The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by Paul Bagnell

  Chapter 13: MET YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN

  They traded in the crammed downtown for the roomy uptown on their way to Poncho’s Villa, McBridle’s favourite cookhouse, which wasn’t all that far from her home (just down the line).

  Tom needed some real concrete proof that McBridle was somehow involved in Carravecky’s security breach. He knew the internal investigation process was like pulling healthy teeth from a rotten mouth so he must be exceptionally patient and use a gentle, crowbar-like tactic to pry the answers from those who possessed the dirty truth. “So, Celia, are you doing anything special this weekend?” Tom probed casually.

  “I’ve got nothing planned as of today,” she replied with an unconcerned glance and turned a corner.

  “Nothing planned, huh?”

  She mentally paused for a moment; her eyes seemed fixed on the road, then replied; “Oh, yeah, I forgot that there’s a meeting at Carravecky’s Saturday morning.”

  “Then, you’re not going out of town?”

  “Out of town--are you blind with my attractive looks and good figure?”

  He seemed more surprised.

  “How can I go anywhere?” She looked over at him. “Right now we’re too busy trying to please Carravecky. He snaps his fingers, and I’m there with a plastic grin.”

  He backed off and changed his tiptoeing-like strategy. “So, what’s this meeting Saturday morning about?”

  “It’s a bunch of boring stuff, nothing that would interest you.”

  “Tell me, I’m interested,” he said convincingly.

  She weakened to his playful curiosity. “I’m,” she started slow, “on an investors’ committee, which meets once each quarter; but because this meeting falls on a Saturday, I’m not able to attend.”

  “How come you can’t?”

  She shot back, “How come what?”

  “I mean how come you can’t attend this meeting?”

  “Personal matters, but why are you so interested?”

  “No reason, I’m just making conversation with my secret lover.”

  She sighed irritatingly, “If you must know all the nitty-gritty, meetings like these are conducted before each financial quarter. They give the aggressive investors the opportunity to review auditing and accounting policies or discuss whatever’s on their chests.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be there?”

  “It’s not a necessity that I sit in on every meeting.”

  “Oh,” he eyed her, carefully, “yeah.”

  “They’re basically meetings put in place to persuade the unconvinced shareholders to remain financially rooted and reassure the convinced ones that Carravecky & Sons is a strong money machine, a group that will invest their funds wisely and make them happy at tax time; and Carravecky has more than me who is trying to do that.” Then she focused her attention to the road.

  They parked in front of the cookery and proceeded to go inside.

  “Have you ever been here?” McBridle asked, and pulled the wooden door wide open.

  “Yeah, I mean, no. I drove by the place a million times but never had an occasion to pop in,” Tom replied.

  “You’ll love the food. They’ll fix anything you want, anyway you want it; and if so, prepare it right in front of you.”

  “Sounds too good for my can-of-beans and back-bacon kind of belly,” he replied in high spirits.

  “The only disadvantage is that we’ll have to wait awhile for a good table, but it’ll be worth it,” she said.

  McBridle ordered a table for two; then she led him to the lounge area, which was sectioned off at the opposite side of the dining room.

  They sat at the authentic western-styled bar, which stretched a good forty feet of thick antiqued oak, covered with a fresh hard-clear finish. They made themselves at home while at the far end stood the bartender, Cranky John, who was busy fussing with a rack of beer glasses.

  “What does my little lady friend like to have besides my good looks and dashing charm?” the greasy fat man asked with a Tex-Mex tone as he approached.

  “John, I’ll have your best white wine and not that cheap stuff you keep under the floorboards,” McBridle replied with a short smile. “For my friend, Tom, he’ll have the same so serve ‘em up fast before I start shooting you with a bad verbal lashing; you got that grease head?”

  He surrendered his dignity like a drunken cowboy who just fell out of a whorehouse with his pants down. “I see you’re still slinging that mouth poison, but it’s always a pleasure to serve you, Lady McBridle;” and polished the bar in front of her. “Please stay and enjoy the evening.” He gave her an enlarged wink as he pushed his sticky hair away from his beanie little eyes and smiled with a crooked mouth. “Two galloping waters for two special customers,” he said as he placed two dainty stemmed glasses and a bottle in front of them; then he hustled to the other end of the bar to serve another patron.

  Tom poured fast yet smooth; McBridle tested the fine wine, gave her approval; and reached into her purse and withdrew her compact. “I’ll be back in a moment. I have to fix my smile and call the office,” she said, already halfway toward the ladies room.

  “Don’t get lost in the mirror,” Tom blurted out without an ounce of intimate shame. He watched her hips wave goodbye yet hello at the same time, and he knew that any hot-blooded male would die to have her at least once. She had it all: money, career, and now a new gullible lover wrapped around her pretty little finger like a deadly ring of death fastened to the sack in his pants that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried yanking at it. It gave him a bad stomach. He knew it wasn’t brought on by the imported vintage and poured a brimming refill, hoping that another serving of fermented grape water would recharge his pointless life. He felt like a sitting mindless dummy who was unable to move and unable to control his bewildered existence. He watched Cranky John change the TV channel from political wrangling to knockout boxing. A welcomed change, he thought, and continued his stay.

  An executive type, the kind with flowery-soft hands and a stone-hard voice, walked up to the bar. He had a newspaper in one hand and cash in the other. “John, I’m returning your daily rag in one piece this time,” he said, and sat it near the cash register. John didn’t reply; he just took the money and handed him a bag of beer; the man left once the sale was concluded.

  Tom reached over and slid the paper closer. The headline was printed in bold letters ‘WOMAN PUT TO REST.’ Below the headline was a picture of a woman. The newspaper was folded like a sloppy mess, and the story wasn’t completely visible so he opened it.

  The first sentence was: ‘Penny Dakar’s body discovered. It is presumed she died a tragic death from blunt-force trauma to the head. Foul play is evident.’

  Additional text was neatly columned below the picture:

  ‘On a wintry spring Saturday morning an extensive search for Penny Dakar had begun. The search lasted two days until all rescue hopes and efforts were called off.

  Yesterday, five months to the day, was a day for sadness and tears. The body of Mrs. Dakar was discovered near Sandy Cove. The body was entombed in a steel drum that washed up on a coastal beach.

  Her husband, William De Bona, is currently under investigation by federal currency regulators for illegal offshore money transactions and income-tax violations. Federal investigators haven’t ruled him out as a possible suspect. He has eminently denied any involvement in his wife’s disappearance and death and is determined to find those involved in his wife’s murder and to bring them to justice.

  Mrs. Dakar was forty-five and the mother of two teenage children. She was also an heiress to a family fortune, which is estimated at four-point-eight billion dollars. The investigation is ongoing, and authorities are seeking the public’s help in solving this crime.’

  McBridle wrapped her hands over Tom’s eyes. “Did you miss me?”

  “Yeah, I did,” he replied in a somewhat relieved voice.

  “What’s wrong? Is my makeup smudged, or have you been watchin
g those single girls planted around you and now have become bored with me?” McBridle asked playfully.

  Tom avoided a winless debate, “What time do you have to meet with Lankenbury?”

  “Just talked with him--early evening, around six,” she replied softly, and pulled her seat a bit closer to him. She sipped at the glass of wine. “Why do you ask?”

  Tom’s face was blank as if he were mentally calculating a complex solution to his simple problem and was about to explain his answer when a lady politely interrupted them.

  “Sir, Madame,” the young hostess said, “your booth is ready;” then she escorted her guests to their table.