The Blackmail Club

by David Bishop

  “I wish I had done more of that. My early family life is mostly in still pictures, but I’ve got a ton of those.”

  “Mr. Kile, if you won’t help me, why in tarnation did you come?”

  “You’re a great American, General Whitaker. It would be disrespectful not to tell you in person.”

  “Call me, General. Everybody does, even my daughter. As long as you were kind enough to come, before you leave please do me two favors?” Not used to being opposed, he went on without waiting for my answer. “The first, you should find decidedly easy. Drink a Tullamore Dew on crushed ice with a lemon twist.” He picked up a handheld bell and rang it. Charles came through the door instantly with a pewter tray centered by a short frosted glass, apparently filled with the Irish whiskey of my ancestors.

  The reports said the general could no longer drink himself, but enjoyed watching others imbibe. If he liked them, he felt he was drinking with them. If he didn’t like them, well, they didn’t get offered the drink in the first place.

  The general gave the impression that being eccentric could be a lot of fun. Of course you had to be somewhat wealthy to be eccentric. If one is poor and unconventional in manner and deed, one is simply considered a bit nutty.

  “You said two things, General?”

  “That I did. While sipping your Dew, read this letter. It is addressed to you. You will notice it is not opened. The letter is from one of my dearest friends, yours too, Mr. Barton Cowen.

  I took the letter gingerly between two fingertips and held it for a moment, feeling like a mouse eyeing trapped cheese. Barton Cowen was the father and husband of the family killed by the thug I shot dead on the courthouse steps to earn my four years inside with Axel. Bart came to see me every week while he relentlessly inspired public opinion until the governor’s office granted my pardon. Like the mouse, I could not turn from the trap.

  When I finished reading Bart’s request that I help the general, I sat motionless, looking, I suspect, like an envelope without a name or address on its face. But I knew I had no real choice.

  “General, tell me about the case.”

  “The older I become,” he said, “the more impressed I am with what a man is, rather than what he seems. And I like who you are.”

  “Were it not for Mr. Cowen I would have spent three more years as a guest of the state, and then walked out as an ex-con rather than a pardoned man. But you knew that, General. You knew I could not refuse you after reading this letter.” I dropped it onto his desk.

  “What I knew, Mr. Kile . . . may I call you Matt?”

  “I’d prefer you did, General. Please go on.”

  “What I knew, Matt, was that you were intrigued. Perhaps it was my reputation mixing with your curiosity. Perhaps from the stories you wished to learn if I would offer you a drink. Then it may have simply been that you are divorced and hoped to meet my celebrated daughter.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, hmmmm. But to revise and extend my remarks as you regularly heard members of congress say during your years as a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter on the way in. She is a lovely woman.”

  “Nicely said. A man predisposed to be a fighting man, learns to do so. A woman predisposed to being a seductress hones her skills similarly. Both arts designed to control the man before them. My daughter is not an excessively promiscuous woman, but, like her mother, she enjoys men and is an unapologetic tease.”

  I recalled a quote from Count Tallyrand, In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily.

  The tone in which the general spoke about his daughter, suggested he was not stressed in the slightest by his daughter’s choices or personality. I also guessed he liked the style of woman she had grown to be, or so it seemed from his reference to her mother.

  “But, yes,” he said, picking back up with what he had been saying before discussing his daughter. “I expected you would come. From your history, I knew you felt a responsibility to set things right. Tell me, Matt, what is your opinion on firing squads?”

  “Well, general, they do get the job done. Of course, there are no appeals so one must be certain of the guilt of the person put against the wall.”

  “You were sure when you took out that crud on the courthouse steps, eleven years ago.”

  “Yes, general. I was. He deserved it. Now whether it did more good than harm I can’t really say.”

  “That disgusting fellow would have killed more people. Destroyed more families. What you did was the right thing, sir.”

  “I do think that general. Yes, I do. Still, it hurt those I love, confused their lives. I didn’t really think about that part of it when I should have.”

  “Now don’t slide back, Matt. America has become too much of a nambi-pambi society. We need more swift justice. There is a certain discipline society surrendered when we gave up the get-it-done effectiveness of firing squads and public hangings. As for my situation, I knew you were the right man when I read of your helping your houseman, Axel, get his parole. You’re a smart, tough guy with a heart and that’s exactly what I need.”

  “What I need is another one of these.” I held up my glass. “Then I’d like enough details to determine if I can help. I understand it’s an old case.”

  It has been said that the world has seven deadly sins. I have an eighth: curiosity.

  The general rang the bell, and again Charles magically appeared with a tray balanced on his hand, the new glass as frosty as the first. The general’s troops had been trained and strategically positioned. I thought my coming was to show respect to a famous retired general. Instead, his welcome was similar to how Sitting Bull had invited General George Armstrong Custer into the Valley of the Big Horn.

  “I am no longer able to project my orders as I once could,” he said, raising the bell, his smallest finger restraining the clapper. “I know this bell appears aristocratic, but it is unfortunately, necessary. Charles understands, don’t you Charles.”

  Charles nodded, then stood tall and asked, “Will there be anything else, General?”

  “Nothing, Charles. As always thank you for your attentiveness and efficiency. Oh, there is something else. Mr. Kile will be looking into that ugly matter some years back involving my grandson, Eddie. His work will require that he learn a great deal about each of us and the goings on within this family. You are to cooperate fully. Answer his questions whatever they may be. And run interference as necessary to gain him access to the individuals and firms that serve this family. We shall trust Mr. Kile’s discretion.”

  “As you wish, General.” A slight bow, then Charles closed the door to the study.

  “You were correct,” he began, “it is an old case. Eleven years, tomorrow, to be exact. Late that night, my grandson Eddie’s fiancée, Ileana Corrigan, was murdered. She was expecting my great grandson, a tragedy. I doubt you recall the case; it happened during your first year in prison.”

  “Tell me about Eddie’s parents.”

  “Eddie’s father, Ben . . . Benjamin, my son, was forty-five when he was killed in Desert Storm. That engagement did not kill many of our boys, but it did my son. His mother, my wife Grace, died from breast cancer when Ben was twenty-four; that was in ‘70. Eddie was born to Ben and his wife, Emily, in ’79, so Eddie was twelve when his father was killed. Emily never enjoyed motherhood. Without Ben she wanted to leave. I gave her some money, she signed what my attorneys put in front of her and Eddie came to live with me. Truth was Eddie had been with me whenever Ben was overseas, which was about half the time. Emily would take off until Ben came back, so I have largely raised Eddie with the help of Charles who has also been a great help with Karen.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses, General.”

  “Yes. Well. We all have our troubles. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. Sergeant Matthew Fidgery was the homicide detective who handled the murder of Ileana. I understand you and
he are great pals.”

  General Whittaker had launched his attack against Fort Kile with a letter from the one man I could never fully repay, and then closed his entrapment with a reference to the case being one of Fidge’s unsolved. In between he served Tullamore Dew, and likely arranged for his daughter to extend her, what shall I say, enticing welcome to the family Whittaker. I felt like the deer tied across the hood of a pickup truck. And I didn’t yet know jack about the case.

  The general smiled. If tonight had been a chess game, this would be the point where I would lean forward and tip over my king. But I had no king to tip over. Instead, I illustrated my capitulation by leaning forward and picking up the check for the thousand dollars.

  Like Axel had said, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at.

  About the Author

  David Bishop enjoyed a varied career as an entrepreneur during which he wrote many technical articles for financial and legal journals, as well as a nonfiction business book published in three languages. Eventually, he began using his abilities as an analyst to craft the twists and turns and salting of clues so essential to fine mystery writing. David has several mystery, suspense and thriller stories available for your pleasure reading. For more information on David and his other novels please visit his web site. He would appreciate hearing your thoughts on this mystery or any of his novels.

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