I held the door open for Nolan and she walked through. As I closed the door behind me, I said, “Ask him, Roger.”
In the hallway, Nolan whistled. “Well, Mr. Phyllis, you’ve got the Strathmore clan all stirred up.”
“Uh-huh. It’s been a busy Sunday.”
We threaded our way back toward the front. I found what I thought was the door to the foyer and pushed it open. There was a flash of light and I almost went for my gun. What I figured were the real Phyllis and Terry, and a photographer, stood in the foyer, admiring the dog paintings. Henry was talking. “ … and these were commissioned by the Strathmores. Portraits of their dogs, Mildred and Lady.”
We nodded at the three newcomers. Henry winked at us and smiled. I bet not much got by him. I went over to the mahogany sideboard and dropped the tiny .22 into a silver dish of candy. “Thanks for everything, Henry. It’s been swell.”
He said it had been grand and we should drop on by again, anytime. I couldn’t tell, but it seemed like he was trying not to laugh. We stepped outside. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted across the front porch. Carla Strathmore leaned against one of the columns, puffing on a breather. She wore a white terry-cloth robe that came to midthigh. Her hair was wet.
“My husband doesn’t let me smoke inside. Says it’s bad for the paintings.”
I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Roger’s got too many rules. That’s no good for someone like you, is it, Carla?”
She flicked the butt into the flower bed, pushed off the column, and sauntered over to me. When she stopped our faces were only a few inches apart. The robe slid open a couple of notches, exposing most of her breasts. She didn’t seem to care. She flipped her wet hair in Nolan’s direction. “You two got something going on?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know, you’re a pretty good-looking guy.”
The robe came apart another inch. I could smell her: cigarettes and booze, perfume and fresh shampoo. And something else I couldn’t put my finger on. It came to me suddenly, in the form of a Jeopardy, question. Alex, I’ll take middle-aged women who’ve made deals they now regret, for five hundred.
“We’d have a good time, you and me,” she said, moving closer. “I promise.”
What is the smell of desperation?
“Good evening, Mrs. Strathmore.” I walked around her. Nolan and I got in the Mercedes and drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was the time between late afternoon and early evening when the wind died and the heat of the day rested over everything like invisible smoke from a forest fire, suffocating and deadly. I turned the AC to high and drove away from the home of Roger and Carla Strathmore.
Going just under the speed limit, I nodded once at the uniformed man behind the wheel of the SUV. The town of Highland Park is only about two square miles and has more police officers per capita than anywhere else in the world, except maybe the Vatican or Monaco. They were well trained, well paid, and well equipped, and spent most of their time patrolling. Their response time was measured in seconds, not minutes. They rode in late-model Chevy Tahoes, one unit cruising the perimeter of the town while the others prowled the interior streets, all in an effort to keep the all but nonexistent crime rate from racheting up even a fraction. Once again I was glad to be in the Mercedes instead of my recently deceased pickup.
We headed down Beverly Drive, toward Preston. Neither of us said anything. The sun had begun to sink, and it was the quiet time of the weekend in Highland Park, people eating dinner together, planning the week. I supposed they worried about the same kind of things as the rest of us—is Junior burning through his trust fund too fast, which stock options to cash in, how much are the servants stealing, and so on.
That kind of stuff.
Nolan pantomimed eating and drinking while I dialed the number to Ernie’s room at the hospital. Miranda answered and we talked quietly. Yes, Ernie was still in a coma. No, don’t come and see him like this. She’d taken a tranquilizer and felt better. Her sister was on the way. Thanks for calling.
I headed toward Love Field and a bar I knew.
“Food,” Nolan said.
“Cocktails,” I said back. “And maybe a little information.”
The Time Out Tavern sits on the west side of the Park Cities, near Love Field. It’s one of a handful of neighborhood bars in a city with few real neighborhoods. Consequently, people drive from all over town to hang out there. It was Sunday evening and the sports crowd were winding down when we wheeled into an empty spot in front of the bar. A baseball bat hung on the steel door, serving as a handle, and a faded awning striped to look like a referee’s shirt covered the blacked-out windows.
The denizens of the tavern do not care for natural light.
I pushed open the door and we entered. A month or so had passed since I’d last been there and not much had changed. The place was still long and thin, dark with a low ceiling and a bar running down one side, a shuffleboard on the opposite wall. The smoke hung thick over the solitary pool table, lit up like a fluorescent, carcinogenic fog by the neon beer signs on the walls. The glowing advertisements punctuated the space between sports pennants and pictures of patrons. A big-screen television set sat at the far end, ESPN talking heads babbling silently about something.
Two women in their late thirties, wearing Mavericks sweatshirts and a couple of kilos of eyeshadow apiece, sat at a table by the front. They waved their cigarettes at each other while they cussed somebody named Daryl.
A half dozen people sat at the bar. At one end was a gray-haired couple leaning against each other, palsied hands holding smokes while they sipped drinks. When they spoke it sounded like gravel in a blender. Next to them were two men in navy slacks talking loudly about the new configuration on the Boeing 767s and how screwed up it was. Each had a half-full beer mug and an empty shot glass sitting on the bar. Everybody needs to unwind, even pilots.
And at the far end sat Davis Marcy Howell, my office mate. Reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he sipped a draft beer and read the personal ads in the Dallas Observer.
By the time we reached the bar, an icy longneck of Coors Light awaited me on a coaster. The bartender nodded at me and Nolan. “And for the lady?”
The lady rolled her eyes and said, “Scotch, on the rocks.”
We took seats on opposite sides of Davis. He finally looked up. “Heya, Hank. N-n-nolan.” His eyes rattled in their sockets like marbles in an ashtray as he wobbled atop his bar stool. “What’s up?”
“Not much, Davis,” I said. “Just grabbing a couple of drinks before calling it a weekend. What’s up with you?”
He folded his glasses and put them in his pocket. “Yeah, me too. A couple or three drinks. Not much else. Nothing good anyway.” The newspaper slid over and I could see a cocktail napkin covered with scribblings, the names of teams and dollar figures.
I pointed to the markings. “You had a good day?”
“Nah. Not really. S-s-s-no big deal.” He tilted the glass of beer to his mouth and took a swallow. A thin stream dribbled down his chin, but he made no move to wipe it up. Nolan reached over and dabbed at it with a paper towel, a tender gesture out of place with the surroundings.
Tears welled in his eyes. “Thanks.”
I pulled the napkin over so I could read it. “How bad?”
“Not good.” He took another swig of beer, managing not to spill any this time.
“How much?”
“Twelve hundred.”
“That’s bad but not a killer.”
He sighed and fumbled with a cigarette and lighter. “That’s for today. I was trying to get even from yesterday.”
“What’s the total for the weekend?”
He blew a cloud of smoke skyward and then hung his head. “Seven.” It came out as a whisper.
“Seven thousand?” I tried not to sound shocked. “Is that American dollars?”
He nodded at the same time as his cell phone chimed.
He squinted at the screen, pursed his lips several times, and turned it off. About ten seconds later, the phone behind the bar rang. The bartender answered and said, “Lemme look around.” He covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “You here or not, Davis?”
Davis shook his head, mouthing a frantic no.
“Nope, he’s gone already … Uh-huh … Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell him.” He hung up. “Some guy named James. He said he’d be in touch. Soon.”
I whistled soundlessly and took a sip of beer. James was a bookie who worked for some people from deep in East Texas, who in turn worked for a couple of very rough fellows from Shreveport. Who were bad people to owe money to. “How much does James need right now, to keep you in one piece?”
“I dunno. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have it.”
“I do, and I’ll pay him for you,” I said. Davis looked confused. I continued. “Here’s the deal, though. You quit betting. On anything. You can keep drinking yourself comatose but lay off the wagering. Man like you doesn’t need that many vices. Now how much do you think you need to buy some time?” Sometimes I wondered how stupid I could actually be, offering to help pay for this guy’s markers while conducting a mini-intervention. Still, I needed info, and fast.
“Probably a grand.”
I pulled out my wallet and counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. Cash is like a gun or a knife in my line of work, another tool of the trade. I rolled them around in my hand for a moment and then put them back. I would only make the problem worse by giving him the money now. “I’ll arrange a payment plan with James; we’ve got mutual acquaintances and he’ll work with me. Now I need some information.”
Davis pumped my hand, tears in his eyes again. “Thanks, Hank. Anything you need. Anything at all.”
I ordered us another round of drinks. “Tell me about Roger Strathmore.”
“Roger the homo?”
“You tell me.”
Davis stubbed out his cigarette. “He’s married but she’s way older. No kids either. Whatever he is, he’s supposed to be running the show over there.”
“Over where?” I said.
“The Strathmore Company. Strathmore Real Estate.”
“And?”
“And, Roger’s running things but not like the old man. I mean Fagen squeezed every last dollar from every project. Roger, he doesn’t have the killer instinct.” Davis spoke the last sentence with a trace of condescension in his voice, seemingly unaware of the irony of sitting drunk in a bar on a Sunday night, seven grand in the hole to a mobster named James.
“What about the Trinity Vista?”
Davis took a drink of beer and it dribbled again. Nolan made no move to wipe it up this time. “The fucking holy grail of Dallas real estate?”
“Roger’s in charge, right?”
Davis laughed. “Roger may think he’s in charge. But I’m here to tell you the word out there is that Fagen Strathmore is not gonna let Roger handle that one solo. It’s Fagen’s deal all the way. His biggest single deal ever. So he’s not gonna let that pansy fuck it up.”
Nolan rattled the ice in her drink. “How come Fagen doesn’t just can Roger, if he doesn’t have the cojones to get the job done?”
“Roger gets the job done, sort of. Plus, he can’t fire him since Roger and his mom and sister own too much stock in some holding company.” Davis hiccupped. “But one thing is for sure: Fagen Strathmore’s not gonna lose control of the Trinity Vista.”
“So how big a deal is the project?”
A man came in wearing what looked like a pilot’s uniform and joined the other two. We were quiet as he ordered a Michelob and a shot of Jim Beam.
Davis scratched his chin. “Ultimately? Hell, I dunno.”
I drank the last of my beer and signaled for the tab. “You’re a real estate appraiser. Take an educated guess.”
“How much does it need to be worth?” He cackled at his own statement, evidently some form of appraiser humor. Nolan and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Just give me a ballpark figure,” I said.
Davis quit laughing. “Ultimately, that deal is probably gonna be worth … oh … one point two, maybe one and a half.”
“One and a half what?”
“Billion. Dollars.”
Nolan put out her cigarette and whistled. “Hot damn. Is that American money?”
I poured Davis into a cab and then hopped in the Mercedes with Nolan. Her eyes looked unfocused and she made a vague, rambling threat to my manhood if I didn’t feed her soon. Dunston’s Steakhouse was only a few blocks down Lovers so I took her there. Dunston’s had been grilling red meat over an indoor, mesquite-fired grill since sometime right after the Bronze Age, and the decor hadn’t changed much, nor had many of the patrons. If you can find a better piece of dead cow in the state for under ten bucks, I want to know about it. We sat between two plumbers wearing “Proud to Be Union” ball caps and a table full of gin-swilling, cigarette-smoking blue hairs blabbing about how awful the country club’s food had become since they’d fired Juan for stealing.
Nolan got a ten-ounce New York strip shot through with marbling. I ordered pork chops. We drank a bottle of screw-top Merlot aged six months to perfection, ate, and talked about what to do next. Rather I talked and Nolan chewed, offering the occasional grunt. With five ounces of her steak left, my cell phone rang. Olson was calling.
“You know a guy named Dirk?”
I washed down the last bite of pork with a mouthful of wine. “Personal assistant to Roger Strathmore?”
“Yeah. That Dirk. He’s over here now, in a bad way.”
“He’s over where? At your place?” I paid the tab and leaned back in my chair. “Well, that’s too damn bad for Dirk. I didn’t try to hurt him. Did he happen to mention pulling his pistol on me?”
“No, he didn’t. This doesn’t have anything to do with you. He showed up here a few minutes ago. Hysterical.”
I leaned forward in my chair, attentive now. “About what?”
“Something to do with his boss, about Roger Strathmore. Something happened to him.”
Things weren’t computing. What could have happened to Roger in the couple of hours since we left him? “What’s he saying happened?”
I heard babbling in the background and then Olson’s voice with the phone away from his mouth. “Delmar, shut him up, will you?” To me, “I dunno what the hell he’s whining about. Something about a guy and woman scamming their way into the house then he chased them off. They were in a blue Mercedes. Then something happens to Roger and he gets all hysterical. I put two and two together with the Mercedes and called you.”
The little rodents in my brain were running on their treadmills just as fast as they could but no answers were coming out. I said, “We’ll be there in a few minutes. Try to figure out what happened.”
“Hurry up, will you, I think he’s gonna wet himself or something and I just got the rugs cleaned.” He hung up.
Nolan downed the last of her wine and said, “Lemme guess. We’re not through for the night?”
I nodded and stood up to leave. If only I’d known how prophetic her words were to be, I would have stayed there and ordered another bottle.
Olson and Delmar lived in a converted duplex on Herschel Avenue, between the Oak Lawn district of town and Highland Park. Their place sat between a hair salon and the local office of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation. I don’t know whom they thought they were fooling but I knew better than to mention it.
Nine minutes after leaving Dunston’s, I turned into their driveway and tapped the horn. A closed-circuit TV camera mounted on the side of the house swiveled toward the Mercedes. A few seconds later the iron gate swung inward, allowing us to enter. I parked by the back door, next to a lime green VW bug, and hopped out. Olson stuck his head out and waved us in.
We entered into the den, a stucco and brick add-on with surround sound for the twin plasma televisions over the fireplace and a zebra-skin rug in t
he center. A dartboard with a picture of the gun control advocate Sarah Brady hung on one wall. Two stacks, six cases each, of shotgun shells stood in the middle of the rug, a dolly sitting next to them. On top of the cases of shells were eight or ten Smith & Wesson pistol boxes. Just another Sunday at home.
Olson greeted us and then walked back over to the leather sofa and picked up what looked like a broom handle with a muffler on one end. He began polishing it with a cloth. “Delmar took him in the back room and gave him a Zantac. They’ll be out in a minute.”
The kitchen and media room were one big conglomeration so I went to the refrigerator and got out two beers. I gave one to Nolan and plopped down on the sofa next to Olson.
“What the hell is that?” I pointed to the thing in his hand. The object was metallic and three or four feet long.
“It’s the barrel to my new fifty-caliber,” he said, with more than a little exasperation in his voice, like I was supposed to know that it didn’t go with the old .50-caliber.
“Oh.” I drank some beer and decided not to ask any more questions. A .50-caliber bullet was about the size of a banana and originally designed to shoot down an airplane. Better not to pry.
There was movement from the kitchen, and Delmar entered the room, followed by Dirk. He didn’t look as cocksure as he had earlier in the day. His face was pale and his eyes were red-rimmed. He jumped and started to whimper when he saw Nolan and me sitting there. Delmar shushed him, then got a beer and sat down in the easy chair by the fireplace.
“All right, Dirk. Tell Hank what you told me.”
The young man crossed his arms and kept his eyes on me. “It was about t-t-thirty minutes after you left.” He nodded his head toward me. “Thirty minutes. They came.”
I leaned forward and put my beer down on the coffee table, using the latest issue of The NRA Today as a coaster. “Who are you talking about, Dirk?”
“Two men. I thought it was you two again. But it wasn’t.” He shuddered.
“Where were the people for Designer Week?”
Still River Page 19
