hey, you. Naked chick. Shut the hell up.” She quieted down to a whimper.
“Let’s see you do it then.” Fagen’s voice was a growl. “You ain’t got the balls.”
I sat on my
haunches and dangled the motor end of the tool over the surface of the water, three small inches from electrocution. “You really want to try me, Strathmore? Do you think I’ve never killed anybody?”
Fagen looked at me, then at the blower, and then back at my face. “All right, Oswald. What do you want?”
I rocked the electric blower back and forth in my hand like it was a six-shooter and I was Marshal Dillon. “I want to know why you picked one son over the other.”
His mouth was already open and I could tell he’d been ready to say something, a snappy one-size-fits-all comeback that would allow him time to think and plan a proper response. My question stopped him cold.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Strathmore stared at me. He knew I knew.
I bammed the snout of the electric blower in the water, splashing everybody. “Quit stalling, Strathmore. I’m asking about your son Aaron Young, born to Lydia Mae Bryson on April 2, 1965, at Bellevue Hospital, in New York.”
Strathmore’s eyes got wide.
“Yeah,” I said. “That son. How come he got the Trinity Vista?”
Fagen quit with the blustering and leaned back against the side of the tub. “You are a persistent fucker, aren’t you?”
“You’re a leg man. Aaron Young’s mother hoofed it on Broadway for a while. The women I’ve met associated with you have all been attractive, with a certain look.” I shrugged my shoulders.
Strathmore started to say something, jabbing his finger at me to emphasize a point. He thought better of it and remained quiet.
I continued. “Plus, I found Aaron’s birth certificate and a copy of the paternity suit, filed in Superior Court, Borough of Manhattan.” I pulled a sheaf of papers out of my pocket and tossed them into the bubbling waters.
Fagen’s voice was resigned. “What do you want? Or should I say, how much do you want?”
I smiled. “Don’t want any money. I want to know why two people had to die.”
“I’m as clean as a whistle.” The last was said with some pride.
I almost lost control and forgot my plan, said the hell with it and dropped the blower in the water and electrocuted the lot of them. Instead, I counted to five and took a deep breath. “Yeah, how’d you manage it? I mean, that was pretty damn clever of you …” I let my voice trail off, hoping that an appeal to his vanity would snag him.
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t say anything.
“I figured you had it planned all the time. Somewhere along the line, you found out your illegitimate son had come to Dallas, and was making a name for himself in the real estate business. You probably learned about Aaron Young the same time you figured out that your other son really didn’t have what it takes.”
Fagen Strathmore nodded slowly and smiled.
I continued. “Then along comes the Trinity Vista: the cream puff, cat daddy of all deals, and you’ve got to have it. But there’s just one problem. You’ve more or less retired and the company is run by your son, Roger, who unfortunately controls his mom and sister’s stock. Which means you can’t just kick him out. So he gets a run at the Trinity Vista project and a chance to lose it. I bet you were mighty pissed off when all that became clear.”
Fagen laughed and nodded. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“So you look around and damned if you don’t see that you’ve got another kid in Dallas, only this one’s got the same drive and entrepreneurial spirit as you.”
Strathmore snorted but smiled.
“You decided it would be great if Aaron’s company gets the contract for the Trinity Vista. That way you could slide in as long-lost Daddy, help him out, and still be in control. For all I know you might have arranged some financing. You might already own part of him or his company.”
Strathmore’s face clouded, and I realized that I’d hit a nerve.
I continued. “Because of who you are, you can steer the contract away from any firm in North Dallas. Hell, it’ll just look like you were positioning your namesake company. Nobody suspected a thing. Only problem in the way, other than your son Roger, is a couple of pesky competitors from the southern sector.” I opened the cooler and grabbed a Coors Light.
“Like most people north of the Trinity, you think South Dallas is just a grease spot on the way to Waco. Which means you don’t have a lot of connections down there. But you are Fagen Strathmore, the Big Man, and you’re one lucky son of a bitch because it just so happens that your bastard son’s got him a half brother who is plugged in down there, in all kinds of ways. My guess is that you made a deal with Coleman Dupree, something along the lines of ‘You make sure no blacks or Mexicans get in the way of Aaron Young and Young Enterprises, and I’ll use my influence at city hall to make the police go easy on you and your operation.’”
Fagen Strathmore’s face was stony, no expression whatsoever. “Fuck you.”
I stuck the nose of the blower about three inches under the water and turned it on. A stream of water erupted, like King Kong had just passed gas, hitting everybody in the face. One of the girls started to climb out but changed her mind.
I continued. “That left your acknowledged son, Roger, as the only problem. Couldn’t exactly tell him so sorry, we’re giving the deal to Aaron Young. That wouldn’t do at all, would it? So what you did was let Roger think he was going to go through with the presentation, but at the last minute, you had some friends of Jack ‘the Crack’ Washington’s—Russians so that they were white and wouldn’t raise suspicion in Highland Park—you had them take your son for a little ride just long enough to miss the Trinity Vista get-together.”
“You’ve got the best bullshit I’ve heard in a long time.” Fagen laughed. “Matter of fact, I could use a guy like you. Pay you good money.”
One thing was for sure: he had balls the size of Montana. “Not interested,” I said. “I’m fine with my gig.” I finished my beer and flipped the can into the pool. “So you’ve got this real nice deal working, except you screwed up one time. For whatever reason you decided to actually have a meeting with Coleman Dupree or maybe one of his flunkies. Maybe some money needed to change hands. Maybe one or both of you wanted to meet in person to size each other up, maybe … who the hell knows. The one thing that matters is you picked a place that you own, in roundabout fashion, out of the way, on a dead end street. A place where nobody would see you or recognize you if they did.”
I waited for a reaction. When there was none, I continued. “It was a good idea except that coincidence or fate or whatever you want to call it put Charlie Wesson on the same dead end street at the same time. Charlie, Mr. Clean and Sober, Gung Ho, New Real Estate Guy, instantly recognized the Big Man. But the Big Man didn’t want to be recognized, not with the company he was keeping.”
Fagen yawned, affecting a bored demeanor. “Guessing is all you got, son. Because the only guy who could have seen me there is dead.”
“That sure is convenient,” I said.
Fagen frowned and then said, “One thing that’s bothered me. What the fuck did you care about the little shit Charlie whasshisname?”
I thought about Charlie Wesson. I thought about his father and that time in the locker room after Charlie had lost the baseball game. I couldn’t put it into words. Charlie was one of those people who needed somebody to look out for them, a lost soul in a world that preys on the weak and the sick and the stragglers in life. “Vera Drinkwater hired me to find her brother. When he turned up dead, she hired me to find who did it.”
Fagen shrugged his shoulders. “The boy was a whiner, anyway. World’s better off without him. Carrying on about how it wasn’t fair now that he’d cleaned up, crying and shit. Damn pussy.”
“Do you want to get electrocuted?”
“Shut the hell up, dumbass. He’s a dead motherfucker and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up that way too.” Fagen stretched and fondled a breast on the girl huddled in the corner of the tub, near the Oklahoma border.
“Better men th
an you have tried.”
Fagen ignored my statement. “Mr. Hot Shit Private Investigator, we about done here? Because from where I sit, you ain’t got nothing on me. Nobody does.”
I stood up. “Just one more thing. How much does your illegitimate son know about all this?”
“Aaron? Shit. Aaron wants to have it but he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. ’Bout near threw me out of his office when I suggested getting his brother Coleman to help. He’s got the drive, but he lets his morals get in the way.”
Nobody said anything for a few moments. Then Strathmore stood up. “I’m getting out of here. Feel like a damn stewed prune.”
I didn’t reply, just lobbed the electric blower up in a slow arc toward the hot tub. Time seemed to hang still, and all five of them gasped. As the blower began its descent I gave the cord a yank and it came unplugged. The yard tool splashed harmlessly in the frothy water.
I turned and walked away.
“Goddammit, boy,” Strathmore yelled after me. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. You little fucking pissant. I’m gonna get your ass, run you out of town. No place for anybody named Lee Oswald in Dallas.”
His voice became fainter as I opened the gate and stepped into the garage.
“I got friends in city hall, the mayor, the fucking chief of police. You’re in a world of shit … .”
The sound of his words trailed off as I slipped back into the alley and got in the Taurus. It was about two o’clock, the hottest part of the day. I drove around front and parked a few hundred yards away in the shade. The shadows lengthened as the afternoon wore on. At three-thirty, the Cadillac backed down the driveway. Fortunately for me there was still no traffic.
They turned my way.
I put a pair of foam earplugs in and pulled a black mask over my head. And stepped out of the car.
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