The Second Letter

by Robert Lane

  “How fast does she go?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your untitled forty-foot Intrepid with four outboards and a cuddy. My guess is north of sixty-five.”

  The body builder young man with the ponytail and the nose I wanted to eat planted himself next to Escobar.

  “Elvis, when are you going to put the letters on her hull?” Escobar asked without taking his eyes off mine.

  “Just got the registration back. I’ll get it done in the next few days,” Elvis said while he looked at me.

  “I noticed the pictures in your study, those are some gorgeous fish you caught, but they were all shallow water pictures. One hardly needs 1,400 horsepower for permit. I imagine your boat can outrun about anybody, maybe even the IRS, that’s assuming the IRS would be nipping at your tail, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Escobar?” I considered asking about Bernie, but if Bernie was a lead, I didn’t want to show my hand. I doubted that my innocent inquiry to Sophia would circle back to him.

  We engaged in a good four-second staring match that he lost. He started to shift his weight but caught himself. “You like games, don’t you, Mr. Travis? Have you ever played chess?” He nodded at the chess pieces that stood frozen on a hot night.

  “I’ve played a game or two, but I can never keep straight the opening positions of the knight and bishop.”

  “The knight belongs by his castle, or rook. A schoolboy’s simple method of memory.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “What’s your opening move, Mr. Travis?”

  “A knight out, I guess. At least it sounds like a good time.”

  He eyed me for a moment. “The typical move is pawn to king four.”

  “Mr. Escobar, have you accomplished anything in your life through typical means?”

  He leaned over and pushed the white king pawn two spaces forward to d4. “My father taught me to play. He said every man should be able to hold his own on a chessboard. He always impressed upon me that avoiding mistakes is in itself a brilliant and winning strategy. Why are you here, Mr. Travis?”

  I sauntered over to the black side of the battlefield and advanced the knight to Nf6.

  “In my experience,” I said, “it is the closing moves that matter the most, yet all the attention is paid to the opening. We know the initial positions of thirty-two pieces, and as the game progresses, the possibilities exponentially increase to the point where we cannot see or plan.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Escobar said.

  “What’s the boat for?”

  “I like speed.”

  “And I’m here to support Congressman Kittredge,” I said.

  “You don’t impress me as one of the congressman’s typical constituents.”

  “And you don’t impress me as someone who takes thrill rides on the water.”

  “Perhaps I am atypical.”

  “And I’m not the stereotypic supporter of Michael Kittredge, but his stance on overseas labor laws endears me to his success.” I thought of another question I wished I had texted to Garrett and realized I should have thought of it when I first spotted the 1,400 horses on an untitled boat.

  “I don’t think you have the slightest interest in the World Fair Business Bill,” Escobar said.

  “Then you are gravely mistaken. I have a great interest in helping Congressman Kittredge pass his bill and keep his seat. After all, Mr. Escobar, what good is an ex-congressman to anyone? I’m disappointed that Walter Mendis couldn’t make it.”

  What if I did tell him I was there to collect the letter? What would his move be? He would deny any knowledge. My move after that? I would have blown my intention. Not that it means that much, but I saw no clear strategic advantage by proclaiming that I was there to collect the letter. I’d save that move for later.

  Escobar advanced a pawn to c4. I countered with a pawn to e6 before his hand left his warrior. Speed is everything.

  “It’s still your move,” I said.

  “I’ll be sure to tell him you came by.”

  “I understand that you and he owned some land a few years back that became a major interchange.”

  “It’s good to know you read the papers.”

  “I assume the real story never sees print.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  I said, “It’s still your move. I suggest g3. I’ll follow with d5 and we’ll be on our way to Tartakower’s Catalan opening that he originated in Barcelona in 1929. I have always admired chess master Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower.”

  In my entrance exam for the army, they had me up to thirty-five simultaneous blindfolded matches, some sort of record they were all jacked about. I won them all.

  Escobar’s face went dead. “I am not familiar with him,” he said in a deliberate tone.

  “I’m surprised. He and your father had much in common.”

  “What does Tartakower have in common with my father?”

  “He shared your father’s aversion to mistakes, Mr. Escobar. Tartakower said ‘the winner of the game is the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.’”

  Escobar paused and then said, “Elvis, perhaps you would like to continue playing with our new friend. I’m afraid that I’ve been ignoring my other guests far too long.” Escobar’s eyes never left me. Elvis, like a chess piece awaiting its orders, had not moved since he joined us. Chess time was over.

  “I’d be happy to, Mr. Escobar,” Elvis said.

  I’d been thinking of my next move, and it wasn’t on the chessboard.

  “I’m afraid I must be going myself.” I turned to Elvis. “Perhaps we can play later.”

  He laid some silence down before he spoke. “I’d enjoy that.”

  “Thank you for the evening,” I said and walked three steps before I did a Colombo. “What got you involved with Walter Mendis?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The photograph behind your desk of you, Henriques, and Mendis smoking cigars. How did you get involved with Mendis?”

  Escobar cut me a cold stare. “Goodnight, Mr. Travis. I am sure you can find your way out.”

  I wanted to tell him that I certainly had no problem getting in, but decided to let him have the last words. I left Escobar and Elvis behind me and placed my drink on the teak bar.

  “I’m still here,” the blonde said.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” I said and kept churning.

  I called Garrett in the car, provided a capsule review of the evening, and told him that Bernie might have worked for Escobar at one point. I asked him to petition the colonel for satellite photographs of Escobar’s place over a period of time, which is what I wished I had thought of doing earlier. I wanted to see if we could detect specific days, or nights, when his Intrepid was gone. I also told him to have Mary Evelyn look into the land deal going down south of the Skyway Bridge and see if Escobar and company had a hand in that as well.

  Maybe he did have enough cash to settle his IRS bill and he figured he didn’t need to; his quid pro quo being that important to the US government. Auctioning off cheaply secured parcels of land to Cracker Barrel and Exxon with a guy like Walter Mendis in the picture reeked of corruption. There had to be dirt, and if I got enough dirt on Escobar, I would blackmail him into surrendering the letter. Plan A.

  Plan B was to grab Escobar, choke him to the edge of death, demand the letter back, and hope he never pressed charges. If I got short of time, I could always fall back on that, but it carried its own drawbacks. Escobar might scream attempted murder. Maximum time in an orange jumpsuit: life.

  Not that anyone would find me. But what’s the point of that?

  I couldn’t remember the last time plan A, or B through Z for that matter, was worth a damn. It always came down to who made the next-to-last mistake.

  “You’re going where?” Kathleen asked when I swung into her driveway.

  “A titty joint. Would you care to join me?”

  “If only you asked me earlier. What ar
e you looking for?”

  “Who.”

  “Fine, who?”

  “Bernie.”

  “Who?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The man you inquired about in Escobar’s study.”

  “You’d like to reconsider?”

  “You know, I think I’ll call it a night. Bear in mind, though, that in this country you can’t legally buy either one.”

  “What?”

  “Tits or joints.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I ripped off my bow tie and stuck it in my inside jacket pocket as I strode through the heavy wood door of the Welcome In. I claimed a burgundy barstool. I didn’t think they made them anymore, but this one was in good shape and across from the bartender’s sink. A brunette landed beside me before my elbows found the counter.

  “I’d like to welcome you in,” she said. “I’m April.”

  “Nice job on the flowers, but I’m waiting for May.”

  “You’ve got to go through me first,” she said in a rehearsed tone that didn’t quite mask her weariness.

  “And if I’m looking for December?”

  “Then you have a pleasurable and exhausting night ahead of you.”

  “What do they serve around here besides the Gregorian calendar?” I asked.

  “Pretty much whatever you like. Are you heat?”

  “No.” I laid a fifty on the counter between us. “I’m really just looking for an old friend who might have worked here or passed through. Bernie.”

  She had green eyes and a low-cut, thin-strapped black blouse with tight dark jeans. Her arms looked like she was only a few days out of Dachau and were in stark contrast to her melon breasts. She had Botox lips, and for some reason all I could think of was what the hell she would look like in thirty years. She wore no jewelry, just skin. She had the cutest little pug nose I’d seen in a long time and I wondered why she just didn’t go with that.

  “What happened? Did Bernie stand you up at the opera tonight, or do you always tool around town in a tux?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Let’s talk on a couch. I can help you forget Bernie.”

  “How long’ve you been here?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you for years.”

  The bartender, a pumpkin face with a crooked bow tie, appeared on the other side of the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  “Stella.” I thought it went well with April. I turned back to her. “This music play all the time?” It was the same playlist that was at Escobar’s house.

  “I know. Can you believe it? Something about what the owner likes. I think they could update it, you know, like every forty years or so. But a lot of guys dig it. How about you?”

  “I’m curious whether Bernie worked here once. I’d like to talk to him about a mutual friend.”

  April hesitated, landed a cold stare, and left me with a beer and a fifty on the counter. I reached for my wallet and laid a Franklin on top of Grant and took my time sipping the cold draft. I was banking on her spreading my interest around and someone seeing the growing pot. The bartender circled back and I asked him how long he had worked there. He replied that he just started and the guy before him lasted only five months. It was looking like a dead end. The land deal was over two years ago, not including lead time.

  She slid onto the stool next to me and in one motion cleaned my stash off the counter.

  “A man in a tuxedo who wants to know about Bernie,” she said.

  “You’re not May, are you?” I asked.

  “May?”

  “Or Amy. I talked with April earlier.”

  “I see. And Amy?”

  “Rearranged May.”

  She gave a small laugh and tossed her blonde hair in a natural and unpretentious manner. “I like that. No, I’m Lisa. Let’s go get a cup of coffee, scrabble boy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you want to know about Bernie, it’ll cost you a cup of coffee.”

  “What about the bills you just swiped?”

  Lisa vacated her stool faster than she had filled it and headed toward the door. I scrambled.

  We took a booth in a bright diner two doors down from the Welcome In. Someone had dropped money in a jukebox to hear Lana Del Rey bemoan her sad summer. The linoleum floor was antique yellow and my seat had a strip of gray duct tape, its corners turned up and sticky. The joint needed a facelift.

  Not Lisa. She had Grand Canyon dimples and a small, tight mouth. She was a little older than me and coming up on the south side of forty if you stared. I did. Not making forty look good, just good-looking. She was a showroom floor model, and I wondered why the hell no one had driven her home. A waitress wearing glasses and with a blue-and-white-checkered apron around her waist brought her coffee. I shifted my weight to avoid the sticky tape. I told four-eyes that I was fine.

  “Why are you tooling around in a tux at night looking for Bernie?”

  “I miss him.”

  “Try again.”

  “I have some questions for him concerning Raydel Escobar.” I had no idea whether Lisa knew whom she worked for or not.

  “You know Raydel?”

  “We go way back.”

  “You tell him that he better start paying more attention to us, or I’m going to cozy up to his wife.”

  Guess they knew each other.

  “Do you know Bernie?” I asked.

  “Do you know pleasure?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are we here talking business?”

  “I followed you.”

  “You did, didn’t you? Now it’s your turn to lead. Where to next?”

  “I like it right here.”

  “Why?”

  “One fifty for a business conversation.”

  “I had no idea it was your money.”

  “It’s not anymore.”

  “So you think you’re entitled?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m just hoping you’ll help me out.”

  She didn’t say anything but glanced out the window. Her hands were placed on the Formica tabletop a foot on either side of her white coffee mug. They hadn’t moved since we sat down. A red two-door car with a dented rear quarter panel passed on the other side of the glass and momentarily disrupted our reflections.

  “He worked here a few years ago.” She turned back to me. “He was here when I started and had been around before that. Nice guy. Not your type.”

  “My type?”

  She leaned in slightly across the table. “What’s your name, scrabble boy?”

  “Jake. Jake Travis.”

  “Jake,” she played with it as if were her first attempt at a foreign word. “Jake Travis. You have no idea how well I know you. You can’t even imagine how many Jakes have looked at me in my life.”

  “You can’t even imagine how lucky those men are, how they may carry that glance of you, your smile, those ridiculous dimples, around in their heads for years. They take it to their graves, baby. And if you think it’s all about sex, then you’re just another dumb dame.”

  She started to smile but retreated as her actions caught up with my words. “Thank you. That was nice, I think. Are you always in third gear?”

  “Never saw the point of the first two.”

  “You know you’re a member of a highly disturbed gender.”

  “We’re all pretty much cut from the same cloth.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Did you ever meet Bernie?”

  “No.”

  “Because if you had, you would know that Bernie never looked at me the way you’re looking at me.”

  “Bernie was gay?”

  “Is, unless he met an untimely demise because, honey, they rarely go the other way.”

  “Where does he work now?”

  Lisa didn’t answer, but glanced out the window at nothing except her reflection. We sat in silence. She came back.

  “
Would you like to have lunch tomorrow?” she asked. She tossed it out like a strand of spaghetti to see if it stuck to the wall.

  “I can’t. I really just need to talk to Bernie.” I wished I had hesitated in my answer and at least given her that. “Listen, I’m not some dangerous guy. I don’t cause problems. I just need to talk to him.” Either Lisa was game or she wasn’t. I started to reach for my wallet.

  “Stop it. He works at Simeons. Downtown. Probably there right now. They go to four a.m.”

  “Why did he leave the Welcome In?”

  “I don’t know, scrabble. Go ask him. That’s what you’re dying to do.”

  I got up to leave. “Thank you. I really do just want to talk to him about a mutual friend.”

  “Perhaps. But like I said, I know men, and I don’t believe one bit the lie you just told me.”

  “What was that?”

  “That you’re not a dangerous guy.”

  I left Lisa sitting alone in the booth facing the wall with her back to the door and her hands still quietly resting on the table. BK, Before Kathleen, I’d double back into her life. But no more.

  Simeons was thumping to the most obnoxious, obscene beat to ever befall the civilized western world when I hit the door and took the only empty seat at the bar. The lights were dim, the crowd ramped, and I was beat. It had been a long day. It was a new day.

  “Maker’s Mark, splash of Coke on the rocks,” I said to the bartender with a handlebar moustache. I’d decided to return to the night’s original partner. “And ice water with a lemon.”

  “Night starting to catch up with you?” he said.

  “More like the years.” He smiled as if he cared, but I knew it was just his job. He placed the aged bourbon on the bar. I placed a fifty next to it.

  “I was at the Welcome In looking for an old friend, Bernie. He used to tend bar there years ago and I heard he moved over—”

  “Bernie!” He yelled at a guy toward the other end. He came down from the other end of the bar, squeezed behind another bartender shaking a drink, and settled in across from me. Bernie wore a black shirt unbuttoned at the top and a cream white tie that had taken one too many spills. “This stud wants to talk to you. Said he knew you at Welcome In.”

  Bernie said, “I don’t recall ever meeting you.”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure,” I said. “I need to talk to you about Raydel Escobar and the interchange deal he was involved in years—”