“Do you love him?”
“He’s my brother and, yes, I love him. I just can’t tolerate him.” He explained to Caroline how Carson became a part of their lives. “Edgar is obsessed with money, and as soon as he gets it, he squanders it.”
“That’s too bad. I didn’t see anything of you in him.”
“He’s older than I, spoiled and convinced that the world owes him whatever he wants. It’s really too bad.”
Caroline grasped Gunther’s arm in what he regarded as a gesture of support. “I’m sorry for him, Gunther, because he will always be unhappy. I’ve learned that any time a thing is worth having, it’s best to get it fairly and honestly.”
“I’m definitely with you there,” he said, and to lighten the atmosphere, he added, “I’m being a lousy host.” Then he put another log on the fire, stirred it, and went to the bar. “I’m having Rémy Martin VSOP cognac. Who’s joining me?”
“After such a meal, a fine cognac would be just the ticket,” Ogden said.
Hmm. The man knows his drinks, Gunther thought in admiration. He looked at Marsha Harris. “What would you like?”
“Thank you,” Marsha said. “If you have a coffee liqueur, I’d like that.”
He appreciated a woman who had taste. “My pleasure,” Gunther said. He wasn’t showing off for Caroline’s benefit, but it wouldn’t hurt her to know that he knew a few things about entertaining.
He handed Marsha the drink, and her eyes sparkled with obvious delight. As he was about to serve the others, the telephone rang, and he held his breath, praying that Riggs had found accommodations for Edgar.
“Carson, would you mind serving the ladies while I answer the phone?” he said, figuring that Shirley would appreciate the gesture to Carson. He took the call in the dining room.
“Gunther Farrell speaking.”
“Gunther, this is Donald Riggs. I’ve put Edgar in Wright’s Housekeeping Hotel. I thought that would be perfect for him, since he can do his own cooking and save himself some money seeing that he’s perpetually broke. But he threatened first to kill me and then to indict me if I don’t put him in a five-star hotel suite. If he calls me about it one more time, I’m going to make it a one-night stand, and he can sleep in the street.”
He stifled an honest yawn. “Tell him that, Donald, and you may add that I said he will not stay in my apartment. You won’t have any more problems with him. The way to bring Edgar to heel is to call his bluff and hand him an ultimatum.”
As had happened many times, his brother had all but ruined the day for him. Edgar’s callous, uncaring habit of trampling on what was precious to his brother was something for which he’d resented Edgar all of his life, resented it and suffered. But he had always responded simply by stiffening his back and bearing it. Edgar had better not count on his reacting that way in the future.
He put another log on the fire, stirred the coals again, got his guitar, and plucked a few bars.
Ogden shook his head in disbelief. “Man, you need to tune that baby. How long have you been playing?”
“I play the saxophone well, but my neighbors don’t like it. I just started playing the guitar.” He passed the instrument to Ogden. “You want a shot at it?”
Ogden ran his fingers over the strings. “This is a nice guitar.” He tuned it, fingered a few notes, and moved into a dazzling rendition of “Early One Morning.” Soon, their voices filled the room with song. It amused Gunther that the group began with popular songs and soon switched to drinking songs. He thought they’d never stop singing “Waltzing Matilda.” Maybe I’m more sober than the rest, he thought, thinking that no one seemed concerned about an inability to carry a tune. Ogden, Caroline, and Carson sang reasonably well, but after several rounds of drinks, only the joy of singing with friends seemed to matter.
“It’s after seven,” Ogden said. “I think we’d better get a move on. I’m working tomorrow morning, and I have to drive Marsha home.”
“Y’all want some coffee, Mr. G?” Mirna cleared the coffee table and returned with bowls of ice cream and slices of lemon cake. “Y’all must be hungry by now.”
Gunther stared at Mirna. “I thought you’d been home for hours.”
“No, sir, Mr. G. I don’t see no point in rushing home to be by myself. I’ll bring some coffee in a minute.”
He relieved her of the tray that contained a stainless-steel coffee carafe, a coffee service, and utensils. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Mirna. It’s been a perfect Thanksgiving.”
She shook her head. Sadly, he thought. “Almost, Mr. G. The devil always has to get in the act.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but he’s no more successful than we let him be.”
The next morning at breakfast, Shirley barely tasted the food. “Are you worried about Edgar?” Gunther asked her.
“I hate to see him this way, but if I try to help him, I’ll go down with him. He—”
“Hold it,” Gunther said. “I’ll get the door.” He went to the front door, slipped on the chain, looked out, and saw a stranger.
“Does Edgar Farrell live here?”
“No, he definitely does not. What do you want with him?”
“But you know where he is,” the man said. “That bozo owes me twenty-five grand, and he promised to pay it by the fifteenth, which was last week. If I don’t get it by the first of December, he’ll never see Christmas.”
Icy blood trickled through Gunther’s veins, and he had to ignore the perspiration that beaded his forehead and dripped down the sides of his temples and onto his neck. He forced himself to look steadily at the man with an expression of authority and power. “Why does he owe you?”
The man’s hard gaze bore into Gunther, suggesting both impatience and ruthlessness. “He don’t know a damned thing about blackjack. He also don’t know when to quit. If you see him, tell him that if he values his neck, he’d better call this number. I ain’t taking no excuse, and tell him Vegas is a small town. If he squeals, I got friends. Good friends. Be sure and tell him that.”
Gunther took the slip of paper on which only a telephone number had been written. “I don’t promise I’ll see him, but if I do, I’ll give him this number and your messages.”
The man nodded. “You do that.”
Shirley met Gunther in the hall as he headed back to the dining room. “I heard that. What are you going to do?”
“First I’m going to get hold of Edgar. Only an idiot would bet with a professional gambler when he doesn’t know the game.”
“But you know Edgar doesn’t have that much money,” Shirley said, her voice plaintive and almost pleading. “Are you going to lend it to him?”
“Definitely not. He’d gamble with it and sink deeper into debt. But I don’t want that man to kill him.”
He dialed Edgar’s cell phone but didn’t get a response, and fear began to furl up in him until he remembered and dialed Edgar’s hotel room.
“Hello.”
“Edgar, this is Gunther, and I have a hot, frightening message for you.”
“Whatta you talking about?” For once, Edgar’s voice lacked its stridency and arrogance.
Gunther explained the reason for his call and added, “That man means business, and this time you’ll pay.”
“With what?” Edgar yelled, panic-stricken. “I had just enough money to get back here. He can’t get blood out of a turnip.”
“This is true, but that guy is mad enough and evil enough to get rid of the turnip. Eight days from now, he’ll collect, one way or the other. Stay at your hotel, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can work something out.”
Edgar’s heavy release of breath, evident through the wire, suggested that he’d been holding it. “I owe you one, brother. But you be careful. I’ve been told that guy is always loaded. If he doesn’t do the job, his hoods will do it for him.”
Gunther shook his fist at the air around him. “Then why the hell did you get involved with him?”
“Look, man. I d
idn’t know who he was till it was too late. And I didn’t give him your address. He’s got everybody in his pocket.”
“If this doesn’t teach you a lesson, nothing ever will. Just stay there till I get back to you.” He hung up and looked at his sister, the tears cascading down her cheeks. “I had planned to share with you and Edgar some of my take from that runaway electronic game I designed, but I didn’t want to give Edgar any money until he got a decent job and settled down. It looks as if he gets it now.”
“You’re going to give Edgar twenty-five thousand dollars?” she asked, her teary eyes wide and disbelieving.
“Definitely not. I’m going to hand it to that guy in Edgar’s presence.” He telephoned Edgar. “Be here at noon today, and whatever you do, be here on time.”
Next, he phoned the man Edgar owed and asked him to met Edgar at his apartment. He got the cash from the bank and was back home by a quarter of twelve. Edgar waited at the door, because Mirna refused to let him inside the apartment.
Precisely at twelve, the bell rang, and Gunther opened the door. “Come in, please,” he said, and the man stepped inside the door, but would go no farther.
“I don’t walk into traps,” he said.
“This is not a trap, mister,” Gunther replied, and beckoned to Edgar. “I’m paying you the twenty-five thousand that my brother owes you in his presence, and I suggest that you don’t allow him to get in your debt again. This is it. I’m finished.”
“You should have given it to me,” Edgar said. “I’d have paid him.”
“You’re a gambling addict,” the man said. “You would have gambled it away. Keep it up, and you won’t live long. Incidentally, you ought to thank your brother for saving your life.” The man tipped his hat and strolled down the hall to the elevator.
As Gunther’s gaze swept over his older brother, he fought back the tears as thoughts of their lives together while their mother lived flashed through his mind. Life had been imperfect then, too, but they were a family. Back then, he would have denied vigorously a suggestion that he abhorred his brother’s company.
“As soon as repairs on the house have been completed, Carson will be able to continue searching for Father’s will. When he finds it, I hope you’ll do something with your life.” He walked with Edgar to the door and extended his hand. “Be seeing you.”
Edgar walked to the elevator with plodding steps. That was a close call, closer than he wanted to remember. How had Dutch Holliday found him? He hadn’t known that the man he was betting against was one of the roughest hoods in Las Vegas, a man who had pulled time for murder. When he left Las Vegas, he’d thought he was home free, but that bitch must have betrayed him. Not that he blamed her. He wouldn’t expect her to stand up to a man like Dutch, and there was no imagining what kind of torture Dutch put her through.
He walked out of the building holding his breath, but when he saw that Dutch hadn’t damaged his Harley, he breathed easily. “This can’t go on. If I keep this up, I’ll be dead before I’m forty.”
He jumped onto the big motorcycle, revved the engine, and quickly cut it off. If anybody had told him Gunther would pay his twenty-five-grand gambling debt, he’d have called them a liar. It definitely wasn’t just talk that Gunther had saved his life. Dutch meant business. But maybe the most unfortunate part of it was that Gunther had finished with him for all time. He’d said it, and he meant it. Oh, what the hell!
He revved up the engine and headed for Baltimore. What he needed was a week or two of gigs to tide him over till Carson found that will. He appreciated what Gunther did for him, surprised though he still was, but he was on his own now, and he had to make his own bread.
The manager met him when he entered the club. He was willing to beg for work, even on his knees, if necessary. “Man, I’ve been trying for days to get hold of you,” the manager said. “Moody sprained his wrist, and I don’t have a decent guitarist. Can you give me a couple of weeks?”
Edgar ran his hands over his tight curls, rubbed the back of his neck, and adopted the facial expression of one sorely put upon. “I’d planned to head north. What’s on your mind, man? I mean, what are you offering? I can’t support myself on what you pay.”
“Okay. I’ll up it by one-fifty a week. What do you say?”
Edgar appeared to muse over the offer as if he had better options. Finally, he said, “Look, man, if you can make it two hundred more, I’ll cancel my gig. You’ve been good to me, so ... well, okay. The regular plus one-fifty. It’s a deal, but I’ll have to call my gig and cancel. I’ll be back here at a quarter of seven ready to work.”
Outside the popular club, Edgar wiped the sweat from the side of his face and the back of his neck. And to think that he’d been prepared to work for less than he usually demanded. Maybe his luck had changed. One thing was certain: After losing twenty-five grand in forty minutes, he’d played his last game of blackjack. And as soon as he got his share of that will, he meant to shake Ellicott City’s dirt off his shoes and head west for good.
Shirley met Gunther on the stairs as he headed to his room. “What happened? I didn’t want to witness that.”
“I gave the man the money and told both of them that I won’t do it again. Edgar needs help with that habit. It’s dangerous. Unfortunately, it is entirely compatible with certain elements of his personality, and I don’t see him quitting without professional help.” He lifted his shoulder in a quick shrug. “What to do? I’ve told him that, but, like most addicts, he thinks he can quit gambling whenever he wants to. I’m going to my office. When are you due back on the Utopia Girl?”
“I have to report to the head office in Orlando on Wednesday. I’m sailing on the Mercury Thursday afternoon.”
“What about Carson? You two have gotten very tight.”
“That’s true. We have. I’m seeing him tonight.”
“I expected as much. Do you think he’d have punched Edgar?”
“I’m sure of it, and Edgar deserved it. I hope you’re giving serious thought to a relationship with Caroline. I like her a lot.”
“So do I, and I’m planning to work on it. Carson’s a good guy.” He sped up the stairs, put on his jacket and coat, grabbed his briefcase, and left for his office. Shirley sat on a step midway down the stairs, trying to come to grips with what had happened there that morning. As if she didn’t exist, Edgar had neither told her good-bye nor given Gunther a message for her. After nearly half an hour, she got up and went to find Mirna. At least she could be thankful for the fact that Gunther would no longer nag her about Carson.
Shirley didn’t like having to go on a two-week cruise at a time when her relationship with Carson had reached the point of decision making. She believed he loved her, but she wanted to hear it from his lips at a time when lovemaking hadn’t made him loose tongued. Nobody could rush him, but she thought she’d learned enough about him to guide him to where she wanted him.
“I’m not discounting the fact that he’s been this way once, didn’t like the outcome, and is unlikely to rush back into marriage. But I am not going to be a convenience for him. Love doesn’t cover that.” She figured that during the two weeks they’d be apart, Carson would do a lot of thinking and rationalizing. Well, wouldn’t she be doing the same?
For their date that evening, Shirley dressed carefully, exposing just enough cleavage to make his mouth water for more. She told herself that the cool, green color of the dress would dilute its brazenness. She lifted her right shoulder in a quick shrug. She was dealing with a man of the world, and she had to use all the ammunition available to her.
Chapter Eleven
Shirley opened the door that evening and walked into Carson Montgomery’s arms. “You are one lovely creature,” he said. “One of these days, I’m going to take you to my lair and keep you there.”
“Can’t happen soon enough for me,” she replied, her tone as airy as his.
But his expression as he stared down at her was anything but light. “Be careful what
you say to me, Shirley. As I’ve told you before, jokes often cover the truth.”
“Really? So when are you sweeping me away to your lair?” she shot back.
He raised an eyebrow. “We could head there right now if I hadn’t made other plans. Ogden and Marsha want us to go to her place for supper, after which the four of us would go dancing. Marsha knows a good place. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course,” she said, somewhat subdued. “I liked Marsha. Where does she live?”
“East Baltimore, not too far from the university.”
She thought for a few minutes. Either Ogden wanted Carson’s opinion of Marsha or Carson wanted his brother’s opinion of her. “Do you think Marsha is a good match for Ogden?” she asked him, trying to get the answer indirectly.
“She seems to be, but my impressions are not the ones that count.”
Hmm. No luck there, but it did mean that Carson was not expressly seeking Ogden’s opinion of her. She liked what she’d seen of Carson’s brother, but she didn’t know his standards for women. She embraced a calm that floated over her when she decided not to second-guess Carson as to why he wanted the four of them to spend the evening together. Four hours later, she reprimanded herself for having thought that Carson had an undisclosed agenda.
They ate a simple, cold supper at Marsha’s studio apartment and ended the evening dancing. “Two weeks is a long time,” Carson whispered in Shirley’s ear as they danced a two-step.
“It’ll be just as long for me,” she replied, “and I know I don’t like it.”
“If Ogden weren’t spending the weekend at my place, I’d ask you to go home with me.” He tweaked her nose. “Cover up those tantalizing globes. They’re torturing me.”
Was he serious? An inch of cleavage was old-fashioned by today’s standard. She forced herself not to look at him and didn’t respond. At times, she couldn’t read his mood, and she’d learned to wait until he showed his hand. Later, that knowledge served her well.
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