“And who’ll run P & H? Did you think of that?” Anthony rasped.
“Dad,” Tony said gently, “with no disrespect to any of the board or you as president, P & H sometimes runs much better without you lot mucking about, making everyone nervous. You have great management. Let it work.”
“Well,” Anthony huffed, “that’s a hell of a note.”
“You know it’s true, Dad,” Tony smiled. “Between Dennison, Poole, and Withers, every one of your functions is covered and you can stay in touch via e-mail. It’s time you learned that, anyway.”
“Fiji, eh?” Anthony mused. Tony knew instantly that it was a done deal.
“You’ve earned it, don’t you think?” Tony smiled, picking up the phone. “Martine? Could you please ring up travel and tell Hammet to book my dad and mum on a round trip to Fiji, departing tomorrow morning, hotels, ground, security, the works. Put it on my plastic, please? Thanks.”
“You’re not paying for this,” Anthony said sternly.
“Dad,” Tony smiled, putting his arm around his father’s shoulder and kissing him on the cheek, “shut up, ya bloody old fart.”
Not many people have my cell number. I like it that way. I think one of the true perversities of modern life is this manic desire to be available 24/7. I like being unavailable. There just ought to be times when nobody can bother you, like in church, or while sleeping, or in the john.
My service knows that they can give out my cell, or, preferably, 3-way it in if the call is urgent but that’s rare enough that I never even think of it.
When it rang, as Aaron, Jack, and I sat in the window seat in a small bar in Colville, I assumed it was Rod Hooks calling to hire me to look into the Kensington shooting. I had already decided that getting all chummy with P.P.V. worked against my good habit of total candor with Jack. I decided to turn Hooks down, out of hand, and then to investigate it, anyway, so my phone manner, as I recall, might have been a tad abrupt, in that way that some hypersensitive people have occasionally called hostile.
“Tru North,” I said briskly.
“No mistaking that name,” a melodious, feminine voice chuckled.
“I’m … uh … you have me at a disadvantage, ma’am,” I replied, trying to remember my manners.
“I’m sorry,” she chuckled, “this is Paula Farrier, from Lee Bjornsens’s office?”
“Right,” I replied. “I know, I haven’t called him in a couple of days and I apologize but I’m working over in Colville and haven’t had a chance. I’ll make time by the end of business today, I promise.”
“Well….she said slowly, “actually, I … umm… Have I called at a bad time?”
“No, not at all,” I said brightly. “We just ordered lunch and it hasn’t shown up yet.”
“This is kinda…um…awkward,” Paula stammered. “Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Sure, just a second,” I responded. I stood and mimed taking the call outside. Jack nodded in recognition. I levered the restaurant’s balky door open and walked just past their front window, into a phone booth. “Okay, now I can hear you better. What can I do for you, Ms. Farrier?”
“Jeez, y’know, now that I think of it, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she murmured.
“You’d be surprised how often I hear that, actually,” I said lightly. “Look, coming to a private investigator is usually everybody’s last resort, but the word ‘private’ doesn’t mean only ‘non-governmental.’ It has a literal meaning, too. It means I don’t tell people about this call or your problem or what we do to solve it. You can trust me and I think Lee will vouch for that. If there’s something I can do for you, I’d be glad to do it.”
“Well, Lee put me up to this, in fact,” she chuckled nervously. “My exact problem is that…uh…I’d like to go out to dinner with you. If you want to, of course.”
Like a lightening bolt in my mind, a face, figure, laugh, eyes, and an odd, appealing, gap-toothed grin popped into my head. Paula Farrier, of course. Office next to Lee’s, high-powered litigator, deposed me in the Sea Queen Seafood trial, cum laude graduate of Stanford, tall, cool, snowy blonde. Paula, of course.
“I…umm…Paula. I’m…,” I started, aware that I had no idea what I was trying to say. “Okay, let me start over. First, I’m totally flattered that you’d ask…”
“Oh, god,” she stammered. “I’ve put you in a really awkward position, haven’t I? I told Lee you didn’t want to go out with me but you know Lee.”
“Wait, wait, wait…just a second,” I laughed. “Yeah, I do know Lee and I bet I can report what he told you just about word for word. So you’re the one in the awkward position. He mentioned you without naming you and, to be brutally honest, I told him you were too young for me which, sadly, is probably true.”
“Too young?” she laughed incredulously. “Well, that’s a new one. Lee said you’re 50 which I find hard to believe. Just out of curiosity, how old did he say this mystery woman is?”
“Thirty-one,” I replied.
The laughter that followed was the kind that usually, at the wrong moment, results in milk, coffee, or Samuel Smith Taddy Porter shooting out your nose. It was a completely un-lawyerly sound: musical, unforced, and genuine. I just stood there enjoying it, the trees, and the sunshine.
“Thirty-one!” she finally managed. “So, Mr. ‘Paragon of Truth’ is capable of the odd white lie. He only missed by 11 years!”
“Like I said,” I smiled, “too young. I can’t go out with a 20-year old.”
More laughter. I had forgotten, I realized, how much I miss evoking that sort of sound from a woman; how their faces look when it happens, that an unselfconscious toss of the hair, how their whole bodies become involved.
“Sadly, you’re figuring in the wrong direction,” Paula chuckled. “On second thought, maybe I should have just left that alone.”
“It should tell you something that I was perfectly willing to buy 31,” I suggested.
“Well, thanks for that,” she sighed. “But…it’s 42. Still too young?”
“Umm…amazingly, no,” I admitted. “But…I gotta know ‘cause it couldn’t have been easy to call up and ask. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t really know,” Paula mused. “You just always seemed like…an interesting guy.”
“There’s an old Chinese curse that goes ‘may you live in interesting times’,” I smiled. “Anything like that?”
“You’re fishin’, pal,” she laughed. “Nice try, though. So…we have a deal?”
“Can’t think of any reason not to,” I chuckled, “and I really am flattered, but I’m in Colville, as we speak, and I don’t know when I’ll be in Seattle. I’m not really sure what I’ve got hold of up here, yet.”
“I’m finishing up the Compton trial, anyway,” she offered. “So I’ll need at least a week. Why don’t we try a little phone date, say, on the weekend? Just chat for a while, after hours?”
“Ooh, sounds kinda risqué, for an older gentleman like myself,” I murmured. I actually was embarrassed, for no good reason I could explain.
“Ya never know,” she sang. “Let me give you my numbers.”
I took down her office, home, voice mail, and cell. I felt as goofy and clubfooted as any pimply teenager and had to keep stifling smarmy little wisecracks.
Paula Farrier. Who’da thought?
I was acutely aware, as I went back inside the restaurant, that my ears felt hot and my gait seemed to have gone a tad springy. I pasted up a neutral scowl and slid into my chair quickly.
“Who was that, uh, Truman?” Jack probed, smiling faintly.
“Client,” I lied.
“Uh-huh,” Aaron chuckled. “This lady hire you to find her missing G-spot?”
“It wasn’t…” I started.
“Hey, pal,” Jack interrupted. “Nobody hires private eyes who lie through their teeth…so who is she?”
“She’s an Assistant D.A. in Seattle,” I sighed. “She works for my pal
, Lee, who has evidently been flappin’ his gums.”
“So what’s the problem?” Jack shrugged. “You look…I don’t know, kinda spooked.”
“I just haven’t been out on a date for a while and I’m sorta…uncertain,” I smiled.
“How long’s ‘a while’?” Aaron asked sipping at his coffee.
“Just over nine years,” I replied.
Aaron made a sound like a clogged drain clearing and dribbled coffee down his shirt.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Aaron croaked.
“Nope,” I winced. “Can we, uh, change the…”
“What, were you married for part of that time?” Jack asked.
“No,” I groaned. “I was just celi…didn’t date.”
“Did you start to say ‘celibate’?” Aaron blinked. “Celibate? Like, y’know, without…sex?”
“Could we just…”
“What the fuck?” Jack sputtered. “Why? Better yet, how?”
“You’re not one of those…whatchacallum?…deflocked priests, are ya?”
“Defrocked,” Jack corrected.
“No,” I sighed. “I just…took a break, okay?”
“You ‘took a break’?” Jack exclaimed. “Truman, that’s…that’s just…weird.
“Tell me about it.” Aaron chuckled. “Well…I can see how you’d be freaked. You do…remember sex, doncha?”
“No, Aaron,” I replied, “not a thing. Could you draw me some diagrams?”
“Tru,” Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “I know it’s none of my business but…again why?”
“I didn’t plan it,” I murmured. “I just…I kept watching my relationships go south and eventually realized it was stupid to think it was always the woman’s fault. I decided to take some time out and examine my own behavior and…it took…nine years.”
“Jesus,” Aaron grinned, “and this gal who called, does she know you’re…umm, y’know…”
“A eunuch?” I asked
“A what?” Aaron blinked.
“A guy without stones,’” Jack explained.
“I’ve known her for four years,” I mused. “Professionally. It never came up.”
“So to speak,” Jack grinned.
He and Aaron laughed and high-fived each other. I sipped my beer and smiled stiffly.
“Well,” Aaron shrugged, when the mirth level had subsided enough to allow conversation, “funny how things work out, huh? Here you do without for so long and you find a date right under your nose.”
“That’s how I met my girlfriend,” Jack nodded. “She was an associate of my attorney. Knew her for eight years and never once had a romantic thought. Then, one day…she just looked different.”
“We always overlook the obvious, y’know?” Aaron smiled.
“The obvious,” I repeated. There was an almost audible click in my head. “The obvious.”
They looked at me quizzically. I grabbed the check and hailed the waitress.
“The obvious,” I nodded, rising. “Saddle up, boys, we got some double-naught spy stuff to do.”
Joe had heard the term “antsy” his whole life. His mom, a Finnish girl, pronounced it “aintsy” and told him it was being so anxious “you feel like you got aints crawlin’ all over you.”
Joe had no idea what she meant.
Now, Joe was antsy and was amazed to find that it did, indeed, feel like the time in Laos when his bed roll was invaded by those huge black carpenter ants. He had solved that problem by diving into a stream and combing his hair. This was proving more tricky.
Joe had consumed something less than two gallons of alcohol in his entire life. He didn’t enjoy the dopey feeling or the loss of control. On those rare occasions when he did get drunk, it was only to knock himself out, so he could be sure to get enough sleep.
He didn’t really like the taste of liquor, so he bought a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and a quart of orange juice. It tasted better and seemed to stun the ants a bit.
The “Times” dutifully ran the story of the shootings and the e-mail. BBC and CNN picked it up as well. CNN even sent a crew to the development at Colville, but the tape clearly showed bulldozers, carpenters, and office staff going about their business as though nothing at all were happening.
Joe felt the ants busily chewing through the edges of his screwdriver buzz and soon found himself pacing the tiny living room of the new flat in London’s East End, sloshing orange juice and wearing holes in both his socks.
It wasn’t working, he realized. As the voice on the phone had warned him, trying to beat a corporation with a gun was like shooting Jello: It just wiggles a bit but suffers no real damage.
“It’s like they don’t believe I’m serious,” Joe fumed, as soon as Katja answered the phone. “Is that what wealth does to you? It makes you stupid?”
“The ones who are left, believe me, will never really grasp that it could happen to them,” she murmured. “Yes, that is the rich. Their money and comfort insulates them from so much of life, they become like children.”
“There are eleven on the board…well, nine now,” Joe mused. “How many do I have to kill before they get it?”
“Maybe all of them,” she replied. “Probably the other partners, too.”
“It will be harder, now,” he sighed, “as they go into hiding.”
“You have money, time. Go after them,” she shrugged. “You’ve taken down men who were far better protected and more cautious.”
“But I had help,” Joe muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, here’s some help,” Katja offered. “That Rawlings fellow has shown up here.”
“Where’s here?” Joe asked.
“In Valreas,” she said quietly, “south of France.”
“Where is he staying?”
“Le Bernadine,” she replied coyly. “You’ll remember that, I suppose.”
“Sure,” Joe replied. It was where he met her, after all.
“How’s your French?” she asked playfully.
“Okay,” Jack began as we tore down Route 395 toward Spokane. “What bug just crawled up your ass?”
“Like Aaron said,” I smiled, “‘the obvious. If you disregard all the monkey-puzzle stuff, who stands to gain or lose here? P.P.V., of course, but somebody’s shooting at those guys and they gain nothing from the voting screw-up. You, but I think we’ll just stipulate that you’re not up to something.”
“Big of you,” Jack chuckled.
“I’m a big guy,” I grinned. “So, who’s left?”
“Jane Wright?” Aaron ventured.
“Why Jane?” I asked. “I thought Clayton was the alpha doggie in that pair.”
“He is,” Jack interjected, turning to face Aaron. “I’ve never even met Jane.”
“Well, he ain’t never out here,” Aaron said flatly, “but Jane is, once a week, at least.”
“At the site?” Jack asked.
“Site, Barney’s, tribal council,” Aaron replied. “She’s the only reason this thing got off the ground, you get right down to it. Nobody ever saw you, and sure ain’t seeing the Pembroke guys. She’s got people in Colville, so she’s practically a local.”
“Why the fuck am I hearing about this from you?” Jack fumed, fishing out his cell and punching the speed dial. “Art? Get me Art, please? Thanks.”
“Uh-oh,” Aaron chuckled, “I smell an ass-whuppin’.”
“You might want to find some other way to put that,” I sighed.
“What?” Aaron asked.
“Hey, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,” Jack growled. “I’m on the phone here.”
“Art!” Jack barked. “This is Jack. Why the hell am I just now finding out that Jane Wright has relatives in Colville and that she hangs out around here more than laundry?”
Art’s reply caused Jack to roll his eyes and mime beating the phone on the dashboard.
“Well, when you said local, Art, I thought you meant Spokane, frankly, since that
’s where she and Clayton live. Uh-huh. Well, I have it on good authority that she’s out here weekly, comes to the site, hangs out at tribal council meetings, and eats at the local café. Have you asked her anything about the vote fraud thing?”
Jack listened briefly and then pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and taking a number of deep, slow breaths.
“No,” Jack muttered. “Nobody told me – or Tru – about her family. Look, Art, I know you’re tight with her mother but Tru’s still gotta check her out…. What? …of course he’ll be discreet but, you gotta admit her presence here, without telling you or me or P.P.V., is a little bit troubling… Well, I’m sure there’s an explanation, too, but it bothers me that she’s never offered it.”
I signaled to Jack to break off for a moment.
“Ask him what kind of car she drives.”
“Art, what kind of car does Jane drive?” Jack asked, looking at me quizzically. “Uh-huh. They own anything else? Yeah? It’s hers? Hmmm… What? Oh, probably nothing. Tell you about it later… What? Oh…no, no word from Hooks, yet. I don’t think Tru’s inclined to work with them, though. I’m guessing you told them… What? My god! When? … Jesus, Art. Well, you told them I’d want to look into it, too, right? Uh-huh… Okay, I guess Tru’ll deal with it when Hooks calls. You following that situation now? Great. All right. I’ll talk to you tonight and see you in a couple of days. Later.”
“What’s the word?” I asked eagerly.
“Well, on the Janie front, Art says that she told him that Clay and I talked about her checking in out here, from time to time, but Clay never said squat to me. Add to that fishiness the fact that she let slip to one of Art’s associates that her first husband was a full-blooded Colville – this was in her post-adolescent rebellious phase – and she’s still tight with his family. The hubby is deceased, by the way. Art says her car of choice is a Mercedes 230 SLK Coupe, but their Sunday-go-to meetin’ ride is a Rolls-Royce… A white Rolls-Royce with all gold trim.”
“The kind of car you’d remember if it showed up out here in your rearview mirror,” I observed. “You ever see that one, Aaron?”
Call Me Joe Page 16
