I needed someone to talk to, and not the guy who happened to be sitting on the next bar stool.
So I drove to Herb Goldman’s Marina.
Despite the rain, the parking lot was surprisingly almost full, although it looked as if most of the boats were still in their wells.
I jogged through the drizzle to Herb’s office. It didn’t look like an office, it looked more like a dumpster that needed emptying.
He was seated in an old chair staring out the window. His oil-stained clothing looked exactly the same. If he had more than one set, they all had to be identical. He turned and his yellow eyes inspected me suspiciously.
Uninvited, I stepped in and found another battered chair, cleared it of papers, and sat down.
“You see ’em out there?” he asked.
“The boat owners?”
He nodded. “They’re all out there in their little bitty boats, snug and sipping beer or bourbon or whatever, telling each other they’re having a helluva good time.”
He sighed. “The problem is, they probably are.”
He squinted. “What brings you here?”
“Thinking about people drinking.”
He nodded slowly. “Maybe it’s something in the air.” He gestured toward the boats. “Usually, it doesn’t bother me. Today it does.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
“As I see it,” he said, “you and I got two choices.”
“And they are?”
“We can walk over to O’Hara’s saloon, get blind, stinking drunk, ruin our lives, and end up as street bums.”
“Sounds good. What’s the other?”
He stood up. “We can go fishing.”
“It’s raining.”
“It just so happens, I got rain gear in my boat.”
Much of Herb Goldman’s wealth comes from the water, so I presumed his boat would match both his affluence and his vocation.
I was wrong.
We climbed into an overlarge metal rowboat, badly dented, powered by an outboard engine that looked like the inventor’s original model. I slipped into a rubberized poncho that smelled of oil and dead fish. Herb loaded on a bucket of minnows and a six-pack of diet Pepsi.
The engine sounded like an airplane, but the motor took us out into the river.
“Do you swim?” Herb asked.
“Not all that well.”
He kicked a life preserver to me. “Put it on,” he said. “I understand there’s some kind of medal they give for drowning lawyers, but I’m too busy to go to the ceremony.”
The rain became more intense and the wind was causing choppy waves.
Herb quickly and expertly rigged two trolling rods and gave one to me. The rods were the only equipment that looked as if someone cared. Well used, they had the feel of a loved and polished weapon.
We began to move very slowly parallel to the shoreline.
“Rain usually means good fishing,” he said. “Besides, the great thing is that it keeps some of the assholes off the water.”
Almost before the last word was out of his mouth, a kid in a huge cigarette boat, the kind they use on “Miami Vice,” roared by, throwing an enormous wake. We bobbed up and down like a car on a roller coaster.
“I didn’t say all, just some,” Herb said. The rain pelted down on his bald head, making his simian features look even more animal-like. Suddenly he became alert and gave his rod a snap like a ringmaster. “Gotcha,” he growled.
He reeled in a large walleye. It flopped at our feet.
“Three pounds, easy. You want it?” he asked. “If you do, you got to clean it.”
“I don’t want it,” I said.
He gently grabbed the fish and eased it back into the water. “They say you can eat these fish. They say all those chemicals the Canadians kicked into the river are gone. And if you believe that, I’ll tell you right now where Elvis lives.”
I was about to ask about going back. The wind was becoming sharp, making the rain colder and stinging.
Then I saw what I thought was Franklin Palmer’s yacht. It passed close enough for me to read the name on the stem. It was the Cat’s Paw out of Algonac. It was a twin to Judge Palmer’s boat.
“You see that?” I gestured toward the yacht.
“Cat’s Paw,” he said. “I did some work on its engines last year. Damn nice boat.”
“Who owns it?”
“A guy who manufactures safety gadgets for cars. He has three plants across the country and enough money to buy anything he damn well wants.”
“What would a boat like that cost, Herb?”
He looked at it again. “That’s a sixty-foot Sheridan, handmade in Florida. Of course, a lot depends on what goes with it, power, and that sort of thing, but a boat like that would run maybe a million, maybe more.”
“A million!”
He grinned, showing the spaces where his teeth used to be. “Yeah, new. Secondhand, the prices on those things drop off like a cliff. If you’re interested, counselor, you can buy that one for maybe half a million, maybe a hair less. Depends on how bad the owner wants to get rid of it.”
“What would it cost to keep and run one of those things?”
“Charley, like J. P. Morgan said, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Just docking, upkeep, and the like would probably feed Yugoslavia for a year.”
He squinted at me. “You’re not thinking about boats, are you?”
“You mean, buying one?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
He nodded. “That’s good. Charley, take my word for it. A boat is a big hole in the water, a place for assholes to sit.”
“Speaking of assholes sitting in boats, shall we spare the fish?”
“We just started.”
“I’m soaked and cold. I think it’s going to storm and this dinghy of yours might sink. But that aside, I’m having a wonderful time.”
“Still need a drink?” he asked.
“Not in the least.”
“Me either.”
We both reeled in.
Herb turned the boat, revved up the old engine, and we went back up the river, throwing up mountains of spray from the crest of every wave we crossed. By the time we got back to his marina, I was adding seasickness to my list of complaints.
“Fun, eh?” Herb said, grinning at me.
THUNDER WAS BOOMING as I was driving back to my apartment. Whatever discomfort I had felt seemed well worth it. The urge to drink was gone.
It was another battle, fought and won. There would be others, probably for the rest of my life, but each victory added a little more inner strength, very important strength. Despite the fact that I was cold, wet, and smelled like a sewer, I felt good about myself.
As soon as I got inside my apartment I stripped to the skin, tossed the clothes into a garbage bag and then the dirty clothes hamper. My shoes were probably ruined, but I packed them with newspaper anyway.
I lingered in the shower, letting the hot water pour down, feeling the heat spreading through every part of me. It was a pleasantly sensual experience.
I dried off, slipped into my worn robe, and padded out toward the kitchen to make coffee.
It was then that I saw it.
My answering machine, the little red light blinking over and over, looking to me like the accusing eye of God.
I wondered if it was Mallow.
Despite my curiosity, I didn’t hit the message button. I made coffee, on the strong side, laced it with milk and a touch of sugar.
I sat next to the telephone, looking at the blinking light and sipping.
Finally, I reached over and punched the button.
The machine whirred and the recorded tape played the message.
“This is Miles Stewart. It is Saturday afternoon, two o’clock,” the familiar voice said, pronouncing the time with a sneer. “I will be here at my apartment until six. Call me. It is important.”
I didn’t know if I was elated or disappointed that th
e call had not come from Mallow. Facing him was one of those things that you want to have over with but aren’t anxious to do.
Doctor Death I could handle.
I knew his home number and dialed.
“Miles Stewart,” he said, sounding as though he were introducing himself to the peasants at large.
“Charley Sloan,” I answered. “What’s up?”
“Where were you?” he demanded.
“It’s Saturday. I usually drop by a convent up here and have sex with the nuns. Now, why did you call?”
“I’m going away again, for a while.”
“Where?”
“Pointe Aux Flam.”
Pointe Aux Flam was once Michigan’s Newport. Huge summer homes of the wealthy had been built at the turn of the century up on the tip of Michigan’s Thumb. They weren’t the palaces of Newport, but they were quite splendid Victorian mansions. The old owners had a colony and managed to hold on to the properties, passing them down like diamonds, generation to generation.
The places had been built along a cliff, and each had long stairways going down to a magnificent Lake Huron beach.
Once, I had seen them from the water. It was something you never quite forget.
“Is this trip for pleasure, Doctor, or are you going up there to help some poor soul into the next life?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it to me,” he snapped. “I’m going up as the house guest of the Cronin family.”
“Like in Cronin lumber?”
“Yes. That family.”
I sighed. “Look, at the risk of sounding repetitious, you realize that if an elderly or sick Cronin dies while you’re up there, it’ll tend to prove the state’s case. Judges read newspapers, too, you know.”
“I shall inform you when I return to the city,” he said coolly. And then he hung up.
I replaced the receiver. The red eye of God was merely glowing, not blinking, showing that there were no other messages.
The Stewart appeal wouldn’t be scheduled for some months. I didn’t look forward to it, even though I felt sure I would win.
I didn’t like Miles Stewart, almost as much as he didn’t like me.
It was not an unusual lawyer-client relationship, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it.
Sunday came and went. I called Sue Gillis several times during the day, but she didn’t return to her apartment until just before midnight. I had almost given up. I suggested that I come over. She suggested I didn’t. Apparently it hadn’t been a happy visit with her sister.
When I arrived at my office Monday morning, Mrs. Fenton was at her desk. There were no messages waiting. Mallow still hadn’t called.
Mrs. Fenton was reserved as usual, but the chill was gone, so I presumed I was back in her good graces.
I had coffee and began to plan my week. There wasn’t much action, but enough to keep busy. A couple of court appearances and some real estate work. It looked like a break-even week.
And then Mrs. Fenton presented herself unannounced, an unusual circumstance.
“I have a friend who knows Mrs. Wordley,” she said.
“So?”
“She went to the funeral. She said it was quite lovely. Very tasteful.”
I wondered how the clergyman had evaded the manner and cause of death. Being blown away by one’s mistress was a bit tough to cover up, even in the best biblical language. He must have been skilled if he had.
“Mrs. Wordley, Claire, donated all the flowers, there were a great many, to the hospital.”
“Allergy ward?”
“Of course not.”
She stood there in the doorway. Apparently there was more that she wanted me to know.
I waited.
“My friend tells me that Mrs. Wordley is going away for a while.”
“Probably a good idea, given the circumstances. It’ll give her a chance to get herself together.”
“She’s quite together,” Mrs. Fenton snapped. Apparently Mrs. Wordley was one of her personal heroines.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Her frown deepened. “We represent that Harris woman.”
“We do.”
“You indicated you wanted to talk to Mrs. Wordley about obtaining a lesser plea.” Her tone indicated her disapproval of such a course.
“I want to talk to her, but it can wait until she gets back.”
Mrs. Fenton came as close to smiling as she ever did. “That may be some time. I understand she’s going to Maine for the entire summer, and then to Europe. She may be back by Christmas, according to my friend.”
“Damn! When’s she leaving?”
I thought she paused for effect. I could see the malevolent glitter in her narrow eyes. “Tomorrow,” she said.
MRS. HOWARD WORDLEY had an unlisted number. I called the dealership and told them I was her nephew from Toronto. I said a car accident on the way to the funeral had put me in a hospital. I had missed the funeral, but I felt I had to extend my sympathy to Aunt Claire. My personal phone book was lost in the accident, I explained to the girl on the other end of the phone. I said I couldn’t remember the phone number because I was in such pain. My left leg and hip had been crushed and this was the first phone call I had been capable of making.
I went into a few more gruesome details in a quavering voice. She gave me the unlisted number without question.
A small victory, but I enjoyed it.
I dialed the home and got the maid. I figured the injured nephew ploy wouldn’t work twice, so I took a risk and told the truth.
The maid, who had been so friendly, suddenly turned snappish, but she did agree to ask Mrs. Wordley if she would speak to me.
It was such a long wait, I wondered if the maid had just simply changed her mind.
Then I heard someone pick up the phone.
“This is Claire Wordley.” The voice was cultured and without the slightest hint of emotion.
“Mrs. Wordley, my name is Charley Sloan. I represent Rebecca Harris.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Sloan.”
“Mrs. Wordley, I wouldn’t have bothered you now except that I understand you’re leaving on an extended trip.”
“That’s right.”
I tried to phrase things so I wouldn’t provoke anger or disgust.
“In criminal matters, Mrs. Wordley, it’s common for the prosecution to ask the opinion of the family on what should be done. Usually, it’s in relationship to sentencing, but sometimes the family is consulted if a lesser plea is offered.”
“I would presume the prosecutor would talk to me, not you,” she said evenly.
“Ordinarily, yes. But since you’re planning to go away, I wonder if I might talk to you about this. I realize how you must feel, Mrs. Wordley, and I apologize for what must seem extreme thoughtlessness. But I do have a client to represent.”
“I’ve read about you,” she said. “And I’ve seen you on television.”
“Look, if my reputation bothers you, I can bring along the prosecutor who’s in charge of the case.”
“That won’t be necessary. How long will all this take? I’m in the middle of packing.”
“Ten minutes, twenty minutes, not much longer.”
She paused. “I could spare that at lunch, if you didn’t mind talking then?”
“Fine.”
“Do you know where Peach Creek Country Club is?”
“I’ve never been there, but I know where it is.”
“I’ll meet you there at noon, Mr. Sloan. I’ll leave your name so they’ll let you in. I’ll meet you in the grill.”
I was about to express my genuine appreciation when I realized that Claire Wordley, widow of Howard Wordley, had hung up.
PEACH CREEK WAS FAMOUS. The championship course had been designed by Robert Trent Jones. The initiation fee, a secret, was said to be so high that only the very rich could even think about it. God must have loved the rich, he m
ade so many of them. Word was that applications for Peach Creek were piled a mile high and by the time anyone was approved for membership they were too old to play golf anymore.
To get to it meant a long drive over a farm road. My Chrysler kicked up dust as I passed small farmhouses and well-tended fields. The sign was small but I saw it. I turned at a stand of trees and drove down a shaded country lane.
The lane ended at low-slung white buildings with roofs the color of ripe peaches. I pulled into a crushed stone drive and ended up at an entrance covered by a canopy.
An exceedingly polite young man wearing a blazer and slacks was waiting. I thought he was a member, but it turned out he was the valet. He took my car and sped quickly away.
Another young man, somewhat older, also in a blazer and slacks, but of a more expensive cut, came down the steps.
“Mr. Sloan.” He said it with such warmth that anyone hearing would have thought I owned the club. I wondered how he even knew me. “Mrs. Wordley is in the grill. Please come with me.”
I saw no guards, although I suspected a security system equal to Fort Knox probably existed. If it did, it existed out of sight.
Inside, Peach Creek was nothing special. It looked like an old country club, the kind that used to exist fifty years ago, quiet, comfortable, with an old-shoe feeling to it.
It was like turning the clock back to 1938.
The grill looked like a grill, all burnished wood, big tables, lots of room with a well-dressed and cheerful-looking staff moving competently about.
I was led to a table at the back.
Claire Wordley was a little thing. She was sitting, but I guessed she was no more than five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds. Her hair was stark white and worn in a kind of athletic pageboy. Her features were strong and the bone structure solid. She had been a beauty once. Age had brought her down to handsome. She was one of those outdoor women whose skin had been permanently darkened by wind and sun. She wore no glasses and her eyes, dark green, had a shrewd look. Her lips were thin but not severe.
My escort held a chair for me.
“You’ve put on some weight since the Harwell trial,” she said in that same cultured, matter-of-fact voice. “I saw you on television then.”
“I’m eating more regularly. The fee was substantial.”
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