Once inside the office, I scanned the floor for envelopes that might have been slipped under the door. Nothing. No blinking light on the answering machine either. No calls, no check.
I slammed the door behind me, pulled off my jacket, then slid into my chair. Maybe I’d just slip off and take a little catnap for a while, try to make up for lost time. I closed my eyes, let myself drift, tried to let go of everything.
Only problem was, everything wouldn’t let go of me. I kept thinking of Marsha and what might happen this weekend. Slim kept popping up in my mind as well. I imagined him sitting in jail, helpless, frustrated, with very few options left open to him.
Then there was Mac Ford’s Rolls-Royce. The more I sat there, the more that kept coming back. Why? Why would a guy like that be in the position of having a car repossessed? I knew from my experience working for Lonnie as a part-time skip-tracer and repo man that there are certain symptoms that crop up in a deteriorating financial life, and these symptoms are as predictable as the stages of a terminal disease.
It starts out with there never quite being enough cash to cover the expenses, so you start loading up the credit cards. First the gas, then the restaurant and bar bills. But then at the end of the month, you can’t pay off the credit cards, so you start paying the minimum balance due, but you keep charging those suckers up, anyway. Then you’re getting cash advances to cover kited checks, or maybe you’re borrowing off one credit card to pay another. Meanwhile the cash situation gets tighter and tighter; the lifestyle’s out of control, like a cancer eating away at you. If you don’t stop soon, it’ll swamp you. But you can’t, so you miss a car payment or a loan payment. The house payment’s late and you drop your insurance. People start calling you around dinnertime, polite inquiries about late bills. You explain and mollify, placate and appease, for as long as you can. Then you dodge. You screen your calls, or you stop answering altogether.
Panic sets in and you feel like you’ll do anything. By then, it’s usually too late. Usually, the car goes first. The repo man comes in the middle of the night and rides off in your wheels. Then your house note’s a couple of months overdue, and the mortgage company’s sending you notices printed in red ink.
At that point, if you’re still thinking fast enough on your feet to have a strategy, you start looking for a good bankruptcy lawyer and hope you can come up with the cash to pay his retainer.
So about two steps back from collapse was where I figured Mac Ford must be. The amount of cash it takes to keep an office like that operating on a day-to-day basis must be horrendous, but at the same time he had to have a ton of cash coming in. Where did the balance get upset? What went wrong?
What the hell happened? And what did it mean?
I didn’t know if it meant anything. I’d been digging around for so long in the muck, I couldn’t see clearly anymore. But for now, I had nothing else to go on. You pull a thread loose and you start unraveling and you see how long it takes you to get to the core.
I sat there thinking for over an hour, my mind running in circles, then drifting, then spiraling down into focus again, then losing the focus and floating off lazily, like in and out of the rapids down the Ocoee River.
Somewhere in the fog, I started to doze off. Just as I was about to cross over into the drooling-on-myself stage, there was a loud knock at the door.
“Huh?” I mumbled, my feet dropping to the floor with a painful clatter. My knees hurt from being hyperextended for so long.
“Messenger,” a voice outside called. I looked down at my watch, which read 10:15. Not quite two hours late.
I opened the door and a young kid with a knapsack in his hands and a bicycle helmet strapped on his head handed me a sealed envelope. I signed for it, tipped the kid my last two singles, then locked the door as he left.
Inside was a certified check for five thousand dollars. The way it made me feel, the messenger could’ve been straight from the Kentucky Lottery, which was where a lot of Tennessee gambling money goes since we can’t have a lottery here.
I folded the check into my coat pocket, then reached for the phone. I tapped in seven numbers, then waited while an answering machine with no outgoing message clicked on. A few seconds later, a beep.
“Yo, Lonnie. Ed McMahon just dropped off my red Corvette outside. That was okay, wasn’t it? Red, I mean. I know it’s been done before, but I just didn’t think the teal was me. Anyway, this means you can cash that check I gave you. Better get it quick while the getting’s good.”
I started to hang up, then a thought struck me from somewhere in my still-asleep subconscious. “Oh, hey, I got a favor to ask. That Rolls you’ve got to repo, the one belonging to Mac Ford? How about running a credit report for me? Let’s see how much trouble the dude’s in, okay? Get back to me. Thanks.”
I hung up the phone. The credit report would be a start, but just a start. I needed someplace else to dig, some resource. I needed someone who could show me the secret handshake. Then it hit me.
Agon Dumbler.
I slapped the side of my head with an appropriate, self-directed critical epithet. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of him before?
I don’t like to cast aspersions on anyone’s character, and I don’t mean to get personal here, but Agon Dumbler was without a doubt the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my entire life.
Agon’s about five-seven, and the last time I saw him, he was pushing three hundred and fifty pounds. He wears cream-colored suits, silk ties, and sports a white Dick Tracy hat. He drives a mid-Seventies restored Cadillac Coupe de Ville, which happens to be one of the few land yachts large enough to carry him in comfort. In appearance, he’s somewhere between Sydney Greenstreet and Rush Limbaugh, with a voice like Truman Capote on steroids. So it’s putting it diplomatically to say that Agon doesn’t exactly have a lot of dates. Luckily—because he’s overbearing, arrogant, insensitive, totally lacking in tact or consideration. And those are his good points. He’s the kind of fellow that when people speak his name, they usually follow it up with a good-sized hawker on the sidewalk.
But Agon Dumbler is also one of the half dozen or so best music-industry reporters in the country. His three-times-a-week column in the newspaper we both used to work for had gone into syndication a few years before I, euphemistically speaking, changed careers. This had the result of making him the richest employee on the paper within a year or so, not to mention the substantial extra income he made stringing under an assumed name for publications like the National Enquirer, which very few people knew about. Resentment at his growing reputation and wealth ballooned until Agon was forced to resign and open up his own office, which he did gladly. He repaid the newspaper’s nurturance of his career by offering his column to the other Nashville daily at reduced rates.
I hadn’t thought of him in years. Strangely enough, I never had much trouble getting along with him. He’d waddle over to my desk with a copy of one of my stories from the previous day’s paper and proceed to rip it to shreds, ending with a supercilious, dictatorial lecture on how I could improve my work. I’d just smirk at him, nod, thank him for stopping by. The only explanation I have for my behavior toward him is that I just never felt that it was my place to interfere with another person’s compulsive need to be an asshole.
The White Pages were buried in a stack of unanswered mail and junk on my desk. I pulled them out without tipping the pile over, and thumbed through the business section. Under the Ds, Agon had bought one of those new listings where they print your name in double-sized red type. His read: AGON DUMBLER, SYNDICATED COLUMNIST. There was a number, but no address.
I punched in the number. Two rings later a shrill voice with a harsh Brooklyn accent shouted into the phone: “Agon Dumbler, Syndicated Columnist, may we help you?”
“Good morning,” I said. “My name’s Harry James Denton and I used to work with Mr. Dumbler at the newspaper. I wonder if he has a moment to spare.”
“I’ll see if he’s in,” she screeched. Then,
mercifully, I was put on hold.
Two minutes passed before a voice came on, and this time it was the phlegmy perpetually allergy-plagued voice of Agon Dumbler. “Denton,” he drawled. “Denton … Let me see, now, the name sounds familiar.”
“We used to work together at the paper. I was cityside, you were in the entertainment section.”
“I was the entertainment section,” he interrupted.
“Of course. And you kind of took me under your wing. You were my mentor.” I bit my lip to keep a straight face.
“Oh, yes, Denton. Young fellow, if I remember.”
“Yeah, that’s me, Agon.”
Young fellow, my keister. Agon and I are the same age.
“So what can I do for you, Denton?”
“Well, you knew I left the paper a couple of years ago.”
“No, actually I didn’t. I prefer not to have contact with”—he sniffed loudly—“those people.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t blame you. I’ve even left the field altogether. I’m a private investigator now.”
He made a sound like he’d just accidentally stepped into doggie surprise.
“Anyway, I’m working on a case and I’ve run into a dead end. I’m absolutely at my wit’s end on something, and I remembered how whenever any of us at the paper got into this kind of situation, we always came to you.”
God forgive me, I thought, for lying to this poor man in such an unholy, brazen fashion.
“Yes, you all did, and if I remember, none of you ever appreciated it. Not one bit.”
“Well, I always did, Agon, and if I didn’t let you know that, it was just because of the atmosphere down there.”
“Nevertheless …” he said, then let loose with a long sigh. “What case are you working on?”
I gritted my teeth and steeled myself. “I’m digging into the murder of Rebecca Gibson.”
“Oh, my heavens,” he blurted. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
“I know,” I said. “It’s a nasty one, all right.”
“Who are you working for?” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll tell you, Agon, but you gotta promise not to hang up on me.”
“I never make promises.”
“Okay. I’m working for Slim Gibson, but before you say anything else, let me state that I believe he’s innocent. Rebecca Gibson’s killer is still out there.”
There was a long silence. I held the phone away from my ear, waiting for him to slam it down. Only he surprised me. “What makes you think I can help you?” he asked softly. “I need some information.”
“Ah, information is a valuable commodity. It’s my stock-in-trade.”
“I realize that, but I’m afraid my financial resources are rather limited. My client expects to be impoverished by this process. Consequently, there’s not much extra in the defense fund.”
“If it was money we were talking about,” he said, “you’d definitely be out of the running. You certainly can’t afford my consultation fee.”
I was confused. “So what do …?”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I have a one o’clock lunch appointment at the Sunset Grille. You meet me there at twelve, and I’ll let you buy me lunch.”
Wait a minute, I thought. You have a lunch appointment at one, so meet you there at twelve, and I can buy you … I started to say something, then let it go.
“Sunset Grille at twelve,” I said.
“Twelve,” he answered, then hung up the phone without another word.
I pulled the cashier’s check out of my pocket and stared at it. Sunset Grille, huh?
This check wasn’t going to last long.
It’s not that I have anything against the Sunset Grille, you understand. It’s a damn nice place, very chichi, close to the Vanderbilt campus. It’s more that I’ve left that life behind, for the time being anyway, and the thought of spending big bucks for lunch makes me blanch.
I stopped by the bank, deposited the check, took out a hundred in cash, and hoped for the best. The Sunset Grille was across the street from Faison’s, another trendy restaurant, but one that I find much more laid-back and comfortable. I’d have rather been there anytime, but this was a command performance.
The kid handling the valet parking screwed up his face when I pulled the Mazda to a stop in front of him. When I got out, he inspected the car as if something inside might bite him.
“What kind of car is this?” he asked. He was early twenties, well built, genuine 1950s crew cut.
“Mazda Cosmo. Very rare. I’m restoring it, so be careful. Don’t ding it.” I turned and walked into the restaurant as he snickered behind me.
“I have a lunch appointment with Mr. Dumbler,” I told the young woman with the clipboard who looked like she knew what she was doing. “Has he checked in yet?”
She looked over the top of the clipboard and curled her upper lip. “Oh, yes, he’s here. Try the bar.” She pointed. I walked.
The bar was a darkened room, small, with booths lining two of the walls. Against the far wall, in the corner booth, Agon Dumbler sat taking up all but a couple of inches of the bench seat. He still wore the white suit, but he’d gotten even heavier since I last saw him. His skin stretched so far over the bones of his face I thought it would split. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and even in the lousy light, I could tell there was a pink splotchiness to him that I didn’t remember seeing before. Age had not been kind to him. Frankly, he looked like hell.
“Agon, you haven’t changed a bit,” I said, extending my hand toward him. Not only was it a lie, but it was the worst possible insult I could have dispensed. Only he didn’t know that.
He stuck a fat hand out toward me and clasped mine. The hand felt hot, moist, yet somehow clammy at the same time. After we let go, I fought the urge to wipe my palm across my pants.
“How are things?” I asked as I sat down.
“Fine, Henry. Just fine.”
“That’s Harry, Agon. Harry.”
“Whatever …” He stared away at the ceiling, forcing himself to appear bored.
The waitress came up and introduced herself, as all waitresses seem compelled to do these days. She handed us menus, then cocked her hand. “Will this be one check or two, gentlemen?”
“Ugh, one,” I offered, pointing to myself.
“Can I get you something from the bar?”
“I’ll have a glass of the Woodbridge merlot,” Agon said. I looked down at the wine list. Six bucks. I gulped.
“Unsweetened tea,” I said.
“We’ll order now,” Agon announced. He then proceeded to order the most expensive item on the menu, some kind of steak doobie or something. I didn’t read the description, only the price: $18.95.
I scanned the sandwich section of the lunch menu.
“I’ll have the club sandwich,” I said.
After the waitress left, I lifted the glass of ice water and took a long slug, trying to steady myself.
“Well,” I said uncomfortably, “shall we get right to business?”
“Splendid,” he said, “Now, what are you attempting to do here?”
“I’m attempting,” I said, “to prove that Slim Gibson is innocent of the murder of his ex-wife.”
“And what proof do you have?” he demanded. Why did I feel like I was talking to Professor Kingsfield in a remake of The Paper Chase?
I shrugged. “I know Slim, and I just happen to believe that he didn’t kill her.”
“Oh,” he said, then snorted, “that ought to convince a jury.”
It was monumentally hard not to hate him. I squirmed, trying to figure out some way to get what I needed out of him without letting him know what I knew in return. My prospects of pulling this off seemed dim.
“From all the people I’ve interviewed, I now have a composite portrait of Rebecca Gibson. That portrait is of someone who’s spent years working to make it, is finally on the brink of major stardom, and who then, tragically, is brought down by the petty jealousies and
angers of less-talented people. At first, it was just a matter of figuring out which little person she left behind was pissed off enough to kill her. Now I’m not so sure.”
The waitress brought our drinks and set them down. Agon picked up his six-dollar goblet of wine and snarfed down three dollars’ worth in one gulp, then motioned to the waitress for another.
He glared at me, traces of wet red around his lips. “Stop pulling my pud,” he said.
I fought a wave of nausea at the thought. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve stumbled—and I think stumbled is the operative word since you were never a competent reporter—upon something that has made you suspect someone. Only you’re not divulging who it is or what you stumbled upon. Let me tell you something, young man, you don’t get anything in this world for free.”
I contemplated getting up and walking out. But he’s right; everything had a price, and the price of getting what I needed from him was putting up with his crap.
“So what’s it going to cost?”
“Information for information. If you know something, I want to know it. You find out who murdered Rebecca Gibson, it comes to me first.”
I sat back and breathed a sigh of resignation. I should have expected that.
“I have information that indicates Rebecca’s manager may be in serious financial trouble.”
“What kind of information?”
“I know the guy who, within the next day or so, is going to repossess his Rolls.…”
Agon whistled, then drained his goblet as the waitress brought him another. She set the glass in front of him; he wrapped one corpulent hand around the stem, then drummed a thick set of fingers on the table next to it.
“Well, well, well …” His eyes flicked from side to side. “So Mr. Ford has taken the high road to Needham.…”
“Yeah, no kidding. What I’m trying to do is figure out what’s going on with him. How could this happen?”
Denton - 03 - Way Past Dead Page 25
