Briarpatch

by Ross Thomas

  Dill reached down and pulled up his shorts and pants, buckled his belt, bent back down, picked up the revolver, and jammed it into his right hip pocket. He then picked up his jacket from where it had fallen and slipped it on.

  “Just who’re you going to shoot?” she said.

  “Who do you suggest?”

  “That’s smartass,” she said, sliding off the desk and moving to a window that looked down on Second and Main six floors below. “I don’t want smartass right now. What we did on that desk top there for five or ten or fifteen minutes, or whatever it was, well, it was the most erotic and satisfying fucking I’ve ever done, which, you might’ve guessed, is considerable.” She paused. “I don’t know why it was, but it was.”

  Dill nodded, almost gravely. “I thought so, too.”

  “Then I saw the gun lying there and it went away. The after-glow—or whatever. I’ll look at that desk now, and I’ll remember making love to you on it, but I’m not going to remember how tremendous it was. All I’m going to remember is that goddamn gun.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “About the gun.”

  She turned, sat down at the desk, and opened a drawer. She took out her purse, removed a set of keys, and offered them to Dill. “The one with the dot of red nail polish opens my door.” He took them, examined the one with the red dot, and slipped them into his pocket. She looked at her watch. “You’d better go.”

  “I’ve still got a few minutes,” he said.

  “You’d better go.”

  “All right.”

  She frowned. “When can I come home?”

  Dill thought about it. “Eleven-thirty, I’d say. No later than that.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Sure, if you want me to.”

  She was still frowning when she said, “I don’t know whether I do or not.”

  “If you don’t, you can throw me out.”

  She nodded and said, “You’d better go.”

  “Right,” he said, turned, and moved to the door.

  “Dill,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I wish you hadn’t had the gun.”

  “So do I,” he said, opened the door, and left.

  By five minutes before seven that evening the temperature had dropped to 98 degrees. The rented Ford sedan with Dill at its wheel was parked some forty feet from the alley that ran behind the large old house at the corner of Nineteenth and Fillmore. On the alley was the garage apartment or carriage house where Dill’s dead sister had sometimes lived and where he had made the appointment with Clyde Brattle for seven o’clock.

  Seated next to Dill was Tim Dolan. In back was Joseph Luis Emilio Ramirez, the Child Senator from New Mexico, whose black eyes glittered with what Dill supposed was excitement.

  “What did you say their names are?” the Senator asked, staring at the dark blue Oldsmobile 98 that was parked the wrong way just up the street and on the other side of the alley. Two men were seated in the front seat of the Olds. Their faces were indistinct.

  “Harley and Sid,” Dill said. “They work for Brattle. As far as I know, they always have.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Whatever he tells them to do. Right now, I think they’re making sure the FBI hasn’t been invited.”

  “Where’s Brattle?” Dolan said.

  “He’ll be along.”

  They sat in silence for a minute or two. A taxi turned the corner at Twentieth and Fillmore and drove toward Dill’s Ford and parallel to the brickyard-turned-park across the street.

  “I’d say that’s Brattle in the taxi,” Dill said.

  Just before it reached the Oldsmobile, the taxi speeded up. By the time it passed Dill’s parked Ford it was moving at fifty miles per hour at least. “That was Brattle all right,” Dill said.

  “Why didn’t he stop?”

  “He’ll be back. Harley and Sid probably signaled him with the brake lights.” Dill looked at his watch. “Well, it’s one minute till. I guess we’d better go.”

  He got out and went around the car. The Senator slid over and got out on the right-hand side, carrying his briefcase. “Put it back,” Dill said, “unless you want Harley and Sid to paw through it.”

  “Oh,” the Senator said. “Yes. I see.” He put the briefcase in the Ford’s back seat. Dill checked to see that all four doors were locked. They started for the carriage house. The Oldsmobile blinked its lights on and off. Dill waved.

  “Brattle will want to make sure that none of us is wired,” Dill said as he put the key into the lock of the door that led to the airless stairway. Before he opened the door, he turned to look at Ramirez and Dolan. “You’re not, are you?”

  The Senator shook his head. Dolan said, “Shit, no.”

  “We’ll probably have to unbutton our shirts anyway.”

  “What about him?” Dolan asked.

  “Brattle? We’ll make him unbutton his, too.”

  It was five minutes past seven before Clyde Brattle arrived, accompanied by Harley and Sid. Dill had turned the air-conditioning on and the temperature was down to an almost comfortable 80 degrees. The Senator and Dolan had their jackets off. When Tim Dolan asked Dill why he didn’t take his off, Dill said he didn’t feel all that warm. Dolan looked at him curiously, but said nothing because of the knock at the door.

  It was Dill who opened it. The knocker was the big man, Harley. Behind Harley was Sid and behind Sid, farther down the stairs, was Clyde Brattle.

  “Just the three of you?” Harley said.

  Dill nodded. “Just the three of us.”

  “You don’t mind if Sid and me make sure.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Harley and Sid came in, slowly followed by Clyde Brattle, who nodded at the Senator and Dolan, but ignored Dill. Harley headed for the rear of the apartment and its bedroom and bath. Sid went over the living room and kitchen. Dill went with him and watched him work. He decided Sid was very good. He knew where to look and what to look for and also where not to look. He wasted no time. In less than five minutes Sid was back in the living room. He shook his head at Brattle. Harley arrived a moment later and did the same thing.

  Brattle smiled almost apologetically to Ramirez and said, “Senator, if you don’t mind we’d like you and Mr. Dolan to unbutton your shirts—just to avoid any unpleasantness later.”

  “Of course,” Ramirez said, and started unbuttoning his shirt, which, Dill noticed, was custom-made. The Senator, his shirt unbuttoned, revealed a flat tanned chest and belly. Dolan’s unbuttoned shirt revealed a soft, white, strangely hairless body.

  “You, too, Clyde,” Dill said, starting to unbutton his own shirt. Brattle smiled, took off his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt. His stomach was flat and untanned. Dill kept his jacket on, but pulled his shirttails out and held the shirt wide open for all to see.

  Brattle smiled at Sid and nodded at Dill. “Pat him down anyway, will you, Sid?”

  Sid found the pistol almost immediately and showed it to Brattle. “He’s got this piece is all,” Sid said.

  After seeming to consider the find, Brattle shrugged and said, “I think everyone can get dressed now.”

  Sid gave the pistol back to Dill, who put it away and started stuffing his shirttails back down into his pants as he turned to Harley and Sid and said, “So long, guys.” They looked at Brattle. He nodded. Harley and Sid left. For some reason no one said anything until their footsteps could no longer be heard on the stairway.

  The Senator took over then. He placed Brattle in a chair, and himself and Dolan on the couch. He asked Dill if there might be something cold to drink, water if nothing else. Dill said he thought there might be some beer.

  Dill came back from the kitchen with the last four bottles of Felicity’s beer and four glasses. He put them on the coffee table and let everyone help himself. Brattle poured his beer, tasted it, smiled his appreciation, turned to the Senator, and said, “So. I presume you’ve already talked to Jake.”

  “
Today, you mean?” Ramirez said, not giving anything away.

  “How is he—still protesting his innocence?”

  The Senator smiled. “At least he’s not a fugitive.”

  Tim Dolan leaned forward, both hands wrapped around his glass of beer. “You’re here to plea-bargain, Mr. Brattle. Let’s hear what you’ve got to offer.”

  Brattle made a small deprecatory gesture. “I offer myself, of course. A plea of guilty to certain indiscretions in exchange for a certain amount of leniency.”

  “How much leniency?” Dolan asked.

  “Say, oh, eighteen months?”

  Dolan smiled, although in it there was nearly as much sneer as smile. “Instead of ninety-nine years, right?”

  “I haven’t quite finished,” Brattle said.

  “Go on,” the Senator said.

  “In addition to myself, I can also give you Jake Spivey, whose culpability in this business is only a shade less than my own.”

  “Spivey,” the Senator said. “Well, Spivey is, I think, already hooked. We can reel him in, take a look at him, and either keep him or throw him back.”

  “Spivey is part of my package,” Brattle said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to keep him—small fry or no.”

  The Senator looked at Tim Dolan, who made the corners of his mouth go down in an expression that said, So what if Spivey does a year or two—who cares? The Senator’s small nod replied that he didn’t.

  “So far, Clyde,” Dill said, “you’ve offered us yourself and Jake. I don’t know if Jake’s a keeper or not. But you’re the real prize. The big fish. The trophy winner. Still, all we really have to do is get up, walk over to that phone there, call the FBI, tell them you’re here, and ask them to bring along the net. And that doesn’t require any bargaining or deal. Just a phone call.”

  “That occurred to me,” Brattle said.

  Dill smiled. “I’ll bet it did.” He turned to the Senator. “I think Clyde has something else to offer. Something irresistible.”

  “An inducement,” Brattle said with a pleasant smile.

  The Senator didn’t return the smile. He asked, “What?” instead.

  Brattle reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a three-by-five card. He passed it first to Dolan, whose eyebrows shot up after he read what was written on it and whose surprise made him say, “Mothera God.” He handed the card to the Senator, who read it without expression and started to put it away in his pocket until he saw Dill’s outstretched hand. After only a slight hesitation, the Senator passed the card to Dill, who read the four names on it in a clear loud voice.

  Two of the names were household words, providing the household listened occasionally to the evening network news, read the hard-news section of at least one daily paper, and bought or subscribed to almost any magazine other than TV Guide. The two other names were less well known, but still familiar and much respected by those who thought of themselves as Washington power brokers. The first less well-known name belonged to a man who was still an extremely high-ranking CIA officer. The second not so well-known name was that of another man who also had been a top CIA officer, but was now an expensive Washington lobbyist. The first household name was a White House deputy chief of staff. The second household name was the real prize: it was that of a former CIA superstar who had since gone on to become a U.S. Senator.

  “What you’re saying, Clyde,” Dill said, “is that you’ve got the goods on all these guys.” And again, Dill read the four names, but this time in a normal, almost indifferent voice.

  “I made all four of them rich,” Brattle said. “Wealthy, anyway.”

  “You can prove it, of course,” the Senator said.

  “I can prove it.”

  Dill especially was surprised by Tim Dolan’s next question. And he felt the lads up in Boston would not only have been surprised, but also disappointed. Dolan’s question was: “And now you want us to help you jug these four guys?”

  The Senator couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of his voice as he turned to Dolan and snapped, “For God’s sake, Tim!”

  Dolan stared at the Senator. And then a look of comprehension and deep appreciation spread across the handsome Irish face. Dill also thought there was a touch of awe in the expression when Dolan slowly turned back to Brattle and said, “Oh. Yeah. I see. You don’t necessarily want ’em in jail. What you’re doing is offering us the opportunity to keep ’em out.”

  Brattle smiled at Dolan much as he might have smiled at a dim student who showed unexpected promise. “Exactly,” he said and turned to Ramirez. “Well, Senator?”

  Dill felt he knew which way the Senator would go. Nevertheless, he gave him some silent advice. Put important men in jail, young sir, and you gain but fleeting fame. Keep important men out of jail, and make sure they know it’s you who’re keeping them out, and you gain immense power. And power, of course, is what your chosen profession is all about: how to get it; how to keep it; how to use it.

  Ten seconds must have gone by before the Senator replied to Clyde Brattle’s question. “I think,” he said slowly, “that we can reach some kind of accommodation, Mr. Brattle.”

  And it was then that Dill knew, providing the dead Harold Snow hadn’t lied to him, that Jake Spivey need never spend a single day in jail.

  CHAPTER 35

  Dill walked Clyde Brattle down the stairs. When they reached the last step, Dill said, “Jake wants to meet. He wants to cut a deal with you.”

  Brattle turned and examined Dill carefully. He started with Dill’s shoes and worked his way up to the eyes. He seemed to find Dill’s eyes particularly interesting. “When?” Brattle said.

  “Tonight at ten.”

  “Where?”

  “My lawyer’s apartment. Here’s the address.” Dill handed Brattle a scrap of paper on which Anna Maude Singe’s name and address were written. Brattle didn’t read it. He stuck it into his jacket pocket instead.

  “What’s it like?” Brattle said.

  “The only way up are the stairs and one elevator. Jake’s bringing two of his Mexicans. You can bring Harley and Sid. They can all stand around and glare at each other.”

  “Who else’ll be there?” Brattle asked.

  “Just you, Jake, and me.”

  “Why you?”

  Dill shrugged. “Why not?”

  After a moment or two, Brattle nodded his fine Roman head. “I’ll think about it,” he said, turned, and went through the door and out into the August evening.

  It was not yet eight o’clock when Dill came back into his dead sister’s living room. By walking Brattle down the stairs, he had given the Senator and Tim Dolan time to think up the plot that would enable them to accept Brattle’s proposal. But first they would have to ease Dill out. He wondered how they would go about it. He knew they would be devious; he almost hoped they would be clever.

  As he came back into the living room, Tim Dolan asked him a question and Dill immediately ruled out clever. Dolan asked, “D’you think he bought our act?”

  “Brattle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He seemed to,” Dill said.

  The Senator smiled. “I think we all played him rather expertly, don’t you?” Before Dill could answer, the Senator went on, “Especially when Tim here went into his dumb guy role.”

  Dill nodded. “That certainly was convincing.”

  “He bought it,” Dolan said, his expression confident, but his tone a trifle dubious.

  “He did that,” Dill said and asked the Senator, “What now?”

  “Now? Well, now we play him along for just a day or two and then we’ll reel him in. I think, though,” he added slowly, letting a wise, thoughtful look spread across that almost perfect face, “I think we should let Tim here handle all negotiations with Brattle from now on, don’t you?”

  “He’s counsel,” Dill said. “It should be his job.”

  “Good,” Ramirez said. “By the way, Ben, I want to compliment you on the way you’ve handled eve
rything down here. Really excellent. First class.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Senator had one more question. He asked it as casually as he could. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “You mean about those four names he gave you of the guys he made rich?”

  The Senator nodded.

  “Sure,” Dill said. “It’s true. If it weren’t, why would Brattle bring them up? What good would it do him?”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  “And mine,” Dolan said.

  “Well,” the Senator announced in a too bright, too cheery voice, “I’m starved. Why don’t we all go get a big steak somewhere?”

  “I’ll take a raincheck,” Dill said and noted the small look of relief that appeared on the Senator’s face, but which almost immediately changed into one of mild suspicion. Dill went quickly into his explanation. “I’ll be going back to Washington tomorrow or the next day and this’ll probably be the last chance I’ll have to look around here to see if there’s anything of Felicity’s I want—family pictures, letters, stuff like that. Why don’t you all take the car and I’ll call a cab later.”

  After Dill handed the car keys to Dolan and asked him to leave them in his hotel box, the Senator took one last glance around the living room and said, “Your sister lived here quite a while?”

  “No, not too long.”

  “Cozy little place, isn’t it?”

  After the Senator and Dolan left, Dill carried the kitchen stool back into the bedroom. He slid open the closet door, shoved Felicity’s clothes to one side, and placed the stool in the closet beneath the ceiling trap that led up into the carriage-house attic—or crawl space.

  Standing on the kitchen stool, Dill pressed his palms against the trap. It gave way easily. He shoved it over to one side. The kitchen stool was only three feet high and Dill’s height brought the top of his head even with the nine-foot ceiling. He grasped the edge of the trap hole, jumped, got his elbows over the edge, and after some frantic scrambling, managed to get a knee up. After that it was relatively easy.