“The most beautiful woman she has seen in years is the way she described her. Felicia Baker? I don’t remember her as that beautiful.”
“She isn’t,” I said. “And I don’t like the way she does her hair.”
She studied me suspiciously. “You mean like mine?”
“Of course not! I mean the way you used to wear it. Your new way is much more flattering.”
She sniffed. “You’re sure full of it today, aren’t you? Why did she come to see you?”
“Because I suggested it. I’m trying to round up all the allies I can find in this stupid, ugly war. Let’s not quibble. Did Audrey agree to a lower markup on the Detterwald deal?”
“She did. We will make only a modest profit.”
I didn’t ask her what Kay Décor considered modest. The word no longer had meaning in the inflated eighties.
Duane phoned after dinner. “That kid you were talking about when you first came up here, that gangly kid driving a gray Plymouth—does his car have a broken taillight lens?”
“It does. Is he up there now?”
“Yup. I saw him checking in at the Dunes Motel when I was coming home for dinner. Kronen’s car is parked there, too. Kronen I can understand. But why the kid? Maybe Felicia is up here seeing Mike.”
“Felicia is home,” I told him. “I talked with her this afternoon. She explained that she didn’t tell you about the fifty thousand dollars because she thinks that you are getting too conservative in your dotage.”
“Don’t believe everything that Felicia tells you. And next time you see her, remind her that I earned my money.”
“She earned some of hers, too, Duane,” I reminded him.
“But how? If she had my looks, she would have been servicing winos. I heard from Hawaii. If Lucy Barnum is staying in a hotel there, it must be a flea bag. No hotel with running water has her registered.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I might be up there tomorrow. My protégé is still kind of green.”
Chapter Sixteen
“AS LONG AS YOU’RE going up there,” Jan said at breakfast, “would you come down to the shop first and pick up some samples for Daphne? And tell her I’ll be up as soon as I finish the house I’m working on now. It shouldn’t take longer than two more days.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“And tell her that delphinium blue we talked about will never go with that Oriental rug she wants to keep, because—”
“No!” I interrupted. “I will give her the message about two days and deliver the samples. The rest you can tell her over the phone. You can dial direct and deduct the expense from your modest markup. Operator-assisted calls cost more.”
“Okay, master!”
Master? My rear seat and deck were crammed with samples when I headed for Donegal Bay. Carpet samples, drapery samples, furniture upholstery samples, tile and oak and vinyl floor samples. Master? Modest? Old Noah Webster must be turning in his grave.
Lucy Barnum was not staying at a major hotel in Hawaii. That didn’t mean she wasn’t there. Our fiftieth state was a haven for many of Allingham’s true believers and contributors to his cause.
But would they accept a maid as a houseguest?
Duane wasn’t there when I arrived. Daphne helped me carry the samples into the house. I told her about Jan being busy for the next two days and added, “She also said something about a rug you have, an Oriental, that won’t blend with the delphinium blue you must have discussed with her.”
“Damn it!” she said. “Duane loves that rug. And he’s already moaning about cost. He’s getting so chintzy!”
“Tell him not to fret,” I said. “I have it on good authority that you are going to get the lowest markup in Kay Décor history. It will be very modest.”
“You tell him. He won’t believe me. He thinks I am a terrible shopper.”
Duane was talking with a customer in his office. I went into the store next-door. Laura was sitting in an old wicker rocking chair, reading a paperback novel.
She looked up and smiled. “Mr. Callahan! Did you come to buy or to rent or to talk?”
“To talk,” I said. “Has the family feud cooled off?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Jeff is so—so bull-headed! We’re not getting rich here, but we’re still eating. And this is what he always claimed he wanted.” She made a face. “Men!”
“I know,” I agreed. “We are terrible creatures. Is Mike Anthony going to be involved in your new enterprise?”
“I guess so. I don’t like him. From what I heard about your meeting at the Dunes, I guess you don’t, either.”
“He’s been a bad friend to Duane,” I told her. “Duane has been Mike’s guardian angel for years. Bad friends make bad partners.”
“Tell that to my bull-headed roomie.”
“I will right now, if he’s around.”
She shook her head. “He’s over at the Rusty Anchor, talking with Mike and some man who came here and picked up Jeff half an hour ago. He was Mexican, I think. At least his car had Mexican plates on it. A Cadillac DeVille, no less!”
“Laura,” I said, “Mike Anthony is being watched by a private detective working for Cyrus Allingham. You tell Jeff that. He could be heading for big trouble.”
She stared at me. “Cyrus Allingham? That man who lives in the castle in Veronica Village? Why would he have Mike watched?”
“I don’t know. I can only guess that he must have some information about what Mike was doing—or plans to do. It would be a bad time for you two to team up with Mike. Tell Jeff to back off for a while.”
Duane appeared in the open doorway. “Laura, will you listen for my phone? I—”
Then he saw me. “Brock! I didn’t expect you this early. I have to show a couple of houses. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“I’ll be here,” I said.
When he left, I told Laura, “Duane and I are trying to find out the connection between Allingham and Mike. Please do your best to convince Jeff not to make any decision for a while.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “But I think it’s a lost cause.”
Another ally, I hoped. That is, if they had what today’s unmarried roommates call a ‘meaningful relationship.’ I walked out and walked down to one of the side streets to where I could get a view of the Rusty Anchor parking lot. The DeVille with the Mexican plates was there.
A quarter of a block down the street from the lot, I saw a car that looked like Corey’s. I started across the parking lot toward it just as a man came out of the restaurant and walked toward the Cad.
I knew who he was. Mike had a picture of him behind his bar, being slammed through the ropes by Mike’s overhand haymaker.
“Chico Maracho?” I asked.
The black eyes in his olive face studied me doubtfully, almost suspiciously. “Yes. And you?”
“Only a fan,” I said. “I saw you fight Mike in San Diego. I’ll bet you’re here for a rematch.”
The doubt left his face. He smiled. “No. We are both retired and friends now. Are you a fighter?”
“I was. For about eight months. I’m a friend of Mike’s. My name is Greg Hudson. Are you still involved in boxing down in Tijuana?”
He shook his head. “I’m in land development now. Mike convinced me in San Diego that boxing was not my proper trade.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I still think that was a lucky punch that Mike tagged you with.”
He smiled again. “It was lucky for me. I’m doing much better now. Adios, amigo.”
The big car purred off; I walked over to Corey’s car. He stared up at me. “Now what? Why are you in town?”
“I thought you might need some muscle. Have you seen that man I just talked with before now?”
He nodded. “He stayed at the motel last night. I couldn’t get his name. He must be a fighter, or was. Did you notice the scar tissue over his eyes?”
“He was a fighter,” I said. “His name is Chico Maracho. Is this the first time he’s b
een at Mike’s place?”
“First time here. Mike came over to the motel last night to talk with him, though.”
“Was there somebody with Mike when he came, a young fellow?”
“Nobody. Why?”
“I think Mike’s picked up a couple of partners. You report that to Alan Baker. Aren’t you following Felicia anymore?”
He shook his head. “Anthony is my new assignment. Tell me, guru, am I supposed to know what’s going on—or just follow orders?”
“That would depend on how long you want to live.”
“Hey, Brock! That’s a joke, isn’t it?”
“Mostly. How are you eating? Not at Mike’s, are you?”
“When he’s not there, I can go in. I brought a lot of stuff from home. I don’t like this case. But it pays so well!”
Jeff was now leaving the Anchor and walking up the road toward his shop. I told Corey, “That’s one of Mike’s new partners. His name is Jeff Randolph. His girl friend’s name is Laura Prescott. They run that fishing shop next to the real-estate office. Put that in your report to Baker. He’ll think you’re earning your keep. I’m going to try to talk both of them out of teaming up with Anthony, but don’t tell Baker that.”
“And that Maracho; how does he fit into the picture?”
“That’s what I hope to find out. Is Kronen still in town?”
“I haven’t seen him around his morning. But he stayed at the motel last night. Maybe he changed cars.”
“Maybe. Well, I have to make a phone call. Hang in there.”
“Right! Hey, Brock, we’re partners again, huh?”
I nodded. “I am now on your payroll. I’ll try to keep an honest record of my expenses.”
I left him with that sobering thought and went back to Duane’s office. I phoned Bernie from there. I asked him, “Do you have any cop friends in Tijuana?”
“A couple. Why?
“There’s an ex-pug named Chico Maracho who used to run a boxing gym down there. He now claims to be in land development. I would like the true word on him.”
“Why?”
“That’s private. But it might help to put Farini in the soup.”
“Are you home?”
“No.” I gave him Duane’s number.
Angry words came through the thin wall again between me and the store. Then Jeff went storming out. A minute later, I heard the sound of a dune buggy revving in the soprano range. I walked over to find Laura still sitting in the wicker rocker. But now she was crying, her face in her hands.
“He’ll be back,” I said.
She shook her head. She didn’t look up.
“He’ll be back,” I repeated, “unless he’s a damned fool.”
She looked up. “He is. Do you know what he told me? We’ll use the boat for charter fishing in the daytime. Mike will be using it nights. Not every night, but nights. He must think I’m stupid.”
“Did you ask him what Mike was going to use it for at night?”
“I did. He told me that was none of our business. If a renter brings back a boat in good condition, he said, what he does with it is none of our business.”
“I hope he doesn’t try to sell that story to the narcotic cops. Did you ask him about that man who picked him up in the Cadillac?”
She shook her head. “Will he be their source?”
“He could be. He lives in Tijuana. I’m having him checked out right now. Do you have the boat yet?”
“No. Jeff’s still dickering. The man wants twenty-seven thousand dollars for it.”
“Which leaves twenty-three thousand of extra money. How will Jeff explain that to Felicia?”
“He told her the rest was needed to repair the pier and make it longer, so the water would be deep enough for the boat. That was a lie. The water’s deep enough now for where he plans to moor the boat. He tried to make me believe it wasn’t. Why?”
“Because he doesn’t want to lose you. Couldn’t you appeal to his parents?”
“They’re traveling in Europe. He never got along with them. Uncle Duane is closer to Jeff than they are. And now Jeff’s not even speaking to him.”
“Did Jeff take any money with him when he went to Mike’s?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because sources like to be paid in advance when they deal with small operators. You keep the faith, Laura. Your Uncle Duane and I will handle Jeff, even if we have to tie him to a post.”
I was in Duane’s office, reading his copy of the Wall Street Journal, when he came back.
“Lookers,” he said. “Looky-lous, we call ’em. They’re all lookers today, but nobody can afford to buy since the interest rates went crazy. Where is it going to end?”
“According to this tip sheet I’m reading, no end is in sight.” I gave him the story of my adventures during his absence.
He frowned. “Maracho. The last I read, he was running a crummy gym for club fighters down in Tijuana.”
“Not anymore, according to him. He claims to be in land development now.”
“Chico Maracho in land development? He’s even dumber than Mike! Hey, wait, you’re not thinking narcotics? Not Jeff. No way!”
“Let’s hope not. I phoned a cop friend of mine in San Valdesto. I’m waiting for his return call. He has police friends in Tijuana and I asked him to get me a line on Maracho.”
Duane said quietly, “Not Jeff. Dear God, not Jeff! Not if he knows what he is getting into.” He picked up the needle-pointed letter opener from his desk. “If Mike gets that kid involved in narcotics, he’ll wind up with this in his throat.”
“Easy, Duane. Remember what your doctor told you.”
He took a deep breath.
I said, “I have some trivial good news for you. Jan is cutting her profit to the bone on you.”
“Of course,” he said. “She’s Jan. Felicia thinks I’m a tightwad and so does Daphne. I’m doing okay, but I’m no Rockefeller. And if this ticker of mine runs out, I don’t want Daphne to have to go back to erotic dancing.”
“Is your heart that bad?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Doctors make everything sound serious. How else can they con you into believing they are earning their exorbitant fees?”
The phone rang. Duane picked it up, said “Hello” and then “Yes.” He handed me the phone.
It was Vogel. “About this Chico Maracho, he’s had two arrests for assault, no convictions. He had one arrest for statutory rape with no conviction. And one for possession of cocaine, three months in the can plus three months’ probation.”
“Thanks, Bernie.”
“There’s one more tidbit that might interest you,” he added. “Max Kronen was down there a couple of days ago asking around about Maracho. Is that how he’s tied up with Farini?”
“I think so,” I lied. I knew Bernie wouldn’t have any interest in Allingham.
“You keep me informed, Brock.”
“Don’t I always?” I said, and hung up.
Chapter Seventeen
I REPEATED THE ITEMS on the rap sheet to Duane.
“Those could apply to a lot of pugs today,” he said, “including the cocaine. But I’d better warn Jeff.”
“Wait until you cool off,” I suggested. “There’s no rush. He hasn’t bought the boat yet. Maybe you should talk with Mike about it.”
He shook his head. “I’ve said my last word to him. I’ll talk with Laura. She’s got more brains than Jeff and Mike together. Are you going home now?”
“After I talk with Corey. Stay cool now. Remember what the doctor told you.”
I was on the porch and about to turn toward Duane’s parking lot at the back of the building when I saw a gray Volvo parked about a hundred feet down the road.
Had Max been watching us? I went down there. He looked embarrassed when I reached the car.
“How was your trip to Mexico?” I asked. “Have fun?”
He glared up at me. “Who told you about that?”
“F
arini,” I said. “He had you followed. You never should have dumped him. Once he learned that you didn’t have a wife, he turned really mean.”
“Who told him that?”
“I did.”
“What is it with you?” he asked. “Do you get your kicks out of bugging me? Jesus, there has to be some kind of sickness in you. I’ll bet you’re one of them pathological liars. You lie even when you don’t get paid for it.”
“It’s the chronic disease of our trade,” I explained. “Good hunting, Max.”
Corey was still sitting in his car when I pulled up on the other side of the street from him. He looked weary.
“This is the boring part,” I told him, “this sitting and waiting. You should have brought something to read.”
“I listen to the radio,” he said. “Kronen’s in town. I saw his car go past about half an hour ago.”
“I know. I’ve just finished talking with him. Why don’t you get that taillight fixed? It’s a dead giveaway.”
“They want too much for those lenses.”
“What do you care? Put it on the expense account.”
“I never thought of that! Are you going to stay in town tonight?”
“Nope. You don’t need me. Kronen won’t bother you anymore.”
“That’s not what’s bothering me,” he said. “I have this feeling that I’m in over my head.”
“It’s a feeling we share,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Driving home, I thought back to Max’s complaint. He had a point; I had gone out of my way to bug him. I was sure he had cut more corners in the trade than I had. But with four employees on his payroll, he was forced to cut more corners. To maintain a reasonable standard of ethics in this sordid profession, office expenses must be cut to the minimum.
It was almost noon now and I hadn’t had lunch. My stomach was stronger today; I consumed two cheeseburgers and a malt at Hannah’s without distress.
And where now? Felicia might be able to talk some sense into Jeff. She was his benefactor. There was also the possibility that she was his partner. Duane was our best hope to save Jeff.
Lucy, Lucy, where was that missing link? She had sent money to Luther and corresponded with him, but had not come down to arrange his funeral. Perhaps that decision had not been hers.
Death in Donegal Bay Page 11
