Briarpatch

by Ross Thomas

  “And it worked?” Dill said.

  “Sure it worked.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It was.”

  “How expensive, Harold?” Anna Maude Singe asked.

  Instead of answering, Snow again tugged the package of Vantage menthols out of his pants pocket and lit one. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said as he waved out the match and dropped it into the ashtray. “All this oughta be worth a little something to you guys.”

  Dill sighed, bent forward, and cracked Snow across the right knee with the barrel of the revolver. Snow wailed, dropped his cigarette, and grabbed the struck knee with both hands. Dill bent down, picked up the cigarette, and stuck it between Snow’s lips. “Don’t be dumb, Harold,” Dill said. “You’re not real smart, but you’re not dumb either. How much did Corcoran pay you?”

  The cigarette was still between Snow’s lips and he was still massaging the struck knee when he said, “One thousand a week.”

  Anna Maude Singe whistled softly. “How did he pay you, Harold?” she asked.

  “What d’you mean how’d he pay me?” Snow said and took the cigarette from his mouth. “With money.”

  “Cash?”

  “That’s right, cash.”

  “You think it was his money, Harold?” Dill said.

  Once again, the shrewdness crept back into the eyes. “You know, that’s kind of an interesting question. I think it was his money all right when I did the first stuff. But later I think he started using other people’s money. I think there was other people who wanted to find out what your sister was up to.”

  “He found himself a client, huh?” Dill said.

  “Yeah. A client.”

  “Who?”

  “How should I know? Somebody hands over a grand a week in tens and twenties to you, you ain’t gonna ask too many questions.”

  “Or listen to the tapes?” Anna Maude Singe said.

  “I didn’t listen to ’em, lady. What little I did hear was mostly fuck talk and that doesn’t do a thing for me.” He paused. “But I will tell you this.”

  “What?” Dill said.

  “He wanted me to tap in on somebody else.”

  “Corcoran did?”

  “Yeah. He said name your price. So I went out and took a look at it and came back and said no way. I mean, this guy was set up just like he was expecting somebody to make a move on him.”

  “What’d Corcoran say when you said you wouldn’t do it?” Dill asked.

  “What could he say? I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t do it; I told him I couldn’t. If you can’t, you can’t.”

  “Who was it, Harold?” Dill said.

  “Some guy in a big house out in Cherry Hills is all I know.”

  “Was his name Jake Spivey?”

  Harold Snow no longer bothered to look surprised at anything Dill said. “Yeah,” Snow said. “Jake Spivey. How the hell did you know?”

  CHAPTER 23

  With his own pistol aimed at him, Harold Snow used the kitchen stool to go up into the crawl space above the bedroom closet and bring down the recording and sending equipment. It was smaller than Dill had expected—not much larger than a cigar box—and enclosed in a green metal case.

  “That’s it?” he asked Snow.

  “That’s it.”

  “What about the microphones?”

  Snow pointed to something in the ceiling above the bed. “See that?”

  “What?”

  “Looks like a nail hole.”

  “I see it.”

  “That’s the spike mike. I’m gonna leave it. It’s not worth the trouble to take it out. I patched in the phone up there, too.”

  “You don’t think the cops found it when they went over this place?”

  Snow shook his head. “Not unless they went up into the crawl space, and they didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Talcum powder. I blew some talcum powder around after I installed it. It was still there.”

  Anna Maude Singe moved over and looked down at the small green metal box Harold Snow still held. “You said there’s a final tape on there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you play it?” she said. “I mean, can you play it so we can hear it?”

  Snow looked at Dill, who had let the pistol drop to his side. “Can I keep my stuff if I do? Can I keep this?” He moved the green box around a little. Dill brought the gun up. Snow hurried with his explanation. “Look, I put it together myself and it’s worth a couple of thousand. I know where I could get at least a couple of thousand for it.”

  “You can keep it, Harold,” Dill said.

  They had to go back into the living room, where Snow had left his toolkit. It took him less than two minutes to splice a wall plug onto the cord that led from the green metal box. He plugged it into the wall socket and said, “This thing’s only got an inch-and-a-half speaker on it, so you’re not gonna get any quality.”

  “Just play it, Harold,” Dill said.

  “There’s not much on it,” Snow warned.

  “Just play it, Harold,” Dill said again.

  The first thing they heard was a muted click. “That’s the phone being picked up,” Snow explained.

  “Why doesn’t it ring?”

  “It don’t pick up on rings.”

  “Hello,” the woman’s voice said. It was the voice of Dill’s dead sister. Dill felt a small cold shudder. A frisson, he thought, surprised that the word had come to him.

  A man’s voice said: “Well?”

  “I think the same time and place,” Felicity Dill said.

  “Right,” the man said. There was a slight click. A brief silence. Another click. And Felicity Dill again said, “Hello.”

  “Another phone call,” Snow said.

  MAN’S VOICE: It’s me.

  FELICITY: Hi.

  MAN’S VOICE: I can’t make it tonight, damn it.

  Dill recognized the voice. It belonged to Captain Gene Colder.

  FELICITY: I am sorry. What happened?

  COLDER: Something came up that the Troll says he needs me on.

  FELICITY: You’d better not let him hear you call him that.

  COLDER: (laughter) I caught it from you, didn’t I?

  FELICITY: Just don’t let Strucker hear you.

  COLDER: Will you miss me?

  FELICITY: Of course I’ll miss you.

  COLDER: What’re you going to do?

  FELICITY: Well, since you won’t be coming over here, I think I’ll go over to the duplex and wash my hair.

  COLDER: I’d like to help.

  FELICITY: Wash my hair?

  COLDER: Wash you all over.

  FELICITY: (laughter) Next time.

  COLDER: I’ve gotta go. Love you.

  FELICITY: Me, too.

  COLDER: ’Bye.

  FELICITY: Goodbye, darling.

  There was a click and after that, nothing, until a man’s voice said: “Looks like she read a lot.”

  Snow switched off the machine. “That’s the cops. You wanta hear it?”

  Dill said he did and Snow played it, but there was nothing much on it other than an occasional “Whaddya think of this, Joe?” And finally, there was only silence.

  “Can you play it once more for us, Harold?” Dill said.

  “All of it?”

  “Just the first phone call.”

  FELICITY: Hello.

  MAN’S VOICE: Well?

  FELICITY: I think the same time and place.

  MAN’S VOICE: Right.

  Then a slight click and Dill said, “One more time, Harold.” Snow again rewound and replayed the four lines of conversation.

  “Again,” Dill said.

  Snow played them again. Dill looked at Anna Maude Singe.

  “Two words are all,” she said. “‘Well’ and ‘Right.’”

  “Not enough?”

  She frowned. “Not for me.”

  “Me either,” Dill said and turned to H
arold Snow. “Harold, you can keep your wonderful machine, but I want the tape.”

  “You mean I can go?”

  “After I get the tape.”

  Snow quickly rewound the tape, removed it, and handed it over. He unplugged the recorder-sender, wound the cord around it, and tucked everything under his left arm. “You didn’t have to hit me,” he said as he bent down for his toolbox.

  “Sorry,” Dill said.

  “Can I have my gun back?”

  “No.”

  “You can take out the shells and give it to me.”

  “Goodbye, Harold.”

  Harold Snow started toward the door. “That tape oughta be worth something to you. A hundred bucks anyhow.”

  “Go home, Harold.”

  Snow stopped at the door. “You wanta get the door at least?”

  Dill moved over and opened the door that led to the stairs. “Lemme ask you something,” Snow said. “She was on the pad, wasn’t she—Felicity?”

  “I don’t know, Harold.”

  “You oughta’ve looked after her better.”

  Dill nodded. “Probably.” He paused. “One last thing, Harold.”

  “What?”

  “That tape we just heard. Can you put a date to it?”

  The greed popped back into the coyote eyes. “For a hundred bucks, I can.”

  Dill shook his head in defeat, took out his wallet, removed two fifties, and stuck them down into Snow’s pants pocket.

  “It was this Wednesday,” Snow said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I cleaned the tape off on Tuesday. It had to be Wednesday because on Thursday—well, you know what happened on Thursday.”

  “She died on Thursday,” Dill said.

  Snow nodded, started to say something, changed his mind, and started down the stairs. When he was halfway down, he stopped, turned, and looked back up at Dill.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry she got killed.”

  “Thanks, Harold.”

  Snow again nodded, again turned, and continued on down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 24

  Dill was seated, drink in hand, on the couch in Anna Maude Singe’s living room. He again was staring at the large Maxfield Parrish print when she came in from her shower wearing a short white silk robe that was transparent enough to see through. She sat down on the couch. The couch’s large center cushion separated them.

  Dill put his drink down on the coffee table and said, “I can see through that.”

  “I know.”

  “You got a built, as they say in Baltimore.”

  “Part’s inherited, part’s acquired.”

  “Dancing?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “The way you move mostly.”

  “They thought it would help me with this,” she said and touched the slight scar on her upper lip.

  “What’s that?”

  “It used to be a harelip. Until I was seven I talked funny—or peculiarly, I suppose. Then I had the operation and a lot of speech therapy, and I didn’t talk funny anymore. But I thought I still did. So I was given dancing lessons—to increase my confidence.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not really. But at thirteen I turned pretty. It was almost overnight. It seemed that way anyhow: all of a sudden. So I decided I wanted to do something where looks didn’t much count. I decided to become a lawyer.”

  “At thirteen?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “At thirteen,” Dill said, “I wanted to be ambassador to the United Nations.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You got to live in New York. You didn’t have to stand up when you worked. There were always people seated behind you, whispering secrets into your ear and handing you important slips of paper. It looked like a steady job. I was very impressed by people with steady jobs when I was thirteen.”

  He picked up his drink from the coffee table, swallowed some of it, put it back down, and moved over next to Anna Maude Singe. He touched the small scar on her lip. “I still have a little trouble with my R’s,” she said.

  “I didn’t notice,” Dill lied and kissed the scar.

  “You know why I really gave up dancing?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was therapy. They said I was very good, but I figured that meant I was just good at therapy—at curing myself. So when I got to be thirteen I decided I was cured and gave it up.”

  Dill’s hand went to her waist and began to untie the loosely knotted sash. She bent her head to watch. “Your robe,” he said. “It looks something like the ones in the Parrish print.”

  “I know. When I was taking my shower, I thought about you and got all excited. I thought the robe might help things along.”

  He slipped the robe from her shoulders. Her breasts were several shades lighter than the rest of her skin, which was nicely tanned. The nipples were erect. He touched first the right one, then the left. “In the Parrish print,” he said, “I never could figure out whether they’re boys or girls.”

  “I hope you like girls or we’re going to a lot of bother for nothing.”

  “I like girls very much,” he said and kissed the right nipple.

  “Strawberry,” she said. “The other one’s vanilla.”

  He kissed the left one. “So it is.”

  As he straightened up, she said, “You’ve got too many clothes on,” and started loosening his tie. Dill worked on the buttons of his shirt. Seconds later, his clothes were on the floor. She examined him with frank interest and said, “I like looking at naked men.”

  “Women are better.”

  “They’re okay, but men are better—I don’t know—engineered. Take this, for example.”

  “You take it.”

  “All right,” she said. “It’s the most remarkable thing in the world.”

  “Not quite,” he said, his hand and fingers now exploring the wet softness between her legs.

  She closed her eyes and smiled, her head thrown slightly back. “We can begin on the couch and then move to the floor.”

  “Where there’s more room.”

  “Right. Then you can carry me into the bedroom, throw me on the bed, and have your way with me.”

  “Sounds like a hell of an afternoon.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  They came together then in a hot hungry frantic kiss. They remained on the couch for a while and then somehow found themselves on the floor. They were there for a long time. They never did make it to the bed.

  Dill was still lying on the carpeted floor, his arms folded beneath his head, when Anna Maude Singe came naked into the living room carrying two cans of beer. She knelt beside him and put one of the ice-cold cans on his bare chest. Dill said, “Christ!” and grinned, removed his right hand from behind his head, and snatched the beer from his chest.

  Singe raised her own beer in a mock toast and said, “To one hell of an afternoon.”

  “It was that,” he said and raised himself up so he could lean on his left arm.

  “Do you run?” she said, examining his body again. “You look like you run.”

  Dill looked down at his body. “No, I don’t run. It’s my inheritance, and it’s just about spent. It’s all my old man left me—a remarkably sound metabolism. He left me his nose, too, but he could’ve kept that.”

  “It’s a fine nose,” she said. “It makes you look like Captain Easy, Soldier of Fortune.”

  “You don’t remember Captain Easy.”

  “He had a sidekick named Wash Tubbs. I had a case once involving copyright infringement of an old comic strip. During the research I learned just one heck of a lot about what they used to call the funnies—more than I wanted to learn probably. But then that’s really why I like the law. It leads you down some strange paths.”

  She rose, shivered slightly in the air-conditioning, put her beer down, and slipped on the sheer white robe. Dill continued to lie on his side, propped up on
his left elbow. Singe sat down on the couch and picked up her beer.

  “Well,” she said, “what d’you think?”

  Dill lay back down on the carpet and stared at the ceiling. “Felicity wasn’t on the take.”

  “No, I don’t think so either.”

  “She got the money someplace, though.”

  “I wonder where.”

  “Who knows?” Dill sat up without using his hands, reached for his shirt and shorts, and started putting them on. “What d’you do—keep it around sixty-eight or sixty-nine in here?”

  “I like it cool,” she said. After a swallow of beer, she used a musing tone to say, “Jake Spivey.”

  “Old Jake.”

  “Clay Corcoran was going to tell us something about him.”

  “Whoever shot Corcoran didn’t shoot him just to keep him from talking to us.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Too pat, too neat, too …”

  “Convenient?”

  “That, too,” he said.

  “But there’s that other link between Jake Spivey and Corcoran,” she said.

  “If you can believe Harold Snow. Maybe I’ll ask Jake tomorrow.”

  “Think he’ll tell you?”

  “He might.” Dill picked up his pants, rose, and began to put them on.

  “My God!” she said. “One leg at a time—just like everybody else.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “After this afternoon, something—well, different.”

  Dill smiled. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.”

  Dill turned to examine the Maxfield Parrish print again. “Girls,” he said finally. “Definitely girls.” He turned back to Singe. “That old guy at the church.”

  “The reporter?”

  “Yeah. Laffter. I think I’d better talk to him.”

  “Call him.”

  Dill shook his head. “Somebody leaked Felicity’s money problems to him right after she died. He sat on the story until today, but now he’s going with it because somebody else told him to. I’d like to find out who all those somebodies are.”