Denton - 03 - Way Past Dead

by Steven Womack

I thought about calling Marsha. Wondered, in fact, why she hadn’t called me. I grabbed the phone, punched in her number, and got a busy signal. Maybe she was on the phone with Howard Spellman. Maybe they were negotiating an end to this mess.

  When, I tried to remember, had I last eaten? I hadn’t paid much attention at first, but hunger had caught up with me. Mrs. Lee’s was already closed, but I felt more like breakfast anyway. I jumped in the car and headed back across the river, to the all-night International House of Pancakes on Twenty-first Avenue. The IHOP had been a late-night mecca for decades. With this being a Friday night close to final exams at Vanderbilt, I was lucky to get a booth.

  I snarfed down a plate of eggs and grits, toast and bacon, with two cups of decaf. Slowly, I was beginning to feel a little less fragmented. I walked outside into the brightly lit parking lot. Back in the cool night air, cars were rolling by in an endless stream from left to right. I remembered what Nashville had been like when I was growing up as a child. Back then, if you lived as far out as the airport, you were in the country, and the town went to bed so early you didn’t need traffic lights after nine. That was a long time ago; that memory combined with all the perky, tight little undergraduates in the IHOP made me feel about a hundred years old.

  I got back in the Mazda and joined the long parade. I cut left on some side street, then jogged my way over to Belmont Avenue. Down Belmont past the International Market, I turned right up a hill into a neighborhood of restored nineteenth-century homes. Inside my shirt pocket was a slip of paper with Alvy Barnes’s address. I unfolded it and held it up to the window, reading it by the flickering silver and orange of the streetlights as I drove by.

  A half block from Alvy’s house, I pulled over to the curb and parked. I leaned down low in the seat and stared over the top of the dashboard, studying the brick-and-stucco two-story house. Sometimes it was hard to tell, but I think this one was rental property, a large, towering house that had been converted to apartments. The yard was neatly trimmed and bordered in sculptured shrubs. Whoever owned this place cared for it.

  I left the Mazda behind and walked up the street. Alvy’s house was on a hill, with a half flight of concrete steps leading up to a long walk that led to the front door. On either side of the double front doors, light filtered through drawn shades. I huffed up the stairs, then walked to the front porch. The front door was open, leading into a small foyer with four apartment doors, each with a brass number nailed to the front. Alvy’s apartment was number one, the door to the immediate left. On the darkly varnished door, there was a white card in a holder: BARNES/HOYT.

  I checked my watch. Midnight would be rolling around in a few minutes. I hoped I hadn’t caught Alvy at a bad time, at least not too bad a time. I wanted to catch her off guard, but not in the throes of anything sweaty and embarrassing.

  My knock echoed off the walls of the foyer, reverberating in the cramped space. Silence followed, so I rapped on the door again, this time loud enough to wake anyone sleeping. There was a rustle behind the door, then a female voice.

  “Who is it?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m looking for Alvy Barnes.”

  A lock rattled, then turned. The door opened a crack. Blonde hair and clear blue eyes looked out at me from behind a cheap security chain. “It’s late. She’s gone to bed.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to talk to her now. It’s very important. You might even say it’s an emergency.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Denton. Harry James Denton.”

  I heard an exasperated, impatient sigh, then she shut the door and relocked it. I stood there wondering if she’d gone to get Alvy or had just decided to close the door in my face. I looked down at my watch. I’d give her a couple of minutes before I knocked again.

  I didn’t have to wait that long. The lock rattled again, then the door opened without the security chain. Alvy Barnes stood in the doorway wearing a black satin bathrobe. Her jet-black hair splayed across her forehead. She looked tired and washed-out without all the makeup. Behind her, in a doorway inside, the blonde stood with her arms crossed.

  “You have any idea how late it is?”

  “Yeah, midnight.”

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “We got to talk, Alvy. It’s about Mac.”

  Her face tightened. “What about him?”

  “I think he’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble.”

  “Money trouble, for one thing. Maybe more.”

  She chuckled. “Shoot, you’re crazy. Mac Ford’s got more money than Moses.”

  “Then Moses went broke.”

  She scowled at me. “It’s late and I’m sleepy. Call me Monday morning and we’ll set something up.”

  Alvy pushed the door to, only I stuck my foot inside and stopped it cold. I’d never done that before. Made me feel like a film noir star. She turned and glared.

  “You can go now, Harry.”

  “Alvy, we really need to talk.”

  “Monday, Harry,” she said, her voice angry. “Go.” She pushed again.

  “I had lunch today with Agon Dumbler,” I whispered so only she could hear me.

  What little color she had in her face faded away immediately. She looked behind to see if her roommate had heard me, then turned back.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Can we talk now?”

  She rolled her lower lip out in a pout and bit it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Alvy held the door open and let me in. I got my first good look at the roommate; she was taller than Alvy, although about the same age. All she had on was a robe as well. I wondered how many bedrooms the apartment had, then decided that was none of my business.

  “Alvy, you okay?” she asked, glaring at me. “You need any help here?”

  “No, Cheryl, I’m fine. He’s a friend,” she said, resigned.

  “I’ll be in my bedroom,” she said. “You need anything, just yell.”

  I smiled at Cheryl as she turned and left the room, a smile that was decidedly unreturned.

  “Sit down,” Alvy said. I stepped through a curved plaster archway into a small living room. A music video played low on a television that sat against the front wall across from a Mission-style sofa. A couple of wood and cushion chairs complemented the room, which was done in pastel blues and dusty roses. Art prints covered the walls: Georgia O’Keeffe’s blossoming erotic petals, mostly, along with a stretched Navajo-print fabric in a box frame.

  Alvy sat on the sofa; I sat in one of the chairs across from her and leaned forward.

  “That fat bastard,” she said wearily as she settled into the couch. The bottom part of her robe shifted as she crossed her legs, exposing them most of the way to her waist. She was young, attractive. I tried not to notice. “He always told me I could count on two things: his discretion and his checks being good.”

  “It’s not Agon’s fault,” I said. “We used to work together on the newspaper. I’ve known him for years and asked for a favor.”

  “I hope I can count on your discretion. If Mac ever finds out I’ve been a source for Agon, he’ll kill me.”

  Her words made a shiver run up the back of my neck. I tensed and crossed my legs, grabbing my right ankle in both hands.

  “You can count on my discretion, as long as you help me.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes widened. She sat up straighter, the robe opening a little wider at the neck. If this went any further, I was going to have to ask her to retie the damn thing.

  “Alvy, I’ve been doing some digging into Mac Ford’s life. He’s in a lot of trouble.”

  “You keep saying that, but it’s not true.”

  “It is true. He’s in hock up the ya-ya, and it’s all about to fall in on him.”

  “How do you know?” she said, her voice tense, strained.

  “Because I do part-time work for the guy who just got hired to repossess his Rolls
. I started digging, ran a credit report.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You can do that?”

  “He’s nearly bankrupt, Alvy. It’s all caving in on him.”

  “This is awful. I mean, the company, all the employees.”

  I nodded my head. “When he goes under, the company won’t be far behind.”

  She bit her lower lip again and her eyes became heavy with tears. “We’re nearly there now,” she whispered.

  “Really?” I asked. She got my attention with that one.

  She shook her head. “Terrible cash-flow problems the last couple of months. But I thought it was normal business stuff. I never thought it was because …” Her voice dropped. “Mac’s driven a lot of business away the last year or so.”

  “He has?”

  She leaned back against the couch, the robe nearly open now. If she was aware of what she was doing, she sure hid it well. “Mac’s pretty crazy sometimes, the way he goes off the handle and stuff. I’ve heard him rant and rave.… God, sometimes it’s pretty scary. My roommate Cheryl’s a part-time grad student in psychology. She says he’s a rageaholic.” She smiled wanly. “Oh, God, I hate this.”

  “I need to know two things, Alvy. First, did Mac have key-man insurance on Rebecca Gibson?”

  “What?”

  “You know, did he have a life-insurance policy on her?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I mean, it’s standard. But I don’t know how much for. You have to understand, I’m Mac’s assistant. I did all of his correspondence and scheduling, but there was a lot of business he kept private. Contracts, for example. The exact terms of the contracts with all the artists are something he alone knew. He kept them in his private files. There’s a locked room off his office where they’re kept.”

  “Okay, fine. If there was key-man insurance, I want to know how much there was.”

  “It’s in those files. And I don’t have a key to the room.”

  “I can take care of that,” I said. “The other thing I need to know is …” I hesitated, trying to figure out the best way to say it. “Well, you said Mac had lost clients in the last couple of years. Was Rebecca Gibson one of them?”

  “Oh, no,” she snapped. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d have known. He’d have told me.”

  “What if he didn’t want you to know?”

  “Why would he not want me to know? That doesn’t make any sense.” She was almost angry now, but I didn’t care. I was getting tired myself, and very impatient.

  “Because maybe he didn’t intend to tell anybody. Maybe he had a life-insurance policy naming him or the company as beneficiary as long as she was a client. Maybe he just figured something might happen to Rebecca Gibson, and he could collect the money rather than let her go. Then he’d not only have the insurance income, but a substantial income from being her artistic executor.”

  She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God, you don’t think—” Her eyes grew even bigger, and bright with tears.

  “If it plays out like I’ve described, Alvy, then Mac Ford had the best reason in the world to want Rebecca Gibson dead. He’s the only one who really benefits.”

  “Oh no,” she cried, starting to weep. “That’s not possible.”

  “And you’ve got to help me find out.”

  She curled up in a ball, burying her head in her hands. “No …”

  I got up and walked over to the sofa, then plopped down next to her and planted a hand on her shoulder and squeezed hard. “Maybe it didn’t happen that way, but we’ve got to know. You get me into those files. If it’s not like I said, nobody’ll ever be the wiser.”

  “I can’t,” she sobbed.

  I squeezed harder. “You have to.”

  She pulled away from me and jumped to her feet. “No!” she yelled. The robe flew open all the way down to the loose knot at her waist. Her breasts were small, tight, with nipples so dark they were nearly black. I clenched my jaw, trying not to stare. Behind us, the roommate stepped back into the room.

  “Alvy, you all right?”

  Alvy turned, her hair flying. “Not now, Cheryl! Leave us alone.” Cheryl retreated.

  “Alvy,” I said. “You have to help me.”

  “And what if I won’t?”

  “Then I’ll drop back and punt. And in the meantime I’ll make sure Mac finds out about your arrangement with Agon. You’ll be done with Mac Ford Associates, and probably washed up in the industry as well. I hate to put it to you that way, but I don’t have a lot of options.”

  She glared at me, not bothering to pull the robe around her. “You bastard!”

  “Help me, Alvy. Damn it, you know how bad she was beat up? You know what it takes to beat a full-grown adult woman to death with your bare hands? Can you imagine what kind of death that is, to lie in your own blood so battered you can’t breathe anymore, to be in that much agony and watching everything go dark around you, all alone?”

  “Stop it,” she moaned. Her shoulders shook and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

  I walked over to her and gently took a lapel in each hand and pulled her robe to. “C’mon,” I said softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to do this to you.”

  Suddenly she fell into me and I had my arms around her. Her hair smelled warm and musty, her tears hot on my chest, her arms still crossed and cradled into me. I held her there for what felt like a long time, long enough for me to realize that I didn’t need to be standing there like that too much longer.

  She pulled back gently, her eyes moist and full, tears down her pale round cheeks. She looked up into my face, and I realized with more than a little bit of surprise that she intended to kiss me; either that or she was waiting for me to kiss her. Nice prospect, but unwise.

  I pulled away, just an inch or so, but enough. “That’s not why I came here, Alvy. Besides, I’m old enough to be your … your older brother.”

  She pulled away from me. “Get out of here.” Her words were cold, but the edge had gone out of her voice.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can do it then.”

  “Why do I have to be there?”

  “Because if I break in, it’s a felony. If you’re there and let me in, then it’s just treachery.”

  She looked sharply at me. “Not in the morning,” she said. “People are usually there for half a day on Saturday. Best bet’s later in the afternoon, say around two. Make sure you come in the back entrance.”

  I left Alvy Barnes standing in the doorway in her black satin robe, the streetlights bleaching her out to the point where she became almost ghostlike. She was striking in a drawn, dissipated way. It had been a long time since I’d had a woman that young stare up at me with that look in her eyes. I walked back to my car thinking that I should have been proud for being so damned moral, but given that I’d just gotten her cooperation by blackmailing her, that was kind of hard.

  For the seventh time, I listened to the computerized operator tell me that she was sorry, but the cellular customer I’d dialed had either turned off the telephone or left the calling area. I appreciated her sentiments.

  It was three o’clock in the morning; I had a headache the size of a Buick and sleep was a stranger. I dozed off when I first got back to the apartment, but that only lasted about twenty minutes. I woke up with a start, wondering where I was, where Marsha was, where the last few days had gone.

  I rubbed my shoulders, which had about as much effect as the three aspirins I’d choked down an hour earlier. I craned my head backward, then both felt and heard the vertebrae in my neck pop like dried chicken bones. The aspirin had set my gut off, and a nasty bile taste crept into the back of my throat.

  I’d seen crap come down before, but never in sheets like this.

  I flipped off the light and stared up at the darkness. Outside, a car that badly needed a muffler repair roared by, megabass speakers thumping away in time to some urban rap ditty. In the distance, a police siren wailed aw
ay on Gallatin Road. Neighborhood dogs took up a chorus of barking in return.

  Maybe the television. No, nothing on. Besides, I’ve got to get some sleep. If sleep won’t come, at least lie here and rest. If I can’t turn the brain off, at least try unplugging the body. Tomorrow was Saturday, but it wasn’t going to be anything like a weekend. No decompression, no snooze, no rest. I needed to hear a human voice; I dialed Marsha’s cellular number again and waited for the now familiar artificial voice of the computerized telephone attendant. I listened to her tell me how sorry she was three more times before I finally drifted off into a fitful and uneasy half sleep.

  There was this old Three Stooges short where the boys played doctors and Moe turns to Larry and yells “Anesthetic!” Larry turns to Curly and yells “Anesthetic!” Curly yells “Anesthetic!” and pulls out a hammer the size of a small beer keg and bops the poor patient on the head, sending him off to dreamland.

  I woke up knowing exactly how that guy felt.

  I stared into the mirror and realized that I had finally attained complete harmony in my life: I looked as bad as I felt. I started to step into the shower, then realized I’d had about a half-dozen showers in the last two days, and not one of them had made me feel any better. Was I filled with guilt about something and headed toward an all over hand-washing fetish? Is this what happens when frustration levels get out of control?

  Coffee helped a little, and the morning newspaper brought me back to reality, although in a mixed-blessing kind of way. The siege of the Nashville morgue had taken up its rightful place as lead story once again, dwarfing even the latest genocidal massacre in some backwater third-world stinkhole.

  The headline blared a warning of impending crisis. A full-color photo of Howard Spellman and the rest of the negotiating team huddled around a table wearing flak jackets dominated the middle of the page. Down below, a smaller aerial photo of a ring of Winnebagos, jammed together like covered wagons in a circle, spoke of the coming battle. I read the latest sidebar interview with the Reverend Woody T. Hogg, who claimed once again that he had no control over his followers but that God would speak when the time came right, and when Judgment Day came, it would rain hellfire and brimstone on all of us. All the wrongs of the world would be righted, all God’s children brought home to redemption, and the purveyors of sin and those who denied the resurrection of the body would be called to task for their sin and disbelief.