The easy smile returned. “Oh, no, not at all,” Vosic said and opened his top drawer. He flipped an ashtray across the desktop, giving it a neat little spin with a flick of his wrist. It was tin, in the shape of a cartoonish face, and the open mouth formed the tray itself. Perfect, Whelan thought. He would have a gag ashtray. He took his time lighting up, took a puff, set the cigarette on the lip of the cartoon face, pretended to be admiring the ashtray, then leaned back and exhaled smoke.
Vosic leaned forward across the desk as if to remove the space barrier and folded his hands.
“Now, are you aware that this company has absolutely nothing to do with High Pair? I mean, I can put you in touch with my legal people if there are any questions about that. We’re totally independent of what went on back then, totally independent of all that,” and he made a little pushing gesture with one hand.
Whelan frowned and played dumb for a moment, then shook his head. “Oh, jeez, no, no, no, I’m giving you the wrong impression. I have no interest in the company, per se, but in one employee or…I’m not really certain what his status was—George Brister.”
Vosic said “Oh” in the long, uncertain syllable of a man thinking on his feet. His eyes wandered around the room for a moment and then he collected himself. He said “George Brister” and raised his eyebrows comically. He gave Whelan a rueful smile.
“Oh, yes, George was with us, all right. Was he ever.”
“Was he an actual partner?”
“No, no, Jesus, that’s all we would have needed. If Brister had been my partner I wouldn’t have anything.” He made a little snorting sound. “Be cleaning out johns somewhere. No, he wasn’t a partner. He was an accountant.” He pronounced the word precisely, then repeated, “An accountant. Hell of an accountant. Boy, was he ever. I hired him, too.” He gave Whelan a sheepish look.
“Something you lived to regret, I take it.”
“Oh, yeah.” Vosic laughed. “Oh, I learned to regret it, all right. We thought Brister was a pretty fair accountant, but you know, a drunk, a lush.” He shrugged. “But I thought, what the hell, if the guy can make the numbers work, he’s doing his thing, right? And we needed that, we needed a numbers guy, a real strong numbers guy. Well, old George turned out to be a lot of things. For one, he was an actor. Played dumb, put on this…whaddya call it, this act, this…”
“Persona?”
Vosic grinned. “There you go. That’s it, that’s nice, a persona. Exactly. He made himself out to be this kind of quiet guy, kind of sullen sometimes. We left him alone, thought it was just his daily hangover. And all the time he was milking the company in ways that were fucking dazzling. He took us for a mil and a half and almost all of it was borrowed money. Shot the shit out of my company. Killed my partner.”
“What?” Whelan gave him a stunned look.
“You didn’t know about that, huh?”
“No, like I said, I’m only interested in Brister, not in the companies he worked for.”
“Yeah, my partner, Phil Fairs, he was the one who had the reputation, he was the front man, the one who had the credit, who borrowed all the money.”
“Not you? I would have figured you for that part.”
Vosic laughed. “Not if you’d met Phil, you wouldn’t. No, he was the idea man and I was the administrator. He was the one who got hung out to dry. It was his name, you know? He borrowed the money, got us extensions, got us more money…so when we started to go under because this—” He leaned forward, a gentleman about to descend into ungentlemanly talk, “—this prick took us to school, Phil killed himself. He couldn’t handle it, he killed himself.”
“No kidding.”
“Thirty-eight years old, nice house, nice wife. Killed himself.” Vosic shook his head and looked at his tanned fingers for a moment. Then he looked up.
“So, ah, why are you looking into this guy?”
“Well, I can’t go too deeply into that, but let’s just say you weren’t the first or the last victims of this man.” He took a puff and nodded as Vosic waited for him to give up more.
Sorry pal, that’s all you get.
“No, huh? We weren’t the…we weren’t the last ones?”
“No. Near as I can make out, this guy’s got an income over the past ten years like the Shah. Spends it, too.”
Vosic nodded, mouth open. For just a moment he looked dull, slow, unimaginative. Then he tilted his head slowly.
“And this is where? Here? Chicago?” He squinted.
Whelan shrugged. “Among other places. Seattle, for one, seems to like Seattle. Denver, Austin, San Diego,” Whelan said. I’m cooking now, he thought as he watched Rich Vosic. Vosic was obviously waiting for more, so Whelan added, “Baton Rouge.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“And you’re sure it’s the same guy? I mean in all these places? Sounds like a movie.” He worked at a smile but it didn’t quite take.
Whelan nodded. It did sound like a movie. It sounded like The Mask of Demetrios—a manipulative scoundrel moving back and forth among unsuspecting businessmen and robbing them all blind, always leaving someone behind holding the bag. This had all the elements of the movie except the Balkan locations and Sidney Greenstreet.
“You’re right. It’s hard to believe one guy pulled all this stuff off, but…” He shrugged.
Vosic stared at him, waiting for more. He licked his lips. Then he got tired of waiting, made an irritated little shrug, and shook his head.
“Can you tell me any of the other companies he took down recently, Paul?”
“Sorry, Mr. Vosic—”
“Rich, Rich.”
“Okay, Rich. No, I can’t do that. I’m…” Whelan allowed himself to sink back into the chair; he blew out a long breath and shook his head. “I’m fairly certain they aren’t telling me everything anyhow. There is some talk of a governmental investigation because there was an S & L involved. Federally insured funds are gone. So…so, this is all heavy shit and I think if I don’t watch my ass, somebody’s going to kick it. You see my position?”
Vosic nodded. “Oh, sure, sure. I understand perfectly. No problem. No problem.” He continued to nod and Whelan waited.
Vosic looked around the room, his gaze flitting from object to object, and Whelan thought he could almost hear Vosic’s heart sinking.
I hit your spot, my friend. I don’t know what it is, or exactly what I hit it with, but I see it. He felt a little thrill. There was something here, the brittle Mrs. Fairs was right. He puffed on his cigarette, made a show of brushing ash off his shirt front, and put the cigarette out in the grinning ashtray.
When he looked up, Vosic was watching him and a slightly different look had come into his eyes. Round two.
“So what else can I tell you about this guy, Paul?”
“Well, my information, which is really based on very scattered testimony, a lot of it contradictory, is that this guy Brister might still be here. No, more accurately, that he’s back here, that he’s got a thing about Chicago. Have you, in the time since he left your firm, heard anything about him, or heard from him, or had any word at all about him, no matter how questionable or unreliable?”
Vosic pushed out his lower lip and shook his head slowly. “No. No, as far as I was concerned, he vanished. He just disappeared. And I’ll be straight with you, Paul, I’m not entirely surprised about what you’ve told me. I mean, I have enough evidence of my own that this guy was shrewd. He took us for a lot of money, in ways I never thought possible, and then he made it out of town and nobody found him. No dummy, this guy.”
“So what’s the last you ever heard from him?”
“About five days before my partner Phil killed himself. That’s the last time I saw him. He went home after lunch, said he wasn’t feeling well. That was nothing new for Brister, he came in hung over so often it was a miracle he could get through the day as often as he did. Never came back.”
“Did you try to call him or anything?”
>
“Oh, sure. But—really, we figured he went on a bender. He was that kind, Paul. Then, the next thing we knew, he was gone. We found out that Brister had gone to Seattle.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“Two years ago.”
“Well, it sure looks like old George didn’t stay in Seattle.”
Vosic gave his head a little shake but said nothing.
“Did Brister have any friends or—you know, drinking partners?”
“None that we knew of.”
“Women?”
“Nah. This was a pretty spooky-looking guy, Paul. Women didn’t exactly throw themselves at him. No, he was a loner. No personal life that we knew about.”
“Do you still have his personnel files? His personal data?”
The start of a frown, then a short nod. “I think I’ve got some of that stuff in a storage room. I didn’t keep a lot of it but you’re welcome to whatever we’ve got. I’ll have Carmen give you a hand.”
“I appreciate that. One more thing.” Whelan did his best to look just a little sheepish. “If this guy is around, as he may be, is he dangerous?”
Vosic shrugged. “Brister? Never scared me. Guys like that, they don’t have any balls, you know what I’m saying, Paul? Confront a guy like that, he’s gonna back down every time.”
“Just your typical little numbers guy, huh?”
“Well, he wasn’t little. He was a big, hulking kind of a guy. A certain amount of muscle but he was carrying a lot of extra weight. Reminded me of a big old bear—he had a real thick beard. One of those guys that wears a lot of hair on his face to compensate for the fact that it’s all gone on top, you know?”
He thought for a moment, shot a quick, ostentatious look at the Rolex on his wrist, and then got to his feet.
“I got an eleven o’clock in the Loop, Paul. Gotta sprint. I’ll get Carmen to give you whatever you need.”
Vosic ushered him to the door and walked him over to the young woman’s desk.
“Carmen, I’d like you to help Mr. Whelan. He’s going to need to see the old personnel files from High Pair. Those are the files we stored in those green cartons, back in the storage room?” He raised his eyebrows in question. She nodded. “Okay, so give him whatever he wants—” He winked at her. “—within reason.” And he showed his perfect white teeth.
Carmen laughed, blushed beneath her tan, winked back, and looked up at Whelan, smiling.
Vosic patted him on the shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Paul.” He held out his hand and they shook. Whelan looked him in the eye and saw Vosic looking right past him. A worried man. A second later he was out the door.
Carmen watched him leave, her eyes lingering on the door for a moment. Then she looked at Whelan again.
“I love women named Carmen,” he said.
“So does he.” She smiled till the dimples came back.
Carmen got up and crossed the room with short, light steps. She was tan and bare-legged and wore sandals and an ankle bracelet, and Whelan thought it would be a fine thing to have an office with a Carmen in it. She opened a door and scanned a row of black file cabinets till she found the one she wanted. In a moment she came out with an armful of manila folders in green dividers. She lay the folders on her desk and shrugged.
“That’s it. Small company, you know? So there’s only a few personnel files.”
“Good. Less to read that way.”
“Sit anywhere you like. In a couple of minutes I’m going on break.”
“Does that mean I have to answer the phones?”
She laughed and showed him the dimples again.
“Don’t do that, Carmen.”
“Do what?”
“Show me those dimples. I cave in when I see dimples.”
She laughed and sat down at her desk again. Too young for me, he thought and picked up the folders. He found himself a work space at an empty desk. There were files on a dozen people plus partial information on a number of temporaries from three different agencies. He scanned it all briefly and then studied the file on George Brister. He read it twice, first quickly and then carefully, for it was in many ways a remarkable batch of documents. After the second reading he scanned it again, this time looking for something, anything, that would convince a serious businessman that George Brister was worth hiring. He couldn’t find it.
Brister’s file and resume broke every rule he’d ever heard—Brister had held too many jobs in too many places. There were gaps between some of the jobs, and several of the gaps were of uncommon duration, one of them almost a year and a half. There were jobs in Seattle and Portland and Denver, and then Brister was in St. Louis and Milwaukee and finally Chicago. The gaps and movement could have meant anything, but Whelan already had a pretty clear idea what they really said, and he confirmed it with a quick look at the “Internal Use Only” form that gave Brister’s medical history. Brister had spent several months in Martha Washington Hospital and two months in Grant, for unspecified problems. Both hospitals specialized in the treatment of substance abuse, particularly alcohol abuse. He glanced at Brister’s application and saw that the accountant had mentioned “depression” as the cause of some of his previous problems. There were no letters of recommendation, not even of the “To Whom It May Concern” variety that the client could furnish himself. There was a letter, written in confidence from Brister’s supervisor in Portland. The letter gave reluctant endorsement of Brister’s talents as an accountant and then added a paragraph of caution:
George is a capable accountant and has at times performed competently for us. I feel, however, that it is incumbent upon us to inform future employers of certain personality disorders that will doubtless affect his performance. During his stay here, George exhibited a number of disquieting traits and gave strong evidence of emotional difficulties. For one thing, George has a serious alcohol problem. On at least two occasions, George reported to work in a state of intoxication, and on one of these occasions provoked a violent altercation with his supervisor.
In short, George Brister’s presence in an office can become an extremely disruptive force.
Whelan looked over the rest of the file, particularly the application form. Much of it had been left blank, including questions about family, person to notify in case of accident, interests, and professional organizations. He jotted down the names and addresses of Brister’s former employers and Brister’s home address. He set the application down and thought for a moment. Except for the detailed work history it was the application of a man with no personal life, no life of any kind. It was certainly an alcoholic’s application, but there was no profile of the man applying for the position and there was no reason that Whelan could see for any business to hire George Brister. You might hire a George Brister if you were desperate, but you’d give him the gate as soon as someone more reliable turned up. He shook his head. No, you only hired a George Brister if George Brister knew someone. Someone who had pull, perhaps, or called in a favor of some sort, but it would have to be a hell of a favor.
“Some favor,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Carmen said, coming back from her break.
“Just thinking out loud, Carmen. I think I’m through with this stuff. Did you ever know Phil Fairs?”
“Before my time. That was the old company.”
“Ever hear Rich talk about him?”
She made a little shrug. “Not much. I mean, his name comes up once in a while, but that’s about it. I do know he was kind of a—what’s the word—a boy wonder?”
“A wunderkind?”
“Yeah, that’s it. A hothead, too. Real bad temper. Gambled a lot, too.”
“Yeah, so Rich tells me. How about George Brister?”
She shook her head firmly. “No. Him I don’t know.”
One more try: “Did you know Harry Palm?”
She started to shake her head and he added, “Rich’s bookie.”
“Oh,” she said and started to nod, then caught herself. “Yo
u have to ask him about that.” She looked down, apparently fascinated by her computer keyboard. Her posture told him she had concluded the interview. He watched her tap a couple of keys and begin to study the screen.
“Okay, Carmen. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime,” she said, and he wished mightily that she meant it, but he knew better.
As he left Vosic’s office, the door to a smaller office opened and a taller, younger version of Vosic emerged. The man stopped, frowned slightly, then put on the family smile and nodded. “Hi,” he said.
Whelan extended his hand. “Paul Whelan.”
The young man shook it. “Ron Vosic. Meeting with Rich?”
“Yeah.”
“What line of work are you in, Paul?”
“Insurance, more or less,” Whelan said.
Ron Vosic tried to hold on to his smile but unconsciously took a step back.
“Nice meeting you,” Whelan said and walked on.
As he was leaving he clapped the young guard on the shoulder. The clock on the wall said he’d been there for forty minutes. In forty minutes he’d learned a lot: George Brister had not been hired for his qualifications or his work record, which meant that he’d been hired for another reason; Vosic had known Harry Palm, and if Carmen knew him, the acquaintance had to be recent; and from the look on Rich Vosic’s face it was clear that Whelan had spoiled the man’s lunch.
I think I’ve caused as much chaos here as I could, he thought. Not a bad forty minutes’ work.
Six
By one in the afternoon Whelan had hit three taverns where Harry Palm used to hang out, and he’d gotten nothing. People backed away as soon as he mentioned Harry’s name, and by the time he left the third bar he had begun to feel like a plague carrier. He tried a pair of open-air restaurants where Harry had indulged in public strutting. In one of them a young waiter snorted at the mention of Harry’s name.
A Body in Belmont Harbor Page 9