John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 17 - The Empty Copper Sea

by The Empty Copper Sea(lit)

  Well, they said she and Hub Lawless had something going. Then there were other people said there was always talk about a woman like that, like Kristin Petersen, whoever she was working for, and they said Hub and Julie Lawless had too good a marriage. Then her leaving town the very next day while the Coast Guard and everybody was hunting Hub's body...

  Her voice had faded down into a muttering and then into slow, heavy breathing. A little bit more for Meyer's notebook. One Kristin Petersen, who had worked for Hubbard Lawless in some capacity as yet unknown and who was a natural target for gossip. A veritable battalion of women were thronging the Timber Bay scene: B. J. Bailey Felicia Ambar, Michele Burns, Julia Lawless, and now Kristin, who had departed.

  There was beginning to be such a subtle additive of light that I could make out the ghostly shape of a marker off to my left, where North Pass entered Timber Bay, and beyond it some shadowy tree shapes on the outcroppings that sheltered the bay. The Gulf was quiet, with a gentle lap and slap of small waves on the packed wet sand. I heard a deep-throated diesel chugging through the wet noises of the sea and soon saw the outline of a ahrimper heading out. There was a pale yellow rectangle in the amidships area, with a man standing against the glow, and I saw him lift his arm and realized that he was lifting a cup of coffee to his lips. It was so vivid I could smell the coffee.

  And I had a sudden wrenching urge to shed my own identity and be somebody else. Somehow I had managed to lock myself into this unlikely and unsatisfying self, this Travis McGee, shabby knight errant, fighting for small, lost, unimportant causes, deluding himself with the belief that he is in some sense freer than your average fellow, and that it is a very good thing to have escaped the customary trap of regular hours, regular pay, home and kiddies, Christmas bonus, backyard bar-B-cue, hospitalization, and family burial plot.

  All we have, I thought, is a trap of a slightly different size and shape. Just as the idea of an ancient hippie is gross and ludicrous, so is the idea of an elderly beach bum. I dreaded the shape of the gray years ahead and wished to hop out of myself, maybe into the skin of the coffee drinker now far out of sight in the just-brightening morning. And he, the poor deluded bastard, would probably have changed places willingly.

  I stood up and stretched my sore arms again and decided, What the hell, when in doubt turn to the obligations of the moment. Van Harder was a tough, humorless, competent seaman, and I had given him my word, and he deserved my best effort. If I questioned my own value, then he was likely to get less than his money's worth. He was the innocent bystander who'd been run down by somebody else's fun machine, and all I had to do was repair his reputation somehow. And stop moaning about myself.

  I went up to our second-floor suite, showered, changed, and looked out at the early slant of sunshine, and at two young men in warm-up suits volleying on the farthest tennis court, one strung so much tighter than the other that the sounds were in different keys-pink-punk-pink-punk. A shirt-sleeved, necktied man, thick around the middle, came hurrying out. The boys looked up at the windows of the hotel and shrugged and moved slowly and disconsolately off the court, picking up the yellow balls and putting them back in the cans. I guessed that the necktie was Manager Jack, doing his managing. Beyond the courts I could see the roof of the row of cabanas and estimated the exact place where B.J. lay deep in sleep in the yellow glow, surrounded by all the silent music, still and dead in the grooves of the records, frozen into the emulsion on the tapes, locked into the calligraphy of her sheet music and the stilled cleverness of her piano hands.

  "You up?" Meyer said, astonished. He had come out of his bedroom into our shared sitting room. He plodded to the corridor door, looked out to see if there was a morning paper there, and gave a grunt of annoyance on finding that service not provided. He wore a robe in awning stripes of pink yellow, and black, and he looked and acted like a cross performing bear which had escaped a small circus.

  "You want some morning news?" I asked. When he stopped and glowered at me I said, "Mystery woman Kristin Petersen, employed by Hubbard Lawless, disappears the day after alleged drowning. Nicholas Noyes, one-time superintendent of Hula Construction, states that Lawless sold equipment for cash before disappearing. And cleaned out bank accounts. One of the two young ladies aboard the Julie the night of the accident was one Michele Burns, known as Mishy, who is a waitress at the Cove and is reputed to be a part-time hooker. The other, Felicia Ambar, known as 'Licia, works at Top Forty Music in the Baygate Plaza Mall."

  The glower was unchanged. "So?" he said.

  "Don't you want to write it down?"

  "What happened to your face?."

  "Nicky Noyes took an instant dislike to it."

  Meyer nodded. "I can see his point." He went into the bath, and soon I heard the shower. Meyer is not a morning person. Neither am I. But he is one of the non-morning persons who set the standards for all the rest of us.

  After his breakfast and after the morning paper, Meyer was ready for communication.

  "Officially," I said, "I ran into that jungle-gym thing in the dark."

  "Why?"

  "Both combatants were last seen with one Billy Jean Bailey, who is the piano player here and has been for three years, and Jack the Manager does not like to have piano ladies causing fusses between bar patrons. Or guests of the house."

  "Who fixed it?"

  "Miss Bailey."

  His nod was approving. "Neatly done."

  "I've been wondering about the best way to use that great letter of yours."

  He found the right page in his notebook. "The top man at the Coast National Bank and Trust is Devlin J. Boggs. And it is not a chain bank, a situation that gets more rare every day."

  "Should I go along with you?"

  He studied me, head tilted, and finally nodded. "I think so. We're going to be linked anyway. You'd better be working for me."

  "As what?"

  "Maybe... as knowledgeable in the area of groves and construction and marine holdings. And ranchland."

  "I can handle that. I'll carry a pack of Marlboros and grunt a lot and look open-air sincere."

  The Coast National Bank and Trust Company occupied most of the ground floor of a ten-story office building at the corner of Bay and Main. All the window glass had an orange yellow tint, making a golden glow inside. The executive offices were glass cubicles along the left wall as you went in the main entrance on Bay. There were lines at the tellers, and people crisscrossing the broad expanse of carpeted floor. Friday is a busy banking day.

  Boggs was talking to two men seated across his desk from him. Meyer gave the secretary his plainest and most impressive card after writing on the back of it, "Representing Emmett Allbritton." She started to put the card down, read what he had written, looked at us again, got up and tapped on the door and took the card in and placed it by Boggs's elbow, and came back out.

  Within moments he was ushering the two men out. He came out with them and took us in and got us properly seated before he went around and sat in his judge's chair. Devlin Boggs was about fifty, a tall and very erect fellow with a long and lugubrious face, an iron-gray military haircut, a lantern jaw, and a dark and elegant suit.

  After introductions, Meyer handed him the letter. Boggs read it and said, "I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Allbritton about, I think, fifteen years ago. He spoke to the Association in Houston about future problems in energy supply. Prophetic indeed. It is quite... heartening to know that they have long-range plans for this area." He looked inquiringly at Meyer.

  Meyer said, "I wouldn't, of course, be at liberty to discuss the little I know of those plans at this time." "Of course. What sort of-" he looked at the letter again-"holdings large and small would he be interested in?"

  "Anything available."

  "Raw land, developed land, actual business operations?"

  "He would expect me to make recommendations."

  "But I assume you are coming to me because of the possible availability of some of Hubbard Lawless's hol
dings. We have all been terribly shocked by what has happened. We had great confidence in Hub's energy and judgment. He was one of our directors, you know. Things were slow this year. Everybody complained, Hub included. He had borrowed up to the statutory maximum percentage from the bank. Three million dollars. These loans were to four corporations he controlled, and also to himself as an individual. The loans were secured by the assets of the corporations. After... it happened, we were able to inventory, or try to inventory, the assets. The books were in... very untidy condition. It would seem that for many weeks he had been systematically selling off the assets of his companies for cash, out of town." He took out a snowy handkerchief and wiped his lips. "He had been ignoring his accounts payable, making a special effort on collections. During the week before he disappeared, he drained every single one of his corporate accounts down to minimum balance. He even took out the compensating balance against his personal loans, which he had agreed to leave untouched. Understand that the company accounts included tax reserves, FICA monies, retirement debits, money due for his upcoming payroll. He was down to about forty people from the hundred and twenty he employed at this same time last year."

  "How much did he get away with?" I asked.

  "There are too many ways to compute it, Mr. McGee, for me to make a valid estimate. My horseback guess would be between six and seven hundred thousand dollars. I would say that those assets remaining behind which can be converted into cash would result in a recovery of maybe one and a quarter million dollars, and most of that value would be in the appraised value of the ranch and grove lands."

  "So the bank stands to take a bath of one and three quarters million dollars," Meyer said.

  Boggs wiped his mouth again and said dolefully, "if it were only that simple. There are a lot of other claims and liens against those assets. We may have the senior debt instruments, but we might have to prove it in court. It is such a terrible tangle that it might drag on for years. Legal fees and court costs will eat up a great deal of the remaining equity. In the meanwhile, such a huge write-off against our loan-loss reserves might mean that we would have to... give favorable consideration to an acquisition offer we have been rejecting. I have always felt that a locally owned, locally managed bank is far more responsive to the needs of any community, and... excuse me. Our banking problems are of no interest to you."

  Meyer gave a sympathetic sigh and said, "And I suppose that the state banking authorities and the examiners from the FDIC are stating that you didn't exercise prudence and good judgment in so setting up the loans to Mr. Lawless that he was able to market the assets without your knowledge and able to withdraw his compensating balance."

  "I see you know banking, sir."

  "Everybody is always full of wisdom after the event."

  "Hub was in and out of the bank a couple of times every day. He was a director. He was on the Loan Committee of the board. He was a very hardworking man. And very... personable. Anyway, I wish we were in a position to be able to offer to sell some of the remaining real-estate assets to Mr. Allbritton's corporation. But, with no legal decision as to whether Mr. Lawless is dead or alive, you can see the terrible legal tangle we are in here."

  "Do you believe he is dead?"

  Boggs hesitated a long time, choosing the right words. He said, "I did at first. Now I am not so sure. Neither, of course, is the insurance company. Julia Lawless is the owner of that two-million-dollar policy. It was taken out seven or eight years ago, for half a million, and as his affairs kept getting more involved, he kept adding to it. She owns the house free and clear. The land it's on was a gift from her father when they got married. I think she has some sort of very small income from her father's estate. Not enough, I wouldn't think, to run the house. I suppose... she is another of the victims of this disaster."

  Meyer said, "I don't imagine you would have any objections if I set up a hypothetical situation. Suppose, just for instance, that Mr. Allbritton made a decision, based on our examination of the properties, to make an offer of one million dollars for Tract So-and-So. Could the various claimants be brought together to reach an understanding? Could title be passed somehow?"

  For an instant a faint gleam of hope illuminated Devlin Boggs's long sad face, but it faded away. "I wouldn't think so. I don't know. It's a bureaucratic tangle as well as a legal tangle. Some kind of accommodation would have to be reached with the IRS... I suppose Harold Payne might be able to give you better answers than I can. He is the bank's attorney, and he handled Hub's affairs as well. Elfording, Payne and Morehouse. They're in this building. Seventh floor."

  I awaited Meyer's next move. He was doing very, very well. One door had been wedged open. Duplicity was hard on Meyer. It frayed his nerves and upset his digestion.

  "Mr. Boggs," he said, "it is quite evident from what we have heard so far that... people asking questions are not exactly welcome in Timber Bay lately. I can always show my letter of authority, but I would rather not do that except when dealing with a man of your position. Perhaps you might be able to give us... some sort of notes, possibly on the back of your business cards?"

  Once he started, Meyer kept him going. Fifteen minutes later we were out on the broad sidewalk. Meyer leaned against the bank. I leafed through the little packet of cards. Devlin J. Boggs wrote in a very neat small black legible hand.

  They were directed to Harold Payne, to Walter Olivera of the Timber Bay Journal, to Lou Latzov of Glennmore Realty, to Julia Lawless, and to Hack Ames, the Sheriff of Dixie County; and one read, "To Whom It May Concern."

  In his tight little script he said-that we had his confidence, and any help they could give us would be deeply and personally appreciated by Devlin J. Boggs.

  Meyer was breathing deeply, eyes closed. "How was I?"

  "You'll never be better. We start now from the top. A new sensation for Meyer and McGee. Tools of the power structure. Servants of the establishment." He smiled modestly. "No, I was never better."

  So we walked to where I'd parked, got into the car, and split up the cards. He took the lawyer and the real-estate broker. I took the Sheriff and the newspaperman. His were downtown, so I took the car.

  Five

  HAGGERMANN "HACK" Ames maintained his headquarters in the East Wing of the County Court House. Once it had been determined I was not an emergency, I was told to sit and wait in a cramped and dingy little room. The tattered magazines on the table were all hunting, fishing, and firearms oriented, looking as if some very sweaty-handed people had tried to escape into them.

  Florida elects its sheriffs on a party basis, a shockingly bad system. Elections come around too often. Unqualified men can slip in. People with political clout are seldom harassed by the Sheriff. Good politicians do lots of favors. Every time when, by a change in state law or by local option, they try to set the office up on an appointive basis with specific qualifications, thousands' of loud right-wing nuts rise up out of the shrubbery and start screaming about being deprived of their democratic rights and their voting franchise. Law enforcement has become so complex, technical, and demanding, so dependent on the expert use of expert equipment, one might as well say it would make as much sense to elect brain surgeons from the public at large as sheriffs.

  A surprising number of them are very good in spite of having to be political animals in order to survive. An unsurprising number of them are ninety-nine-point-nine percent worthless. Having heard from Van Harder of the attempt to kick him awake, I expected the second kind.

  But as time passed, I began to revise my judgment. The people who hurried by the waiting-room door were slender and young and in smart uniforms, male and female. No fat-guts, pearl-handled, hat-tilted-over-the-eyes, good-ol'-boy deputies. I could almost make out the words of the woman handling communications, calling the codes for various types of alarms.

  Finally I was sent in to the Sheriff's small office. "Just a minute," he said. "Sit."

  It was a tiny office with a steel desk, steel chairs, dark gray carpeting, o
ff-white walls, and no window at all. A big steel floor lamp hurled so many watts against the white ceiling, it was bright enough in there to make a television series. Me and Hack. He was signing what appeared to be requisition forms. He was a medium man with dusty brown hair and an unhealthy pallor. He was carefully reviewing the list of items on each requisition.

  When he had finished he pushed a button on the base of his fancy telephone, and a uniformed woman came briskly in and took the requisitions away.

  "Between the damned state auditors and the god damn nitpicking Washington desk jockeys, a man can spend his life doing the paperwork," he said. He stared at me carefully for the first time. His eyes were brown, and they looked as dry and dusty as his hair. "Didn't you get picked up here in Dixie County five-six years back?"

  "No, Sheriff."

  "I could have swore. Do me a favor. Stand up." What can you do? I stood up. He came around his desk and stood in front of me and looked up at my face. He backed off and bent and took a good look at my shoes.

  He sat down again and said, "No lifts. The one I mean, the one that looked like you, he was about six foot even. Once a man gets his height, he don't grow any more than that. Sure looks like you in the face. What's your name again? McGee. From Lauderdale? What's that you got there?"