Done Deal

by Les Standiford

  “Ain’t your God, white folks.”

  Indeed it wasn’t, Cal thought, staring up into the big man’s face. As big a man as he’d ever seen. Smiling and holding his bottle of whiskey. Like no kind of a god he’d ever seen.

  ***

  “Jesus Christ!” Penfield had been on his way out of his bathroom, toweling his mane of white hair when he looked up and saw Deal standing there, leaning against a chest of drawers.

  He staggered backward, swallowing a couple of times before he could get his breath back. “What the hell are you doing, Johnny?”

  “I need some help, Mr. Penfield.”

  Penfield glanced around the room, trying to appear calm. Where was the thorazine brigade when he needed them?

  “You had yourself quite a night, I hear.” Penfield’s hands were trembling as he tried to get his towel wrapped about his middle. Not much flesh there, Deal noted. Not bad for a rich old goat.

  “Who told you about it?” Deal said, his voice level.

  Penfield’s eyes flashed wide momentarily. Deal had caught him. The old war horse making a mistake like that. Deal shook his head, not waiting for Penfield to come up with something.

  “What’s Alcazar have in mind, now, Mr. Penfield? Skybox for the Dolphin games? Trip to Paris? I’m curious to know what he thinks I want.”

  Penfield shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”

  “Did he ask you about the car thing? Ask you my favorite color? Or was yellow just a guess.”

  There was a dim thud from downstairs, probably the old man he’d locked up throwing his hundred and thirty pounds into the pantry door frame. Deal thought about it a moment. If the guy killed himself trying to get out, would that mean a murder charge?

  “I think you’d better tell me what you want, John.” Penfield was trying to summon some of his courtroom manner, but it was hard, with his hair awry, one hand holding up his towel.

  “Janice called me last night,” Deal said. He saw something in Penfield’s eyes. Surprise? Fear? The certainty that Deal had lost his mind?

  “Janice?” Penfield shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “She’s alive,” Deal said. “She called to tell me I was in big trouble.”

  Penfield snorted. “Well, that’s not exactly news, is it? But if you think Janice is alive, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

  Deal turned away. There were more thumps from downstairs, but they were losing their authority. A big plaque had been mounted above the chest of drawers where he’d been waiting. He’d had plenty of time to inspect it while Penfield finished his shower: “To Thornton J. Penfield, A Friend to Tropics Baseball,” in appreciation from the Chamber of Commerce. Cradled on hooks at the bottom of the plaque was a dinged-up bat inscribed with several signatures.

  Deal took the bat down from the hooks and had a closer look: Henry Aaron. Roberto Clemente. Willie Mays. He glanced up at Penfield, who was watching him warily.

  “Fuck your baseball,” Deal said. Penfield glanced sharply at him.

  “The sonofabitch is trying to buy me off with a car, and you guys are wheeling and dealing baseball.”

  Penfield shook his head. “John, I think you’ve been under a great deal of stress…”

  “So you went to bed with Raoul Alcazar, just to get a baseball team.” Deal shook his head, sadly.

  “Even if that were so, I don’t know that just is the correct term,” Penfield said. “Anything that might bring baseball down here…”

  “All that bullshit about the nature of the game, the community welfare, I should have figured it out the day I saw the bastard in your office. You guys were desperate for cash. Anybody’s cash.”

  “You probably can’t conceive of what it would mean to this community…”

  “I can conceive of what it would put in your pocket,” Deal said, patting the bat absently in his hand. What kind of salary might Mickey Mantle command these days? he wondered. How might it have gone if Deal had been able to hit the curve ball? He’d be retired now, but maybe he’d still be in the game, hitting fungoes to the kids coming up, drawing a nice pension, signing bats for kids whose fathers told them about John Deal, who’d stick his head in front of a pitch if that’s what it took…

  “Money’s the last thing I’m interested in, John.”

  Deal glanced up at him. “Sure. What I can’t figure out is how you expect to get it past the commissioner. I mean Pete Rose can’t even wear a baseball cap anymore and you’re going to put Raoul Alcazar on the board of directors?”

  Penfield flushed all the way down to his towel line. “You’re way out of line there, John. Raoul Alcazar has never been convicted of any crime. His legal difficulties are behind him. He’s come to see me about making some positive contributions to the community, that’s all.”

  Deal nodded. “That’s what I figured. You can’t be up front about it.” He thought for a moment. “How does it work, then? He forks over a hundred million or so, you channel it into the baseball group through some dummy corporations. How’s that sound?”

  Penfield shook his head sorrowfully as Deal continued. “Then you go to work on Alcazar’s public image, is that it? Four or five years from now, he’s throwing out the first pitch?”

  “I don’t know what’s got into you, John.” Penfield’s gaze was the picture of compassion. “You were always headstrong, but this is insane…”

  “I’m right on the money, Mr. Penfield.” Deal took a step toward him, flipping the bat around so that he could tap Penfield on the chest with the handle. “The funny thing is, I don’t give a goddamn if you make Raoul Alcazar the starting pitcher.”

  Something seemed to give inside Penfield. His shoulders sagged and a faraway look came into his eyes momentarily. “Then let’s get this over with, John. What do you want from me?” There was a renewed flurry of thumps from the pantry, but they died away quickly.

  “Somebody has Janice,” Deal said. “I don’t know why. I don’t know where. But it occurs to me that maybe you do.”

  Penfield shook his head sadly. “John, you’re out of your mind.”

  “That is another possibility,” Deal said. “I considered it, Mr. Penfield. But I came to the conclusion it wasn’t true.” He tapped Penfield’s chest with the end of the bat again. Penfield backed away, but he was blocked by a floral printed chaise longue.

  “She said she knew about what happened last night at Alcazar’s. How would she know that?”

  “Good Lord, Johnny, I don’t know.”

  Deal poked him again and the old man went down in a heap on the chaise.

  “She found out what happened and then she called me. Who told her?”

  Penfield gaped up at him. Deal patted the bat softly in his palm.

  “Maybe Alcazar, but he was awfully busy, last I saw of him.” Deal shrugged, looking around the room. “So maybe it was somebody tied up with Alcazar.” Deal poked him in the chest with the end of the bat again.

  “I’d like you to tell me where Janice is, Mr. Penfield.”

  Penfield stared up at him, his eyes watery. Fear? Pain? “John, for heaven’s sakes, I don’t know what you’re talking about. If Janice is alive, I’ll do anything I can to help find her…”

  “Another possibility,” Deal said. “I thought about that too, all the way down here. But you’ve been lying to me all along about Alcazar. How can I trust you now?”

  As Deal took another step forward, a car motor sounded in the driveway below. Keeping an eye on Penfield, he edged to the window and parted the curtains. The maid’s station wagon was pulling up between the garage and the back entrance. She couldn’t have bought as much as a loaf of bread in this amount of time. Had she forgotten something?

  The passenger door opened first, and Alejandro, the blocky Latin with the bad complexion, stepped out, one of his pals from the dealership coming out the opposite side after him. Deal dropped the curtain and step
ped back.

  Penfield stared at him, his mouth quivering silently. “Just pray you’re not lying to me,” Deal said. A door banged open below. Then he tossed the bat aside and ran.

  In moments, he was out of Penfield’s bedroom and down the broad corridor that split the upper level of the house, thanking Penfield for the heavy carpeting that muffled his footsteps. He heard the pantry door wrench open down below, then shouts, and then he was through the last door on the left that had been Mrs. Penfield’s sewing room and catchall in the days of his and Flivey’s youth.

  The attraction of the room for Deal and Flivey had been the porch that opened off the room. Cantilevered off the back of the house and over the docking area, it made for a fine diving platform into the broad waterway, if you didn’t mind the possibility of falling a foot or so short onto the coral pilings that lined the shore below. He’d never minded it when he was fifteen, but today it seemed the house had retracted or the coral had bulged out from the porch. Had he really made the jump so many times? He heard more shouts inside the house as he kicked his sneakers off.

  He backed up against the siding, felt the drip from the misting rain seeping through his shirt. He could see the tops of the hotels on the beach from here, a mile or so away. The Rivolta was parked under a canopy of trees somewhere in between. He felt the thumps of footsteps inside, then pushed himself off: three steps, a breathtaking rush of air, a glimpse of a Donzi throbbing down the middle of the channel thirty yards out, a blur of white jagged rock as his head tucked down, and then the soothing chill of the water as he knifed in and dove down.

  Chapter 26

  “Mo-ther-fuck-er,” Leon Straight said, wrenching his hand away from the pillow he’d been bearing down on. The sonofabitch had bitten him, right through the feathers and ticking, hard enough to draw blood. Leon was shaking his hand, trying to keep the guy pinned with his weight, but the old sonofabitch was a fighter. This had already taken more time than he’d counted on. Things he had to do, just to keep on Alcazar’s good side. Something he had to do, for the time being. But it was all going to work out to Leon’s advantage, and that was some consolation. Call it realtor’s work.

  The old guy rolled aside and struggled off the couch, Leon going after him as quickly as his still-aching knee would allow.

  The guy turned and swung at him with the bottle of Wild Turkey Leon had taken from him earlier. Leon ducked, and the bottle glanced off his shoulder, then went flying into the wall where it shattered, sending the stink of liquor all over the apartment. Too bad. Leon had had plans for the bottle, but that was all right. Given the look of the guy’s face, there’d be more hooch around.

  There was a pistol across the room on a cabinet top, which was probably what the guy was headed for. Leon would just as soon he didn’t get hold of it and so ignored the protest in his knee as he brought the old guy down from behind. Before the guy could get up, Leon grabbed him by the belt, then hammered his fist into his kidney. This time the guy went down for good. While he was still stunned from the blow, Leon scrambled on up his back and got one arm levered across his throat, the other behind his head. Struggle all you want, motha, he thought, as he increased the pressure steadily. He could have popped the guy’s neck easily, but that wouldn’t look right.

  When the guy was finally quiet, Leon got up and dragged him over to the couch, dumped him down on top of the soaked cushions, the shards of glass from the bottle. Couple of cuts, what would it matter. Leon shrugged.

  Leon walked stiffly over to the cabinet, took a latex glove—that would be Alejandro’s idea, he’d have to give the sonofabitch that much—out of his pocket and put it on. He picked up the jack handle he’d brought up to the apartment, the one he’d taken from Deal’s piece-of-shit VW. He stared at the gun that was lying there, the same gun Leon had seen Deal playing with out on the patio. Probably had his prints all over it.

  Always little things you didn’t expect, some good—like Leon spotting this guy and his silly-assed car the other day. Then some not so good, like Deal taking off, before they were ready.

  Still, he thought, hefting the jack, it was always best to stick with your game plan close as you could. Inside one of the cabinets, he found a bottle of 151-proof rum. Nearly full, just what the doctor ordered. He left the gun where it was, poured the rum over the rug and furniture, and then, when he was finished with that, took the rest of his business to the couch.

  Chapter 27

  “He’s gone,” Alejandro said. He dabbed at a scratch on his face with a handkerchief, checking for blood. “Someone ought to cut the weeds around here.”

  Penfield was pulling on a pair of suit pants. He’d donned a white shirt, but it was still unbuttoned, the sleeves loose at his wrist. The second thug stood by the doorway, his arms folded.

  Penfield shot Alejandro an angry glance. “Well, the sonofabitch was here. He threatened to kill me, for Christ’s sake.” He pointed at the bat Deal had tossed aside.

  Alejandro followed Penfield’s jabbing finger. He bent down and examined the baseball bat that had rolled underneath the corner of the bed. He glanced up at Penfield. “With this bat, he threatened you?”

  Penfield’s face flushed as he straightened, snapping the button at his waistband. “You’re goddamn right with that bat—” he began, then broke off, his gaze fixed on Alejandro, who was wrapping a handkerchief carefully about his hand, picking up the bat, walking quickly his way.

  “What the hell…” Penfield managed to get out.

  Alejandro took a last step forward and swung backhanded, bringing his weight along with the blow. “It is not me, doing this,” he was saying. Penfield tried to turn, but there wasn’t a chance. The last thing he saw was a blur of wood, the trademark growing huge, then something warm, even searing, at his temple.

  “…is Mr. Deal killing you.” The bat shattered down its length and a splash of blood flew to the ceiling. “The man betrayed, go on a rampage.”

  Penfield tumbled backward over the chaise longue, his hands clawing at the miniblinds on a nearby window, bringing them down on him as he fell. Alejandro leaned over the chaise, waiting. The blinds rattled for a few moments, then went quiet. Alejandro bent to grasp Penfield’s wrist. He waited for a moment, then finally stood and nodded to his companion.

  “Home run?” the companion said.

  Alejandro smiled. “Beesbol been berry, berry good to me,” he said.

  “Que?” his partner said, puzzled.

  “Just an American joke,” Alejandro said, tossing the ruined bat to the floor. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 28

  Homer Tibbets wheeled the big Lexus over the speed bump separating the preparation area from the ready line at about fifty, amazed at how well the sedan took it. The faster he hit the speed bumps, in fact, the less noticeable was the nudge under him. How in the hell had they done it? Next time, he’d try to get up to sixty.

  He imagined himself starring in some television commercial, the car hurtling over a series of speed bumps, driven by no one apparently, then screeching to a halt, the door flying open and, ta-da, Homer steps out, wearing a tux or a cutaway: “Hey, it wasn’t always like that, folks.”

  …and then a jump cut to a Caddy or a Lincoln pounding over the same speed bumps and Homer’s head flying up above the door sill again and again and again. He’d get it stopped, then stagger out of the car, loony as Bugs Bunny from all the bouncing, and the Lexus logo would come on—Christ, it’d have to sell cars. Well, maybe not nationwide, but at least down here. No, he corrected himself, especially down here.

  Jesus, he thought, whisking the Lexus precisely into the front line, a foot and a half clearance on either side. The things your mind does, just trying to get you through the day.

  He glanced up over the wheel as a guy who’d been pushing a shopping cart along the sidewalk shied out into the street at his approach. By the time Homer got out, the guy was bending over, picking up some aluminum cans that had spill
ed into the gutter. He glared at Homer, muttering something.

  “Sorry, pardner,” Homer said, noticing that the man wore a tennis shoe on one foot, a rundown wing-tip on the other. One side of his face was fine, but the other half looked like somebody’d stomped it with track spikes, then filled the craters with roofing tar.

  Homer shrugged, trying to be nice. Most of these guys were harmless, but a real cuckoo could always wait until it got dark, flutter down off his roost with the pigeons, come back, and fuck up one of the cars while the security cop was around back jacking off in his golf cart.

  And this guy had definite possibilities: He was still muttering as Homer locked the Lexus and trudged around the shuttered parts-and-service bays to the wash-’n’-wax canopy. He heard a distant rumble of thunder and glanced up to see a dark bank of thunder-heads gathering in the south.

  Great. The front’d whip up a stiff wind on its way in, cover every car on the line with sand and powdery dust, then the rain’d come in, streak everything to hell. Tomorrow he could come in and start all over again. He shrugged. He could handle it. He got paid by the hour, which, he noticed by the blinking clock on top of the bank tower down the block, was well past six in the P.M. Time to call it a day.

  He rounded the back corner of the service bays and stopped short when he saw the strange car parked in front of his canopy. Homer was immediately indignant. One of the used-car salesmen trying to fuck him around, bringing some piece of shit back for detail work without clearing it first. Well, fuck that, he thought, leaning against the fender of the car to shuck his waders. No yellow ticket under the windshield wiper, no washee from Homer. Not unless you were around to slip some green his way.

  What the hell kind of car was it, anyway? he wondered. He glanced back at the thing as he moved to toss the boots inside the storage shed where he kept his things. He’d taken it for some European version of a U.S. sedan, but that was wrong. The car sat too low, its lines were a bit too sleek, and wasn’t that leather upholstery on the front buckets? He turned to pitch the boots in the shed and gasped as a hand clamped his T-shirt and jerked him roughly inside.