by Ross Thomas
Dill could only stare at Harry the Waiter with utter disbelief.
Harry the Waiter went right on grinning. “That’s right. Me. Ain’t that something?” He ran his tongue over his lips and grimaced. “And don’t that old man taste bad?”
CHAPTER 26
Dill found Anna Maude Singe at the small end of the L-shaped bar huddled over a glass of something that looked like vodka on the rocks. He told the Greek he would have the same, whatever it was. Levides poured the drink and indicated the silent woman. “I told her it really wasn’t anything you two said or did, but she’s not buying it.”
Dill nodded and drank. It turned out to be vodka. He looked at Singe. She continued to stare into her glass.
“I told her the old guy’s seventy-three,” Levides went on, “and that he puts away at least a fifth a day and smokes three packs of Pall Malls and eats grease and junk and walks maybe fifty or sixty steps a week, if that, and that’s what did it to him before and that’s what did it to him tonight. Not anything anybody said.” He paused. “Christ, you and Harry the Waiter saved his life.”
“If he lives,” Dill said.
“So? He’s seventy-three.” Levides paused. “Damned old fool.”
“I want to get out of here,” Anna Maude Singe said, still staring down into her drink.
Dill put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, picked up his drink, finished it in three swallows, shuddered, and said, “Let’s go.”
She silently got down from the bar stool and started for the door. Dill was picking up his change when Levides, looking somewhere else, asked in his too casual offhand voice, “What’d you say to old Chuckles anyhow?”
“I said I was going to sue him for libel.”
“No shit,” Levides said as Dill turned and went after Anna Maude Singe.
Dill drove south on TR Boulevard toward downtown. Anna Maude Singe huddled against the right-hand door. Dill glanced over at her and said, “I don’t suppose you’re hungry.”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“I’d like to go home.”
“All right,” he said. “You mind if I stop at a drugstore?”
“For what?”
“Mouthwash. I can still taste him.”
Dill stopped at a drugstore whose digital temperature and time sign said it was 9:39 and 89 degrees. He bought a small bottle of Scope, came out, uncapped the bottle at the curb, rinsed his mouth out, and spat into the gutter, which was something he could not remember ever doing before—at least not since he was a child.
He got back into the car, started the engine, and pulled out into the street. Singe said, “You couldn’t wait to get home to do that?”
“No,” he said, “I couldn’t. I could still taste him.”
“What’d he taste like?”
“Like old death.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s what I figured he’d taste like.”
When they neared the Van Buren Towers Dill started looking for a place to park. “Don’t bother,” she told him. “Just let me out in front.”
“Okay.”
He pulled up in front of the building and stopped. Anna Maude Singe made no move to get out. Instead, staring straight ahead, she said, “I don’t think I want to be your friend anymore. I’ll be your lawyer, if you want, but I don’t want to be your friend.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have all that many friends.”
“Nobody does.”
“Was it the old man almost dying?”
She looked at him then and slowly shook her head. “You weren’t trying to kill him.”
“You’re right. I wasn’t.”
“If I went on being your friend, and not just your lawyer, I’m afraid two things might happen.”
“What?”
“I might fall in love with you—and I’d probably get into some kind of trouble I don’t want to get into. Being in love with you—well, I could handle that. At least I think I could. The other, I don’t know.”
“What other?”
“The trouble.”
“You mean like this afternoon with Harold Snow?” She nodded. “You liked that,” Dill said, “I could tell.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I did. I never thought I’d like something like that before. I thought I liked safe, polite things.” She shook her head as if in wonder. “Even tonight I liked it, when we were only talking to that old man, to Laffter, and he didn’t just lie down and take it. He gave as good as he got. In fact, he was better than you were—than we were—most of the time anyway and, well, I liked that, too. At least, until he keeled over. That shook me. Even Clay getting shot didn’t hit me that hard. And poor dumb Harold Snow, well, that was just kicks. But I was involved with that old man. I helped make it happen. And that got to me because I finally realized it’s not just let’s pretend, is it?”
“No,” Dill said.
“You remember my asking if you weren’t just all act?”
“Yes.”
“You’re no act.”
“I suppose not.”
“It makes me afraid and I don’t want to be afraid. And I don’t want to be in love with you either. And I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Just my lawyer.”
“If that.”
Dill wasn’t at all sure what he should say. So he said nothing. Instead, he reached over and drew her to him. She went unwillingly at first, but then all resistance ceased and their mouths were again mashed together in one of their long, almost angry kisses.
When it was over she half lay on the car seat with her head on his shoulder. “I wanted that,” she said. “I wanted to see if I could taste old death.”
“Did you?”
“If it tastes like Scope, I did.”
He kissed her again, gently this time, almost lovingly, and said, “You don’t really want to be just my lawyer, do you?”
She sighed. “I reckon not.”
“You can be both my lawyer and my sweetie.”
“Your sweetie? Good Lord.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She raised up to look at him. “I don’t want any more trouble.”
Dill grinned. “You like it. Trouble. You said so yourself.”
She put her head back down on his shoulder. “Sweetie,” she said unbelievingly. “My God. Sweetie.”
As he drove down Our Jack Street on his way back to the Hawkins Hotel, Dill saw that the First National Bank was proclaiming 88 degree weather at 10:31 P.M. He automatically looked for Clyde Brattle’s blue Dodge van as he drove into the basement parking garage, but didn’t see it. Dill got out of the Ford and hurried to the elevator, skirting carefully around the big square concrete posts. He rode the elevator all the way up to the ninth floor without bothering to stop by the desk for any messages.
Dill unlocked the door to 981 and shoved it open, but didn’t go in. The only sound he heard was that of the air-conditioning. He went in quickly, closed the door, and looked in the bathroom, but found only a faucet dripping into the sink. He turned it off.
Back in the room, Dill crossed to the phone and called information. He asked for and was given the number of St. Anthony’s Hospital. He called the hospital and after going through four different departments was at last connected with a Mr. Wade who sounded very young and very casual.
“I’d like to know how an intensive-care patient of yours is doing,” Dill said. “Laffter. Fred Y.”
“Laughter like in ha-ha?” Mr. Wade asked.
“Like in L-a-f-f-t-e-r.”
“Lemme check. Laffter … Laffter. Oh, yeah, well he died. About twenty minutes ago. You a relative?”
“No.”
“There’s no relative listed in his admission. Who d’you think I oughta call?”
Dill thought for a moment and then told Mr. Wade to call Harry the Waiter at the Press Club.
Later, Dill telephoned room service and asked them to send him up a bottle of J&B Scotch, some ice, and
a steak sandwich. When it came he ignored the sandwich and mixed a drink. He drank that one quickly, standing up, and then mixed a second one.
He carried the second one over to the window and stood there, sipping it, and staring down at Our Jack Street on Saturday night. There were few cars to be seen and even fewer pedestrians. Once, people had come downtown on Saturday night, but they didn’t anymore, and he wondered where they went—or if they went anywhere. He thought about Clay Corcoran then, the dead football player turned private detective who had loved Dill’s dead sister. The two deaths were connected somehow, Dill knew, but he soon tired of trying to understand what the connection was. He thought about the sheep-faced Harold Snow after that, but only briefly, and then his thoughts went in a direction he didn’t want them to go and he thought about the irascible old police reporter who had died alone in the hospital, possibly of apoplexy. He thought about Laffter for a long time and stopped only because he noticed that his drink was empty. He looked at the First National Bank’s time and temperature sign. It said it was two minutes past midnight on Sunday, August 7. It also claimed that the temperature was still 88 degrees.
Dill turned from his vigil at the window, went to the phone, and called Anna Maude Singe. She answered on the seventh ring with an almost inaudible hello.
“He died about two hours ago,” Dill said.
She was silent for several moments and then said, “I’m sorry.” She paused. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.”
“You’re blaming yourself, aren’t you?”
“Some, I guess. I made him pretty mad.”
“Well, it’s done now. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do unless you want to grieve for him.”
“I didn’t know him all that well.”
“I’ll give you some legal advice then.”
“All right.”
“Forget it, sweetie,” she said and hung up.
CHAPTER 27
At shortly after nine on Sunday morning the telephone rang in Dill’s hotel room. He had been asleep when it began to ring and he was still half asleep when he answered it with a scratchy hello and heard Senator Ramirez say, “This is Joe Ramirez, Ben. You awake?”
“I’m awake.”
“We’ll be coming in tomorrow around four o’clock. Could you rent a car and meet us at the airport by any chance?”
“Us?”
“Dolan and me. He’ll be coming in from Washington. I’m still in Santa Fe.”
“Around four,” Dill said. “Tomorrow.”
“If it’s no bother, of course.”
“I’ll be there. Can you hold a second?”
“Of course.”
Dill put the phone down, went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, came back into the room, noticed the bottle of whisky, paused, tilted it up, took a quick swallow, and got back on the phone with a question: “Did Dolan tell you about Clyde Brattle?”
“Yes, he did, and it presents a problem, doesn’t it?”
“I told Dolan you can have either Brattle or Jake Spivey—but not both.”
“I’m not quite sure I agree, Ben. I think I’ll need to talk to them both. Can you arrange it?”
“Spivey’s no problem. I’m seeing him today. But I’ll have to wait for Brattle to call me, although I’m pretty sure he will—unless the FBI’s got him.”
“You didn’t tell them he’s there, did you?” The Senator’s baritone rose in what sounded very much to Dill like alarm.
“I haven’t talked to the FBI, Senator,” he said carefully. “I was going to call them, but Dolan said he’d take care of it in Washington. Did he?”
“I’m sure he must’ve.”
“Maybe I’d better call their office here—just to make sure.”
“I don’t really think so, Ben,” the Senator said in a tone that managed to be both reasonable and stern. “I’m confident Dolan’s got everything worked out in Washington. A call from you might—well, confuse things and destroy whatever political advantage we might get out of this. I’m talking about political advantage in its broadest aspects, of course.”
“Of course,” Dill said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “What d’you want me to tell Brattle when he calls?”
“Tell him I’m prepared for a completely off-the-record exploratory meeting either late tomorrow or early Tuesday.” The Senator paused. “Just him, Dolan, me … and you, of course.”
“What about Jake Spivey?”
“Make him the same offer, but don’t let the times conflict.”
“I’ll set it up,” Dill said.
“Good.” The Senator paused again. “And Ben?”
“Yes.”
“I read a brief wire story in The New Mexican this morning. It was about your sister’s funeral. An ex-policeman was murdered at it?”
“Clay Corcoran.”
“The same Corcoran who used to play for the Raiders?”
“The same. He also used to go with my sister.”
“I’m—well, I’m not quite sure how to ask my next question.”
“The best thing to do is just ask.”
“None of what happened to your sister or to Corcoran has anything to do with you—or with us, does it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It could be awfully embarrassing if it did—although I don’t see how it possibly could.”
“Neither do I,” Dill said.
“Yes, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then—at the airport.”
Dill said he would be there. After the Senator hung up, Dill called down for room service. In the bathroom he stood under the shower for five minutes, shaved, brushed his teeth for another five minutes, and dressed in his gray slacks, white buttondown shirt, and the polished black loafers.
The coffee arrived just as he finished dressing. He tipped the same room waiter another two dollars and received a cheerful thank you, sir, in return. The waiter left, Dill poured a cup of coffee, hesitated, added a shot of Scotch, and sat down at the writing desk to drink it. He was on his fourth sip when the phone rang again.
After Dill said hello, Clyde Brattle said, “Have you spoken to our friend from the Land of Enchantment yet?”
“I just got through.”
“And?”
“He wants a completely off-the-record meeting either tomorrow evening or Tuesday morning. Early. Just you, him, Dolan, and me.
“A bit stacked, isn’t it?”
“What d’you suggest?”
“I’d like to bring Sid and Harley—just for a security check, of course.”
“If you bring them, I name the meeting place.”
There was a pause until Brattle said, “Providing it’s some place neutral.”
“My sister had a carriage house—back on an alley and across the street from a park. Very private. How does that sound?”
Brattle thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “that might do nicely. What’s the address?”
“Corner of Nineteenth and Fillmore—on the alley.”
“What about six tomorrow?”
“Make it seven,” Dill said.
“Until seven then,” Brattle said. “By the way, I understand you didn’t call the FBI after all. Why ever not, if I may ask?”
“How d’you know I didn’t call them, Clyde?”
“What a peculiar question.”
“Dolan’s taking care of it up in Washington.”
“Is he now? Well, that’s fine. Yes, that’s splendid. Until tomorrow then.”
After Brattle hung up, Dill recradled the phone, picked it up again, and called information. He asked for and was given a number. He dialed the number and it was answered on the third ring by a woman’s hello.
“Cindy,” Dill said with faked good cheer. “It’s Ben Dill.”
“Who?”
“Ben Dill—Felicity’s brother.”
“Oh. Yeah. You. Well, I can’t talk right now.”
“I want to talk to Harold, Cindy.”
“To Harold?”
“That’s right.”
There was a pause and Dill could hear Cindy McCabe’s muffled voice calling, “It’s Felicity’s brother and he says he wants to talk to you.”
Harold Snow came on the line with a snarling question: “What the fuck d’you want?”
“How’d you like to make a thousand dollars, Harold, for an hour’s work?”
“Huh?”
Dill repeated the question.
“Doing what?”
“Just put back into place what you took out yesterday.”
“You mean over there—across from the park and up in the attic?”
“But over the living room this time, Harold—for easier listening.”
“When?”
“Either this morning or this afternoon.”
“When’s pay day?”
“You take a check?”
“No.”
“Okay. Cash. Late today. This evening sometime.”
“Where?”
“Your place.”
“What’s going on?”
“Believe me, Harold, you don’t really care.”
“You want me to set it all up just like before—except over the living room this time?”
“Right.”
“And you’ll be over with the whatchamacallit later today?”
“By seven at the latest. I take it you don’t want Cindy to know about the whatchamacallit.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” Snow said.
“I don’t either, Harold,” Dill said, and hung up.
When Dill picked up Anna Maude Singe at her apartment it was shortly before noon and the Ford’s radio was predicting that Sunday, August seventh, might well set an all-time heat record. At 12 noon it was already 95 degrees. There was no wind, no clouds, and no relief in sight.
Singe was wearing white duck shorts, a yellow cotton shirt with the tail out, and sandals. When she got in the car she eyed Dill critically. “Where’d you say we were going?”
“To Jake Spivey’s.”
“For a prayer meeting?”
