“Bah. What’s your interest in Alfred Hendriks?”
“I give up, what?”
The head moved a fraction of an inch. “I’ve paid you well for this information.”
“You paid me fifty bucks for pulling me out of a nice warm nightmare and dropping me in this mausoleum. Ask Gerald for the rest.”
“You gave it back?”
“My house has been hit twice in a few days. I didn’t want it lying around.”
“Sit down. Please.”
He had to twist his mouth to get the word out. It had been cooped up in there a long time. The chair nearest his desk was a big chocolate leather overstuffed, as heavy as a tractor wheel. I sank into it, and when I found bottom we were still far enough apart to fly pigeons. At that angle he was wearing a metallic gray suit and a striped necktie snugged up painfully tight for three in the morning. Loose skin hung over the collar in speckled garlands.
“Go ahead and smoke,” he said. “I never did but I always liked the sting of it. Henry didn’t. He was the very last to install ashtrays in his cars. Stubborn bastard.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Henry Ford. I lit up, using my cupped hand for an ashtray. His office had nothing on Henry’s cars. Raf would probably have seen to that.
He was looking at me. His eyes were large and very much alive in the skull face. “Returned the money. You’re past your era. I started this business on a handshake. Not the petrochemicals business, the other one. That was how we did things then. Not like now. If I paid in taxes what I’m paying lawyers to keep me from having to pay taxes, I’d be ahead of the game. If I could spit, which I haven’t had the energy to do since I was ninety, I couldn’t do it without hitting a calfskin briefcase. That’s the only leather you’ll find in the industry these days, the lawyers’ briefcases. Have you smelled a new car lately, Walker?”
“Cheap shoes.”
“Worse. A new car should smell of leather and varnished wood. Well, it’s one of the reasons I got out. The business didn’t smell the same. It wasn’t just the plastic, it was the smell of the people I found myself doing business with. Japs and gangsters. Arabs now, like my nurse. You met Raf ?”
“He doesn’t think much of your grandson.”
“Which one, Hector? Hector’s competent. He won’t gamble, though, and that’s how I built this company. The first one too. It’s probably my fault. He’s scared of me. His father wasn’t, but I raised him myself. My son wouldn’t have anything to do with the business. I wish his sons had half his guts, but if they did they wouldn’t be here. I’d give up the reins if I wasn’t convinced they’re what’s keeping me alive. I’m fond of living, obviously.”
“You’re my first centenarian,” I said.
“What I am is a freak. But I won’t be spoken to as one. I’m wandering, where was I? Yes, the Japs. I never liked doing business with them. Not that I’m one of these wimps screaming for trade restrictions. The Big Three have been rolling fat for decades, forgot what it’s like to compete. Peerless, Hudson, Studebaker, Durant, Edison, Packard, Rickenbacker — bet you never knew Captain Eddie tried his hand at automaking; lost his shirt, too — two dozen more, they’re all gone now. American Motors is anybody’s whore. It’ll do the survivors good to sweat a little. That has something to do with why I told Hector to sign seven hundred and fifty million over to Marianne.”
“I wondered about that.”
“He hasn’t a chance in hell,” the Commodore said. “I told Kaiser the same thing, but he wouldn’t listen and CM and Ford ground him up like flour. I made the investment under certain conditions. When Marianne folds, Stutch Petrochemicals gets the plant and equipment and whatever material he has in stock. I’ll sell it to one of the others, turn any profit back into the company, and apply any loss against taxes. There are loopholes in the new code you could drive a truck through.”
“What if he doesn’t fold?”
“Then I’ll be significantly richer than I already am.”
I pinched out my cigarette, dropped the butt into a pocket, and wiped the ashes off my hand with my handkerchief. Said nothing.
“No doubt you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this,” he said. “It isn’t because I’m a garrulous old man.”
“My guess is since you know so much about me you also know I’m curious to a fault. You’re trading.”
“You’re smart. It’s too bad your mouth is smarter, but you’ll grow out of it. I’ve given Marianne a year to fail. That would be the time frame under normal circumstances. Naturally, if you know something about him or his general manager that could speed up the clock I’d want to hear it. There are gears to set in motion.”
“Who’s your plant in Marianne’s office, one of the receptionists?”
“You haven’t paid to see my whole hand,” he said.
“Tell Raf to go sterilize something first.”
“Raf.”
A section of baroque paneling to the right of the window slid back. The nurse’s white outfit looked green in the lamplight.
“That’ll be all. Come back at bedtime. No, use the door. Leave the panel open so Mr. Walker can see inside.”
The Arab crossed the room as quietly as running water and went out. I waited for the click. Then: “Any others, or does he hang outside the window?”
The old man moved his head negatively. “Once in a big while, like tonight, I make a direct contact without going through my grandsons. Since nobody deals in handshakes anymore I prefer to have a witness present. But a man behaves differently when a third party is in the room. How did you know he was there?”
“He just looked to me like the kind that sneaks around.”
“I don’t like him either. He has a reliable memory for conversations and having him around forestalls my heirs from placing me in a home. Once you’ve survived everything else you have to protect yourself from your family.” Skin twitched over his skull. “You have my word no one is listening, electronically or otherwise.”
I believed him. I told him most of it. I left out my client’s name and Alfred Hendriks’ moonlight drive with Marianne’s wife. It ran long even without them. Toward the end he was still listening closely, but his eyes were less alive. It was coming up on four o’clock.
“I can get that information from Cambridge and Wayne State,” he said. His speech was slowing. “In return you’ll come to me with whatever you learn. I’ll decide whether to go to the authorities with it and when.”
This time I shook my head. “I haven’t got as far as the authorities in my thinking. If it looks like it’s for them, that’s where I’ll go. But I’ll let you know before it goes public. That will give you time to pull some levers.”
“My father did a little horse trading. He enjoyed the haggling. I never did. I’d name a figure, the other party would name a figure, and we’d decide on one or the other or call it quits. Well and good. You won’t mind if I give you the information through Raf?”
“I’d prefer Gerald.”
“My driver? Why?”
“He likes his job too much to be running his own game. Also he’s Swiss. Maybe some of the neutrality rubbed off on him.”
He sat back. It was the first time he’d moved more than just his head. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Walker.” He lifted his right hand from under the desk and held it out.
I got up and went over and took it. His grip was surprisingly frail. The bones of his wrist were obvious and brittle-looking under the spotted skin. The metallic suit was big on his shriveled frame. The brain in his skull was the only strong thing about him, and it was tiring.
“Hector will be hovering around out front,” he said. His thin old voice had lost most of its crack. “Every time I meet with someone privately he thinks I’m conspiring to unseat him from the board. Reassure him, but don’t tell him anything.”
I said I’d take care of it. He withdrew his hand and closed his eyes. I waited to see if he was breathing. Then I left.
18
HECTOR STUTCH WAS WAITING for me in the big hall. He might have been standing there all this time. Raf was nowhere in sight, which given his liking for cramped dark places with peepholes didn’t mean he wasn’t with us. A Caesarean birth, probably, still searching for the womb.
“How did you like the Commodore?” Hector asked.
“I liked him fine,” I said. “I get along with most of the older landmarks around town.”
“I overheard when he told Gerald to pick you up. That’s how I knew your name. You were in there quite a while.”
“I got a history lesson. When the first tire blew, he held the jack. I guess you know everyone around thinks he’s no longer actively involved in the business.”
“His idea. What business are you in?”
He’d been eyeing my slacks and slip-ons and green shirt with a golf club on the pocket. “I’m the pro at Metro Beach. Your grandfather was having problems with his slice.”
He found a scowl. “No call to be rude. I have a family at home. I don’t hang around here this late to be treated like an idiot child.”
“Sorry, Mr. Stutch. It’s just as late for me and I’ve got a headache. The Commodore likes his business private. Your name didn’t come up, if it means anything.”
“Of course not. I don’t live on Grandfather’s good opinion.” But his expression had come around a hundred and eighty. He made me think of Pillsbury for some reason. “He’s just — difficult. I worry about him, the hours he keeps.”
“I don’t think he’ll endow any cat hospitals or anything. His faculties are the last ones you have to worry about. Is Gerald handy, or do I walk from here?”
“He’s waiting out front with the car. That’s standard at this time when Grandfather has someone in. At this hour — ”
“He fades out. I saw.”
“I suppose so. Well, as long as it didn’t have anything to do with the company.”
I went on looking at him. His bald head glittered in the fanlight.
“Well,” he said, “good night.”
It was morning, but the point wasn’t worth arguing. “Good night, Mr. Stutch.”
Gerald was behind the wheel of the Caddy, listening to “My Echo, My Shadow, and Me.” I got in beside him. He was grinning in his beard.
“Pip, isn’t he?”
My visitor was hesitant.
It was past nine. I’d slept two hours after Gerald dropped me off and awakened with my head and neck feeling fine and my eyes like two flesh wounds. I had been deducing behind the desk in my office with my feet on the calendar pad and my mouth wide open when the buzzer went off, telling me someone had just opened the door to the reception room. I waited for the knock. It didn’t come and I decided that someone had looked into the wrong office and gone on down the hall. It was Saturday anyway and I was only there because the Concorde to Paris was full up. Then he came in.
He didn’t open the connecting door wide enough, bumped into it, and slid in around the edge. Opening it further would have been a commitment he wasn’t ready to make. That kind of reluctance is old stuff in my line. In this case I figured he’d probably be a lot less tentative without the gun.
It was a piece of junk with plastic side-grips and that learn-gunsmithing-at-home bluing that comes off on your hands when the humidity’s high. It was more black than blue and the gun itself was squat and ugly and probably lethal from both ends. The man holding it was black too. His hair was gray and he was spreading in middle age under a navy blue suit that was as cheap as Timothy Marianne’s looked. This one wore his without irony. He wasn’t wearing a tie and his shirt was wrinkled. His face was just a face. He had a thick neck.
“Hands up.”
I raised them. He handled the gun in that sloppy way they do in movies and it didn’t seem worth the chance of his hitting the ceiling instead of me. Under the desk I worked the middle drawer open with my knee. The Smith & Wesson was inside, giving my kidney a break.
“Wrong mark,” I said. “The safe’s full of my dirty laundry.”
“This isn’t a robbery.”
I’d been through this before. If I was still asleep I was dreaming of strangers now. I said, “I gave up guessing. I stink at it.”
“Where’s your client?”
“Which one?”
His face wore a skin of sweat. The gun was shaking. I hate it when they shake. “DeVries. Where’s he staying?”
“No DeVrieses today. Sure you got the right building?” The drawer was open now. The Smith was two feet from my hands and turned the wrong way. I wasn’t asleep.
“Don’t be funny. I got a friend in Lansing. He ran your plate. I know you’re not hiding him at your place because I watched it all day yesterday. Tell me where he is or I’ll shoot you. I mean it.”
“I know that. What do I look like, a redstick ranger?”
It surprised him. His brain didn’t work that fast anyway. He was still turning it over when I threw the telephone at him. He tried to catch it.
I didn’t expect that. Most people try to dodge. It told me something about him, that however slowly his brain might function his reflexes were better than good. But in trying to catch it he forgot about the gun and I lunged across the desk and slapped it out of his hand. I had my revolver on him before his hit the rug.
I kicked my chair back and stood up the rest of the way. “Put the telephone where it belongs. That squawking goes right up my back.”
After a moment he stooped over and lifted it in two hands and put it back together on the desk. I came around, covering him, and picked up his gun. It was a .32, made in West Germany. Stickum from the pawnbroker’s label still clung to the frame. “Ever fire this thing?”
“No.” He was rubbing his hand, which had bent back on itself when I’d knocked the gun out of it. “I bought it six months ago. There’s no place to shoot it in Detroit.”
“You’re lucky. At least I left you with a hand. Who are you?”
“George St. Charles.”
He didn’t say it as if it meant anything, which it didn’t. “Let’s see your wallet,” I said. “Toss it on the desk.”
He went on rubbing his hand. I gave him one of those gun looks, fine said, “You won’t shoot me.”
“Mister, that’s what they’re for. The wall.”
He went over and leaned on his palms. I kicked his feet apart, put his gun in my coat pocket, and covered him with mine while I patted him down. I kept going after I found the wallet. No hideouts. I backed away.
“Sit down.”
He straightened awkwardly and found his way to the customer’s chair, where he sat working the sprained hand. I put away the Smith and went through the worn wallet. George St. Charles was the name on his driver’s license, which had him living in Cleveland. I found a Social Security card under the same name and an insurance card from the Detroit Firemen’s Fund Association, the last dog-eared and dirty. One hundred and forty-three dollars cash. I tossed him the wallet. He was quicker this time and caught it.
“Travel money,” I said. “You don’t look like the kind that carries that much all the time. Where are you staying?”
“Red Roof Inn by Inkster. I drove up from Ohio. My wife thinks I’m at a retired firefighters’ convention in Cincinnati.”
“The DFFA card explains the lingo. You should’ve been more careful talking to the Wakelys.” I cocked a hip up on the corner of the desk. “What’s your gripe with DeVries?”
He said nothing. The wallet lay forgotten in his lap and he was looking at my left ear. I took out his gun and laid it on the calendar pad.
“You should stick to driving. You’re better behind the wheel than on the range. My guess is you had charge of the fire truck. You working alone or with Hendriks?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“I believe you. If he outsourced the job he’d get someone who knew a weapon from a doorstop. So we’re back to a gripe. What was Davy Jackson to you?”
“I don’t know
who that is either.”
I leaned back across the desk and broke out the office bottle and two ounce glasses. I filled both and held one out. He took his attention off my ear, identified the item, and curled his fingers around it. He held it there.
I waved mine around the office. “This is strike two. Strike one was when you and Hank tried to stop us up north. I’d bunt.”
“Are you turning me in?”
“There’s a thought.”
“Shit.” He bent his arm then and drank. Made a face and lowered the glass. “I was with the department thirteen years, the last four with Engine Twenty-One. Know where that is?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I don’t know where it is now, but back then we specialized in mattress fires and blowed furnaces. That tell you anything?”
“You weren’t with Grosse Pointe.”
“Not on the same planet. If a rickety old place went up in town, chances were it was in our wheelhouse. Sherman, Antietam, Mt. Elliott — ”
“Twelfth Street.”
“Especially Twelfth. Especially in July ’sixty-seven. That March my sister’s boy joined the company. He put in for it. Wanted to learn from his old uncle, see. He was twenty. Henry Waters, ever hear the name?”
I drank. “If I did it would be twenty years ago, right?”
“Right. Henry he loved the work. Got his uniform tailored, waxed his helmet for parades. First one down the pole when the bell rang, first one up the ladder when somebody screamed. He was good, too. Even when he was off duty, if you smelled smoke you knowed Henry was there in the middle of it, getting his suit tore and his face all smudged. Well, I guess I don’t need to tell you what’s a redstick ranger. Wasn’t just showing off for whitey, though. He wanted to be a good fireman.”
He emptied his glass and stuck it out. I refilled it. He drank off half.
“Sunday night,” he said, “first Sunday of the trouble, we made a run to a dry cleaner’s on Clairmount. Arson. Place was totally engaged when we got there. Owner had SOUL painted on all the windows in big white letters, but that didn’t mean anything after the first day. They tried blocking us off—”
“Who did?”
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