by K. K. Beck
On the way over, Bob sat beside her in companionable silence, while she thought about Dwayne Wayne and separating him from $250 thousand. It shouldn’t be too much for a guy like that, she figured. He’d want to protect his investment. All she was asking for was Linda’s money back. In return, she wouldn’t tell the world about his older, less polished identity.
She still hadn’t figured how Wayne tied in with Richard English, though. She wouldn’t even think about that. There was a good chance he didn’t know she’d been in the studio that night. The police had kept her name out of the papers.
Unless of course Richard English himself had told Wayne she was expected. The police could sort that out. After she got a cashier’s check. Or cash, the way Linda had turned it over in the first place.
As they drove from the ferry dock, light flickering through alders and firs, Bob talked about how much he loved the country. “I mean it,” he said. “I’d like to get me some land someday. Get away from all the crap in the city, you know? Get a real big place, so no one could mess with me.”
“I can’t imagine anyone would ever mess with you,” said Jane. “That’s why I hired you.”
Bob laughed. “I mean messing me with like hassles, you know. Stupid stuff, like paperwork and all that.” He gestured vaguely. She didn’t burden him with the thought that paperwork and all that was an inevitable part of modern life.
“Listen, I’m not sure how easy it will be to get into this place,” said Jane. “It’s like a compound, you know? A guardhouse and a security guard who checks the cars.”
“With a gun?”
“I don’t know. I’ll talk my way through.” She suddenly realized how silly she’d feel if she couldn’t get in, having dragged Bob all this way. But he seemed pleased enough to have an outing in the country, she rationalized.
“Okay.” Bob seemed agreeable and put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. It was a nice, menacing touch.
When they pulled up to the guardhouse, a skinny, ruddy man in a uniform like the one she’d seen on the guard back in town came up to the car and gazed curiously at them. She flashed her international driver’s license once more. “Jane da Silva,” she said.
“Let me check the list,” he said.
“Forget the list,” said Jane. “Call security back in Seattle. Tell them Jane da Silva is here. This is” —she cleared her throat self-consciously—“a special operation.”
“Uh, okay,” said the guard, looking nervous because he didn’t know what she was talking about and she was acting as if he should. While he called, Jane tried to look bored and stared over the steering wheel.
When the guard got off the phone, he gave her a sketchy salute. “I’ll just get your badges,” he said, fumbling with some plastic name-tag holders and a felt pen.
Jane rolled her eyes at him. “No badges,” she said impatiently, half-tempted to quote Treasure of the Sierra Madre and scream, “Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges.” She floored the accelerator and drove up to the main building.
“What the heck’s a special operation?” said Bob.
“Beats the hell out of me,” said Jane, setting the parking brake.
“Well, that rent-a-cop bought it,” said Bob with a chuckle. “No gun on him either. What kind of place is this, anyway?”
“A place where people spend a lot of money hearing a lot of stuff about how they can be happier and more efficient if they decide to get whatever they want and screw over anyone who stands in their way.”
“I know a lot of people who got to that place without spending a dime,” said Bob philosophically. “Well, are we ready to kick some butt or what?”
“We’re ready,” said Jane, immensely grateful to have Bob at her side.
To her delight, there was no one in the main lobby. Just a black felt reader board with WELCOME TO ONE-TEN INSTITUTE in big white letters and beneath that what appeared to be a sucker list of the Institute’s clients in residence: Evergreen State Association of Accounts Receivable Clerks, Laidlaw Brothers Tool and Die, and Corinthian Auto Sales.
“Accounts Receivable,” said Bob, his mouth smirking beneath the mirrored glasses. “That’s us, I guess.” He squared his shoulders and Jane got the distinct impression Bob was a man who enjoyed his work.
“Well,” she said, “I guess we just start opening doors.” They went down a hall carpeted in steel gray. The first door she opened revealed a group of men and women in casual garb lying on the floor in neat rows. In front of them stood a lanky man with closed eyes, swaying from side to side. “Now,” he said in a whispery voice, “you’re squeezing down that narrow tunnel. It’s getting narrower and narrower.” Jane closed the door gently and left them to their birth trauma.
The second door revealed a classroom setting. Judging from the collection of garish sports jackets on view, these were the car salesmen. They frowned in concentration as a redhead in a purple knit dress gestured to a chart composed of circles and arrows and dotted lines. “Excuse me,” said Jane, withdrawing and closing the door gently.
The next two rooms were empty. At the end of a hall was a door marked EXIT. They went outside, and Jane strolled purposefully with Bob in tow past a group of middle-aged people. Men and women were twirling around and around and looking up at the sky. Wayne seemed to have borrowed a little something from the whirling dervishes.
The next building was silent. Past a sort of lounge was a hall lined with more doors. Jane opened a few of them. Each featured twin beds and twin bureaus and had an unpleasant monastic air about them. “Looks like a minimum-security facility,” said Bob.
At the very end of the hall, however, Jane found Dwayne Wayne. In a big, steamy room with no windows and a floor of cedar slats, he was sitting naked in a hot tub with two mature-looking, fleshy ladies, similarly naked. The water was still, and Wayne was lolling back, allowing his legs to float, while the two women giggled, their breasts bobbing in the water. One of them was snuggled up against him, and the other, perhaps feeling left out, was shyly stroking his thigh and working her way north toward a penis that seemed to be lacking in clear purpose at the moment.
“Hello, Mr. Wayne,” Jane said pleasantly. “Please. Don’t bother to get up.” She paused. “No pun intended. Honest.”
Wayne sat up straight with a look of panic and, in a gesture of modesty, hit the button that agitated the water. The two women screamed.
Jane was delighted. What better negotiating stance than to be fully clothed while one’s adversary was stark naked? Wayne’s gray chest hairs clung wetly to his rounded form, and Jane noted the bristling hairs on his shoulders, too. She reached over and selected a pair of towels from a stack. “The ladies will excuse us, I’m sure,” she said, handing each of them a towel as they eyed the hulking form of Bob beside her with horrified expressions. Bob removed his shades, which were steaming up, lowered his velvety lashes, and turned around while they clambered out of the water, wrapped towels around themselves, and scampered through a door marked WOMEN.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said Wayne.
“This is my associate, Mr. Manalatu,” said Jane. “I’m here on behalf of the estate of Linda Donnelly. I’d like you to give back the money you took from her when you called yourself the Flamemaster.”
“The two hundred fifty thousand dollars you were rambling about in my office?”
“That’s right.”
“Who was Linda Donnelly? I never heard of her.”
“Come on. She inherited some money and she turned it over to you. In cash. I know she did. If you return it to her daughter, we’ll forget all about the old Flamemaster act. It’s very simple. You can continue to conduct your business, which, I gather, is very profitable.”
“You’re damned straight it’s profitable,” said Wayne angrily. “You know why? ’Cause I’m not stupid. In fact, I’m very smart. Too smart to let some stupid cunt push me around.”
“Hey bro. When you talk to the lady, talk with respect,” s
aid Bob, taking a step forward. Jane raised her hand slightly, and watched with satisfaction as Wayne’s eyes followed her gesture nervously. Bob stepped back a pace and put his hands behind him in a parade rest.
“You know what?” Wayne snapped. “I don’t even remember Linda Donnelly.”
“Dark hair. Back in the old days in the U District. An intense, high-strung girl. Had a baby. You baptized it in flame.”
“Oh, her,” Wayne said, sneering. “She never gave me a cent. She was just a pain in the neck. Her flames were always too high. Usually, people needed them moved up.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “So you believed all this thermostat stuff?”
“Of course,” he said indignantly. “The work I did back in the sixties and early seventies has provided an important base for the philosophy of the Institute today. It was pioneering thought, and without it, we wouldn’t have the system of effectiveness that’s provided so many individuals and corporate entities with the tools for success and personal satisfaction in goal setting and achievement well beyond what had once been thought possible.” When delivered in his melodious voice, the pitch almost sounded as if it made sense.
Bob wasn’t buying it, though. “Want me to hit him?”
Jane shook her head. “Save it for the suckers,” she said to Wayne. “Or maybe you do believe what you dish out. But I can’t believe you’d want some of your current clients to know that the Fellowship of the Flame was basically a teenaged nookie society with you as the principal beneficiary.”
“Look,” said Wayne, exasperated, “maybe we could reach some kind of a settlement if I had actually received any funds from the little bitch.”
“I know for a fact she handed her trust fund over to you. In cash. In a suitcase.”
“Well, that sounds pretty untraceable to me,” Wayne jeered. “Why are you wasting my time?”
“Because you owe Linda’s child two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Jane said coldly. “Maybe you owe her a mother, too, but all I’m talking about is the cash.” Jane hadn’t meant to go that far. “You’re good for it.”
“How can I make sure the kid keeps her mouth shut after I pay her off? If I do, which I guarantee you I don’t intend to do.”
“You can’t. You just have my word. But if you don’t pay her, I’ll guarantee you the word gets out.”
He sighed. “Okay, years ago I screwed a few willing girls. I can work with that. It happened long ago. What you don’t seem to understand is that there’s no such thing as guilt anymore. We’re working toward a guilt-free society. And I’m proud to say the Institute is part of that.
“Shit, no movie star can check into a rehab clinic, no Congressman can get caught with his hands in the till or up some skirt, without everyone hearing about it. What do they say? Do they say ‘I was wrong’? No. They say, ‘I made a mistake. My judgment was poor. I’ve learned from this mistake. I’m in therapy.’ Then they make a million bucks on the lecture circuit. Everyone gets rehabilitated these days—even those Watergate guys. All you have to do is get caught and say you made a mistake. And you know what? The public respects you even more.”
If Wayne had picked up her hint about Linda’s death, he wasn’t revealing it. It seemed time for the close.
“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “In twenty-four hours I want a quarter of a million dollars. If it takes longer to come up with the funds, I want a note for the full amount payable in thirty days. Linda’s daughter is a talented pianist and she needs the money to study seriously. Her teacher thinks she might be good enough for Juilliard. You’re going to pay it back. Mr. Manalatu and I will be in touch.”
She turned away from Wayne in his caldron of churning water, in hopes he wouldn’t get the last word. Before she reached the door, however, it swung open. She saw the man first, the ruddy skinny guy from the guardhouse. Then she saw the gun. Or the barrel of it. She didn’t know much about guns, but it looked like a shotgun. She watched it move back and forth between her and Bob as they both returned, walking backward, into the room.
Behind the guard, the two women, with damp hair and frightened faces but now fully clothed, stared at her.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” said the guard. “I shouldn’t have let them in. I thought she was with the CIA.”
“Where the hell did you get that gun?” demanded Wayne, taking advantage of the moment to step dripping out of the hot tub and wrap a towel around himself.
“I keep it in my pickup,” said the guard. “What should I do? Call the sheriff?”
Wayne smiled. “I’m not sure.” He turned to Jane. “I guess your large friend seems less comforting now. What took you so long?” he snapped, turning back to the guard.
“I came as soon as I could,” he whined.
“The ladies probably waited to call him until they’d gotten dressed,” said Jane. She imagined them pulling panty hose over their wet bodies in a state of panic. “I’ve got friends who know where I am. And so does Mr. Manalatu,” she lied, counting on the fact that his friends were bound to be more worrisome.
“Well, let’s see,” said Wayne, narrowing his eyes as if trying to think of some kind of torture. “Maybe just a word with Mrs. da Silva will do. Close the door, will you?” He waved at the women in the hall. “Run along, girls. We’ve got this under control.” He turned slowly to Bob. “This big slob can leave too, while we talk.”
The guard had leveled his gun at her. Now he turned it back on Bob. He licked his lips nervously. Then the barrel of the gun wavered back toward her chest.
Bob took one giant step toward him, grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerked it out of the man’s hand, and swung it like a club, clipping it hard against the man’s ear.
He yelled, and Bob grabbed Jane and hustled her out of the room. He pushed his way past the two women and ran down the hall, holding Jane’s hand in one of his huge paws and nearly dragging her along behind him. Her heart was pounding fast, and she felt a prickle of fear all over her body. As they went outside, Bob tossed the gun into some low shrubbery.
They ran around the building, slowing to a brisk walk past the whirling dervishes, who seemed too transfixed to take notice, and reached the front of the main building, where they found her car without anyone appearing to follow them.
“Let’s go,” he barked, and she yanked the car into gear and screeched out past the empty guardhouse.
When they’d reached the main road, Jane said, “Jesus! That was an incredible thing to do. He could have killed us.”
“No way,” said Bob. “That wasn’t a shotgun. Notice the pump action? It was a pellet gun. Can’t kill you unless you aim it at the eye or a chest in close range.” He startled Jane by beginning to laugh. “Those guys aren’t so tough.”
“They scared me a lot,” said Jane. “Do you think they’ll follow us?”
“What are they going to do? Gun us down while we wait for the boat? How’s that old guy in the hot tub gonna explain a nice lady like you and a big Samoan dead on the dock?” He frowned. “I don’t know if you’ll get your money, though. Not unless you really lean on him. But he’s thinking about it. I can guarantee you that.”
“I don’t know,” said Jane. “Maybe I better back off.”
“I’m in the collection business,” said Bob. “And the bigger the bucks, the more trouble it’s worth to go after the creditor. Now two hundred fifty thou’, that’s plenty. You were doing great.”
“I wasn’t doing too badly, was I,” said Jane, pleased. “I’m not used to talking to people like that, but I’ve got to admit, it all seemed to come naturally, and I enjoyed it.” She smiled happily, but then her face clouded over. “Until that gun thing of course. Damn, I’m glad you were with me.”
“I don’t know the whole story here, what all went down about this money,” said Bob. “But I think you got a chance. Call him in twenty-four hours. He’s not going to mess with you while he thinks it over. He know where you live?”
“He knows my phone number.�
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“A guy like that, he can find out where you live from that. They got these backward directory things.”
“But the police are watching my place.”
“That’s too bad.”
“No, it’s okay. They’re protecting me.”
“Well, it means I can’t keep an eye on you there. There’s a little chickenshit warrant out on me. No big deal, but I don’t want to mess with the police right now. Gee, it’s really too bad. I could have hung around for twenty-four hours in case they come after you with any more light artillery.” Bob laughed again. “I’ll bet that shit-kicking security guard has a headache for a few days.” Suddenly he looked alarmed and patted the pocket of his sport coat. He looked relieved and pulled out his sunglasses. “God. I thought I left my shades back there.”
“I’d hate to have to go back and get them,” said Jane.
“Scared? Wish I could hang around for a day, until you hear?”
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ve got another job for you, Bob. The kid I was telling him about? Linda’s daughter? I want you to watch her for twenty-four hours. I’ll call her when we get back to town and arrange the whole thing. If anything happens to her because of me—”
“Okay. No problem,” said Bob. “I’m free until Friday night. My band plays every Friday night at the South Pacific.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hawaiian shit. You know?”
“But you’re Samoan.”
“No one seems to care,” said Bob with a shrug. “These haoles don’t get it. Anyway, are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. The police are out in front of my house.”
“Yeah. Anyway, if he comes after you, it’ll probably be because you caught him with his dick hanging out, not because of the money or anything you’ve got on him.”
Jane wished she had a lot more on Dwayne Wayne. She wished she could connect him to Linda’s death, and to Richard English’s murder. But she wasn’t sure how it could be done. She’d have to tell Detective Cameron what she knew.
