The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  The door on the passenger side swung open. Showers looked up, startled.

  “Let’s go, David,” May said.

  “You’re supposed to be with Selma!”

  “It’s better I go with you. I used to live in Cumberland, remember? I know this country. There’s a place where I used to ride when I was a little girl, north of Highway Forty. It was there a few years ago. They have a big barn. If the owner’s still alive, he’ll remember me. I’ll show you how to get there.”

  “May, if something were to happen to you …”

  “If you don’t get us out of here, David, something may happen to us both.”

  He turned on the engine. Driving slowly, mindful of the unhappy horse, he turned onto the Marion road, heading west.

  In Bernie Bloch’s penthouse apartment in Baltimore, the phone rang nine times. After the tenth time, he answered it. There had been one other call late on this night, and it had brought good news. He didn’t think this one would bring good news. He was right.

  “I was going to call you,” Bernie said. “In the morning. We got the horse back.”

  “We already know about that.”

  “How in the hell could you? We just got it back a few hours ago. That dumb son of a bitch Showers led us right to it.”

  Sherrie was snoring loudly. Bloch pushed her over onto her face.

  “We know about it. The hayhead you have working for you is also working for us. As of tonight. He called us when he got the horse, after he called you. He just called us again, only now he doesn’t have the horse anymore. Some fucking broad rolled him in a motel and took off with it.”

  “Shit,” said Bloch. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Real serious. Listen up, Bernie. We’re gonna take over now. The whole deal. We want you to stay out of it now before you fuck everything up for good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t want you to go near no horses. Not your horses, not nobody’s horses. You just stay there in Baltimore with wifey and tend to business, okay? We’ll take care of things. Every fucking thing.”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “This prick Showers. The broad is probably taking the horse back to him. He’s not at his farm in Virginia. You got any bright ideas where he might be?”

  “No. I hardly know the guy.”

  “He was with that movie actress. The one who screwed up our deal.”

  “May Moody.”

  “Right. May Moody. He must have a shack job going. Does she have some place out there he might head to? Some nice little love nest?”

  “I don’t think so, but you’d better not mess with her.”

  “What are you telling me, Bernie?”

  “You know who her father is. If anything happens to her … He’s my friend.”

  “We’re your friends, Bernie.”

  “Look—”

  “We’ve been looking. But we don’t like what we see. She turns up again, you let us know real fucking quick.”

  “Wait a minute. The Moodys used to live in Cumberland—Cumberland, Maryland. That’s where I met her old man. We got into a deal out there. I don’t know. There’s a chance they went that way.”

  “We’ll take a look. You just lay low.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I worry. This is costin’ us, Bernie. We expect to get paid for our trouble. The more trouble, the more we expect.”

  “Like I said, anything.”

  “You’re a fucking chump, Bernie. I don’t know how you ever got to play with the big boys.”

  He hung up.

  Bloch turned on the light. Sherrie was sitting up, squinting at him, her face a wreck—as usual.

  “What’s wrong, Bernie?”

  “He called me a chump,” he said sadly. He was seated on the edge of the bed, looking down at his feet. “Nobody’s ever called me a chump!”

  “Who? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. A little business deal gone wrong, that’s all.”

  She squinted at the clock. “At five in the morning?”

  “Never mind, Sherrie. Go back to sleep.”

  “Are you in trouble again? Are the tax people on to you?”

  Bloch got up and went into the bathroom, seating himself with a grunt. He’d take his time, hoping she’d be asleep again by the time he came out.

  Deena couldn’t understand why he was still married to Sherrie. Deena was that dumb. If Sherrie got mad enough—and people tended to get a little pissed off in divorce proceedings—she could have him in jail in five minutes.

  “I’m not sure you ought to come with me, young lady,” Alixe said.

  “David’s in trouble,” said Becky. “I’m coming.”

  Selma had called from a pay phone in Pennsylvania, telling Alixe what had happened, and urging her to meet her at the Bavarian Inn in Shepherdstown as soon as possible, and to bring a horse trailer, as Showers would need to change rigs. Alixe had pressed her for more details, but Selma had only muttered something about Billy Bonning and guns.

  Alixe was lingering just long enough for a quick cup of coffee in Showers’ kitchen. The first rays of sunshine were coming through the window, crimson in the hazy sky. It was going to be hot.

  “Yes, he’s in trouble, but he has that actress with him, and he sure as hell doesn’t need you coming up there and throwing another tantrum.”

  “I’m over that, Alixe. I told you.”

  “And what occasioned this miracle?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot, thinking all night sometimes. I guess I’ve decided to give up.”

  “Give up?”

  “Lenore is one thing, but I can’t compete with a movie star.”

  “David’s not star struck, Becky.”

  “He spent the night with her, didn’t he?”

  “See? I don’t think you should come.”

  “I’ve got to, Alixe. I’m his friend. I’m the one who got him mixed up in this. I want to help. I’ve got to.”

  “You’ll leave that woman alone?”

  Becky stared into her cup. “Yes.”

  “I don’t know.” Alixe poured some whiskey into her coffee. She had a murderous hangover. Selma’s call had come like a summons from hell.

  “I not only think I should come,” Becky said, sounding very grown-up now. “I think I should drive. Don’t get mad, but I don’t think you’re in shape to handle a trailer rig right now.”

  “You’re right, damn it all,” Alixe said. “Very well. You drive.”

  “We’ll take David’s Jeep. That’ll be fastest.”

  The whiskey had cooled Alixe’s coffee quickly. She gulped the tepid mixture down and put the cup in the sink, then picked up the large revolver she’d set on the table.

  “You’re sure that’s necessary?”

  “I hope not, but you know what Billy Bonning’s like better than any of us.”

  They crossed the yard and got into the Jeep. Showers kept his trailer on the other side of the barn.

  Becky turned the key.

  The explosive charge was placed just to the left of the drive shaft, and drove it up through the floorboards when it went off, venting the full force of the blast on the driver’s side. Becky, held by her seat belt, died from the snap of her neck as her head was flung backward, her arms twisting grotesquely. Alixe, minus her left foot, was hurled out the right side door.

  For a few seconds afterward, there was only oily smoke and echoes, and the pings and clatter of falling metal debris. Then flames rolled back from the engine into the passenger compartment, spreading over fabric, and then flesh. With a whump, the fuel tank erupted, and the Jeep was rendered a skeleton, starkly outlined within a storm of flame.

  A groom came running out of the barn, then stood helpless and dumbfounded, shaking his head. He heard Alixe, and hurried over to her. She was shouting David Showers’ name.

  Seventeen

  The bedrooms are small,” the real estate agent said. She was middle aged,
with dyed red hair and far too much makeup. She reminded Napier of a female impersonator. “But there are four. You said you wanted this just for yourself?”

  “Yes. But I expect to have lots of houseguests. There are two baths?”

  “And the powder room downstairs. But it’s quite a bargain. Two thousand for six weeks. You understand, now. You’ll have to be out by Labor Day.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve been living in hotels. This will be much better. Perfect.”

  It hadn’t been clear from the newspapers just when Moody would be returning from the Orient, but even if it was soon, Napier was sure the man wouldn’t linger long in Washington. No one did in August. He’d be off to his place on the Maryland shore or some vacation spot like that. Napier had himself thought of going to Rehoboth Beach on the Delaware coast, but this place would do just as well. This marvelously charming townhouse was in Georgetown, not far from Wisconsin Avenue. There were all sorts of lovely bars within a few minutes’ walk. None of them were places a man like Moody would ever drop in.

  “We can sign the lease at my office. When do you want to move in, tomorrow?”

  “Tonight.”

  She glanced around. The furniture was quite dusty.

  “I don’t see why not. They’ve been trying to rent this place all summer.”

  “Let me take one more look around.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Oh no. Quite the contrary.”

  He was already making plans. He’d have a few friends over that night and then, in a few days, a big party. Endless parties. No one at the National Committee had questioned his checks. He’d damned well earned the money. He could have gotten in some very big trouble if the business with the phony memo had gone wrong. As the politicians would say, he’d carried water.

  If they did cut him off—and he knew this happy situation couldn’t last forever—there were other ways to make money, especially with a nice house like this.

  He led the woman downstairs, murmuring approval of the paintings. The living room was small, and the formal dining room even smaller, crowded with furniture, but he could move a lot of it out of the way. The sideboard would make a perfect bar.

  “Lovely,” he said. “I can’t wait to move in. Is there anything more you need from me—I mean aside from a check and my signature on the lease?”

  “No. You certainly don’t need any more references. The White House social secretary is quite good enough for us. You’re sure he won’t mind my calling on a Sunday?”

  “Oh no. He won’t mind at all.”

  Jack Spencer had put in a hard-working week on good behavior, and decided he owed himself a little Saturday night binge, starting at the Jockey Club in the Ritz Carlton Hotel and ending up in some wood-paneled yuppie joint on Capitol Hill. There’d been a girl—a tall, skinny congressional staffer who’d mistaken him for someone important—but she’d bored him and he’d gone back to his whiskey. He’d forgotten how he’d gotten home, except that he’d started out walking.

  Sunday morning he devoted to sleep, and the early afternoon to curing his hangover. A little after two o’clock, his phone rang. It was his computer analyst friend from the defense think tank.

  “I’m down at the office, Jack. Something about this thing has been chewing at me, and I think I’ve figured out what it is. I’ve been messing with it for a couple of hours—nobody here to bother me.”

  “Something’s wrong?” Spencer took a healthy sip of his breakfast vodka and Coca-Cola.

  “I ran some refinements, and got a clearer image of my line projections. I don’t think the third letter’s an r or an n. I think it’s more likely a c. I also wonder if there might be two sets of impressions—of scratches.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There seems to be two patterns, one superimposed over the other. One pattern of scratches is very light. The other scratches are quite deep. I’m not sure what it means, yet. Anyway, that third letter is definitely a c. B-E-C. You ought to come down and take a look.”

  “I’m in no shape to stare at some goddamn computer screen. I’m having trouble looking at my wall.”

  The man was giving up part of his Sunday for this. Spencer owed him.

  “Okay. Give me time to shave. It’ll take longer today.”

  The farm near Cumberland May had mentioned was still there, just as she had remembered, but there was a large yellow bulldozer resting at a tilted angle on the periphery of a defaced pasture next to the barn. A contractor’s sign had been planted in the lawn by the main driveway. May went up to the house and found it darkened and locked. When no one answered repeated ringings of the doorbell, she went to a window and peered inside. Except for some cardboard boxes, the room was empty.

  May returned to the Blazer and shrugged sadly. On the other side of the road the frames of a dozen or so small houses were standing in various stages of completion.

  “Developments,” Showers said. “Even out here.”

  “I thought the recession had put a stop to that.”

  “It never stops.”

  She climbed into the seat. “So now what?” she said, lighting a cigarette. She placed her hand on top of his.

  “I’ll try calling Selma and Alixe again from Cumberland. Maybe they’ve reached the inn by now.”

  “And if they haven’t?”

  “I know a man with a farm down in the Shenandoah Valley. He’s a friend.”

  The little city’s downtown was already bustling with traffic. They pulled up in a huge gravel parking lot near the old railroad depot, which had been converted into a museum. It was closed, but there was a public phone outside.

  The call to the Bavarian Inn took most of his change, though the distance was not all that far. The clerk at the front desk said no one had seen any such girl as Selma and that, no, he hadn’t noticed a yellow Volkswagen convertible in the parking lot. The long distance operator came back on, asking for more change. Showers hung up.

  He called his farm in Virginia collect, but there was no answer. Calls placed to Becky’s cottage and Alixe’s house produced the same result. His Shenandoah friend was away, but his wife, though awakened from her sleep, seemed glad to hear from him, and urged him to come. He recalled she had flirted with him a little during a weekend he’d once spent there. He had known her husband for many years.

  They stopped at a 7-Eleven to get some doughnuts and coffee, as well as toothbrushes and a small bag of plastic, throwaway razors. Gassing up at a service station on the edge of town, they washed up a little in the grubby restrooms. The bay was hungry, but there was nothing they could do about that. They gave him water, refilling a plastic bucket. He was very unhappy.

  Showers had asked the store clerk for several dollars in change, and he made his calls again. His own line was busy this time, and remained so in repeated attempts. The other numbers just rang and rang. He tried his cousin in Washington. No answer.

  He climbed inside the Blazer, starting the engine. “If we stick to West Virginia roads, we ought to be all right. We’ll have to take a main highway back over the mountains to get into the Shenandoah. There aren’t many crossings.”

  “Maybe we should stay in West Virginia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have kinfolk down there. Some related to my mother, some to my father. Some to both.” She smiled, but her weariness showed markedly.

  “We’ll be safe with my friend.”

  The mountains ran in long, lumpy ridges—northeast to southwest. The valley between them was narrow and crooked. There were many farms. May slept, her head against his shoulder. Fatigue began to weigh on him as well. Even with the windstream from the open windows, the heat was oppressive. The back of his shirt was soaked with sweat. He feared for the horse in the back.

  Because of the bay, he drove well under the speed limit, to keep the swaying to a minimum going around the constant curves. A number of vehicles came up behind them, crowding close and then
swinging out wide to pass, usually in dangerous places.

  A pickup truck was now approaching, very fast. Another car behind it. Showers tried increasing his speed a little, but when the road straightened for a short stretch, the center line breaking into dashes, he slowed to let the truck get by. It glided forward, filling his side mirror, then pulled abreast. Something was sticking out of its window on the passenger side. A rifle barrel. Above it a hateful face. Blond hair.

  Showers pressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine coughed, then caught again. He shifted down into third. With the motor roaring at full throttle, they began to pull away, the trailer swaying wildly behind them.

  May sat up, startled. “What is it?”

  “I can’t believe it!” he said. “It’s that goddamned Bonning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He’s got a rifle.”

  She lunged for the glove compartment, where she had put the other pistol.

  “There’s a car behind him,” Showers said. “He won’t try anything.”

  She leaned out her window, so far he feared she might tumble out.

  “It’s a Mercedes. It’s right behind him.”

  There was the sound of a backfire. But it wasn’t that. It had to be a rifle shot. When they had passed through the town of Romney, West Virginia, many miles before, there’d been a narrow blacktop county road, leading south. He should have taken it. Instead, he’d decided to stay on route 220, to make better time. He’d been terribly stupid, and both of them were going to pay for it.

  May pulled herself back inside. “What can we do?”

  “Keep going. Make it to the next town. Find some police. Someone.”

  He saw the pickup beginning another run up alongside them. He twisted the wheel back and forth, causing the trailer to swing out to the side. The bay must be frantic.

  “You’re going to get us killed,” May said.

  He was afraid he’d made that inevitable.