by R. O. Barton
I couldn’t say it any more clearly.
Carr stood up and turned his back on me, “I don’t think my wife’s death was an accident,” he said, looking at the picture of him and his wife on the bookshelf.
When he turned around to face me, he’d aged a hundred years. “I believe she was killed to get to me.”
“Why?”
“I’m worth over a billion dollars,” he said, with no pride what-so-ever. It was a flat statement with an underlying poignant tone that said, ‘I would give it all up for a minute with my wife.’
I’ve never thought about money and that many zero’s at the same time before.
“The process of making that much money sometimes means other people lose money, or don’t get to make it when I did,” he continued. “I’ve been threatened over the years, and I believe my wife was killed as a means of revenge.”
That would explain LeCompte’s presence.
“Why would you think that? Did someone contact you?”
“No.”
“When was the last threat made?”
“A little over fifteen years ago,” he said, with the weight of forethought.
Now, that seemed like a long time to me.
“Was that threat to you or your wife?” I said, looking up at him, wishing he would sit down before I had to go to the Chiropractor.
“It was to me,” he said as he sat down.
Why is it always the little wishes that are granted?
I was beginning to feel like I was sitting in a rocket science class.
Trying not to sound exasperated, I said, “Okay, so, you think your wife was killed to get back at you, because . . . ?
I was now convinced he was being obtuse.
“Because the private investigator I hired disappeared a few weeks after I hired him.”
Now, this was pithy information.
“Would you care to elaborate?” I asked, looking at both of them.
Carr held up his glass between himself and the window, looked through the melting ice cubes, and said, “I hired a retired Houston PD Detective, turned Private, named Manske. He came highly recommended, and after a few weeks of getting nowhere, he called and reported he had a promising lead. That was the last we heard from him. Frank has called someone he knows in Houston. His house was staked out for a few days, and he was a no show.”
Noticing his glass was sans whiskey, I asked, “What was this lead?”
LeCompte said, “He didn’t say. Said he wanted to be sure about it before he said anything. He did say it was heavy.”
Heavy?
“What did the Houston PD have to say?”
They both just stared at me, their vacant faces saying it.
“You didn’t report it, did you?” I sighed, remembering how they said it might get messy. My house gets messy.
As Carr got up and headed back towards the bar, he said, “We talked it over and thought it best if we didn’t call any attention to the investigation.”
“Why?” I asked, trying to keep my head above the waterline.
“A couple of reasons,” LeCompte said. “One, we figured if there had been any foul play, we’d let it cool off. Whoever was involved may think we’ve given up. So if we sent someone else, they might be able to pick the trail back up. Two, I got the impression that someone in the Houston PD might be involved.”
“You got that impression, did you?” I said, thinking, did he really say foul play? He had definitely been in civilian life too long. I also didn’t think he was telling me everything. But, what do I know.
“Yes, I did,” LeCompte said. “I talked to him last. When he said this lead was getting heavy, well, that’s the impression I got.”
I hadn’t been around this man for long, but long enough to get a sense of his sense.
“Sounds reasonable,” I said. “So, when you said foul play, you believe this Manske may be dead. Is that right?”
LeCompte’s face turned sour and he looked between Carr and me, said, “Foul play? I didn’t say foul play, did I?”
Our combined silence was palpable in the large office.
LeCompte said, “Yeah, we think he’s dead or bought off, probably dead.”
I couldn’t help thinking, messy, messy, messy. But I was beginning to connect the dots.
Carr was just sitting back down with a topped off glass. I hadn’t been counting, but I still didn’t detect any of the telltale signs of him being drunk.
I glanced at Carr and said, “George, did you think your wife was murdered from the beginning, or only after Manske got foul played?”
I was looking at LeCompte when I finished the question. There was no humor in my voice. I didn’t think anything about this was amusing. I’d been asked over here for a job interview. So far, I’ve had my iniquitous past stacked on a desk then thrown in my face, been flattered, had words like dead and bloody replaced by foul play and messy. The only reason I didn’t walk out was, I liked George Carr and Frank LeCompte; I liked the skiing picture of him and his wife; I liked Rachael and the way she looked for the ghost of a woman to walk into the foyer; I liked the room I was sitting in; I liked the flattery; I needed something to do; I was starting to feel the stirrings of intrigue; and I was getting hungry.
That’s the only reason I didn’t get up and walk out.
Carr, hands flat on his desk, leaned toward me and said in a voice barely devoid of tears, “After Manske disappeared following his last report, I became convinced she was murdered. I need someone I can trust to go to Houston and nose around, see if there is any lead that can help me find out what happened to Jean. I believe Manske was onto something and it got him killed. If he was bought off, he most likely wouldn’t have disappeared. Why would he? Tucker, I loved my wife. I owe it to her, and what we had, to do everything in my power to find out what happened to her.”
I started thinking, if there were bad cops involved, I wouldn’t be a bad choice to ferret them out. It’s not like I don’t have experience in that arena. And, me not being a cop or never having been a cop might be an asset. I do have some cop connections in Houston. Another thing, this Manske’s disappearance may have nothing to do with the investigation into Carr’s wife’s death, it could be related to another case, or something from his cop days. But I knew Carr didn’t want to hear that.
Carr inhaled through his nose and said, “Tucker, I would imagine you might feel violated by all of the, ah, research we’ve done on you. Please understand and believe me when I say, it started out as a routine background check, something I would do before hiring anyone. I may have gotten a little carried away, but, the more I learned about you, the more I wanted to know. The more I learned, the more certain I became that you are the man for this job.”
I looked at my past stacked on his desk and said, “A little carried away?”
He stood and looked down at me and quietly said, “Look, goddamnit, I’m not sorry, okay? I know you are the man I need. You want the job or not?”
I’d bet that was as close to begging that Carr had ever come.
“If I take the job, can I have a copy of my life?” I said, pointing at him with my finger and thumb, like a gun.
He stared at my finger gun for a moment, looked confusingly at the stack on the desk, then back at me, and said, “Of course.”
I was curious as to how my life was perceived by others. I believed we never see ourselves as others do. Maybe I wouldn’t read it.
“What happens if I find that someone did murder your wife? What happens then?”
LeCompte answered, “If you find out who did it, your job is done. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I pulled myself out of the chair, walked over to the gun cabinet and stood in front of it. I wasn’t looking at the guns. I could see my reflection in the glass; I was thinking about Margie. I was thinking if someone murdered her to get to me, would I want to know that. Probably, the guilt would be bad, but not as bad as knowing her killer was walking around with a fuckin’ smile on his face.
“What’re you thinking, Tucker?” Carr asked.
“That if I find out she was murdered, I’d better make damn sure who did it before I tell LeCompte.”
“Then you’re going to help me, you’re going to do it?”
I turned from the guns and walked over to the desk and with my legs against it, leaned over and held out my hand.
Carr held out his and as we looked into each other’s eyes, we shook on it.
LeCompte walked behind the desk and stood to the left of Carr and softy said, “Hooya.”
That’s how we were when Rachael opened the door and walked into the office.
Chapter 36
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. Then her eyes gleamed with understanding, and she said, “I’m glad you are going to help us, Mr. Tucker.”
Again, I heard the ‘us’, as in, family.
As Carr and I disengaged, she walked towards us. She had changed into a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, tucked into faded blue jeans. On her feet were soft brown leather boots, obviously custom made. The attire accented her broad shoulders, the strength of her arms, and the length of her legs.
Before I could reply, she said, “Dinner will be ready in 30 minutes.”
“Splendid,” Carr said. “I’m sure I heard Tucker’s stomach growling a few minutes ago.”
She walked over and stood next to me and looked sternly at George. She smelled faintly of roses and expensive soap. From the side, I saw that her face was only scarred on the front half. From the corner of her eye back, her complexion was flawless. I could see her pulse in the contours of her neck. I liked her neck.
“And from the looks of you, you need to eat,” she said, still boring holes into Carr.
Carr looked down at his whiskey glass, embarrassment red was starting to creep up his jaw line. He meekly said, “I’ve only had a couple, Rachael, ask Frank.”
She quickly looked at me and caught me checking her pulse. “I think I will ask Mr. Tucker how many you’ve had.”
I was looking into her blue eyes and just getting a grasp on the fact, she had taken over some of Mrs. Carr’s duties. Like watching out for Mr. Carr’s health. I didn’t get the impression there was any sexual tension between the two. It was more of a motherly, or sisterly energy. Then, I realized why I thought of sexual energy. She was standing very close to me, and she expected me to respond to the question.
“I would really like to call you Rachael,” I said. “So, if you don’t drop the Mr., I will have to call you Miss . . . what is your last name anyway?”
“Wallace,” she said, maintaining eye contact.
“So what’s it going to be, Rachael or Miss Wallace? It is Miss, isn’t it.?”
I was enjoying her proximity and was surprised by my unpremeditated flirting. It took her a moment to realize it. She blushed, turning some of the more pronounced scars pink. She immediately dropped her head and looked at the floor. I was sorely cognizant that she was aware that blushing highlighted her disfigurement.
I felt like an ass. I didn’t quite know what to do.
In almost a whisper, she said, “Miss . . . it’s Miss.”
I gently put my right index finger under her chin, raised her face up until we were once again looking at each other, and said, “So, what’s it going to be?”
“What?” she said.
“Rachael or Miss Wallace?” I said.
“Rachael, of course,” she said, with a small tinkling laugh, not quite a giggle.
“Okay, then, I’m Tucker, or Tuck, whichever you prefer.”
She turned her head towards Carr, taking her chin from my fingertip in the process, and said, “Twenty-eight minutes.” A note to her diamond edge exactness and household power.
She looked at LeCompte, curtly nodded, turned and walked towards the door. Halfway there, she spun around, and caught me noticing what else the jeans accented, and said, “I believe I will call you Tuck.”
Before I could antically respond, she said, “And, Tuck, don’t think I didn’t notice you never answered my question.”
“I never heard a question. Did you hear her ask me a question George?”
“Not me,” Carr said, “You, Frank?”
“Not me.”
She stared at Frank a moment longer, then looked at me and said, “I cooked Crawfish Etouffe’e’, I hope you’ll like it.”
Then to George, she said, “I let the kitchen staff go home early.”
She left without another word.
I looked at Frank and said, “What’s with you and her?”
“I don’t know how she does it, but she can tell when George has had more than a couple of drinks. She asked me to make sure he doesn’t drink during the day.”
“I’ll drink when I’m damn good and ready,” George said. “And I’m damn good and ready now.”
He started over towards the liquor cabinet, and Frank said, “How ‘bout I open some wine, something to go with the Etouffe’e.”
Carr stopped in mid-stride and said, “Did she say she cooked?”
“I was wondering if you caught that,” Frank said.
I looked from one to the other and said, “I guess it’s not a common occurrence when your head of housekeeping cooks.”
They both were obviously taken aback.
“Who’s head of housekeeping?” George said.
Frank started laughing, and I said, “She told me she was head of housekeeping.”
Now they were both laughing. George Carr’s laughter was loud and full of release. The hilarity of a man who hadn’t done much laughing. I was reminded of the forgetting of grief, and how freeing it was, momentarily.
“What?” I asked.
After his laughter subsided enough for him to speak, George said, “Rachael is head of housekeeping, and head of everything else, including my investments. The woman graduated Suma Cum Laude, with an MBA, from Harvard. She literally keeps my house and my money together.”
I looked back at the closed door she had just walked through.
Frank said, “And, the fact that she is cooking means she likes you. She is one hell of a cook. She got the recipe for Crawfish Etouffe’e from my mother and prepares it like a true Cajun.”
Carr put his glass down without refilling it, walked back to his desk, sat down behind it, and said, “Rachael doesn’t like many people. Her experience with other’s reaction to her face has left her a bit cynical concerning the human race. She prefers animals, mostly horses and dogs.”
I sat back down in my chair as Frank opened another bookshelf, revealing a hidden wine rack.
“I don’t have one of those,” I said. “I am glad she likes me, but I don’t know why she would. I’ve just met her.”
Frank’s hand stopped in mid-air as he was reaching for a bottle of wine.
George Carr cleared his throat and said, “Ah, well . . . Tucker, Rachael sort of transcribed and arranged your file.”
Now I really didn’t know why she’d like me.
“Is there anyone else who knows more about me than, as you said, I do?”
Carr stood, walked over to the wine rack, pulled out a bottle of wine and while looking at the label, nonchalantly said, “I did have a psychiatrist I know read it, and give me an overall review of what kind of man I might expect to be dealing with.”
My appetite was fading. I had already taken the job. There wasn’t much point in getting mad about it. I had been around enough therapists not to be intimidated by them or their opinions. At times like this, it all comes down to one thing, ‘how ya gonna act’. That’s what life’s about. A series of actions we make in relationship to information and situations.
So, I said, “I like red wine.”
“Me too,” Carr said.
“Me too,” LeCompte said.
Chapter 37
I walked back to the gun cabinet as Carr and LeCompte selected and opened a bottle of wine. I looked at my watch and saw that it was almo
st 6:30. I had been in Carr’s office for almost five and a half hours. It felt like days. My brain had been wrenched by memories, long put away.
Thinking back on my dealing days wasn’t the hardest part. It was how Margie and I were at that time. It was edge living and it kept us close. Not closer, we couldn’t have been any closer. It kept us in a constant state of intimacy and trust for the few years we were in the business.
Looking at the guns in the cabinet reminded me how she’d always trusted me not to get killed. How she liked to watch me shoot my guns and do some of the quick draw tricks with my western six-gun rig. I knew it made her feel secure. Like there was no way I could be shot in a gunfight. I didn’t share that feeling, but could never let her know that. And, by the frequency and the intensity when we made love, I wasn’t all that certain about her exact sentiments on the subject of my prolonged existence. It was fast times.
“It’s open,” Carr said. “Look at whatever you like.”
I opened the framed glass door and plucked an old Colt Peacemaker from where it was hanging on a wooden peg by the trigger guard. I thumbed back the hammer until it released the cylinder, opened the bale and slowly spun the cylinder to check for rounds. It was empty. Then I did something so natural to me, I didn’t even think about it. I gave it a half forward spin, then a full back spin until it settled in my palm, thumbed the hammer back and pulled the trigger. It was something I did to check the balance of a gun, how it fit in my hand and the sensitivity of the trigger.
LeCompte whistled softly and said, “Now, that was pretty.”
Like I said, I did it without thinking and when I turned my head towards LeCompte, he saw my confusion.
“What you just did, I’ve seen it done before, but not with such a natural, . . . acquaintance.”
As George poured wine into generous crystal goblets, he said, “If you look in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, you’ll find a holster that goes with it. I wouldn’t mind if you tried them out, you know . . . quick draw.”
I heard it as ‘queeks draw’, like in Queeks Draw McGraw, from the old cartoon. I always did.
“Maybe some other time,” I said, returning the old Colt to its resting place.
