The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  “May I help you?”

  “Burr Lafayette.” He extended a hand. R. Benjamin Fishman shook it, a bit weakly, Burr thought.

  Fishman was half a head shorter than Burr. He had longish, dishwater blond hair. Thinning on top and combed straight back from a tan forehead. Pointed features softened a bit by overeating. Not chubby, but headed that way. He was dressed to the nines.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Mr. Fishman, I represent Murdoch Halverson, who has been accused of murdering Jimmy Lyons.”

  Fishman took a step back. “What could that possibly have to do with me?”

  Burr didn’t say a word. He’d learned long ago that hardly anyone can stand silence for more than a few minutes. While he waited for Fishman to say something, Burr looked over the shop. Suits, sport coats, slacks, shirts, ties, belts. All top drawer. He’d heard of Fishman, but he’d always shopped at Brooks Brothers, on the hill in Grosse Pointe. Once in a while at the Claymore Shop, just down the street here in Birmingham.

  Maybe I should shop here. When I have the money.

  Fishman shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He straightened his tie, swept his hair back, then with the fingernail of his left pinkie, he scratched at an invisible spot on his trousers.

  What’s going on with that fingernail?

  Fishman had trimmed the rest of his nails, but not the pinkie’s. It was at least an inch long. “An old tailor’s trick,” Fishman said. “You do look like you know how to dress. Very nice tropical wool, if a bit worn. If you’ll excuse me, I’m quite busy.”

  Burr couldn’t quite see what R. Benjamin Fishman was busy with, but he was convinced Fishman would never agree to be fingerprinted.

  Fishman started off toward the back of the shop. He stopped and looked at Jacob. “The fellow over there is natty.” Jacob, who had been admiring an almost-black bolt of worsted wool, looked up. Fishman walked over to him. “I can have a suit made of that material for you,” he said. “I see you like your slacks pleated and cuffed. As do I.” Fishman lifted his right pant leg. “I admire a natty dresser.”

  Jacob offered his hand to Fishman, who shook it. “Jacob Wertheim.” Jacob straightened his glasses.

  “Benny,” R. Benjamin said.

  “Do you recommend a vest?”

  “I favor vests, but on less than tall men, men like us, they can make us look a bit elfish.”

  Jacob nodded, knowingly. “Two pairs of pants?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why don’t you write it up?” Jacob said.

  That’s going to cost fifteen hundred bucks if it costs a nickel.

  Since Jacob only spent money on fishing and clothes, he could afford it. Burr, on the other hand, had an ex-wife, an ex-mortgage, child support and a not so bustling office building.

  Benny walked over to the stand-up desk where the cash register stood. He reached underneath and returned with a pad of paper, pen and chalk. He took the cloth tape measure draped around his neck and wrapped it around Jacob’s neck. “Fifteen-and-a-half,” he said, writing it on his yellow pad.

  “Benny,” Burr said, “did Jimmy Lyons owe you money?”

  Benny didn’t look up. “Jimmy Lyons owed everyone money.”

  I’ve heard that before.

  “May I ask how much?”

  “Almost ten thousand.” The clothier wrapped the tape around Jacob’s chest. “Forty.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Burr said.

  “It is to me.” Benny measured Jacob’s waist. “Thirty-four. You’re a trim fellow.” Benny looked over at Burr. “But not enough to kill over.”

  “Of course not,” Burr said.

  Benny got down on one knee and measured Jacob’s inseam.

  “Besides, I finally got paid.”

  “You did?” Burr nearly jumped out of his tropical wool slacks. As did Jacob.

  “Hold still, Mr. Wertheim, or I’ll grab you where you don’t want to be grabbed.”

  “Who paid you?” Burr said.

  “Lionel Worthy.”

  This time Burr did jump out of his skin.

  Benny stood up, tape measure back around his neck. “All done. I’ll just write this up.” Back at the counter, he tallied his numbers with an adding machine and ripped off the tape in triumph. “One-thousand, nine-hundred, and ninety-six dollars. I’ll give it to you for nineteen-hundred even.”

  Jacob wasn’t fazed. He picked through the ties. There were hundreds of them.

  “Pick out any three. On me.”

  “Why, thank you. That’s most generous.” Jacob brought three ties to the counter.

  “Why do you think Worthy paid you?” Burr said.

  “He’s the executor of Jimmy’s estate. And it was a legitimate debt.”

  “Where do you think he got the money?” Burr said.

  “I assume it was from the life insurance,” Benny said.

  Jacob opened his mouth to say something, but Burr put his finger over his lips.

  “How about a belt to go with this?” Benny said. “No not a belt. Braces would be good. You’d look good in braces.”

  “I think braces would be most excellent,” Jacob said.

  “Benny, do you know Ronnie Cross?”

  “He was part of the crew. Big, strapping lad.” Turning to Jacob, “There will be a five-hundred-dollar deposit.”

  “Of course,” Jacob got out his checkbook. When he leaned over to write the check, his glasses slipped off his nose, clattered on the counter and fell at Benny’s feet.

  Benny picked them up. “Let me clean them for you.”

  “That’s all right.” Jacob grabbed the glasses from Benny and dropped them into the front pocket of his jacket. He wrote the check and the two would-be detectives left as quickly as they could.

  * * *

  Back in Burr’s room, Jacob sat at the French Provincial writing table, poring over the smudge on his glasses, the fingerprinting kit just off to his right.

  “Jacob, you’re about to ruin this.”

  “Nonsense. I almost have it.”

  Burr peered over Jacob’s shoulder.

  “You’re ruining the light.”

  “The light has nothing to do with it. You can’t see a damn thing without your glasses.”

  “Nonsense,” Jacob said again.

  “Then why do you have glasses?”

  “Myopia. They’re for distance only.” Jacob fiddled with a white powder, then sprinkled it on his lens.

  “They look like bifocals to me.”

  Jacob dropped his glasses. “Damn.”

  “You’ve ruined it.”

  Jacob picked up his glasses. “Who the devil is Ronnie Cross?”

  “Part of the crew.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Probably none. It’s just that he was on the reservation list at the Chippewa but not on Toad’s list.”

  “He probably just forgot. After all, he was smoking.”

  “I’ll remember you said that.”

  Jacob sprinkled more powder on his glasses.

  “It was brilliant of you to drop your glasses and get a print from Benny, but you’re about to give it all back.”

  Jacob fussed with his glasses, then the kit, then the glasses. “Voila. This should suit your expert just fine.” He handed Burr a perfect likeness of the whirls, whorls and twirls of Benny’s thumb and forefinger.

  * * *

  Otto Gunther, president and owner of Apex Heat Treat, stood six-five if he stood an inch, and he weighed at least two-seventy-five. Burr was sure he could play defensive end for the Lions, who could use one. They sat in the men’s grill at the Detroit Athletic Club, on Madison just up the street from Jefferson. Burr quite liked the dark, almost black, paneling, the heavy oak furniture a
nd the uniformed waiters in the men’s grill. He’d used the Fisher and Allen membership to get in, the news of his departure fortunately hadn’t reached the DAC’s membership department. Jacob lurked by himself at a table in the corner.

  The plan was to buy Gunther lunch and get his fingerprints from the menu, but after the slouching, white-coated waiter took their orders, he took their menus with him.

  Now what am I going to do?

  “Jimmy was a friend,” Gunther said in a German accent. “But he cheated me.”

  Burr nodded, although he couldn’t quite make the connection between friend and cheating.

  “He did many things for me. He got me new customers. He was so likable, but I should have known better.”

  This would have been so much easier if the waiter hadn’t taken our menus.

  “But then he didn’t pay me.”

  “Pay you?”

  “Heat treat. Do you know what heat treat is?”

  Burr nodded again.

  “It was fine at first. But then he started paying me late. At the end, not at all.”

  “Why did you sail with Jimmy if he was cheating you?”

  “He said it would give us a chance to work out a payment plan. How could I refuse?”

  “And did you?”

  “We did.”

  The waiter brought their lunch. Gunther had ordered the ribeye for two. A chicken Caesar for Burr.

  Gunther ate and ate, no more talking.

  Maybe I can get them from his silverware.

  Finally, Gunther pushed his plate away. He’d demolished the better part of two pounds of steak.

  As if on cue, the waiter cleared their plates, including the silverware.

  Damn it all.

  The waiter came back. “Would you care for dessert?”

  “I’m full,” Gunther said.

  “We’d like to see the dessert menu,” Burr said.

  “I can tell you,” the waiter said.

  “We’d like to see menus,” Burr said.

  “I’m full,” Gunther said again.

  The waiter gave Burr the look that all waiters at men’s clubs had perfected, but he came back with two dessert menus. Gunther didn’t take his.

  Nuts.

  Burr studied his menu then dropped it next to Gunther. The waiter bent over. Burr pushed him out of the way. “Otto, would you please hand me my menu.”

  Gunther grunted but reached down and handed Burr the menu. Burr studied the menu again, careful to hold it by the edges. “Would you give us a few minutes.”

  The waiter gave him another look then left.

  Burr put his menu down, ever so carefully. “Did Jimmy ever pay you?”

  “No. Foolish, I know. Especially for a German. But I liked him.”

  “Do you think you’ll get paid?”

  Gunther looked at Burr. “I’d be surprised if I ever got paid. I suppose it depends on that wife of his and his miserable lawyer.”

  “Where were you the night Jimmy was killed?”

  The not so gentle giant stood. “My wife was with me from the time we reached the island until the time we left. She can back me up.”

  “Wives are good for that.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Burr shook his head.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I will be going.” Gunther left.

  Jacob came over to Burr’s table. Burr handed Jacob the menu who spirited it away. The slouching waiter showed up.

  “Just a check,” Burr said.

  * * *

  Burr retrieved his Jeep and a peeved Zeke from valet parking and drove them back up Jefferson to the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. Zeke had spent the better part of the last two days in the Jeep. All was forgiven after Burr took him swimming again.

  If people got over things as quickly as dogs, the world would be a much nicer place.

  They headed back down Jefferson to Detroit. Just inside the city limits, Burr turned left onto Conner. He drove past a rundown collection of small metal shops and frame houses, some abandoned, some not. They ended up at one of Detroit’s remaining, although private, bright spots. The Bayview Yacht Club, founded in 1915 and sponsor of the Port Huron-Mackinac, sat on a spit of land at the south end of Lake St. Clair near the mouth of the Detroit River. A one-story brick building, docks scattered in every available space. Burr marveled at the millions of dollars of boats separated from economic ruin by no more than a chain link fence and an unarmed security guard.

  He stopped at the gate. “Scaramouche,” he said to the guard. He thought he’d just about run out of clubby meeting places, but he also thought his name was probably still on the list. A drink at Bayview had been the only bait that lured the elusive Dickie Gold to a meeting.

  The gate, a single piece of wood painted yellow that a moped could break through, lifted and Burr was in. He parked in what little shade he could find and cracked the windows for Zeke. His shirt stuck to his back in the clamminess of the late August afternoon. Inside the yacht club, he stopped to admire the trophies and pennants of Bayview’s storied history. Unfortunately, the place reminded him a bit of his former self, more money than sense. Half a million for a fifty-foot racing machine good for nothing after two or three years.

  “A testament to the money to be made in the making of metal parts.”

  “I beg your pardon?” This from yet another uniformed waiter, this one a portly black man with grizzled hair and a career smile.

  “Thinking out loud.”

  The waiter smiled knowingly. He had years of experience dealing with people who had more money than brains. “May I help you?”

  “Two over there, please.” Burr pointed to the window overlooking the docks. He could see no earthly reason to sit outside in the heat. In keeping with his long-standing policy, Burr sat facing the door. The bar was empty except for one sloshed patron of indeterminate age struggling to stay afloat on a barstool.

  The bar was just as Burr remembered it, varnished paneling, bright work that would make any yachtsman proud. A bar so bright he could see his reflection. Tables scattered about. Burr nursed a Perrier and lime on the rocks, refreshing but boring, until his guest marched in. He was no more than five-seven and thin to the point of skinny.

  “You must be Lafayette. Unless he’s the drunk on the bar stool.”

  “I am.”

  “Dickie Gold,” he said, sitting down. He had shiny black hair, neatly cut and neatly parted. Owlish glasses over black eyes. A too big nose over too small teeth. Standard issue blue blazer over a white Lacoste. Burr was sure he was sockless. He liked Dickie Gold immediately, no matter what he may have done.

  The veteran waiter arrived. “Gentleman?” he said.

  “Gin gimlet up,” Dickie Gold said.

  “Make that two,” Burr said. “With Bombay.” He lusted after a dirty martini. They knew how to make them here at Bayview, but he thought it best to do his best to keep his wits about him.

  “Sapphire?”

  “With Rose’s,” although he had serious reservations about the wisdom of mixing lime juice with gin.

  “Of course,” the waiter said.

  “So good of you to invite me. I did want to see you.” Dickie smiled a smile of small white teeth, except for a gold tooth flashing from the back of his mouth. “Bit of a hike from Southfield.”

  “It is, but it’s nice to be on the water.”

  Why does he want to see me? I’m the one who wants to see him.

  The drinks arrived. A clinking of glasses. “To justice,” Dickie said.

  “To justice,” Burr said, even more bewildered. Burr drank his gimlet.

  The lime juice just about ruins the gin.

  “Let’s get this murder business over with. I want my money.” Dickie smacked his lips.

  “I beg your
pardon.”

  “Go and settle this. I’m sure the prosecutor will take some sort of plea.”

  “Plea?”

  Dickie took another swallow. “Yes, plea. I’m not going to get paid from the estate until this thing is done, and I want my money.”

  “My client didn’t kill Jimmy.”

  “Of course he did. If I have to, I’ll testify that I saw him do it.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Burr said again.

  “This is very simple. I’m a moneylender and I want my money.”

  “How do you know the estate has any money to pay you? Jimmy owed everybody.”

  “I always get paid first.”

  “How do I know that you didn’t strangle him with the Christmas lights?”

  “If he was dead, how would I get paid?”

  “Life insurance.”

  “Life insurance?” This piqued Gold’s interest. “Who’s the beneficiary?”

  “Jane, I think.”

  Gold slumped. “The debt was not joint and several.”

  I don’t like him after all, and I’m sure he’s wearing socks.

  “Let’s get this over with. You’re in my way of getting paid. If it’s not that stuffed shirt Murdoch Halverson, figure it out and move on.” Gold finished his gimlet.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I could have. The miserable son-of-a-bitch was the worst loan I ever made.” His tooth flashed. “Strangling isn’t my style. It’s more of an Italian thing. If violence was necessary, I’d hire someone.”

  Burr picked up his drink, then set it down.

  I can’t drink gin with lime juice.

  Gold studied his empty glass.

  I hope to God he doesn’t want another.

  Gold unfolded his napkin. “My attorney told me not to meet with you.” Carefully, very carefully, he wiped off the glass.

  Burr smiled weakly at the moneylender.

  “I’m going to make it easy for you.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger of each hand on the glass.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning Burr leaned against the white split-rail fence, the red barn just behind him. This was probably the only barn left in all of the Grosse Pointes and one of the few barns he’d ever seen that didn’t need a fresh coat of paint. The barn, the fence, and the corrals, housed the horses of the members of Grosse Pointe Hunt Club. It stood right smack in the middle of Grosse Pointe Farms, left standing when the rows of corn had been plowed under for rows of houses. The original Pointers had run foxes here not so long ago. A few of them still had horses, but the club had morphed into tennis and a restaurant with a menu that promoted acid reflux.