Scrambled Hard-Boiled

by E.R. White, Jr.

  * * * * *

  It was around six weeks after the Whippy case that we got a phone call from one such client. Maisy, who we had hired a couple of weeks earlier, took the call and wrote down the initial details.

  Mr. Eric D. Slatterson, owner and president of Slatterson Mills, needed the services of Twillfigger Investigations to assist him in a very confidential matter. He left his private office phone number and asked us to return his call at our convenience.

  Maisy passed all of this to Ernie, who was responsible for the first screen of all jobs. Ernie did a bit of research and then called Slatterson for more details. After getting off the phone with him, Ernie called me into his office filled me in on the job offer.

  “Kid, I think we might have a hot one here. This guy Slatterson owns one of the biggest textile companies in North Carolina with well over a thousand people on his payroll. It’s located a couple hour drive west of here in a town called Warhill. I got a lawyer friend who works near there, and he tells me this Slatterson is one of the richest men in the area. He lives on a huge estate and is a mover and shaker in the local political scene.”

  “What does he want us for?” I queried.

  “He wouldn’t say over the phone, but he did say that it was a sensitive private matter, and he didn’t want the local talent involved. That’s why he was calling us.”

  “I don’t know, Ernie. It probably means working in the area and that’s a hell of a commute. We would have to sacrifice business here to meet the demands of this job, especially if it means working on it for any extended period of time.”

  “Yeah, I told him that, and he said not to worry. He assured me that we would more than make up for any lost revenue with this job. To prove he means it, he’s gonna give us a $1000 cash bonus just to show up in his office tomorrow at one o’clock and listen to his proposition. If we take the job, he’ll up the bonus to $2000.”

  Well, if the man wanted to throw his money around like that, I wasn’t going to stop him. We had Maisy confirm the meeting and the location of Slatterson’s office with his secretary. I was on my way to Warhill the next morning.

  I arrived there around midday. It was a small town of around three thousand souls, located in the rural foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Ten miles to the west was the county seat and largest town in the county, Loganton.

  Warhill had a main street dotted with small stores on both sides of the road. The big super-stores like K-Mart and Wal-Mart had yet to make their appearance in this area back then, so small retailers still had a presence there. The one concession to international commerce was an A&P grocery store located near the High School. The roads branching off the Main Street were lined with trees and homes with well-manicured lawns. It was the stuff of Norman Rockwell paintings.

  It wasn’t until you got well outside of town, near the textile mills, that you saw the other side of the tracks. There were the dirt roads with the trailers or the moldy cinder block two-bedroom homes. Most yards here were a mixture of crab grass and dirt. Driveways were rare and folks parked their cars right on the lawn. Junk and refuse were spread everywhere. This is where the bottom-rung lived or, as the socially conscious would refer to them, the disenfranchised working poor. Ernie, on the other hand, called them the “stupid fucks who were too lazy to finish high school.”

  It was noon, so I pulled into the local drive-in for a quick burger and confirmed with the locals the location of Slatterson’s office. At ten minutes till one, I had pulled into the parking lot outside the stark, utilitarian office building of Slatterson Mills. I walked through the front doors and eventually made my way to Slatterson’s secretary. I gave her my name and said I had a one o’clock appointment with Mr. Slatterson. She was expecting me, and invited me to have a seat while she informed Mr. Slatterson of my arrival. She made a quick call on the phone, and I sat down and waited. Promptly at one, a buzzer went off under the secretary’s desk, and she quickly escorted me into Slatterson’s office and shut the door behind me. Slatterson was standing beside his desk, giving me the once over.

  He was a bull of a man. While not that tall, he was beefy, with a short, squat neck and almost gorilla-like torso. He had a gut, but you could tell there was muscle underneath it, and both his legs and arms could be described as thick and stout. His hair was short and steel-gray. His eyes were brown, and he had a ruddy complexion. Overlaying all of this was an elegant dark-blue suit, white shirt and red silk tie, all straight from Saks 5th Avenue. A gold Rolex adorned his wrist. Other than his wedding band, he wore no other jewelry.

  His office was comfortable and conservative in nature, meant for business, not show. He had a large, cherry wood desk, with an overstuffed swivel chair located behind it. Paperwork and office tools were neatly arranged on it. Two phones were on the desk corner. Off to one side of the office there was a modest coffee table with a black leather couch and two matching chairs encircling it. A pitcher of water and two glasses were on the table. On the wall were the obligatory pictures of Slatterson’s factories and pictures of the businessman shaking hands of various dignitaries. Closer inspection of the pictures showed Slatterson shaking hands with Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Jesse Helms and strangely enough, President Carter. Evidentially, Slatterson liked to keep his bases covered and options open. Something to keep in mind.

  He motioned for me to sit down in one of the chairs by the coffee table and then joined me in the other chair.

  “Something to drink?” he asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “Time is money Mr. Slatterson, both for you and me. I don’t want to waste your valuable time. Let’s see if we can do business.”

  I decided to approach the matter brusquely and directly, banking on my gut feeling that this is the way Slatterson likes to do business. I saw a spark of approval in his eye and knew I’d played my hand perfectly.

  “Fair enough,” Slatterson grunted. He reached into his inside coat pocket, took out a thick envelope and threw it on the table.

  “Here’s the bonus I promised. If you take the job, I got another envelope with the other grand.”

  I let the envelope lie there and merely cocked my head to listen. Slatterson went on. His next statement surprised me a bit.

  “Do you have any children, Mr. Dafoe?”

  A bit startled, I looked at him a second.

  “No, I haven’t married yet.”

  He looked at me and for the first time I saw a break in the iron man façade, and noticed the pain flash for a moment in his eyes.

  “I have a son, Mr. Dafoe, named Edmond. He goes by the nickname Sonny, however. That was my pet name for him when he was young, and it just sort of stuck. He’s twenty-three now, graduated from Davidson College last year with a business degree. I’m hoping he takes over from me one day.”

  His voice trailed off for a second, and he stared off into space. I could tell this was difficult for him.

  He shook his head, as if to the clear it and continued.

  “Sonny was—I mean is—Sonny is my pride and joy. His mother, Beatrice died a year after he was born, but Cheryl, my current wife, has raised him since he was four. Sonny was a fine boy growing up. He was the quiet type, but a good student. He came home from college last year, and I had every intention of teaching him the textile business, letting him start on the factory floor, and work his way up. I was hoping to have him working out of the main office here in a couple of years and maybe running the whole show by the time I’m sixty, seven years from now. But—something has happened to Sonny.”

  He stopped to catch his breath. I let him.

  He started up again.

  “I’m a rich man, Dafoe, but I earned it. I was born dirt poor, and I got my college degree after the war on the GI bill. I started this business twenty-five years ago and made it into something I can be proud of. They talk of me in the garment districts of New York City, can you believe it? A bunch of goddamn New York Jews know about me, a redneck from North Carolina.”


  He shook his head in apparent wonder, stood up and began to pace the floor.

  “I’m the man who made double-knit polyester what it is today. Oh, I didn’t invent it, but I recognized it for what it is—the cloth of the future. Look at my factories,” he gestured to the pictures on the wall. “Everyone of them geared to make double-knit polyester, in every color of the rainbow, from bright yellow to navy blue. Worldwide manufacturers who make suits, dresses, ties, shirts, even socks, depend on, and will continue to depend on, my factories for their raw material. A lot of people all over this country depend on me, and I haven’t let them down. I was hoping that Sonny would take over one day and build on what I started. But that dream is in trouble, and that is where I need your help, Mr. Dafoe.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  He sighed, bit his lower lip a second and then sat down.

  “As I told you, I put Sonny to work on the factory floor last year, in order for him to learn the basics of the textile business. From all initial reports, he was doing fine. Then, about six months ago, Sonny started showing up to work late occasionally and the quality of his work started to slip. At first, the factory foreman, Sam Glavin, hid this fact from me, hoping the problem would resolve itself. However, things just got worse.”

  He paused and took a deep breath. I could see this was a tough story for him to tell a stranger.

  “About three months ago, Sam confronted Sonny with his poor performance, but Sonny just told him to go to hell and threatened to get him fired. Sam has been with me for eleven years and knew that this was a hollow threat. He came to me immediately after his confrontation with Sonny and told me everything.”

  He paused, poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and drank it in one gulp. He sat the glass back on the table and continued.

  “I jumped all over Sonny that night at dinner. We had words. In a nutshell, Sonny said he wasn’t sure he wanted to run the company one day. Cheryl had to step in and calm things down. I was mad as hell and Sonny was even madder. He stormed out of the house and went back to the apartment I’m providing him while he works at the factory. After things cooled down, we talked and patched things up. Sonny agreed to give working at the factory another six months and then move into the management for a while after that. But his performance hasn’t improved any—in fact, it's gotten worse. Sam told me a few weeks ago that he failed to show up for three days in a row. He’s lost weight and looks terrible. Even though his apartment is only a short drive from our home, he very rarely comes over to visit his mother or me.”

  Slatterson looked me in the eye a minute, then lowered his head and continued talking.

  “Sam told me that the rumor around the factory floor is that Sonny is on drugs. The way he’s looked lately, I wouldn’t doubt it. I confronted Sonny on this, and he denied it. But—but I know in my heart it is true. That’s where you come in. Before I take this to the next level, I want the facts. I want to know what drugs my boy is on, where he gets them, who started him on them. In short, I want you to spy on him. It shouldn’t take you long, and I’ll pay you handsomely for your time.”

  “Once you have this information, what are you going to do with it?” I asked.

  “I know my son. Once he’s confronted with the fact that I know everything, he’ll do as I say, get the help he needs. I used to drink Mr. Dafoe—drink a lot. I managed to quit on my own, but it was tough. From what I hear, quitting drugs, especially the hard stuff, is even tougher. I’m not a Neanderthal, and I love my son. I’ll get him the help he needs.”

  Fair enough, I say to myself, now let’s see how much he really loves his son.

  “I appreciate your candor and situation, Mr. Slatterson. I figure it will take me a week, maximum of two to get the information that you need. Because you live so far from my base and office, I’ll be unable to devote any of my time to other customers. I’ll have to hire others to cover for me while I’m attending your needs, since some of these individuals have problems as pressing as your own. I expect to be covered for those expenses. Assume twelve-hour workdays, at a minimum, plus living expenses. My hourly rate for this type of job is a hundred bucks. Before you object, consider what your lawyer charges per hour. If I get the job done in less than a week, I expect a $10,000 bonus. Take a thousand off the bonus every day I’m late after that. Rest assured, when I get through you’ll have all the information you’ll need to help your son. I’ll have a contract for you to sign tomorrow, and I’ll start work next Monday morning. If this is satisfactory to you, you can give me my remaining signing bonus. If not, I’ll wish you luck, and you’ll get a bill covering my expenses for today.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He took the additional envelope of cash out of his pocket and tossed it beside the other on the table.

  “Agreed.”

  I mentally kicked myself in the ass. I should have asked for $150 an hour, damn it.

  Slatterson stood up, “Cheryl thinks I’ve pushed the boy too hard over the years, that I should back off and let him work this out on his own. I agreed with her to keep peace in the family, so she can’t know about you or this arrangement, at least until I’m ready to confront Sonny. Contact me here at the office only. I told Sally, my secretary, you’re dealing with a security issue at the plant. That’s all she needs to know.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll also need for you to write down every possible personal detail you know about Sonny, where he lives, his friends, habits, anything that you might think I need. Nothing is too trivial, okay? I also need some recent pictures of him.”

  “Fine, when will you need it?”

  I handed him my card, “As soon as possible. My office address is on the card. You can have the information delivered there.”

  I stood up to leave.

  “Just out of curiosity, what do you plan on doing to the people that sell him the stuff—got him using it?” I asked.

  “I’ve connections and influence in this neck of the woods, Mr. Dafoe, from judges on down. These people who did this to my son—let’s just say they’ll regret it.”

  Both he and I didn’t know it at that time, but a lot of people had their death warrants signed that day.

  Chapter 10