A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  "Yeah. I guess so. Sounds pretty good."

  "It really sounded good with that icy wind howling around my shell pinks up in Chicago."

  "Yeah. I see. And so that's where you came in?"

  "Right. For a couple free weeks of sun and sand I had to pump you about your background and help them find out if you're really Morrison. Are you?"

  He shrugged exaggeratedly. "No man is an island, love. I s'pose there's a bit of Paul Morrison in every man. But no, I'm not ole Paul the embezzler, just plain Morley, nonembezzler. Honest injun."

  "That's what I told Conners. In fact that's why I went to see him yesterday, to tell him I wanted out of the deal."

  ''Honest?"

  "Honest injun yourself. That's why I felt so good when I came back here yesterday." She stopped and focused those eyes on his again. "And why I felt so bad when you pulled the rug out. I thought no harm'd been done and you'd never need to know that our meeting had been phony. Guess things never do work out that way."

  "I honestly didn't - don't - care if the meeting was phony, long as the rest was real, but I did have to find out. I had to clear the air. I'm sorry."

  "I know. I know. But you did shock the devil out of me."

  "Like my old man used to say when he put the paddle down, it hurt me more'n it did you."

  "I don't know, love, it hurt pretty bad."

  "Where?"

  "Right here." She pointed in the area of her heart, which happened to be slightly below and to the right of her left nipple.

  "Let me kiss it and make it well." He did. ''Better?" She nodded.

  "Honey, why did Conners send you?"

  ''What do you mean? He knew I hated Chicago winters, I guess.''

  ''No, I mean why didn't he send Angela? He must have known her better."

  She laughed. "I guess that's why. You don't know Angela!"

  "She can't be a spook."

  "Oh, God, no. She's very attractive. But she does have a mind of her own. Wow!"

  "And you don't?"

  "You know what I mean. She's a headstrong gal - capital H. I suppose Conners figured she'd have you up the wall inside a few hours. She's sweet, but she's a tease, a baiter, argumentative."

  "Why not Lisha?"

  "C'mon love, you're pulling my leg." He suited his action to her words and got a smiling "ouch." His hand lingered, softly caressing.

  "Who is she?"

  "She's a friend of a friend of Conners's. I suspect the 'friend' is here somewhere, but I didn't ask."

  "Why not?"

  "I really don't know her, and she made it clear she wasn't interested in talking about herself."

  "Why's she here?"

  "Conners said it'd look better if there were two of us. You know, two Chicago secretaries on a sun-binge vacation. I guess it made it look more like a long-planned trip."

  "Is Felicia Martin her real name?"

  "Hmmm. I guess so. I never thought about it. I didn't know her before this trip, and I didn't see any reason to question her name or whatever. Conners talked like she was just along for the ride, to make me look more real."

  "I see. And as far as you know she's gone back to Chicago?"

  "Far as I know. Though I'm starting to doubt everything now."

  "And you were reporting back to Conners?"

  She lowered her eyes for the first time, then raised them again and looked right at him. "Yes, I was. 'Til yesterday."

  "What did you tell him?"

  She looked hurt again. "What you told me about yourself. You know, the background stuff. I was sure you weren't Morrison and I wanted to prove it to him. None of the private stuff - our things - just background: where you came from, where you had worked and lived, that kind of stuff-just all that."

  "And what did he say to 'all that'?"

  "He said he thought I was probably right - you weren't Morrison - but he wanted me to hang on for a while longer and make sure."

  "So what did you say?"

  "I said no. And he asked me if my reasons were 'personal,' and I told him yes."

  "And?"

  "He said, 'Oh, I see,' or something like that, and asked me if I were going back to Chicago. When I said not for a while he asked me again to help him make sure you weren't Morrison so he could wash this lead out once and for all, but I said I didn't feel I could do it."

  "You didn't tell him about us?"

  "No. It was none of his business, but I felt somehow he knew everything."

  "So what then?"

  "I told him we were even - he didn't owe me any money or expenses, and I didn't owe him any more reporting."

  "And?"

  "And he said okay, see you in Chicago, or something like that. I don't remember exactly."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  "That was all?"

  "Yup. That was all."

  "I love you." He kissed that "hurt" again. This time it was more effective as a healant, as he had succeeded in nuzzling open the top two buttons of her blouse.

  "Yeah, I know. And I love you, too, and I feel better – lots – better - now. But, honey, there're two sides to this business; I think I should get some answers too. Fair's fair, as my new friend Morley is wont to say."

  "I agree, fair is indeed fair. No longer can I hold out. My real name is Paul Morrison, and I used to be a poor stockbroker, but temptation, in the form of a large redhead with the most -"

  "Hold it! Hold it! I think your real name is Harry Smartass. What's all this about syndicates and killers and them wanting to take you for a ride, or rub out, or whatever. Is this serious?"

  "Maybe, maybe not, but it's a great story, isn't it?"

  "You heartless bastard."

  "Sticks and stones."

  "You made all that up to needle me."

  "No, not really. I knew our meeting had to be phony. Everything was too pat, if you'll pardon my pun. Then when I fell for you and (I hoped) you felt the same way, I just had to find out. I figured that shock treatment might be the most effective."

  "You were right, cad. But why the syndicate and killer bit?"

  "The worse I made it the better it was." Then he got serious. "Besides, maybe it's true. It could be, even if you didn't know it."

  "Yeah, I guess so. But you know Conners is just a broker, don't you? He is, isn't he?"

  "If you say so, love. I don't know the man personally. But my instincts tell me otherwise."

  "You are harder to pin down than a Philadelphia lawyer, Mr. Morley. You sounded so sure about it last night. Were you just bluffing?"

  "I lied to you. I was born and raised on a riverboat." I’m beginning to believe that. But-wait a minute. What about Matthewson, Conners's boss, did he really get killed? And Sandy Porter."

  "For real, honey, really real."

  She frowned thoughtfully. "Then he wasn't a broker?"

  "No way. Matthewson was syndicate. That I know for sure."

  "The brokerage is phony. Yeah, I see. And Dennis Conners? He's phony too. And his story to me? My God, who can I believe? It's all phony?"

  "Matthewson had a brokerage business, but as I said, it was phony. You couldn't have known that. Conners is probably a phony broker too. Now as for the story they told you, it may be mostly true. They may be looking for an embezzler of sorts, and they may think he's here. They may even think he's me. In fact they must suspect that or they'd never have gone to all the trouble they did. Who knows."

  "But you knew who Conners was."

  "No, honey, I suspected who he had to be. You told me who he was."

  "But you knew he worked for Matthewson?"

  "No, I guessed he might. You told me he did."

  "And you knew he was at our apartment that night - whenever you said it was?"

  "No, that was a 'shock bluff ' too."

  "You're not always a nice guy, Mr. Morley."

  "I had to find out, sweetheart. It seemed like the best way. I was lucky in my guesses, but I did have some facts to go on
."

  "You're something else, love, you really are.'' She just sat back and looked at him, half smiling, shaking her head slowly back and forth. "You had me swinging by my toes. You see, I really didn't believe Conners's story about this Paul Morrison, at least all the way. But the deal was attractive so why rock the boat? And while I did think Conners was a broker, I knew somehow he was different and he probably was at our apartment 'til dawn some night. Angela wouldn't give a damn who saw him or who didn't. Yeah. I believed all your big bluff 'cause it was so believable."

  "As I said, I was lucky."

  "Yeah, I guess you were. I'm glad it's over."

  "Satisfied?"

  "Yeah, I guess so. 'Cept for one thing - how'd you know ­ or I guess I should say, why'd you suspect- that Conners was not a broker? How'd you even know who he was or what he looked like?"

  "Well, let's just say I happened to see him in a place and at a time that made me sure he was a hood. As I said, you just confirmed my suspicions."

  "And why were you in this 'place' at that 'time'? Wait a minute. I get it. Sure. You were there and that's why they're after you. Yeah, but why?"

  "Right, except for one thing. Just like the Paul Morrison story, I think they think I'm somebody else."

  "Now you've got me thoroughly confused." She smiled. "But, knowing you I suppose that was your intent all along. No?"

  "Perish the thought, my dear. It's just that the situation is indeed a confusing one, and so I can't describe it in anything but confusing terms."

  "Now, that is really confusing!"

  "I know, but what's to do?"

  "Nothing, I guess. I'm satisfied if you are."

  "Me satisfied?" He put on his best stage leer. "Never, my love, my libido cup's hardly half full."

  He reached for her. She came warmly and willingly. It was soon as it had been before.

  14

  Thursday, the last day of February. There was a slight chill in the air from the fuzzy southernmost edge of the latest cold front that was freezing the southeast U.S., but nothing that wouldn't be burned off before noon. Lisha had returned to Chicago, her vacation, or whatever it was, over; Dana had moved out of the Inn and into Morley's apartment. Morley rationalized that this arrangement was the only sensible solution to a difficult logistical and security problem. It was economical, no question of that. And energy saving, a very patriotic objective. And above all, it was efficient. Then too, it appeared consistent with her attitude toward Conners and the "job" for which she'd come here. Last but not least, it enabled Morley to monitor her activity, phone calls, and all that, with ease. So he suggested it to her. Surprisingly to him, she balked at first; even after he made a persuasive argument, she was not convinced. She felt there was a pretty distinct line between their routine of her spending the better part of most nights there and her moving in bag and baggage. And so Morley had to eat his logic and admit to himself as well as to her that his real motivation was entirely personal: he loved her and wanted her near all the time. At that point she admitted similar motivation and moved in.

  It was easy to talk now, and talk they did - about everything but the future. By some unarticulated but mutually recognized pact, this subject wasn't mentioned, but Morley knew it bothered her. It had to. She'd blown her job and her life and friends in Chicago, and he'd offered her nothing substantial in return. It bothered him too. It was becoming clearer day by day to him that a future that didn't include her wasn't much. In bed, before he got up in the morning, his uncluttered mind warned him that the woman was far from "proven," but once she was awake, and he started to live for the day, this signal became inaudible, and his mind concentrated only on how to keep her.

  This morning was about the same, except that during his daily reverie he decided he had to make a move, and then when she woke up and he collected his first kiss of the day, he decided the move had to include her. Luckily, he'd foreseen this possibility and included her, tentatively, in some of the technical arrangements he'd made. But first he had to touch base with Terry. Dana's proximity, with all its advantages, did preclude his making or receiving his more sensitive phone calls in the apartment. At first he made these calls from the travel agency, but then as his trips to the office became fewer and farther between, he'd begun to rely on the drugstore phone. It was okay for outgoing calls, but the incoming ones were a problem. He did not try to convince himself that Dana was unaware of these procedures, anymore than she was unaware that he'd effectively stopped working; both were subjects that, along with the future, just weren't discussed.

  Dana gave him an opening by ordering him out of the kitchen so she could fix her "he-man number one" breakfast. Morley was indeed out of cigarettes (by prearrangement), so he announced that he'd run to the drugstore and get some while she chefed it up.

  He got Terry on the second ring. He answered his own phone because it was only eight-fifteen. He was in a jocular mood and began with a needle. "Hey, passion flower, now that I'm forbidden to call you at home and interrupt your privacy or whatever - I still think you've got Widder Kelly in your den - I gotta wait for your call, and you're not one of the world's great communicators, y'know."

  "Yeah, yeah. I didn't mean you shouldn't call, ever; I just meant not too often, you know, minor emergencies and above. It's just that I have lots of visitors and I can't always talk freely, but don't hesitate to call if you've got something you think I should have right away."

  "Gotcha, pal. But you're not fooling ole Terrello M. Rourke. You're getting him excited, all right, but not fooling him."

  "Nothing could be farther from my mind, ole Terrello M. Nothing."

  "Happy to hear it. I've got some goodies for you from California and points east. I'm not sure you'll like'em all, though."

  "Try me."

  "Okay. First of all, you are psychic. Chew on this one: Miss Angela Mornay was born and raised in Ventura, California. That has to be our Kelly connection. Right?"

  "Uh-huh. Unless the third roomie's from Ventura too."

  "No, she's not. Has to be Mornay - too much coincidence. Now, Mornay also went to high school in Ventura, a year ahead of Dana Hayes, then went on to USC, graduating with honors in business administration. Evidently she was a top student, and she got a job with the L.A. office of a large national brokerage outfit. She's gone up the ladder fast - two major promotions - first one moving her to St. Louis, the second to Chicago, their home office. She was as clean in L.A. and St. Louis as she is in Chicago, although I didn't go very deep either place. In Chicago she has a first-class reputation at the brokerage house, her landlady thinks she's a 'lovely person,' and the doorman rates her at 'four whistles' - high for Chicago. She's lived peacefully at that Delaware Ave. address since shortly after her arrival in Chicago three years ago. She has dated various men about town, the latest of whom is one Dennis Conners, employee of a quote investment firm end quote, owned and operated by the late and not too lamented James Matthewson. How you lika dat, boy?"

  "Not bad. Confirms what the girl said. How'd you get all this stuff, by the way?"

  "Relax. There weren't any real live interviews and all the questions were oblique. My boy just ran into some gushy citizens. "

  "Good. I shouldn't have asked."

  ''True.''

  "Any more California stuff, Ter?"

  "Nothing significant. She's described as a brunette, Mornay I mean, very good looking and with a luscious figure, that's 1-u-s-c-!"

  "Awright! Awright!"

  "Well, anyway, she's very well stacked - won a 'Miss California' contest when she was still in high school. And smart as a whip. Or is it a whippet that's so smart?"

  Morley groaned. "How can anybody be so smart-assed so early in the morning?"

  "Easy, pal. It's not so early for us working types who've been out on the bread quest since seven A.M."

  "Apologies in profusion, to you and all working types. Now tell me, where is Mornay now? Chicago?"

  "Funny you should ask. We don't know whe
re she is. Best we can determine is that she's somewhere 'on vacation,' supposedly with roommate Kelly. The doorman confided that Ferris, the third roomie, told him that. He figured it had to be someplace nice because Ferris said she wished she were with them. Oh, yeah. One other thing. The doorman also said that they hadn't gone away together. Mornay left a couple days before Kelly. I don't know what that means, but I thought it might be interesting."

  "Hm. It is, interesting, I mean. Ferris is still there, isn't she?"

  "Was as of six P.M. last night."

  "And how about Felicia Martin. Anything?"

  "That's another interesting item. There just ain't no appropriately aged Felicia Martin in Chicago. That has to be a phony. Your Felicia Martin is a nonperson. Say, Pat, you don't suppose she's -"

  Morley cut in. "Angela Mornay? I don't know, Terry. You can't ever account for tastes in ladies or race horses, but I wouldn't have called Felicia Martin 'luscious,' though come to think of it, she did have a pair of jugs that would make a revolving door nervous. No. I don't think so. You got pictures of Mornay and Kelly?"

  "Yeah, you should have 'em both today at your P.O. box. I have to warn you, though, they are a bit dated. Best I could do on Kelly was a college yearbook, nineteen-seventy. Mornay's 'seventy-four."

  "Was Mornay ever married?"

  "That was odd. Her last two years in USC she was listed as Angela M. Talley, but then when she went to work she was Angela Mornay again. Only information I could get was that it was Charles J. Talley, and there was no police or any other kind of record for him in the L.A. area. No marriage record, either."

  "And Mornay's college was four years, no interruptions?"

  "Right."

  "What about Ferris?"

  "Roomie number three: Marjorie Banks Ferris. Like Gibraltar she is solid, my friend. Comes from downstate Illinois, secretarial school in Chicago, been with same firm, that large produce-marketing outfit, for seven years, rising from apprentice steno to girl Friday for the boss. She's engaged to a young attorney, wedding planned next fall. She's been at the Delaware Street address almost six years, so possibly it was she who took Mornay in. There was another-unknown­ roomie at that time. I don't know how they met, she and Mornay, or if it was her for sure. Anyway Ferris is an all-American girl -church work, charities, hospitals, and all that stuff. Reputation is spotless, all records A-plus. She goes to work every day, sees her fiancé every night - properly, that is - church every Sunday, pays her bills every month, and bows toward Washington every night before beddie-bye."