by Jon Wilson
“That’s no attitude. I suppose if I had the resources I might be tempted to pull a few strings to keep the son and heir out of harm’s way.”
“You think that’s why he did it?” He turned to me, leaning back against the bar. I imagined he did a lot of debonair leaning against bars. A smile tugged at his lips, but he drowned it with a quick drink. “What a charming notion. Sadly, by the time I left for England, my unsolicitous tongue had spewed enough sharp-toothed venom in father’s ear that he wasn’t overmuch concerned with whether or not I ever made it home.”
That pinched me right between the shoulder blades. I offered him a pained look. “You need to stop that.”
“What?”
“Mangling your Shakespeare. The poor sap’s rolling in his grave.”
“Where did you go to school?” He sounded like he was curious.
“F-Q-U—S-H-K.”
He shook his head, giving me the sort of scrutiny that made me itch. I had to pretend to admire that poor rhino’s head again. “But you were telling me about your father.”
“Was I?” He tossed back some whiskey. “How did we get there?”
“I don’t know. Europe and you riding out the Blitz at some country estate trimming a fat general’s cigars.”
His face darkened. “It wasn’t quite like that.”
“No? Did he occasionally exhaust his supply of cigars, forcing you to sally forth and secure more?”
“I don’t get you.”
I looked over to find him still studying me. I tried to weather it. “Do tell.”
“Well, for starters, I don’t think you’re as rough as you pretend.”
“Sure.” I figured that made him half-right anyway. “It’s a theory.”
“And I still want to hire you.”
“This is turning out to be a banner day. That’s the second offer I’ve received this hour.”
He looked down at his drink, forlorn. “So she turned you.”
I had to give my head a little shake to get that to sink in. “Yikes! I thought it was just your sister.” Swallowing the last of my drink, I started toward him. “Listen, bub. I’ll help you out. And it won’t cost you a blasted thing. Not one thin dime.” I put my glass on the bar and reached for the Paul Jones. O’Malley sidestepped to give me room, but not much.
“All ears,” he said.
“Get some sleep. You might not feel better in the morning, but you won’t feel worse. And it’ll help if you get it into your head to quote any more Shakespeare.”
He swirled his glass, then tossed back the dregs. Just as he was about to speak, a door opened.
It was not the door we’d entered through. There was a short ledge along one wall, accessed by a spiral staircase. At the top of the stairs was a door leading to somewhere on the second floor. It was that which opened. Jasper Reed ambled out onto the landing, blinking down at us.
“Oh, Morgan. I’m sorry.”
O’Malley, who had been standing quite close to me, took a casual step back, probably by reflex. He looked up, bewildered. “Uncle Jay.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I can’t seem to find anyone.”
Leaving my session with Mrs. O’Malley, crossing through that room with the large windows, I’d spied Lana, Joe and George Kelly out on the patio. I shared that info.
“And Mrs. O’Malley?” Jasper Reed asked.
“She had not joined them.”
The old man didn’t thank me or otherwise acknowledge my assistance. Having dispatched my information, I got the impression that I ceased to exist for him. He blinked another few times at O’Malley. “Do you mind if I pass through?”
Morgan shrugged and Reed started slowly down the spiral stairs. As stated, he was not an invalid, but he was certainly fading fast. His face looked even more saggy and pale than it had half an hour before. He made it nearly two thirds of the way before slipping. Even then he’d had the forethought to keep a good grip on the railing, so he merely fell against it and sat down on the next highest step. Both O’Malley and I lurched toward him. I got there a bit ahead, mounting the second step. I reached out to take hold of the old man’s arm and help him to his feet.
He proved he was fast then, and I barely got my arm up in time to stop the handle of his walking stick from bashing my crown. As it was, it clonked pretty impressively against my forearm. I stepped back down, leaving the old bird sitting there.
“Uncle Jay!” O’Malley slipped past me to help the old man up. “What the devil did you do that for?”
Reed got back up to his full height and pulled down the ends of his vest. “I apologize, Morgan.”
Morgan! I backed up another few steps, rubbing my arm. No need to present him with a tempting target. If he tried anything else, I was likely to return the favor, and I didn’t want that on my conscience.
O’Malley walked Reed down the last few steps. The old man didn’t say another word. He left through a door at the far end of the room. It took him a while, and we watched in silence. When we heard the faint click of the latch, O’Malley looked at me.
“Are you all right?”
I grinned, not feeling it but putting on a game face. It wasn’t the pain so much as all the hard proving of points going around. “Sure.” We moved back to the bar.
“I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Murder upsets people.”
He shut his eyes. “Murder. I can’t believe it.”
My drink was only half made, and I pulled his empty glass over beside mine to prepare both. I went full-board, with plenty of ice and seltzer. I couldn’t find any cherries. “You can’t believe it. You were in my office yesterday telling me your stepmother murdered your father.”
“Yes, but that was…” Only he didn’t seem to know what it was. I handed him his drink, and he gaped like he couldn’t figure it out either. “Did she really hire you?”
“At least you’re not claiming she turned me anymore.” I was leaning on the bar, facing him. For a change, he was standing up straight with about a yard of parquet floor between us. I was surprised that he struck me as far less intimidating than he had. Then I realized he was looking down and slouching, and, well, let’s face it, at least half of what was flowing through my veins was not Declan Colette, but Paul Jones.
“She made me an offer,” I said.
“She certainly was fond of Ro, as fond as she could be of anyone but herself. Listen to me.” He took a drink and then made a face. “Why would you do that to good whiskey?” Then he took another bigger drink, draining half his glass. “You really don’t think this might just be a coincidence. I mean, why would someone set out to murder a child?”
“‘Set out to’ carries a lot of baggage. Considering how it happened, maybe it was spur of the moment. As to coincidence, sure. Like how it’s a coincidence that drinking all this whiskey makes us drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” He tilted his glass to his lips again as if determined to rectify the situation.
Of course, he was drunk. He was just so used to it, he didn’t recognize the fact anymore. “I didn’t accept her offer,” I told him.
He had his head cocked way back, the glass still lodged against his lips. He tapped the bottom of it, intent on wringing all the ruined whiskey off those bothersome ice cubes. “Good. I’m not as rich as the rest of these people, but I figure I can afford you.”
I sneered. “You’re not drunk. I quoted her a rate of five centuries a day.”
“Which is ten times your normal fee.” He finally decided he’d done his worst to the glass and aimed his gaze back at me. “We didn’t just walk in off the street, yesterday. I know a little about you.”
“Well, we’ll see. How are you at answering questions?”
“I’ve been doing nothing but for most of the last twenty-four hours.”
“Then tell me about the letter.”
“What letter?”
I growled and nearly said something I would have had to skip putting down here. “W
hat letter, he says. The letter. The one Lana got, the one I’m wondering why you didn’t mention yesterday.”
“I don’t care about all that now. I want you to find out who killed Ramona.”
“You O’Malleys are all batty.” I slammed my glass down on the bar in disgust. “Nuts. I begin to suspect that should you all wake up and decide to start talking to one another, I might could go home and get some sleep.”
“Calm down. It was an anonymous letter hinting—broadly—that Miranda had something to do with father’s death.”
“Who sent it?”
“What? I said it was anonymous.”
“You said. It’s the things you people don’t say. Why didn’t you show it to me yesterday?”
He showed me his palms instead. “She had it with her. Stop trying to be tough.”
“Nuts again. It’s my rough pretense.” I pulled away from the bar and took a step toward him. He stepped back, confused. I said, “Maybe I ought to slap you. I offered one to your stepmother, but she passed. Maybe I should give it to you. Between that old bird trying to clock me and watching that chauffeur do a number on your boyfriend out front, I’m slap happy.”
He was at least an inch taller, and my threat reminded him of that fact. He pulled his shoulders up and back and clamped his heroic jaw tight. Still, as good as he was, he couldn’t do anything about his eyes,or his cheeks.
I tsked him. “Look at you blush. Pathetic. How many Germans did you actually kill?”
The ice was rattling in his glass. He wanted to order me out or slap me first or something, only he wanted it all too much to try for any of it. I didn’t wait. For one thing, I was giving him the shakes and if it ever started spreading, I feared he might end up on the floor in a fit. Also, I’d gone too far. I knew it the instant the words were out of my mouth. I don’t enjoy being a bully, though I appear to be built for it and, more and more of late, it seems to come naturally.
I cut for the door. When my hand touched the knob, I paused to offer him a last look. “Be at my office at ten in the morning. Bring that letter.”
He had taken over leaning against the bar, half turned so that I got him in profile. His chin looked even more impressive from that angle. He still had his jaw clamped; all the muscles from his ear to his collar bulged beneath the skin. He didn’t answer me—he couldn’t have. His Adam’s apple just jerked up and down as if a spring had come loose. He brought the tumbler to his lips with a shaky hand. He tried to drink, looked down at the naked ice cubes in disgust, then threw the glass against the wall.
Chapter Ten
I made it out and home, where I stripped and showered again before climbing back into my bed, this time under the sheets. It was nearly nine. After some guilty hemming and hawing, I dialed Gig, but didn’t get him. The office said he was home, and home didn’t answer. He was probably at dinner somewhere. I hadn’t even considered eating after everything I’d drank, but sitting in bed I did weigh the option. I ultimately scrapped the idea because it would require clothes.
I called my service and sat examining the nice blue bruise on my arm while a girl read my messages. Walter Cobb had tried me again. He’d reverted to please call, dropping the important. Probably, Joe Lovejoy hadn’t had a chance to report. I also got two more messages from the sap at the Chronicle. I filed those with his previous one.
I considered calling Inspector Ackerman. The report I’d made of my conversation with Ramona Wyman hadn’t been strictly verbatim, and I doubted I’d provided her direct quote referring to ‘that letter.’ My visit to the O’Malley manse had actually netted me a few interesting tidbits, in addition to a headache and the hematoma. For instance, the girl’s phrasing struck me as significant. Then I thought about all the things the cops were doing that I couldn’t, like an autopsy to pinpoint the time of death or charting tides to zero in on where the body had been dumped, and decided my reinterpretation of a fact would hold until morning.
I went to sleep.
I dream about drowning a lot, though I’m a keen swimmer, and sometimes it’s a nightmare, and sometimes not. That night it was until a pretty blonde mermaid with a lavender scarf swam up and took my hand. She told me, “The ocean is wide and deep,” and led me down to her city made of coral and sunken battleships. She and her sisters cavorted there with a thousand drowned sailors. Someone was calling my name, only I couldn’t hear very well on account of all the water. When I tried to answer, my mouth flooded and water tore down icy and hard in search of my lungs. The dream became a nightmare again, and I woke up gagging.
It was seven-thirty a.m., and I figured that even with my shortage the night before, ten hours was plenty, especially if the mermaids weren’t going to play nice. I did what I do first thing every morning: roll over, swing my feet to the floor, sit up and light a Camel. I like to perch there at the edge of the bed, puffing the smoke and flexing my toes in such a way as to get the blood circulating properly. I’ve heard other people do things differently. I can’t imagine.
That day my ritual was cut a little short because enough of the whiskey had made its way through my system by then that my belly demanded food. But I didn’t rush my grooming. I subjected the form to a thorough wash and the phiz to a meticulous shave. I even trimmed my nose hair and swabbed my ears. Digging through my sock drawer, determined to find a good pair, I nearly stopped to consider why I was being so attentive to a process I had long since whittled down to taking ten minutes tops, but then decided it was best not to ruminate. I brushed my teeth twice.
I grabbed breakfast at Jack’s and made the office by nine. Nearly every morning, I check my messages the minute I walk in the door. There being none that day, it took approximately fifteen seconds. Clearly, I’d need to find another way to pass the time. I began by straightening the client chairs. I grabbed a rag and dusted the file cabinet and the safe. When the telephone rang at about nine-twenty, I realized I had moved all the items on my desk to one side to polish the glass top.
“Declan Colette’s office.” Sometimes I answer that way. Honestly.
A man’s voice told me, “I thought we understood one another.”
I was not so distracted that I wasn’t able to identify its source as good old Joe Lovejoy. “I can’t imagine what I might have said to give you that idea.”
“Cobb ain’t happy.”
“Ain’t, he says. Are you slipping or just trying to adopt a rough pretense? I’ve been told—”
He cut me off. “We tried to play nice, Colette.”
I sat down in my chair to straighten my desktop again. I deposited the dust rag in the bottom drawer. “Any time you want to come down here and play it another way, feel free. Or name a time and place.”
He called me an idiot, which I admit did not reduce me to a quivering heap. “You think Cobb can’t shut you down? How about Marty Velasco?”
Velasco is a mid-level racketeer who operates a nightclub and illegal gambling joint in Marin. “How about Marty Velasco?”
Lovejoy made a noise between a snicker and a guffaw. “You have no idea. This case goes deeper than you imagine. Stay clear or else.”
I wanted to laugh right back at him, but it was too pathetic. “You’re boring me, son. Now, go play. I have work to do.”
That time he called me something worse than an idiot, and recommended a course of action anatomy has rendered impossible. “I warned you. Don’t say I didn’t.” Mercifully, he hung up.
I glanced around the room. The window was open, and the curtains undulated slowly. The walls looked bare to me all of a sudden. There was one framed item over the sofa: my operating permit. On the wall with the window hung an electric clock. It occurred to me that something attractive on the wall behind me might not be a bad idea. And why had I never considered a plant? I got up and went out and down the hall to the public toilet. I brushed my teeth a third time.
At ten o’clock, I was trying to get the three magazines in the foyer to fan properly atop the small table. Not that anyone wou
ld want to read them. The newest was from March. I had tried sitting in my chair smoking, but that wasn’t going to work. At ten-ten, I was standing by the open window, practicing tossing my hat across the room and getting it to catch on the coat rack. At ten-twelve, I heard the elevator ding for the third time and leapt to get settled in my chair.
Unlike the two previous dings, this one was for me. The outer door opened, and he strode into my office a moment later.
I was leaning back in my chair, my feet up on the corner of my desk, my ankles crossed, a cigarette hanging jauntily from the corner of my mouth, and I looked up at him like he was the last person in the world I had expected to see. “You’re late.”
His ginger hair was combed neatly to one side, and he had gone with nice blue-gray slacks of light cotton. He had on a sweater vest, a ten dollar tie, and no hat. These kids today. Control of his expressions had not quite returned to the level he’d exhibited that first time we’d met. His cheeks ripened as he stood and looked at me. “I nearly didn’t come.”
“Sure. That’s natural.”
“What is? My almost not coming or my saying that?” He ran his hand through his hair negating in a moment all the hard work he’d apparently done on it. He was talking fast, like he had sat somewhere building up his nerve, and now it was unwinding like a top. “Because it’s a lie, of course.” He moved jerkily over between the two client chairs and then took the one on his right. He plopped down into it hard, like it was his turn to prove a point. There was more to his soliloquy. “I don’t even know why I said it. I tried to convince myself I might not come. I wasted a lot of time and plenty of good bourbon on it. But the more I drank, the more inevitable it seemed.”
“How much have you had today? Liquid courage, I mean.”