Five O'Clock Lightning

by William L. DeAndrea

  Speaking of water reminded Keating he was thirsty. He called room service to send up some beer.

  He kept his eyes on his young friend while he made the call. It didn’t take long for the dawn to break over Garrett’s face. It was sinking in that the police weren’t being completely open with him any more than he was with them.

  “Suppose,” Garrett said after the beer arrived, “that Jenny Laird isn’t behind this, though—and if you knew her, Hal, you’d see how impossible that was. Who then?”

  “Look, I don’t know,” Keating said again. “When you think about this a little, you’ll see how nice it would be for all concerned if your dead man was the killer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll work it out for yourself. That’s my point, Rags. You can’t count on the cops to bail you out. Tad Simmons has cut you off from that. And Simmons’ll discard you like a used Dixie cup as soon as he’s done with you. Listen, I’ll help you as much as I can, but I can’t really do much.”

  Garrett finished his beer in one long swallow. “I guess I’ve known that all along, Hal, and just didn’t want to face it. I’ll grab a taxi back to my hotel.” He picked up his hat and began to leave.

  “I’ll drive you back. Rags, you’ve got to do it yourself. You’ve got to accumulate power and knowledge to get out of this hole you’ve dug.

  “But there’s something else bothering me.”

  Garrett wiped his brow. “What’s bothering you?”

  “What you were telling me about this Bristow guy. How it’s a toss-up about whether his jaw was busted by the killer or by the waves.”

  “Yeah?” Garrett said.

  “Say it was the killer. If, as it looks, he used Bristow as a dress rehearsal for things he was going to do later, about now I’d start looking for a corpse with a broken jaw.”

  4

  I should have done this sooner, Garrett thought.

  He’d just finished his report to Congressman-designate Telford Simmons in the congressman’s office.

  It was an idea Garrett had come up with after his talk with Hal Keating that afternoon. Stir things up a little. So far Garrett himself had been on the receiving end of all the grief. It was time to spread it around a little.

  So he’d phoned Tad’s office (speaking to the secretary, Cheryl, who sounded even sexier than he’d remembered) and had been asked to come right in. Ordered, in fact.

  He came in, was ushered into the presence of the newly crowned public servant, greeted curtly, and commanded to speak. Cheryl sat quietly behind him, taking notes.

  Garrett had nodded quietly and filled in the background of the investigation. Then he started talking about David Laird. He made the best case he could for Laird as the killer; so good, in fact, he wished Captain Murphy could have been there to hear it. This time, Garrett felt, even he might have believed it.

  Now he was watching the way Tad Simmons reacted to the theory. The reaction was very interesting.

  Because Tad was taking this all wrong. He should be jumping for joy at the possibility that David Laird was the one who killed his brother. For one thing, he had David Laird branded a Communist in the eyes of the world. For another, to fake a death and come back for revenge was more than a little devious. And the Simmons family loved devious Communist plots. They’d climbed to power on them. Tad should be ordering a press conference right now.

  Instead he was chewing Garrett out.

  “What the hell is this c-c-crap, Garrett? Is this some sort of game to throw me off the t-t-t ...” Tad must be really upset, Garrett thought. He wondered if he’d ever get the word out.

  “Track!” Tad said at last, the word practically exploding from him.

  Garrett pretended to be hurt. “Thanks a lot, Congressman. I’m trying to do my best for you. This is how it looks to me, that’s all. I’m supposed to keep you informed, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Garrett took a breath and looked around the room. There were a lot of small, square light patches in the paint, as though a lot of framed pictures had been removed. Photos of big brother, Garrett figured. He risked a wink at Cheryl and went on. “If it’s any consolation, the New York police don’t like it, either. And now that I think of it, didn’t you blackmail—”

  Simmons’s eyes narrowed in his foxy face. He found his voice. “Watch that kind of talk, Garrett.”

  “Excuse me. You persuaded me to help you out on this because you were afraid of that very thing—the police not following up the Communist angle.” Garrett shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m right or not, but I figured you ought to know. I certainly didn’t expect to get my head bitten off.”

  “Don’t worry about your head, Garrett. At least not yet.” Tad had calmed down now and was no longer stuttering. “But keep this Laird business under your hat. Until we have more evidence, that is. Cheryl, I think you can rip up your notes from this meeting.”

  A knowing smile passed over Cheryl’s wide mouth. “Yes, Congressman. May I go now? My phone is ringing.” Simmons dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  He made Garrett hang around a few more minutes for a combined intimidation session and pep talk, but the young ball player could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Tad Simmons was worried.

  Garrett wondered why the man had been so upset by news that should have made him happy. He could see a couple of possibilities. Maybe Tad didn’t want people sniffing around a trail that seemed to lead to David Laird because Tad knew Laird wasn’t dead; perhaps Tad was in on the disappearance somehow and didn’t want the news to get out. That didn’t seem likely, but it was possible.

  Or maybe it bothered Tad because if Laird was alive, he might have spent the two years accumulating proof that he’d never been a Communist or anything like one; proof that the Simmons brothers had framed him like a Norman Rockwell cover for the Saturday Evening Post. It would be a lot more convenient, in that case, for Laird to stay dead, or at least alive and unfound.

  Of course, if Laird insisted on continuing to kill people, that wasn’t going to be so easy. Garrett could understand how the congressman-to-be could be made nervous by a thing like that.

  Garrett only hoped now that Simmons would be so nervous, he’d stay off his back.

  Simmons was finished talking. Garrett forced himself to smile and shake the offered hand before he left the office.

  5

  Cheryl was sorry she’d answered the phone. She sat at her desk with the phone at her ear, cooing assent to statements she wasn’t listening to, thinking about things.

  “Yes, Mrs. Klimber,” she cooed to the phone.

  Mrs. Klimber was one of the things Cheryl was thinking about. Apparently Rex’s death had affected the old woman deeply—she probably felt she had created Rex, and she didn’t know if her—power, toy, whatever it was—was safe in Tad’s hands.

  Cheryl was getting tired of reassuring her. “Yes, Mrs. Klimber,” she cooed again.

  Just then Russ Garrett emerged from Tad’s office with a smug expression—it wasn’t quite a grin—on his handsome young face. He waved and mouthed “Good-bye,” but Cheryl had a sudden inspiration and held up a hand for him to wait a minute. He seemed surprised but complied.

  “Dinner this evening, Mrs. Klimber? And Scrabble after, too? Oh, I’m sure the congressman would love to attend, but I can’t make it.” She picked up a pencil and started playing with it, tapping first the point, then the eraser on the blotter.

  Since Rex’s death, Cheryl had temporarily abandoned her plan to seek other employment. She wanted to see if things would improve with Tad in the position of power. So far, they hadn’t. Cheryl came to two decisions—one, she was leaving if things didn’t get better soon; and two, even if she didn’t, her relationship with Tad would be strictly business from here on in. Office business, that was. She’d actually decided the second one some time ago—she didn’t know if Tad had figured it out yet. The transition period had been so busy, the question hadn’t come up. All the animosities
that had been forgotten in the shock of the murder were starting to reappear. Tad was making noises like a caveman again.

  Cheryl would make it clear for him. She’d offer her own little Declaration of Independence.

  “No, Mrs. Klimber, I have a previous engagement for this evening. Bring him along? No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  Mrs. Klimber wanted to know why; Cheryl held the pencil across her lips and gave Russ Garrett a sloe-eyed smile. “Because it’s a working engagement, Mrs. Klimber. At least for him it is. No. He’s a baseball executive, and they’re expecting him at the ball game this evening. He’s taking me along.” Cheryl had heard Garrett tell Tad his ostensible reason for being in Kansas City. “Excuse me? Oh, please hold the line a minute, Mrs. Klimber. I think that must be the White House calling about the President’s visit.” Cheryl was proud of the lie—it was well known that Eisenhower was coming to Kansas City in October to address the Future Farmers of America. She punched a button to put the old woman on hold, then turned to her visitor. “Will you rescue me, Mr. Garrett? I know this is probably a terrible imposition—”

  “I’ll rescue you, but only if you call me Russ. I would have asked you myself if I’d thought of it.”

  His face got more smug. Cheryl smiled; there was lots of time to take care of that. “Thanks, Russ,” she said.

  “It does seem a shame, though,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, back East we’re always hearing about Mrs. Klimber, reclusive business genius and all that. And here I of all people have a chance to meet her, and I can’t do it because I have to go to a baseball game.”

  Cheryl looked at him. He was attractive. He probably thought he was up to something. Cheryl decided she could stand Mrs. Klimber’s company long enough to find out what it was.

  “Well, don’t worry about that,” she told Garrett. “Mrs. Klimber never gives up. Her next suggestion will be drinks this afternoon at The Homestead.”

  Garrett said it sounded good to him. Cheryl popped a button and told Mrs. Klimber, “Hello, again. Mrs. Eisenhower sends her regards. This afternoon? Wait one second, I’ll ask him.”

  Garrett was nodding, laughing silently. “We’d be delighted. Five o’clock? That will be fine. No, no need to send your chauffeur. We’ll drive out.”

  She said thank you and good-bye and rose to tell Tad she was leaving. That would be the start of the fun. This was going to be an interesting evening.

  6

  This, Garrett decided, was turning out to be an interesting evening.

  Beside him, Cheryl Tilton sat dressed in tight blue slacks and a low-cut white blouse with a loose ruffle around the collar, leaning against his arm at appropriate moments and pretending to be interested in the game.

  She wore low-heeled canvas pumps, too, with no socks or stockings. She’d changed into all this when she’d stopped at her place on the way home from Mrs. Klimber’s. Garrett had wondered why she’d insisted on doing that, but now he was glad she had. Cheryl looked almost girlish. She looked friendlier. She looked, in fact, fabulous. Garrett sat next to her and acted as if he didn’t notice she was only pretending. He told her about baseball exactly as if she wasn’t going to drive him nuts leaning her cleavage up against his arm like that.

  Vic Power came to bat.

  “Now look at this guy,” Garrett told her. “If he’s not playing for the Yankees next year, they really are prejudiced.”

  “He made an out the last time,” Cheryl said.

  Garrett laughed. “Even the greatest make outs most of the time, Cheryl. Power is batting .353. That’s terrific in any league, but it still means they get him out something like fourteen out of every twenty times he comes to bat. But look at his swing; look at that concentration. And when the Blues are in the field, take a look at him on defense. The Yankees are going to have to bring this guy up, or some other colored player, or they’ll prove what people have been saying all along.” Power lined a double to left field, and Garrett said, “See?”

  Garrett found something pleasant, adolescent about the whole evening, right down to wondering how far past a goodnight kiss she would go.

  He seemed to have Mrs. Klimber’s blessing, if that meant anything. Garrett was still trying to figure out the meaning (if any) of what went on at the old woman’s mansion this afternoon.

  It was called The Homestead, not, Garrett discovered, for any reason of history or architecture. One of the previous owners had liked the name and had slapped it on the Kansas City Castle Dracula he lived in. Mrs. Klimber and Her Late Husband had never found any reason to change it.

  As she ushered him and Cheryl onto the veranda on the shady side of the house, Mrs. Klimber told him the family history. The woman’s problem, he decided, was that everybody she cared about was Late. All she had now were people like Cheryl and her right-hand man, a big Negro, to play up to her. It occurred to Garrett to wonder if a certain amount of Mrs. Klimber’s eccentricity was put on in order to make her attendants dance for her amusement. He never did decide.

  Garrett recognized Gennarro Kennedy the minute he laid eyes on him when the chauffeur wheeled a portable bar out to where they were sitting. He asked what they would have; Mrs. Klimber and Cheryl wanted sherry. “And you, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Bourbon and soda,” Garrett told him. “Didn’t you play football? I remember your name. Colgate? Right after the war.”

  Garrett hadn’t been around many servants, but he didn’t think servants were supposed to smile the way Gennarro Kennedy was smiling now. “Briefly,” Kennedy said. “Between stints in the army.”

  “Gennarro was in the service with My Late Son,” the old woman announced. “He got the little monster that killed him.” Garrett sipped his drink and listened to the talk about Her Late Son. It turned out that one of Her Late Son’s dreams had always been to bring major-league baseball to Kansas City.

  “I intend to make his dream come true,” she said. “Russ, Cheryl tells me you’re very important to the baseball people.” Her voice had taken on a wheedling tone. “If you just tell people—I’m sure you know the right ones to tell—that I’m willing to buy Blues Stadium from the Yankees, and any team that wants to come to a city where they’ll be appreciated, why, I’d be very grateful to you. I wouldn’t forget it.” Then she folded her flipperlike hands over her stomach, and so help him, fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  Garrett was taken aback, but not so much that he didn’t see his opportunity to quench the flickering curiosity that had sprung up in Cheryl Tilton’s eyes when he’d first mentioned his desire to see Mrs. Klimber.

  “As a matter of fact, that is part of the reason for my trip. This is a complicated situation, and the commissioner wants me to speak to as many of the people involved as possible.”

  Garrett took a glance at Cheryl just in time to see her nod her head to douse the fires of curiosity. A few seconds later, though, something that looked like mischief was blazing in their place. “Speaking of complicated situations,” Cheryl said, “Russ has a chilling theory about poor Rex. He thinks David Laird killed him!”

  Mrs. Klimber gasped. “I knew it was a Communist!” She insisted that Garrett tell her all about it, but Gennarro Kennedy interrupted, offering a second round of drinks. This gave Garrett a chance to look at his watch and say, my goodness it’s time to go and his theory was nothing really, he’d come back sometime and tell her about it. Mrs. Klimber, to Garrett’s surprise, thought that was a wonderful idea, and he should come back soon. “You do remind me so of My Late Son,” she said. “Doesn’t he remind you of Junior, Gennarro?”

  Kennedy declined to offer a comment.

  Mrs. Klimber told Garrett, “I’m so glad dear Cheryl found you.” She turned and offered a pendulous cheek dusty with powder. Garrett followed “dear Cheryl’s” lead and brushed it lightly with his lips. Mrs. Klimber squirmed in delight.

  Back in the car Cheryl announced her intention of stopping at her place to change.

&nb
sp; “Sure,” he replied. “We’ve got plenty of time.” Garrett watched her drive. She was a good driver, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, no sudden, unsettling turns. He had the feeling that driving was the only part of her life she treated that way.

  After a while Garrett said, “Would you mind, Cheryl, explaining to me what the hell the big idea was back there?”

  “What big idea?” Cheryl asked the windshield of her car. It was a bright blue Hudson Hornet, and it seemed to demand a more adventurous driver.

  “The big idea,” Garrett replied, “of telling Mrs. Klimber about David Laird.”

  Cheryl just laughed. A low laugh, slightly nasty.

  Garrett offered to take a guess. “I think you’re mad at your boss about something and you’re using this to tweak him. You saw how he reacted to my theory this afternoon, and you know that Mrs. Klimber is his most important supporter, so you just figured you’d put a bug in her ear, let her plague him about it, then you can watch the congressman wiggle. Sometimes I don’t think you’re such a nice lady, Cheryl.”

  She laughed again, a little nastier. “I can be,” she said, “very nice, Mr. Garrett.” She pulled the car to the curb. “Here we are. Wait here—I’ll be just a minute.”

  It took her three minutes; Garrett was impressed. She’d hopped back in the car and driven them to the ball game.

  7

  The game ended with the Blues beating St. Paul 4 to 3.

  “Pretty good game,” Garrett said later. Moths were dancing in the headlight beams of all the cars around them as they tried to leave the parking lot.

  Cheryl honked her horn at the other drivers. “It certainly ended better than the last baseball game I went to.” She honked again.

  “Don’t honk,” Garrett told her. “You’ll only make them mad. Or they’ll think you’re celebrating and join in. It will all clear up in a second.”

  Cheryl turned, glared at him, and hit the horn again. Then she smiled. “Okay. I’ll be good. Are you hungry?”