"Evening. He sleeps and drinks most of the day, in a guest suite on the second floor."
"Which suite?"
"Third room on the left."
"He's living like that, he might up and die before too long."
"I doubt it. Mr. Lucas seems to have an unusual … constitution. I suspect that's why Ma favors him so. Anyway, I'll drop by from time to time for your reports. If you'd like something to eat, you'll find the kitchen staff very accommodating."
"Let's keep our meetings discrete, alright? I don't want to tip my hand too soon."
"An excellent precaution."
Jack hesitated, but a question had been nagging him since noon. "Who was that woman waiting outside your ma's bedroom? The Carib."
"That's Pantoja. She's a sensitive."
"A what?"
"A medium. Ma's under the delusion that family spirits haunt the old tower attached to the manor. Also, from time to time she attempts to communicate with my late father. It's all superstitious twaddle, believe me."
"There's something about her. Pantoja, I mean. Those eyes …"
"Hypnosis, probably."
Phil dismissed himself, to do whatever it was young Texas dilettantes did with their afternoons. Jack turned his attention to the stacks of tiles.
* * *
The servants laid out a cold collation for dinner. With so many guests coming and going the arrangement made good sense. Wanting to stay as unobtrusive as possible, Jack wrapped some food in a napkin and took it back with him to the tile room, along with two sweating cans of Lone Star.
He had just peeled a hardboiled egg and was about to slather it with Tabasco when a woman peered in from the hallway.
"So you're Phil's new hire."
She was in her early thirties, a looker, but a little on the skinny side. Dark hair cut like a flapper's from several decades back. She had olive skin and green eyes, and her jaw tightened as she took Jack's measure.
"My name's Laramie." He didn't offer his hand, as she didn't look inclined to shake. "You must be Phil's sister."
"Marta Cisneros."
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
Her jaw muscles stayed tense. "Where'd Phil find you?"
"Drunk tank over in Corpus."
"That sounds like my brother. Are you experienced in your trade, Mr. Laramie?"
"I've picked up a few tricks, over the years."
"Those coveralls you're wearing are so new they look stiff."
"Well … I figured I'd better get a new pair, seeing as how I'd be working around rich folks."
"Uh-huh. Phil put you up in a room too, didn't he?"
"Saves trips back and forth over the causeway."
"I think it's a little strange. The last hired man proved to be a drunkard. He takes advantage of my mother's good will. See that you don't do the same, Mr. Laramie."
"I sure won't, ma'am."
She turned and swished away. Jack watched her trim behind work beneath a pair of slacks. How close was she to Phil? The two would seem to have a common interest, in keeping riff-raff out of their mother's will. But clearly, Phil hadn't told his sister he'd hired a private detective. Jack shrugged and pulled the tab on the first of the Lone Stars. After draining the second, he grabbed tiles off the pallet and laid them out over the bare floor like puzzle pieces.
An hour or so passed. The overcast sky outside the patio's French doors started to darken. Mr. Lucas should be stirring by now. Jack pondered the best way to get a look at him, without rousing any suspicion. He'd noticed a sideboard well stocked with booze just off the dining room. Lucas would probably return to it like wild game returning to a watering hole. If Jack could keep a quiet vigil somewhere nearby …
Laughter, muted conversation, and the occasional shriek carried from the front part of the house. Apparently, another party had started. But Ma's artistic guests were either too tight or too snobbish to notice a blue-collar type skulking around the dining room. Jack found a high-backed chair in a dark corner where he could keep an eye on the sideboard. As he watched, a procession of Bohemians lurched up to mix drinks and lurched away again, tumblers in hand.
Fifteen minutes slid by. Jack was debating mixing a highball for himself when he heard footsteps pounding from the stair. A swarthy man appeared, tall as Jack and broader in the shoulder. He had a thick black beard kept trimmed, and puffy, dissipated features. Probably a real stallion before middle age and the bottle had taken their due. An ivory-hilted knife hung from his belt. Jack watched him stalk up to the sideboard and grab a virgin bottle of Dewar's. He headed back toward the stairs, though for a moment his eyes flicked over Jack's shadowed form. He grunted; from contempt, curiosity, or as a greeting Jack couldn't tell. Moments later footfalls shuffled up the steps.
"That had to be Lucas," Jack said aloud. Quick as he could, he pulled off his boots and tucked them under his arms. He hit the marble stairs in stocking feet. Lucas's heavy tread creaked on the landing above. Crouching double, Jack stole up after.
The second floor hall and was dark, with no sign of Lucas. Jack counted three rooms down on the left. The door stood ajar, but no light came streaming out behind it. Lucas could be in there drinking, or he could be somewhere else. Jack didn't want to accost a drunken, armed man in the semidarkness, but he wasn't going to make any progress without risk. He crept up to the doorway. After a moment of straining his ears and hearing nothing, he slipped inside.
The room had a sour bachelor smell. Faint light from the landing cut a swath across the floorboards, but everything else was shadow. He bumped into a footlocker at the front of a queen-sized bed. There were two pairs of pants folded over a chair, and a nightstand crowded with bottles. He poked around, unsure of what he was searching for. Anything to give him a handle on Lucas, he supposed. Something white gleamed along the base of a wall. He stooped, felt at it with his fingers—plaster dust. A miniscule amount, like someone had already swept most of it away.
"Ssshh," said a deep voice in the hallway. Another voice giggled.
Voices and footsteps were closing. Too close to risk darting out of the room. Jack flattened himself under the bed.
Two distinct pairs of feet clumped inside. The door closed. More giggling, definitely feminine, and then the same voice breathed a couple words in Spanish. Jack caught "vieja." Old woman. A bottle clunked against the nightstand. The swish of clothes being shucked off. The bed creaked with a sudden weight, causing the box springs to bulge inches from Jack's face. A moment of breathless fumbling followed, giving way to the familiar rhythm.
It didn't last particularly long. Lucas and his unknown partner seemed to take pains in keeping quiet. Lying beneath them, Jack was reduced to breathing in dust and thinking about Bea Eckert. It made him feel like a keyhole peeper, and by degrees, lonely.
Lucas began snoring like a chainsaw. Despite the volume, his companion soon made whoosh-whoosh noises of her own. Jack decided to risk it. He edged out from under the bed, quiet as a snake. The lovers, in their passionate hurry, had neglected to lock the door. He lifted up on the knob as he eased it open, keeping the weight off the hinges. Lucas snorted and turned over, but not before Jack had slipped all the way into the hall.
He reached the landing, sneaking glances behind him … and almost bumped into Ma Cisneros.
She'd been descending from the third floor, dressed in a long dark shawl. Her hair hung wild and loose. Jack, holding a boot in either hand, started to mumble an explanation. She reached out and groped his face. Her eyes remained unfocused the whole time, so dilated they were almost all black.
"I got … I got a little turned around," he said. "The manor's so big …"
Noise from the party came floating up the stairwell, which seemed to distract her. She forgot about his face and nudged past him, tottering a little as her bare feet touched the marble steps. Jack followed, ready to grab her if she slipped. At the ground floor, she turned left instead of right, moving away from the living room soiree and out through the front d
oor.
Jack paused long enough to pull his boots on. Should he follow further? Phil wasn't paying him to track his mother's nocturnal habits. On the other hand, the old woman didn't seem right in the head. Could she be sleepwalking? No harm in making sure she didn't take a tumble. It wouldn't do for the matron of the Cisneros clan to break her hip his first night on the case.
He opened the front door. Clouds sopped up all the moonlight, but a pair of brass lanterns managed to stab through the murk. Ma was already shuffling down the veranda to his right. She didn't respond when he called her name, or when he hurried after and put a hand on her shoulder. Instead, she continued her steady pace toward an iron gate connecting the old tower to the porch. A length of padlocked chain bound the gate shut. Ma pawed at it for a moment, before peering close to examine each link. She seemed fascinated. Her tongue darted out and licked the dull metal.
"Letty! There you are."
Jack had been so distracted he hadn't noticed Dessau's pale form slip out of the shadows.
"I saw her coming down the steps," Jack said, "inside. She's in some kind of trance, isn't she?"
Dessau's eyes were thoughtful as he gently turned Ma to face him. "She's been working too hard," he said. "Much too hard. I'm no psychologist, but I imagine the strain of trying to create under a self-imposed deadline, to fill that blank canvas with something meaningful has taxed her psyche."
Ma was staring up at Dessau now, one finger twirling his stringy blond hair.
"She's done this before?" Jack said.
"Several times, over the past few weeks. As her mentor, I, of course, have encouraged rest. But always with this one, the drive. She is quite willful, as you can imagine. There was talk of her resuming analysis. Naturally, she wouldn't stand for it."
"What'll you do now?"
He patted the back of her hand, earning a slack-jawed look. "Give her some tea, and relative quiet. I'll read Goethe to her. That always works. Do you mind, Mr. … Laramie, is it?"
He offered Jack one of Ma's shoulders. Between the two of them, they walked her down the veranda and back into the front hall. She seemed too distracted to protest. Jack had seen all kinds of drunkenness, and watched men crack under the long, freezing nights of Stalag Luft Three, but he'd never witnessed anything like this.
"I'll take her to the library," Dessau said, holding Ma's hand like she was four years old. "We should be able to manage without your help. Vielen danke."
"Kein problem. Say buddy, I spent some time in Deutschland during the war. What part are you from?"
"Bremen." He held up his hand. "But let's not talk about such unpleasantness, shall we? When Leticia's senses return, I will tell her of your kindness."
He inclined his head and bore Ma away, directing her toward the manor's western wing. Jack felt a sudden hankering for the narrow little bed in his narrow little room. Too much had happened in a short time for him to process. He'd need sleep, and several cups of coffee afterward to reason everything out.
He had to pass the party on the way back to his quarters. It looked like the same mix he'd glimpsed that morning, plus or minus a few faces. They'd formed a sort of pen out of settee cushions and were ringed tight around it, holding up their drinks like bettor's slips, cackling at the spectacle inside. Jack peered over their shoulders. They'd corralled Texas Charlie. Panicked, the little armadillo turned frantic circles, trying to find somewhere to hide.
"Goddamn beatniks," Jack said. "Why don't you play some jazz records like you're supposed to?"
Nobody seemed to hear him. He hurried off to bed.
* * *
By morning the weather had changed to sunny and windy, blowing a series of tuneless notes through Jack's tiny window. He woke with a cavern in his gut. The servants were preparing a buffet-style breakfast in the dining room, and he helped himself to a giant bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar, washed down with cup after cup of black coffee. Rich people always brewed the best java.
His first priority was to find Phil and debrief him about the events of the night. But Phil was taking his breakfast with the family proper, at a parasol-shaded table on the back deck. Jack watched them from the kitchen window. Ma Cisneros sat prominent, wrapped in a flapping headscarf and sunglasses, with Dessau perched on her right and a truculent Mr. Lucas sprawled to her left, his booted feet up on a chair. Phil and Marta sat across from each other, picking at their food and generally avoiding eye contact. Phil looked as out of place with his family as he had in the drunk tank on Friday night.
The elderly butler came hustling into the kitchen, balancing an empty tray. He turned to Jack. "The madam would like a few words with you, sir."
"Out there?" Jack gestured with his cup.
"Yes, sir."
"Is she feeling alright?"
That got him a quizzical look. "I should think so, sir."
Jack brushed at his coveralls, feeling like he'd just been summoned by royalty. A Gulf breeze hit him as he opened the door to the deck. White-capped waters swelled in the distance. He stepped out, his boots making a clunking noise against the boards.
"Over here, Mr. Laramie!"
Ma was calling. Her voice sounded steady enough. He felt five pairs of eyes boring into him as he clunked up to the covered table. Breakfast for the Cisneros clan was rare steak with poached eggs, and tall flutes of mimosa. No oatmeal here.
"Mr. Dessau told me I had one of my spells last night," Ma said. "He also told me you made sure I didn't injure myself."
"Just being careful, ma'am."
"Well, your thoughtfulness is appreciated." Ma looked around the table. "I think it's interesting, in a house full of people, I have to depend on a stranger for my own safety."
Lucas groaned. Marta threw her fork down with a clatter. "I've told you before," she said, "you should lock your door when you feel one of your 'spells' coming on."
"I'm old enough to take my own counsel, thank you," Ma said. "And let's not air our family differences in front of Mr. Laramie. The Cisneros reputation has been tarnished enough."
Her gaze fixed on her son. Phil seemed to look everywhere, except at anyone else. Lucas, meanwhile, drained his mimosa and glowered at Jack. His bloodshot eyes were slits in the morning brightness.
Jack opted to dismiss himself before the mood got any thicker. "Well, I sure appreciate your appreciation, ma'am. If it's alright with you, I best return to my tiles."
"Please do, Mr. Laramie. It's nice to see someone who finishes what they start."
The comment prompted another withering look from Lucas. Jack turned and walked back toward the house, half expecting to feel an ivory-hilted knife sink between his shoulders. Ma Cisneros reminded him of a black widow, ensnaring her children and hangers-on in webs of money. Strip her of all that cash, her estate, and she'd be just another lonely old woman.
* * *
He spent the morning hunched over Salteco tiles, trying to look busy while he waited for Phil to appear. His lower back was starting to hurt, and his knees weren't feeling so rosy, either.
"You don't know a goddamn thing about tiling, do you?"
Lucas's voice startled him. He'd always prided himself on the sharpness of his senses, but he hadn't heard anyone coming up the hall. Either he was getting rusty or Lucas moved like a cat. The big man's frame filled the doorway, his arms folded. The knife in his belt jutted within easy reach.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"Long enough. I've got half a mind to go to Ma right now, tell her what kind of man her son hired."
Jack kept his gaze steady. "What's stopping you?"
"Well … Ma's taken a liking to you, for one thing. When that happens, she doesn't always show good sense. Also, I'm not so mean-spirited as to threaten a man's livelihood, if'n he's a decent sort."
"The hell you aren't." Jack got to his feet. As soon as he moved, Lucas's hand twitched toward the knife-hilt. But he didn't draw. Jack thought dimly of the Colt he'd left in the trailer's strongbox. The best
way to win a knife fight was with a gun. But even if he'd had it, he doubted if he could clear the holster before Lucas stuck him.
"Let's be civilized about this, Mr. Laramie. There just might be room for two of us here, as long as you understand the rules. Hell, I'll let you buy me a drink and we'll talk about it."
"Buy you a drink? This house is swimming in liquor."
Lucas shook his head. "Nah, the goddamn four walls are getting to me. That and all the pinkos Ma keeps here. I know a place perfect for men like us, and close by."
"On a Sunday?"
"Sunday doesn't matter. Padre Island is its own little world, mister. We'll take your car."
He sidled forward and put a well-muscled arm over Jack's shoulder. The gesture couldn't have felt less chummy if he'd punched him in the gut. Jack went with it, though. Lucas could be making his job easier, by calling him out so early. "What about my tiles?" he said, nodding at the half-covered floor.
Lucas laughed. "Who cares? You must've figured already this is a manana kind of place. If anyone gives you shit, I'll just tell 'em you and me are poolin' our expertise. A couple master craftsmen sharing notes." He laughed again and slapped Jack's knee. Hard.
"Alright, but go easy on me. I'm not looking to scrap."
"Aw, me neither." Lucas propelled him into the hallway. "'Sides, it wouldn't be fair, mixing it up with a skinny little runt like you. Phil's probably more your speed. You and him could go a couple falls, I reckon."
Jack grit his teeth.
In the living room, a small army of servants were straightening the settees, emptying ash trays, and dabbing at a dark spot that was probably armadillo piddle. The merry artisans were nowhere to be seen. Maybe Ma had sent them away, now that the weekend was winding down.
"Christ, I hope I get a couple days without those beatniks," Lucas said. "The gals put out and all, but damn, they smell like horses half the time. You don't go in for all that bongo-playing do you, Laramie?"
"No, sir."
"Didn't think so. Didn't think you looked the type. Well, that's one thing we've got in common, right there. Something to hang a friendship on. Now, let's go take a look at your heap."
Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5) Page 4