There was something wrong here. "I don't want to go," Raphael said.
"Oh, dear, darling," she said, but the smile never faltered. "If you won't go, they'll just send state police officers to come and take you there, and that might make the judge think you had something to hide or you didn't want to help or I don't know what judges like that think, but you'd better come along with your father and me."
Raphael looked mournfully at his equipment. "I'm in the middle of something here."
"Oh, it'll keep, dear, don't you worry, everything will be just fine. Now, let's not keep your father waiting, dear, go get dressed. As nicely as you can, dear. Socks, if you have them."
"Sure I've got socks," he said.
"Oh, good. Put them on. Go on, dear."
Reluctant but unable to refuse, he got to his feet and padded barefoot toward his bedroom, and his mother called after him, "And bring your toothbrush, dear."
He looked back at her. "Bring my toothbrush? To court?"
"Oh, just to be on the safe side, dear," she said, and gave him the most reassuring smile in the world.
27
AFTER A NOONER with the limber Pam, Preston and she showered together, lathering the oddest places, then dressed minimally in his cool, dim room, in preparation for lunch.
As another preparation for lunch, Preston slipped into his shorts pocket the fart buzzer he intended to place on her chair in the dining hall, the first of the jollities with which he intended to test this new one through the week. He certainly hoped that, like most of the women down here, she would condone and accept his little jokes by keeping her mind firmly fixed on his bank accounts, so that he would have a free hand to plague her at the same time that he would be taking pleasure from her in the more normal way. He did hope she'd react the way most of them did, because in fact he quite liked Pam, especially physically.
But then, as they were about to leave for the dining hall, Pam already in her big, sweeping straw hat and deep sunglasses, she said, "Honestly, Pres, I'm not the slightest bit hungry. You go ahead, I think I'll go for a sail."
Preston stared at her, not believing it. "Not hungry? How could you be not hungry? I've just worked up an enormous appetite."
"I'm glad," she said, with that contented-cat smile and purr. "Myself, I just feel like stretching, laaazily stretching in the sun, on one of those little sailboats. I'll see you for drinks, shall I?"
"Yes, of course," he said, keeping disappointment out of his voice. A fart buzzer was less effective in a bar setting, less disgusting somehow. Well, he had other tricks.
They stepped out to the shaded walk, the soft air, the yet-another beautiful day. "Later, my darling," she said, and smiled, and turned away, with all those wonderfully padded joints moving in all those wonderfully complex ways. They were such marvelous machines, women; pity about the brains.
But then she turned back: "Why not come along?"
He actually didn't understand her: "Come where?"
"For a sail. It's wonderful, Pres, you'll love it."
"Oh, I don't think so," he said. He knew there were those among the guests on this island who from time to time went offshore, in sailboats, or snorkeling expeditions, or little jaunts in the glass-bottom boat, or even scuba diving, but he was not among their number. Since his arrival on this island, he had not once so much as set foot off it. If his body insisted on a swim, there was the pool, non-salt and heated. Sailing and those other boat things held no fascination for him at all.
"I'll just wander hither and thither," he told this one, "thinking about our rendezvous this evening."
"So will I, on my little boat," she told him. "Rocking slowly up and down, on my little boat. You'd be astonished at the movements those little boats deliver, Pres, very different from a waterbed, much more erotic."
"In front of the boatman?"
Her smile turned quite lascivious. "They know when to go for a little swim, Pres," she said. "If you ever change your mind, be sure to tell me."
"Oh, I shall."
"Ta," she said, with a little wave, and walked off, all her parts in gentle, persistent pulsation. He watched her go, admiring the look of her, but at the same time sorrowing for the poor fart buzzer, bereft in his pocket.
Alan Pinkleton shared his lunch instead. There was no point playing fart buzzer with a paid companion, so the simple humor machine remained in Preston's pocket as he collected food from the serving tables and joined Alan at a half-occupied table. Lunch was always the least-attended meal, since so many of the residents were off doing physical things here and there around the island.
Preston settled himself and his tray, settled his napkin onto his lap, and said, "A good afternoon to you, Alan. Did you have a lovely morning?"
"No," Alan said. He seemed out of sorts. "I can't find her," he said.
Polite, Preston raised an eyebrow. "Can't find whom?"
"Your new one," Alan said. "This Pamela Broussard. Not a trace."
One of Alan's jobs, as Preston's paid companion, was to do background checks on the women Preston chose to pal around with on this island. But this one he couldn't find? "Oh, well, Alan," Preston said, "all these women have so many different last names, you know. Like Indians with scalps on their belts."
"Yes, but they still have to have a background," Alan insisted. "They have to have those scalps. Pamela Broussard has nothing, no history, nothing."
"Alan, that's impossible," Preston pointed out. "She can't be paying cash for her room here."
"No, that's all right," Alan said, "I've got that much. Pam Broussard's bills are paid by I.T.L. Holdings of Evanston, Indiana, which is very near Chicago."
"And what," Preston asked, "is I.T.L. Holdings?"
"The financial investment arm," Alan said, "of Roper-Hasty Detergent, a Chicago conglomerate with a base business in home-cleaning products."
Preston considered this information. He also considered his lunch and ate some omelet. Delicious. "I wonder," he said, "if she's too rich for me."
Alan didn't understand. "Too rich? Preston?"
"I know Roper-Hasty," Preston told him. "It's no longer entirely family held, but the Roper family still maintains a commanding interest. If Pam Broussard is related to the Ropers, it's perfectly logical the company will pay her expenses, to turn them into something tax-creditable farther down the line. But that would mean that Pam would be far too rich for me to play with. The only reason these women put up with me is because they want my money. If Pam Broussard is a Roper, she's already at least as rich as me, and all my little witticisms will fall quite flat. In fact, I could be quite extensively humiliated. Before we do anything else, Alan, find out for me for sure and certain just who Pam Broussard is when she's at home."
"I signed on to this death ship as a paid companion," Alan pointed out, "but it seems to me you're converting me into a private eye."
"Let's hope," Preston said, "you're good at it."
28
WHEN DORTMUNDER AND Otto Medrick and Stan Murch walked into the O.J. Bar Grill at ten to three that afternoon, having left Stan's most recent transportation, an eight-year-old Taurus, in a restricted area in front of a neighborhood funeral parlor, it was two hours later than the time Medrick had promised, or threatened, to meet his brother Frank. The reason for that was, once Dortmunder and Medrick were safely on the ground and out of that flying metal cigar and walking with Stan toward the transportation du jour, Dortmunder had insisted that people in physical contact with Mother Earth not only were required to eat but were required to eat solid food.
"The O.J. isn't going anywhere," Dortmunder had pointed out, "which I could only wish I could say about myself."
Stan had offered strong support for this view, adding to it that he happened to know, between Newark and Manhattan, a diner that wasn't half bad, because it was patronized by long-haul truckers who well knew there was nothing to eat in America from New York City to either New Orleans or Chicago.
Medrick, while he made it cl
ear that what he really wanted to sink his teeth into was a relative, was at last persuaded that the good will of his new friends was worth a detour. So they'd filled up on Cajun this and Lake Shore that, and now, as they entered the O.J., Dortmunder felt he was ready for anything.
Except he wasn't. It was awful; it was like a natural disaster. No, not natural; that was why it was so awful. This wasn't a disaster; it was an atrocity. The middle of the afternoon, and the O.J. was empty. Empty stools, empty booths, empty floor, empty backbar. Not a customer, not a regular, not even Rollo. To look at this muffled, tomblike dark space, in which even the good aromas of beer and whiskey were beginning to fade, was to come directly to the concept of mortality. That this could happen to the O.J.
On second look, after one's eyes had adjusted to the dimness from the bright outdoors, the place wasn't absolutely, totally empty after all. A man was seated at the bar, over to the left, where the regulars used to hang out. He wore a green polo shirt and brown shorts and white sneakers and a Red Sox baseball cap worn frontward. There was no glass in front of him, only a pair of glasses on his face, and he was reading a magazine.
Which he tossed onto the bar when the trio walked in. Getting to his feet, walking forward, he said, "No clocks in Florida, either, huh?" Since he looked like Otto Medrick, though some years younger, and sounded like him, though some degrees less irascible, this must be the brother Frank.
Yes. "Don't blame me, Frank," Medrick said, and waved a dismissive hand at Dortmunder and Stan. "With these two, the stomach comes first."
"Well, you know, Otto," Frank Medrick said, "with a lot of people, that's true." Looking at Dortmunder and Murch, he said, "Which of you's the back-room crook?"
"Hey!"
"Both of them," Medrick said, pointing. "That's the one came down to tell me."
"Well, I guess I have to thank you," Frank Medrick said, sticking his hand out. "You saved a lot of people a lotta agita."
"Not yet, he hasn't," Medrick said. "That's why I'm here."
"I didn't catch your name," Frank Medrick said.
"John," said Dortmunder, who hadn't thrown it.
"Catch this one," Stan Murch said, sticking his own hand out. "Stan. I drove them here from Newark."
"Via today's special," Medrick said. "So what's happening on the Raphael front?"
Frank, who actually did have a watch, now looked at it and said, "At this moment, Raphael is in front of Judge Bernice Steinwoodvogel, being railroaded into the loony bin with the assistance of Dr. Leonard Ledvass."
"That's a very short railroad," Medrick commented. "What else we got?"
"Let me show you," Frank said, and went around behind the bar.
"While you're there," Stan said, "would you feel like drawing one? With a side of salt."
Frank looked very blank, like a person being addressed in Urdu, and Dortmunder said, "Let's wait a little, Stan, take care of this other stuff first."
"Oh, sure, no problem," Stan said. "Driving is a thirsty-making process, that's all."
Impatient, Medrick said, "You'll get it," as his brother came up with messy stacks of paper from under the bar and spread them out in front of them all. Bending over these, pushing papers disdainfully back and forth, Medrick muttered, "Here's some old friends. Oh, and can these fellas turn a blind eye. Look at this shit."
"You don't want," his brother advised him, "to look in the back room. Or the ladies."
"The ladies I wouldn't look," Medrick said. "The rest I don't got to look, I can see for myself. Frank, the phone is back there."
Frank brought over a black phone on a long cord, and Medrick chose one of the invoices before him, then punched out a number as though killing cockroaches with one finger. He waited, tapping that finger on the bartop as his brother and Stan and Dortmunder all watched with interest, and then he said, "Hello, sweetheart, this is Otto Medrick, lemme talk to Harry. No, you haven't, but you're hearing from me now. Thank you."
The pause that followed might very well have been diagnosed as pregnant, and then Medrick, grinning like an old timber wolf who's just seen a young lamb, said, "Harry? Yeah, it's me, yeah, I've been away. Florida, that's right. Well, you know, it's Florida. But I had to come back because there's a little problem with my joint. No, Harry, it's my joint, my nephew Raphael was what we call a caretaker, and he's — Who? I don't know anybody named Mikey, Harry, and if God is good I never will know anybody named Mikey. Well, there you go, that's another symptom, I didn't even know about that one. Symptom of what? Mental disease, Harry, it's terrible, the whole family's in a state of shock. Well, I can't, I can't tell you everything that happened because I don't know yet everything that happened, but I do know this much, Raphael Medrick is right at this minute in a court of law being committed to an upstate loony bin because of diminished capacities, and one of the proofs of this diminished capacities, which happened to be shown to the judge, was this purchase of his, from you, Harry, of thirty barstools. Where did you think he was gonna put thirty barstools, Harry? No, I don't suppose it is. Well, that's not exactly right, Harry, in this particular instance the customer was wrong, and I've got the judicial system of the State of New York to put it in writing that the customer was a fruitcake that no decent entrepreneur such as yourself, Harry, could properly — Harry, that's up to you. What I'm telling you is, you've got a choice here. You can either try to sue a nutcase in an upstate laughing academy, or you can come get your barstools back."
"Still in their plastic," Dortmunder said.
"Thank you," Medrick said, and into the phone, "Still in their plastic, Harry, make it easier for your crew. You'll send somebody today? Oh, we'll be here, Harry. No, I understand, you're right, business is business. Nice to hear your voice again, Harry," Medrick said, with his savage smile, and slammed the phone into its receiver. "Eleven more of these bastards to go," he said, and the front door opened.
They all turned to look, and here came two more of them, or maybe two from an earlier occasion. Associates of Mikey, in any case, swaggering chunks of veal in Day-Glo shirts, ironed designer jeans, handtooled boots, and hair like chocolate mousse. Entering, looking around, they said, "This place isn't open."
"You're right," Medrick told them. "Come back after six, we'll be open then."
One of them placed himself in front of Medrick. "You're not following me, Pops," he said. "This place is closed."
Medrick spread his hands. "So whadaya doing in here, if it's closed?"
"I don't know who you think you are, Pops—"
"I am Otto Medrick. I own this joint. If I was your pop I'd kill myself. Lucky thing I'm not. Get outa here."
"Hey, you," the other one said, and they both did that thing of the hand reaching under the shirt to the waist in back.
Mildly Dortmunder said to Frank Medrick, "There's a pistol in that drawer there. Next to the parasols."
"And a telephone in my hand here," Medrick said. "What was that number again? Nine one one?"
As Frank opened the drawer in which Dortmunder, on an earlier occasion, had found that firearm, the two visitors backed away, hands out from under their shirts but many stormclouds on their brows. "You better know what you're doing," one of them said. "We're gonna call Mikey, we're gonna see about this."
"You do that," Medrick told them, turned away, and dialed a number. As the veal left, he said, "Rollo? It's me. Yeah, I'm here, in the O.J. Well, it's a mess, you know that, but we're gonna deal with it. Could you open here at six? Good. And those pals you told me about, all belong to that ex-Merchant Marine club? You still hang out with them? Good. Spread the word, in honor of me being back and you staying on, those pals of yours, it's open bar for a week. And you could tell them, they might even get a chance to bang some heads, like the old days. Great, Rollo. I'll be here."
Medrick banged the phone down and looked at the stacks of invoices. "Which bastard next?"
In far-off darkest New Jersey, Mikey hung up the phone and turned a plaintive face toward his father. "We
ll, what the fuck?" he asked.
29
THE MOST INFURIATING thing about men was that they were both predictable and impossible. Their buttons were ridiculously easy to push, but unfortunately, every button came with its own self-destruct program.
As Roselle had learned long long ago, on the very first occasion that she might climb into bed with a man he would be practically purple with lust, all stumbling haste and slack-jawed avidity, high on urgency and low on technique. With each repetition, though, the balance between hunger and technique would shift, as his initial craving for the fantasy he had originally pursued became replaced by his interest in this one actual woman. The lust would never return in that original incandescent way, at least not with her, and eventually, unless some other factors entered the picture — shared fondness, shared interests, shared phobias, shared something other than sex — the interest, too, would begin to wane, until eventually all of that heat was reduced to yesterday's campfire.
Roselle had no interest in sharing much of herself, other than her body, with anybody, so her time of ascendancy over every man she targeted was a limited one, and with someone like Preston Fareweather, all narcissism all the time, that window of opportunity would be a very narrow opening indeed. Time to crack the whip.
Tuesday morning, therefore, she donned her teeny-weeny polka-dot bikini, red polka dots on white — so much more carnal — and went off for breakfast with every intention of making Preston suffer a little. It was, after all, supposed to be good for the soul.
Preston was already in the dining hall, with the undertaker Pinkleton. Roselle collected her yogurt and fruit bowl and coffee and joined them: "Good morning."
Preston's eyes lit up at the sight of her: "Don't you look good enough to eat!"
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