Twilight at Mac's Place m-4

by Ross Thomas

  Haynes recognized the voice of Karl Triller, the head bartender. “This is Granville Haynes. Padillo still around?”

  “Hold on,” Triller said.

  A few moments later, Padillo came on the line with, “You need something, right?”

  “I need to cash a check for three thousand in twenties and fifties. Can you handle it?”

  “If you hurry.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Haynes said.

  Seated on his side of the partners desk, Padillo counted $3,000 into three $1,000 piles as Haynes watched. After looking up and getting a nod from Haynes, Padillo took a plain No. 10 envelope from a desk drawer, placed the $3,000 inside and handed it to Haynes unsealed. Without recounting the money, Haynes ran his tongue over the envelope’s flap and sealed it.

  Padillo put Haynes’s check and a thin leftover sheaf of tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds into a steel cash box, closed its lid, rose and put the box in the old safe.

  “You didn’t lock it,” Haynes said.

  “The cash box? We lost the key. But then we decided if a thief opens the safe, a cash box won’t present any problem.”

  After closing the old safe’s door and giving the combination a couple of spins, Padillo turned to Haynes and said, “Need a lift?”

  “I can get a cab.”

  “I think you need a lift.”

  “I don’t want to keep you up.”

  “I don’t sleep much anymore.”

  Haynes smiled. “Well, maybe I could use a lift at that.”

  At 1:17 A.M., Padillo dropped Haynes off at Connecticut Avenue and Calvert Street, then continued out Connecticut for five blocks before he turned around, drove back down the same broad street and parked on its west side only thirty yards up and across from the streetlight where money would be swapped for information.

  At 2:03 A.M., a dark blue Ford panel van stopped in front of the streetlight. Padillo couldn’t tell whether the driver was a man or a woman. But when the driver didn’t stir from behind the wheel, Padillo assumed someone in the van’s rear was making use of the sliding door. Counting by thousands, Padillo timed the transaction at less than thirty seconds because he had just reached 28,000 when the Ford van pulled away.

  At 2:09 A.M., Haynes came into view, walking north along the east sidewalk of Connecticut Avenue. By 2:11 A.M., Haynes had reached the designated streetlight. He knelt down, as if to tie a shoelace, rose, turned around and walked south, retracing his steps.

  The blue van reappeared twenty seconds later. Again, the driver didn’t stir from behind the wheel. Counting once more by thousands, Padillo had reached 16,000 when the van sped away from the curb and north on Connecticut.

  Padillo waited four minutes, then started his aging Mercedes coupe’s engine and drove south. He stopped at the stone lion at the south end and west side of Taft Bridge. Haynes opened the passenger door and got in.

  “Where to?” Padillo asked.

  “The Madison.”

  “It was a blue Ford van,” Padillo said as he drove away. “It was too dark to read the license plate and I couldn’t tell whether the driver was a man or a woman, but whoever it was never left the wheel. So there had to be at least two of them.”

  “You have a map light?” Haynes asked.

  Padillo switched it on.

  Haynes held a plain three-by-five-inch card to the light. The card contained four lines of typing. Haynes read them aloud:

  “ ‘Hamilton Keyes, Saigon, South Vietnam, 8-3-72 to 6-1-74.

  “ ‘Muriel Lamphier, Vientiane, Laos, 10-2-73 to 4-15-74.

  “ ‘Gilbert Undean, Vientiane, Laos, 2-13-68 to 5-1-74.

  “ ‘Steadfast Haynes, no official trace, repeat, no official trace.’ ”

  “You spent three thousand for that?” Padillo said.

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’m going to ask Tinker—among other things.”

  “Want me to help you ask him?”

  “No need.”

  “I think I will anyway,” Padillo said.

  Chapter 34

  Padillo, leaning on the counter, stared thoughtfully at the Madison Hotel front desk clerk and managed to make a quiet suggestion sound like a death threat. “Why not call him, tell him we’re here and see what he says?”

  The clerk swallowed, nodded, picked up a phone, tapped out a room number and listened to the rings. After what Granville Haynes guessed was the fourth ring, the clerk said, “This is Edwards at the desk, Mr. Burns. Sorry for the disturbance, but a Mr. Padillo and a Mr. Haynes insist on seeing you.”

  Pressing the phone tightly against his ear, as if to muffle the shouts and curses, the clerk closed his eyes and began nodding almost rhythmically. He finally stopped nodding, opened his eyes and said, “I understand perfectly, Mr. Burns.”

  After replacing the phone, the clerk looked first at Haynes, then at Padillo and said, “He says come up at your own risk.”

  Tinker Burns opened the door of his room, stepped back and silently watched Haynes enter, followed by Padillo. Haynes looked around the room, as if comparing it to his own at the Willard. After crossing to the bathroom, he switched on its light, gave it a quick inspection, switched the light off, turned, walked past Burns again, still ignoring him, picked out a chair and sat down. Padillo chose a chair on the opposite side of the room.

  Tinker Burns inspected the seated Padillo first, then Haynes. He nodded, as if at the answer to some troublesome question, tightened the belt of his white terry-cloth hotel bathrobe, went on huge bare feet to the small refrigerator, took out a can of beer, opened it, drank deeply, belched loudly and sat down on the bed.

  “Let’s hear it, Tinker,” said Haynes.

  “You just did,” Burns said, and belched again. “But now you’ve got me repeating myself.”

  Padillo rose, went to the refrigerator and removed two miniatures of Scotch whisky. He located a pair of glasses and used them to pour two drinks. He gave one drink to Haynes and returned to his own chair with the other. Once seated, Padillo tasted the whisky, looked at Burns and said, “I called Letty Melon just before we got here. She was still up.”

  “Still up and still smashed, right?”

  “Not too bad,” Padillo said.

  “Bet you told her how I hired those two dummies who tied her up and all. Schlitz called and told me you and McCorkle’ve got Steady’s manuscript. But that didn’t make any sense because you guys wouldn’t tell those two morons even if you did have it, which you don’t.”

  “Herr Horst said you came looking for me,” Padillo said. “Twice.”

  “I was just pissed off enough to wanta find out what you and McCorkle were up to.” Burns paused, drank more beer and said, “I finally figured out you were up to nothing.”

  “Letty was awfully talkative,” Padillo said. “But she got even more so after I told her that Schlitz and Pabst were working for you.”

  “Told you about that fake manuscript, did she?” Burns said.

  Padillo answered with a nod. “But then she began telling me about that phone call you got in Paris just before Steady died. And that’s when I turned her over to Granville.”

  “I didn’t believe her,” Haynes said. “At first.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “It was a crazy story, Tinker, all about an old friend of yours who’s now some big shot and wants a peek at Steady’s memoirs just to see whether he’s mentioned. Letty says that if you can swing that for him, this same very important somebody will provide you with access to an end-use certificate that’ll let you dump all that left-behind Vietnam ordnance you’ve got rusting away in those Marseilles warehouses.”

  “Letty remembers pretty good,” Burns said. “Even when she’s deep in the sauce.”

  “I believed some of what she told me,” Haynes said. “I believed the part about your getting a call in Paris before Steady died. But I don’t believe it was from anyone you knew.”

  “I d
on’t give much of a shit what you believe, Granny.”

  “I think the call was from somebody who wants to read Steady’s memoirs—maybe even buy them. I think you got the call because you’d known Steady forever and this same somebody thought you could arrange it somehow. I think you told this somebody you’d give it a try. But before you could, Steady died on you. I think this same somebody is still willing to pay you a lot of money for either the memoirs or just a peek at them. So you flew over here for the burial to see what could be salvaged. I also think that’s why you went to see Isabelle at her apartment.”

  Haynes paused, as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “There’s something else I think, Tinker. No, I’m convinced of it. I’m convinced that if you hadn’t smelled money, there’d’ve only been three of us at Arlington: Isabelle, Undean and me.”

  Burns rubbed his chin with a big hand as he studied Haynes. The palm of his hand made a slight rasping sound as it scraped across bone-white bristles.

  “Know something, Granny?” Burns said. “I didn’t think anybody young as you could be so fucking sanctimonious. Steady was dead. D-e-a-d. You must know what dead is. Christ, you were in the trade. Steady never expected me to show up for his funeral any more’n I’d expect him to show up for mine. But I went anyhow and why I did’s none of your fucking business.”

  “How much did he offer you, Tinker?” Padillo said. “This someday who called you in Paris?”

  “Did somebody call me?” Burns said.

  Haynes leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, both hands holding his barely tasted drink. His face suddenly seemed to acquire harsher planes and darker shadows. His stare grew bleak and his voice made each word sound like a slap.

  “Butt out, Tinker,” Haynes said. “They’re my memoirs now. Steady left them to me in his will. I’m going to auction them off Wednesday. The bidding will start at three quarters of a million. But if you keep messing around, you’ll just fuck things up. So go back to Paris, Tinker. Go home and forget about the memoirs.”

  Burns’s old tan couldn’t quite conceal the dark red flush that raced up his neck and spread to his cheeks and ears. “Who the hell’re you to tell me what to do? About anything? Especially Steady. I knew him better and liked him more’n you ever did. But you waltz in here at three in the morning like God’s last messenger, and who the fuck d’you bring with you? Why, it’s Señor Death himself, that’s who.” Burns jerked a thumb at Padillo. “What d’you really know about this guy, Granny?”

  “A family friend,” Haynes said.

  Burns grunted. “Some fucking family. Some fucking friend.”

  “Tell him, Tinker,” Padillo said. “It might lower your blood pressure.”

  Burns jumped to his feet and stretched one arm out full length to aim an accusatory finger at Padillo. Haynes thought Burns’s blazing eyes, quivering forefinger, bare feet and long white robe made him look rather biblical—like some ancient prophet with too much time in the wilderness.

  “Know who they used to send when they needed somebody fixed?” Burns demanded. “They sent him. That’s who. Michael Padillo, the assassin’s assassin. How many did you fix over the years, Mike? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred?”

  Padillo smiled. “Counting the war?”

  Burns opened his mouth to say or shout something. But before he could, Haynes said, “Just answer one question, Tinker. How well do you know the former Muriel Lamphier who’s now Mrs. Hamilton Keyes?”

  It was then that Burns warned them to get the fuck out before he called the hotel security people.

  In the elevator, Haynes asked, “What was all that assassin stuff?”

  “History.”

  “Real or invented?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  “Ask McCorkle.”

  “Does he know?”

  “He knows.”

  “Will he tell me?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What about Erika?”

  “I think she suspects.”

  “Should I ask her?”

  “You can ask anyone you want to.”

  “Will she tell me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Padillo said.

  Padillo gave the Madison’s drowsy doorman twenty dollars to let them park the old Mercedes coupe in front of the hotel’s Fifteenth Street entrance, where the big glass doors allowed them to watch the bank of pay telephones near the elevators. After they waited five minutes, Padillo said, “Maybe he used his room phone after all.”

  “And leave a record of the phone number on his bill?” Haynes said. “Tinker’s way too cagey for that. Let’s give him another ten minutes.”

  After two minutes of silence, Padillo said, “That was a nice performance you gave.”

  Haynes smiled at the praise. “You mean the way I let my paranoia peep shyly forth?”

  Padillo nodded. “You must’ve drawn on your time with the L.A. cops. I say that because half the cops I ever met were paranoid.”

  “Half the cops,” Haynes said, “and all the actors.”

  Thirty seconds later Tinker Burns came out of one of the two elevators they could see from the car and headed for the pay phones. Burns had dressed quickly and was wearing only a shirt, pants, shoes, but no socks. As he neared the pay phones, he hesitated, looked around, made a quick tour of the virtually empty lobby, then went back to the phones and dropped coins into one of them.

  With Padillo’s powerful binoculars now up to his eyes and the long-memorized three-across-and-four-down Touch-Tone phone pattern firmly in mind, Haynes read off the seven numbers that Burns tapped as Padillo jotted them down on the back of an envelope.

  “Four. Six. Five. Nine. One. Nine. One.”

  “You’re sure?” Padillo said.

  “Christ, no.”

  “Good. I’d be a little edgy if you were.”

  They watched Burns talk and listen for two minutes and thirteen seconds by Padillo’s watch. Burns then hung up and reentered the same, still waiting elevator. As its doors closed, Padillo said, “Any ideas?”

  “About how we find out who belongs to 465-9191?”

  Padillo nodded, started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  “Tonight?” Haynes asked.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Padillo glanced at him. “Are you much of a mimic?”

  “Try me.”

  “Do Tinker Burns.”

  Haynes closed his eyes, breathed deeply two times, opened his eyes, deepened his voice, gave it a rough edge and bellowed, “Okay! That’s it! Now get the fuck outta here before I call security!”

  Padillo smiled. “Perfect.”

  They made the call from Padillo’s Foggy Bottom house. Haynes made it from the wall phone in the kitchen with Padillo on the living room extension.

  After Haynes tapped out the 465-9191 number, it rang four and a half times before it was answered by a man’s sleepy mumbled hello.

  “Tinker Burns again,” Haynes said. “There’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.”

  “Mr. Burns, this is twice tonight that you’ve robbed me of sleep,” said the voice that once again reminded Haynes of soothing syrup. “I assure you we can discuss it, whatever it is, when we meet tomorrow morning. And now, sir, good night.”

  The connection was broken. Haynes put the wall phone back on its hook and went into the living room. Padillo turned from the extension and said, “Well?”

  “One, he’s a lawyer. Two, he’s an ex-U.S. senator. Three, he’s the guy who’s been talking to Howard Mott about buying all rights to the memoirs for some anonymous client. And four, he’s obviously from way down south.”

  “Near Mobile,” Padillo said.

  “Is that a guess or do you know him?”

  “We’ve met,” Padillo said.

  Chapter 35

  The one-term senator from Alabama practiced law in a three-story building that sa
t on a small triangle of land where Connecticut Avenue met Nineteenth Street just north of Dupont Circle.

  The building had once offered fine apartments, including one that a former Speaker of the House of Representatives, now dead, had lived in for years. It was still an article of faith in Washington that its weird taxicab zones had been redrawn to make sure the Speaker would pay the absolute minimum fare for his rides to and from the Capitol.

  Tinker Burns paid off his own taxi, got out and examined the yellow brick building that time and smog were turning light tan. He hoped the senator hadn’t chosen the building for its quaintness. Burns despised and mistrusted anything that hinted of quaint.

  The senator had made his law office look as much like his Senate office as possible. There were the same dark blue leather chairs and couches, the same massive desk and, on one wall, the same rather good watercolors of Mobile Bay. The other walls were covered by either bookshelves or the eighty-seven black-and-white photographs of the senator and eight-seven of his oldest and dearest friends, past and present. Some of the past friends had died and others had quickly—too quickly, some said—drifted away after the senator lost his bid for reelection in 1986.

  But the photographs remained on display, offering informal portraits of the senator with three living former U.S. Presidents, one prince, six premiers, one chancellor, two prime ministers, twenty-one U.S. senators, thirteen U.S. representatives, nine state governors, three secretaries of state, five directors of Central Intelligence, one ex-President-for-Life and a five-year-old blue tick hound who was now curled up fast asleep on one of the leather couches.

  The senator was on the telephone when his secretary ushered Tinker Burns into the paneled office. Burns was greeted with a warm smile and a beckoning hand that waved him silently into the most comfortable leather armchair.

  Once assured that Burns was safely seated, the senator went back to his listening. He did it with his eyes closed. When open, the eyes were a remarkable blue that reminded one former Senate colleague, no admirer, of twin neon periods.

  The rest of the face was lean, maybe even skinny, with scooped-out cheeks, sharp nose, thin gray lips and a chin that came to a point. The face was topped by lank gray hair that was inexpertly cut by his wife every three weeks. The kitchen haircut and the shabby suits he wore helped foster the senator’s chosen image—that of a sly rustic. At twenty-three and just out of law school, he had nicknamed himself Rube. Now fifty-three, he still liked to be called that by close friends.