And that’s why he wanted to send me out to handle this situation quietly and under the radar. If his son was still alive, he wanted to understand the situation before he took any official action.
But if Robert Davidson was still alive – where was he and what was he doing? My thoughts were going around in circles. I still didn’t know enough to even try and figure out that angle. So, to kill time, I checked out a few online gambling sites, wondering if I could get away with using my brand new credit card to win a million or two at virtual poker.
I was just recalling how bad a poker player I was when my iPhone started vibrating.
I picked it up off the desk where it lay beside the Chromebook, recognized the Caller ID again, and answered.
“Let me guess. You want to know where my car is, so your kid can come slash the tires again.”
“I hope you’re amused inside your own head, because those are the only laughs you’re going to get.”
Angela, as usual, wasn’t in a joking mood.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Davidson?”
“Where are you? Are you still in town?”
“Not in your town. I’m up the road, near D.C.”
Pause.
“Can I come see you?”
I checked my nice new silver watch. 4:30.
“Well…I hate to eat alone.”
“Tell me where to meet you.”
Was I crazy for inviting Angela Davidson to dinner after she sent her kid out to sabotage my rental? No. I needed all the information I could get and I knew there were probably a few details only she could provide. After all, this was her younger brother – she would know what he was all about.
I was still a little shaky from the bender the night before when I pulled my rental up to the D.C. hotspot where I asked her to meet me. I didn’t want her anywhere near my hotel, because I didn’t want to become the victim of any more of her family’s mischief. I ended up getting to the place a couple of minutes late – and I don’t think she was too ecstatic about my tardiness. She was actually looking pretty hot in a small black skirt and close-fitting top as she leaned on her Mercedes and glared at the boarded-up graffiti-ridden windows that bore the address I had given her.
Whoops.
I parked across the street and walked over to her.
“This must be a very exclusive place,” she said, her eyes throwing a few poisoned daggers my way. “So exclusive it doesn’t have windows. Must be some pretty important people in there. They really don’t want to be seen.”
I looked the façade up and down and sighed.
“Pancho’s Tacos. The best bad Mexican food in town. What the hell.”
“The best bad Mexican food?” she said in disbelief as she threw her head in Pancho’s direction.
“Cheesy and greasy,” I said, still staring at the outline of “Pancho’s” left behind on the top of the front wall from where the letters were removed. “Guaranteed to clean out your system in an hour.”
“Well, my system’s fine, thank you. So let’s go where I like to eat. Leave your car, I’ll drive.”
“Your kid going to come cut the brake lines this time?”
More daggers.
Where she liked to eat was, as expected, expensive and jam-packed with Washington movers and shakers – and sadly devoid of greasy tacos. This was a five-star restaurant that felt as if it needed a few extra in recognition of its super-elevated status – if you threw a bread roll in any direction, you were bound to hit a cable news pundit smack in the kisser.
My idea had been to stay as incognito as possible and here she was getting us a table at a place where everybody cared less about the food and more about the other people that were eating there. A Clinton or a Bush wouldn’t have been out of place, which meant a Davidson was more than welcome without a reservation. We were a real Lady and the Tramp combo, since I was dressed for Pancho’s and she was for whatever you still dressed for these days. Luckily, I was at least wearing my brand new Banana Republic jeans – and of course, my nice new silver watch, which quickly caught her eye.
“Nice watch,” she said, looking over the top of her menu. “Did you just get that? I don’t remember you wearing that when you were at the house.”
“You’re observant.”
Her approval faded as she looked me in the eyes.
“You still look pale. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, I should’ve seen less whiskey last night.”
“Hmmm,” she said, “Again with the whiskey. Do you perhaps need to go to a meeting?”
“I’m not an alcoholic, but thanks for asking. No, last night was a special occasion. Call it a return to the scene of the crime.”
A waiter stopped by. Angela ordered a wine that I could neither pronounce nor afford. The waiter was impressed by her selection, so I joined in the general excitement. When he was gone, she went back to her menu and continued the cross-examination.
“What kind of crime are we talking about?”
“My first marriage.”
She peered over the top of the menu at me again.
“Who was the perpetrator?”
“I’ll leave that to a jury of my peers.”
She actually laughed and went back to the menu. “Well, that’s a trial I hope gets televised. Mine didn’t go so well either. And neither did the second one. And now at my advanced age, it’s tough finding guys like you. The roast chicken looks good.”
Wait, what did she say before the thing about the chicken?
“Guys like me?” I asked. Shit, did my voice just go up an octave?
“Guys who are just…guys. Straight-shooters, like my dad. No bullshit.”
“You must have men lining up. You’re in good shape. And aren’t there a lot of big shots who’d just like to have the Davidson name attached?”
“Who the hell needs someone like that? They don’t give a shit about me or anything about me. I’ve been through that too many times. The first husband married me for my money. The second for my name. I’m not optimistic about there being a third.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone right now, I take it?”
“No, you?”
“There’s someone. A singer who can’t sing. It’s casual.”
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I didn’t have to take it out and look at it, I knew it was Jules. As usual, her fucking witch-like powers sensed a female encroaching on her territory.
“Does she know it’s casual?”
I shrugged like a guy would. She seemed to find that attractive.
The wine came and, as the waiter poured, we both ordered the roast chicken. A little later, the food came and then another bottle of wine. We became almost as roasted as the chicken. During all that, we talked a little about baseball, movies, a few other safe subjects. Too much was hanging in the air, so I decided it was finally time to push things and do some business.
“So this is nice and everything. But why did you want to come all this way to talk to me?”
“I was interested in what you were going to do. How you were going to approach it.”
“Well, I’m not anxious to share my plans with a tire assassin.”
That flustered her and she didn’t fluster easily.
“Look…I’m really sorry…really, really sorry…but you already seemed rattled and I thought…”
“You thought some unknown stalker taking out my tires would scare me off. And then you wouldn’t have to worry about what I was going to turn up.”
“I guess I underestimated you.”
“People often do, even though I’m usually not up to much.”
“Well, let me correct you on something. Again, I’m not scared of what you’re going to turn up. I’m scared about my father’s weird obsession getting out to the media.”
She was starting to hit that line a little too hard. And suddenly, I no longer believed her.
But I did have to try and get at least get some information out of this dinne
r about the Davidson brood, because I sure as hell didn’t get a lot of protein. The chicken was good but, as usual in these kinds of places, it was only enough to fill the belly of a small child, not a big doughy man who only had a club sandwich six hours ago and was expecting to devour Pancho’s Combo #3, two tacos and a burrito with rice and beans on the side. Goddamn, I was going to give myself phantom diarrhea.
“Your mother – she passed away?”
“Three years ago. She would’ve been able to talk Dad out of this crazy fucking shit.”
“Tell me about your brother. Your only sibling, right?”
She looked away. This wouldn’t be easy.
“Yes, and it doesn’t really matter about Robbie now, does it?”
“Your father alluded to some…conflict with him.”
“It makes no difference.” Now she was getting pissed.
“Your father seemed to think it did. I thought it was interesting he went into the Rangers program instead of West Point. Seems like that might have disappointed your dad.”
She finished her glass of wine. Her hand was shaking. She got up her nerve, pushed her head forward in my direction and made her pitch.
“Here’s why I really called you. I’m assuming my father is paying you very well to do what you’re doing. He’s not a cheap man and this is important to him.”
I didn’t say anything. She pulled back a little, let all that sink in, and then moved forward again for the kill.
“Well, I have some money too. And I will double what he’s paying you to just stop whatever you’re thinking of doing. Give it up. Again, report back to him with some credible information that he’ll buy. And then drop it. Forever.”
So that was it. Intimidation failed, now it was going to be bribery. I wasn’t anxious to find out what her third move would be, but I had no doubt it would be coming.
She went into her purse. It was a nice bag. Probably cost more than the payoff she was offering me.
“I can write you a check for a deposit of sorts, if that…”
My turn to move forward as I waved off her offer.
“Angela, I think you’ve again underestimated me. I don’t do that kind of thing, ever. It’s the reason I have any kind of reputation at all. If I can’t be trusted, I don’t get hired. And besides…well, it just ain’t me.”
She turned and signaled the waiter with an almost violent gesture to get his immediate attention. Lots of heads turned. Members of the Washington elite like Angela didn’t spin their arms around in the air at a place like this. I got the hint.
“I guess it’s time for the check. You want me to handle it?”
She shook her head furiously and dug into her purse for her wallet. Eye contact was no longer in her repertoire. When the waiter came over, she shoved an American Express card at him and asked him to expedite the check, she had somewhere to be, a destination which was anywhere I was not.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I went on, kind of wanting her to like me again. I knew that what she was doing now had nothing to do with me. I just wanted the same thing to be true for the first part of the meal. I wanted her to not just have been greasing the wheels for the pay-off when she acted like I had a shot with her.
“You didn’t disappoint me. Life did.”
Oh, boy. That’s where we were.
We sat quietly for a minute or two, until the waiter returned with her AmEx card and the receipt for the meal. She scribbled on a generous tip and signed it. Then she got up and walked out, leaving me the poorest and most alone guy in the room.
That wouldn’t have been the case if Pancho was still making tacos.
The poorest part, anyway.
Gas Leak
It was Tuesday morning.
I avoided the Jack – and the Jules – when I got back to the hotel the night before, and slept moderately well probably because I ducked both J’s.
Although I did keep thinking about Angela during the night. I was a man, so of course I pictured her naked a few times, but mostly I thought about what she was hiding. She seemed to erupt like an overheated volcano every time I mentioned her brother - she wouldn’t divulge even the most basic piece of information about him. She just wanted me gone and the whole thing forgotten. Not only that, she wanted it too badly, which meant there was a huge fucking skeleton in some closet somewhere whose bones kept rattling in her ear to the point where it hurt.
Anyway, I was done with the dead ends around here. It was time to hit the road.
And suddenly, I felt all balanced and Zen again, like I could just focus on the case and ignore all the Sturm und Drang and other bullshit surrounding it. Because I was finally getting the hell out of D.C. and leaving all the pain from my past in a crappy midrange hotel room.
Plus, I was beginning to believe all the danger of the Davidson case lay in the pain of their past. Whatever they were all scared of, whatever they were worried I might stir up, it seemed to be all about things that had been, not things that were. If there was some scandal attached to Robert Davidson, it was old and moldy and there was no reason to drag it out into the light if I ever found out what it was. Frankly, I didn’t care what it was and wasn’t anxious to find out. I had a simple job, to prove the guy was dead, and that was my only obligation. If there was some nastiness lurking from days gone by, I’d leave it where it was.
But the idea of Robert Davidson still being alive? That was dumber than a dog barking at itself in the mirror.
So it was just a matter of what the ugly truth had been about the guy. Maybe Angela was just afraid if I uncovered it, I’d blackmail her or go right to the National Enquirer. In any event, the only real threat to me so far had been a teenager attacking my tires. I needed to relax about the whole fucking thing, again, it was just another job despite the involvement of living legend General Donald Davidson.
All of that self-manufactured reassurance put me in such an almost good mood that I was heading towards giddy as I prepared to pack up, check out and hit the road. As I gathered my luggage - the Banana Republic shopping bags, that is - I called Jules. I had waited until the last possible second to make sure she’d be at work, where she couldn’t scream obscenities at me.
But, then again, if Angela consistently underestimated me, I consistently underestimated Jules, who, when she answered, immediately said in a pleasant and professional voice that she would call me back in a minute. Then, as I saw it in my head, she quietly got up from her desk, took quick, purposeful strides towards the elevator, rode it forty floors down to the ground level, walked out of the high-rise where she worked and ducked into a back alley where she knew she could scream as many obscenities at me as she damn well pleased.
“Where the FUCK have you been, Fuckhead?”
Only two fucks? That was hardly worth going down forty floors.
“I got drunk night before last. I bought a laptop. I researched. Last night, I had dinner with someone connected with my case.”
“Who is she?”
“Did I specify a gender?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Are you ever?”
A sigh.
“I just miss you.”
I was getting tenderness?
“Jules, we never see each other that much during the week anyway.”
“You’re not in the greater metropolitan area. I don’t like that.”
“I’m not having sex with other women. I’ve mostly just been freaked out, okay?”
“What the fuck is it with this case?” She sounded worried for the first time.
“You don’t want to know, but don’t get concerned. I think everything’s all right now.”
As we talked, I used the television remote in the room to check out of the hotel – and, of course, kept it all on my new Mr. Barry Filer-issued credit card. Very easy. Thanks to technology, we would soon never have to converse with any other humans again. Then we could all just stay home and comfortably drown in our own filth.
“Are you coming
back today?” Jules said with more than a little urgency.
“No…I’m going to be gone probably a few more days.”
“FUCK WHAT FUCK FUCK FUCK???!!”
Okay, the alley was a good call.
“Look, I have shit to do. I don’t get mad when you go to work.”
“Goddammit. Where are you going?”
“I’m not on a secure line.”
“Oh, Jesus, really? After all this time, you’re going to pretend to be serious about what you’re doing?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“I’ll blow you when you get home?”
“Still not talking.”
A pause. This was a strange conversation and I was about to find out why.
“I have enough.”
I stood still in the middle of the room.
“Enough? Enough what?”
She paused, then it all came out in a rush.
“Enough money, doofus. I made an appointment with the doctor, the one who does the vocal cord surgery. I think I can cover the deductible, the co-pay, whatever the fuck Obamacare is gonna make me cough up, and get the operation. I think…maybe I’ll be able to sing again.”
It sounded like those last two words made her cry a little.
Wow. No wonder she was so edgy.
She had been waiting for this day for years, ever since her singing voice went out in the middle of a gig. Back when she was 22 and just out of college, she left Kansas and came to New York to be a Broadway star, not to wait on dick lawyers who only saw her as a paperwork receptacle. Apparently, she had a genuine talent. Even had a write-up in The New York Times back in 2009 about her cabaret act. I wouldn’t know. I only found her after she lost her singing voice. But I was curious what she really sounded like when digging into some Cole Porter.
“That’s great news, Jules.”
“Yeah. Except I won’t be able to talk for two weeks after surgery. At ALL.”
“That’s more great news, baby.”
Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) Page 6
