Deal with the Dead

by Les Standiford

  And then opened the outer door of the office to find Russell Straight’s cherry-red pickup nosing to a stop in the parking area beside the Hog. Deal hesitated as the throbbing engine shut down, and Russell Straight, clad in jeans and a T-shirt that seemed painted on his sculpted body, stepped from the cab of the truck. No handy chunks of two-by-two anywhere around, Deal realized. No spud bars, no hammers, no tiger net, no Magnum .44s. Just himself and a pair of hands.

  Straight rounded the front of his pickup and stopped, folding his arms across his chest as he stared up at Deal. Veins bulged from his forearms and biceps like those on the arms of impossible bodybuilders. How had he managed to get the best of the man? Deal asked himself.

  Something in Russell Straight’s countenance suggested he was wondering the same thing. “I went by the job,” the man said finally. “They told me I might find you over here.”

  “So you have,” Deal said.

  Straight nodded, glancing around the deserted surroundings. “You seem to like it close to the water,” he said.

  Deal shrugged. “A person lives in Florida, he ought to.”

  Straight pursed his lips, considering the wisdom of Deal’s remark. “I been thinking about those things you told me,” he said after a moment.

  “Is that right?” Deal answered, his tone as neutral as Straight’s.

  “What you said about Leon,” Straight said.

  “What about it?” Deal said. He drew a breath. If this was heading toward something, then it would happen any moment now.

  “Didn’t come here to ask you about anything,” Straight said. “Just wanted you to know I decided you were telling the truth.” He cut his gaze out over the mangroves momentarily. “The way you see it, anyway.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Deal said.

  Straight turned back. “The other thing’s the job.” The man was squinting a bit in the early sun.

  “What about the job?”

  “I’d like to stay on and work,” Straight said. He rolled his head atop his broad shoulders as if his neck was stiff. “If that’s all right.”

  Deal nodded. “The offer’s still good.”

  Straight stepped forward then and extended his hand up toward the railing. Deal took it, felt the calluses, felt the power in the man’s grip. It wouldn’t take much for Russell Straight to jerk him clean off the porch where he stood, that much he knew.

  “One thing, though,” Straight said, releasing his grip.

  “What’s that?”

  Straight looked off again. “I’d need you to—like I said—pay me off the books. Just for a while, at least.”

  Deal hesitated. There were thousands of undocumented workers in South Florida, to be sure, most of them illegals from the islands, as well as Central and South America. Maids, nannies, gardeners, fieldworkers, mechanics, assembly-line workers. Chase them out tomorrow, half the restaurants in the city would have to close. The INS would stage periodic raids every now and then, haul off most of the personnel from some hapless garment shop while the TV cameras rolled, but everyone knew the economy of the area depended upon the practice.

  His old man had considered the use of undocumented workers a form of exploitation, though, and Deal had carried on in the same fashion. A man who worked hard deserved the same pay, the same benefits, the same status as everyone else. Russell Straight’s case seemed a bit different, though.

  “I just want a little time on my own,” Straight was saying. “Earn enough for my keep. Then maybe go on back home, we’ll see.” He shook his head. “I go on the books, there’ll be the man on me before you know it.”

  Deal nodded. He stared out over the mangroves himself, looking for whatever it was that Straight might have been focused on. Vernon Driscoll would be beside himself if he were here. His old man, too, most likely.

  “All right,” Deal said finally. He turned back to the man. “For a while, anyway,” he added.

  Straight stopped short of a smile, but his nod seemed a reasonable substitute. “I’m ready to start when you say.”

  “I’m going back over to the Terrell site in a bit,” Deal said. “We’ll get you started then.”

  Straight nodded. “I’ll wait in the truck,” he said.

  Deal glanced at the Chevy, fairly gleaming against the dark green tangle of the mangroves. The breeze had shifted back in from the ocean, signaling an end to the cool weather. “I’m going to be a few minutes. It might get hot out here.”

  Straight looked around. “I been hot,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” Deal said.

  He started inside, then stopped and turned back to Straight. “We’ll keep our arrangement between you and me,” Deal said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine,” Straight said. “I appreciate you taking care of me.”

  Deal gave him a wave then and went back inside the office. He gathered the loose files littering his desk and was moving toward the yawning file drawer for another sheaf when the phone rang again. He dumped the files in the drawer and picked up.

  “John Deal,” he said.

  “Congratulations, John,” the voice on the other end came. There was a hiss of static in the background, as if the call were coming from a great distance.

  Deal felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. “Is this you, Sams?”

  “I take it you’ve received the official word by now?” The voice cheery, unconcerned.

  Deal pulled the receiver away from his ear and checked the readout on the caller ID. Unknown caller. “Of course,” he muttered.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  Deal sat on the edge of his desk, pondering things for a moment. “Are you tapping my phone, Sams?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” Sams said. “I simply assumed you’d have ascertained the facts—”

  “Bullshit,” Deal said.

  “I assure you—”

  “Never mind,” Deal said. He’d have Driscoll check the lines later. But he had no doubt that, one way or another, Sams knew every detail of his earlier conversation. “Martinez told me the county was out of the loop on the job I landed,” he continued. “But you must have known that yourself.”

  “I believe I conveyed that you were an invaluable part of the team, Johnny-boy.” The connection had cleared a bit, though Deal thought he could hear another conversation crossing theirs in the background.

  “I told you not to call me that,” Deal said.

  “You did,” Sams said. “Forgive me.”

  “And I’m not part of anybody’s team,” Deal said.

  “Unfortunate terminology, that’s all,” said Sams. “I trust you haven’t changed your mind.”

  He hadn’t made up his mind in the first place, Deal thought. But until he knew a few more things about Talbot Sams, it would be prudent to keep the man pacified. “Where did you learn how to talk, Sams? What do you do when your batteries run out?”

  “There’s no need for that sort of thing,” Sams said. “We’re going to be working together for some time.”

  “So what happens next, Sams? I’d like to hear your notion of that.”

  “Nothing happens,” Sams said. “Nothing unusual, anyway. You’ll meet with the officials of Aramcor Development, arrange to coordinate your own activities within the greater scheme of the project, and then you will go about your business.”

  “That’s all?” The background conversation was clearer now. Two women speaking a foreign language, chatting animatedly about something that seemed to delight them both.

  “For now,” Sams said.

  “I take a meeting, then I go to work.”

  “Was there something else you had in mind?”

  “There’s something else you’ve got in mind,” Deal said.

  “You’re simply going to establish yourself as a trustworthy and competent building contractor, John. That shouldn’t be a stretch.”

  Deal thought for a moment. There
was a distant peal of laughter from one of the women in the crossed conversation. Sams seemed unaware. “You’re convinced this guy Rhodes—whoever he is—is calling the shots at Aramcor?” Deal asked.

  “I’m certain of it,” Sams said.

  “I’m still not clear on what you expect me to do,” Deal said. “I never went to spy school.”

  “I want you to learn everything you can about the present functioning of the company, including just how closely Rhodes is tied to its day-to-day operations. I want to know where he is based. I want to find out what banks he uses to channel the project funds—”

  “Why don’t you just call Dun and Bradstreet?”

  “There’s the information that’s part of the public record, and then there is the true gen, as one of our more accomplished men of letters liked to say,” Sams replied. “You’re going to get the true gen. And if there should be any unusual requests, you’ll pass that information along as well, of course.”

  “Unusual in what way?”

  “I think that’s self-explanatory,” Sams said. “We’ll consider such matters as they arise.”

  “Suppose they figure out what I’m up to? What then? Do you and Tasker burst in, guns blazing?” There was a brief pause. Deal noticed that the women and their cheery conversation were gone.

  “There’s little chance of that,” Sams said mildly. “Your father managed his role for quite some time without ever being compromised. We’ll have an eye on things, rest assured.”

  “So you say,” Deal countered. “I’m just supposed to waltz into an office somewhere, tell them I’d like a look at this Rhodes’ cooked set of books?”

  “Hardly,” Sams said. “You’re going to ingratiate yourself, become a fellow traveler.”

  “How’s that going to happen?” Deal protested. “I’m the token local builder here. My little building doesn’t amount to much in the larger scheme of things.”

  “The dollars aren’t the point,” Sams said. The connection had cleared considerably. It sounded as if the man might be in the next room. “You’re tied in locally. You’re a valuable resource for an outfit like Aramcor. You know how things get done down here.”

  Deal thought he heard something in Sams’ voice and felt the anger building inside him again. “You put the word out about DealCo, didn’t you?”

  Sams sighed. “The word’s always been out, John.”

  “You sonofabitch.”

  “Criminals gravitate toward criminals, John. It’s the way of the world.”

  “I’ve spent the last six years of my life trying to build my company into something decent, now you want to turn it to shit?”

  “Let’s not be melodramatic. It’s not like we’ve taken out an ad in the papers.”

  “You don’t have to, goddammit—”

  “Goodness is as goodness does, John. Let’s keep our eyes on the goal, shall we?”

  “Fuck you, Sams,” Deal said, and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deal rose from his desk, every nerve ending on fire. He glanced around the office, looking for something to take his anger out on. He caught sight of the battered file cabinet, its top drawer still yawning. He strode forward, about to send his fist into its side, then caught himself at the last second and slammed his forearm against it instead. The flimsy metal caved inward with a groan and the open drawer, already leaning precariously, tumbled out of its frame. Deal had to jump backward to keep his foot from being smashed. The corner of the heavy drawer dug into the floor, gouging out a chunk of vinyl tile and dumping file folders everywhere.

  Deal stood surveying the mess, rubbing his forearm absently. The side of the cabinet looked as if a cannonball had caromed off it. He could have easily broken his hand, he thought, shaking his head.

  He bent down and began to gather the tumbled folders together when the door of the office swung inward. “Everything all right?” It was Russell Straight standing in the doorway, staring down at him.

  “Everything’s fine,” Deal said, still feeling contrite. He waved his hand at the file cabinet. “I just pulled the drawer out too far.”

  Straight’s eyes traveled to the battered file. “Uh-huh,” he said, not sounding convinced.

  “Let me pick this stuff up, then we’ll go.”

  “Need some help?” Straight offered.

  “I’ll be right there,” Deal said, his voice rising.

  “Just asking,” Straight said. He backed out onto the porch with his palm held up and closed the door behind him.

  Deal righted the fallen drawer, then stood to try to slide the thing back into the cabinet, but it was hopeless. He sighed, dropped the drawer down on the floor again, and began dumping files haphazardly back on the hangers. With the new contract, he would need a secretary once again anyway. Let her put things back in order.

  He had managed to replace about half of the strewn folders, was trying to wrestle another batch into place, when he realized there was something wrong with the file on the bottom of the stack, as if a bunch of papers had gotten wadded up in it during the fall. He set the other folders aside and checked inside the last, seeing nothing but a single slip of paper, a pink copy of an invoice from a California supplier of wire molding: one neat, flat sheet.

  The folder itself was thick in his hand, however, and far too heavy for what was in it. Puzzled, he turned the thing over in his hands, realizing then that there was a second piece of manila glued to the back of the original folder. Maybe something inside there, he thought, something hidden inside? He stood and took the folder back to his desk, switched on the gooseneck lamp, and held the folder up for a closer look. Sure enough, a seam was visible, little specks of dried glue bulging here and there where the two pieces had been pressed together.

  He withdrew the Swiss Army knife he always carried, flipped open the smaller blade, and worked the edge between the two pieces of heavy paper, then carefully sawed one side of the packet open. He turned the folder on its end and shook it gently, watching as a folded packet of heavy, gray-flecked stationery and a key dropped onto the desk top. His glance traveled to the key: flat, the size of a house key, with a rounded top and two square teeth. No house key, he thought. Maybe for a safety deposit box. He picked up the packet of papers then, and unfolded them.

  The top sheet, stiff as sail canvas, was a piece of Barton Deal’s letterhead bearing the address of the family home on South Bayside Avenue. Nothing typed, but there was a yellowed clipping of an article from the defunct Miami News taped to its face: “Mob Boss Sentenced.” It was dated December 4, 1960, and carried the byline of Howard Kleinman, a reporter who still posted an occasional column on Miami history in the Herald. Deal scanned the piece quickly, but found nothing there of note: Anthony “Ducks” Gargano convicted on multiple counts of embezzlement, bank fraud, and tax evasion. A hefty prison sentence from Carlton Cope, legendary ball-busting judge for the Miami district. No mention of Deal’s father, of course. Nor of anyone named Talbot Sams.

  Between the first and second sheets was a faded photograph of Deal’s father and mother on a dock somewhere in the Caribbean, along with a tall, distinguished man in boater’s whites whom Deal did not recognize. Deal’s father’s Bayliner, the Miss Miami Priss, was tethered to a piling in the background. The view was toward the shoreline, where a broad lawn sloped upward toward an imposing Bahamian-styled mansion.

  His mother wore a loose-fitting one-piece bathing suit and was turned in profile to show off her obviously pregnant belly. Deal’s father—his barrel chest bare and bronzed, his arm draped over his mother’s shoulders—seemed the very image of a contented man. Deal had seen any number of such snapshots before, for his parents had loved cruising the islands, especially before he was born.

  As for his parents’ Gatsbyesque host, Barton Deal had a way of befriending total strangers inside of half an hour at any hotel bar in the world. This man was undoubtedly another of the pack. He turne
d the photo over and saw his mother’s handwriting: “Quicksilver Cay, October 12, 1952,” went the legend, in flowing script. Beneath it he saw that his father had added something in darker ink: “The bastards got lucky.” Deal shook his head, puzzled. Who were the “bastards,” and what good fortune had they enjoyed? He shook his head at the nonsensical quality of the scrawl—who could ever hope to understand the jumbled thoughts going through his father’s mind? He glanced again at the snapshot, then set it aside and turned to the rest.

  The second sheet carried a clip from the Herald—no dateline included, but Deal didn’t need one. This clip, though equally yellowed, had come from the 1970s, the year of Deal’s graduation from high school. “All Prep Football,” the caption read. A smudged photo of long-haired and afro’ed high school boys in team jerseys and street pants, Deal among them, the only representative from a Miami Central team only so-so that year. He’d played both ways: tight end on offense, linebacker on defense, had made the all-star team (and earned a scholarship to Tallahassee) as the latter, more a result of tenacity than talent. His father had circled Deal’s visage, his nose still taped from one of an endless series of smashings. He had added his own inscription in what looked like the same ink he’d used on the back of the photograph: “My son,” he’d written. As if anybody needed to know, Deal thought.

  Deal felt his throat constrict, realized his balance was wavering. He sat down in his office chair, forcing himself to take deep breaths until he felt steady again. He had another glance at the clippings, then set them aside, turning his attention back to the key. He picked it up, turned it over, found a three-digit number chiseled into the opposite face, but no other identifying markings.

  His father had banked at a downtown branch of Coral Gables Federal; after his mother’s death, Deal had cleared out what little was left in boxes belonging to both his parents. It was possible this was simply a duplicate key—he certainly couldn’t remember the numbers of the boxes he’d opened. And while Gables Federal had long ago been gobbled up by one of the out-of-state behemoths, the branch office was still in place and conducting business. If it was a box key, the matter should be easy enough to check out, he thought, rubbing the smooth metal between his thumb and forefinger as if it were some kind of talisman.