by Ross Thomas
“Gobs.”
“Well, there’s one thing about steak tartare,” I said.
“What?”
“If we’re busy doing something else, we won’t have to worry about it getting cold.”
After the drinks, and the wine, and the raw chopped steak, and a most satisfactory midday journey down some heretofore unexplored avenues in sexland, Carol Thackerty and I sat drinking coffee and waiting for my command appearance in the Rickenbacker suite before the crowned heads of Swankerton.
“It’s not really your dish, is it?” she said.
“What, sex?”
“No.”
“Well, what?”
“This whole Swankerton bamboozle.”
“That’s a good word.”
“It describes it.”
“Probably,” I said.
“But you don’t fit in, do you?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re a good liar, but not that good.”
“All right, I thought about it. For five minutes just before I called you.
“And what did you decide?”
“Why the hell do I have to decide something? I just thought about it.”
“If somebody were setting me up, I’d think about it. Hard.”
“I read the enlistment papers carefully,” I said.
“You signed on to be tough, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Why?”
“My thinking hasn’t got that far yet,” I said. “That’s tomorrow’s episode.”
She ground her cigarette out in an ashtray and kept on grinding it even after it was dead. “You’re in for a long fall,” she said. “I don’t think you know how far.”
“I’ve got a fair idea.”
“If I had to fall that far, I’d be looking for something to catch me.”
“Maybe I’ll just bounce.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You won’t bounce. You’ll just shatter into a million, billion, trillion pieces.”
“That’s a lot of pieces.”
“I used to say that when I was a kid.”
“Why all the sudden concern?” I said.
She looked at me steadily. “Jesus, you ask some dumb questions sometimes.”
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose I probably do.”
CHAPTER 28
Channing d’Arcy Phetwick III crossed one bony leg over the other, cleared his throat, and in his old man’s faltering tenor said, “What precisely was the reaction of the Lynch person?”
I turned from the window which had a view of the Gulf and said, “He thought Mrs. Sobour was a financial whiz.”
Phetwick must have been close to eighty. He occupied one of the three chairs that were drawn up around a coffee table in the Rickenbacker suite. Orcutt and Doctor Colfax sat in the other two, Orcutt on the edge of his so that his feet could touch the floor. Phetwick’s voice kept cracking when he spoke, going from tenor to soprano, but each word came out all by itself, freshly minted, and the phrasing of each word was exactly the same. It was a curious way of speaking, something like a talking robot whose voice box needed oiling. Phetwick wore a hearing aid and thick bifocals and the backs of his hands were covered with brown liver spots. He had on a dark suit, almost black, that may have been broadcloth if they still make it, and a high collar, like the one that Herbert Hoover wears in all the history books. His stringy neck was too small for the collar and his flesh hung in gray, flabby folds, as if he had lost a lot of weight.
“Does Lynch believe that I will publish the story?” he said.
“Yes, I think so. He’s going to turn the stuff over to you today.”
“Excellent. I wrote my signed editorial this morning. It is, I think you will agree when you read it, exceptionally forceful.” Phetwick never seemed to use contractions when he spoke. “Now let us get on with the affair of the druggist.”
“Doctor Colfax has gone over the information concerning Frank Mouton,” Orcutt said. “It appears incontrovertible to him as well as to me and I suggest that Mr. Dye transmit it to Lynch much in the same manner that he transmitted the material on the Sobour woman.”
“Mouton is a deacon in my church,” Phetwick said to no one in particular. “Pity, I suppose.”
Dr. Warner Colfax stirred in his chair at Orcutt’s left. He was my idea of what a doctor should look like: his expensive tweed suit was carelessly rumpled, his tie was the wrong shade, and his shirt, while clean enough, was a little too tight at the neck and snug at the belly. His shoes, also expensive, were thoughtlessly cared for, and his blue eyes twinkled merrily behind practical, steel-rimmed glasses. He had a brush mustache, clipped fairly well, but gone to salt and pepper, and a wide sensitive mouth over a strong chin, with gray thinning hair that he brushed just so to cover a bare patch and to reveal that he, too, had a reassuring streak of harmless vanity. Good, gray Dr. Colfax.
“I don’t mind if the cocksucker slipped pills to every neurotic old cunt in town,” the good gray doctor said in a voice as gritty as ground glass. “But when he started wholesaling to those shitheads, I had a little talk with him.”
“To cut yourself in for ten percent, I believe,” Phetwick said.
The doctor twinkled his eyes some more. Only his voice kept him from being the lovable rogue. “Prove it,” he said with a warm smile and a weasel’s snarl.
The old man turned his head to look at the doctor. He turned it slowly and carefully and I almost expected to hear it squeak. “That may not be as difficult as you believe, Warner, should the occasion arise; I am certain that if your participation in the druggist’s illegal activities could not be proved, several of your other nefarious adventures would be unable to bear close public scrutiny.” Phetwick talked like that—commas, semicolons, and all.
“Don’t bang skeletons with me, Channing,” the doctor said. “I know where they’re all hidden—even yours.”
“Fortunately, Mr. Orcutt, Doctor Colfax and I over the years have reached what at one time was popularly described as a Mexican standoff. We could easily ruin each other. Realizing this, we have joined forces, although you may have noticed that a current of animosity runs between us. To be quite frank, we despise each other.”
“I think it’s perfectly charming,” Orcutt said and smiled his fake smile to try to show that he really did.
“Yes,” Phetwick said slowly and with a trace of doubt, “charming. Let us now return to the druggist Mouton who, sad to say, is also a Clean Government Association candidate for a vacancy on the city council. He can be easily pilloried, true. But if he were to be elected, he would be a most amenable councilman. We sacrifice this virtual certainty so that Mr. Dye can gain the confidence of the Lynch person in the fond but uncertain hope that he will discover information that will be useful to us and conversely damaging to Lynch and his supporters. That is correct, is it not?” He peered at Orcutt through his thick glasses.
“Perfectly,” Orcutt said.
“Christ,” Doctor Colfax said, “how many times do we have to rake this shit up?”
“As many as necessary, Warner,” Phetwick said.
“How ‘bout it, Dye?” the doctor said. “You think you can get something on Lynch’s people? And don’t fall for that crap about him being an ex-con. Everybody knows that and they all feel soft and gooey inside because they’re giving him a second chance.”
“There’ll be something,” I said. “I can’t guarantee quid pro quo. Nobody can. But there’ll be something.”
“Something that will turn the stomachs of our voters, I hope,” Phetwick said. “Perhaps you have already discovered this, Mr. Dye, but the citizens of Swankerton all seem to have stomachs that are made of cast iron. Nothing really bothers them very much.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said.
“I say turn the goods on Mouton over to Dye and let him get on with his job,” Doctor Colfax said. “That’s what we’re paying him for.”
“Mr. Phetwick
?” Orcutt said.
Phetwick sighed. “I never really cared for Mouton, even though he is a deacon in my church. It is the First Methodist, you know. Will it put him behind bars?”
“Probably not,” Orcutt said. “The statute of limitations has run out.”
“That’s the state statute,” Doctor Colfax said. “What about Federal? What about the income-tax boys?”
“That will be up to them, of course,” Orcutt said. “It may be that Mouton paid his proper income tax.”
“In a pig’s ass,” the doctor growled.
“It is really not our concern,” Phetwick said and sighed again, so deeply that it made him shudder. “Our concern is to destroy the man and by doing so cast even more of a shadow on the efficacy of the Clean Government Association. It does seem to be a dear price to pay, but if it will help return a semblance of orderliness to Swankerton, then I can only agree.”
“I have an idea,” I said, “which may be an answer to your objections, Mr. Phetwick.”
“Then say it, young man, say it.”
“I go ahead and turn the information on Mouton over to Lynch. But he doesn’t use it to destroy Mouton publicly. Instead, he uses it to blackmail Mouton into informing on the Clean Government Association. Since we have equal leverage, we can force Mouton to channel misleading information to Lynch. We’ll supply him with it, of course.”
Doctor Colfax slammed a big white fist on his knee. “Now, by God, I like that! That’s real shitty!”
Phetwick nodded slowly and carefully. “It does have merit, I agree. However, do you think that Lynch will be able to withstand the temptation? By that I mean if one has the power to destroy another and by doing so achieve measurable gain for oneself, the temptation to destroy is quite often difficult to resist and becomes, in many instances, overriding.”
“You should know, Channing,” Doctor Colfax said.
“I do know, Warner,” Phetwick said. “That is why I mentioned it.”
“I might have an answer to that, too,” I said. “I’ll suggest to Lynch that the information he has on Mouton can be useful in two ways. First, it’ll get him inside dope on the Clean Government Association, and if it comes from Mouton, he’ll trust it more than if it came from me. But second, I’ll suggest that he use the information to force Mouton into making a last minute refutation of the Clean Government Association. You can then counter that, Mr. Phetwick, with a front-page exposé of Mouton’s illegal drug sales.”
“By God, Dye, I don’t know what the Christ you’ve been doing up till now, but you sure as hell earned your money today!” It was the good, gruff, gray doctor complimenting me and I started to ask him if he had something for nausea.
“Devilish, Mr. Dye,” Phetwick said. “Sound thinking, too. Should have thought of it myself. We first use Mouton to mislead Lynch. When Mouton makes his eleventh-hour attack on the Clean Government Association and embraces the Lynch slate, we expose him as a grubby drug peddler. We thus destroy the validity of his attack on us and at the same time expose Lynch and his people as being foolishly gullible at best, or in cahoots with Mouton at worst. Yes. I like it, probably, I must confess, because of its utter ruthlessness. Are you an utterly ruthless man, Mr. Dye?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Phetwick rose from his chair. He did it slowly, helping himself up with the aid of a silver-handled cane. “Come, Warner, you can give me a lift back to my office in that Rolls of yours. We have done enough mischief for today.”
Doctor Colfax strode over to me and stuck out his hand. I shook it. There was nothing else to do. Nothing I could think of anyway. “Like your thinking, Dye, by God, I do. You’ve got the touch.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Drop round my office sometime when you’re out our way. We’ll have a drink.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Goodbye, Mr. Dye,” Phetwick said. “It was reassuring to have met you—probably because I believed that most of my kindred souls were long since dead. Take that as a compliment. It was meant as such.”
“I will,” I said and wished that I were lying on a deserted beach somewhere with nothing to do but count the waves.
When they were gone Orcutt spun around and pointed a finger at me. “You were just terribly good!” he said. “So devious! Now tell me everything that Lynch had to say today.”
I told him everything and when I was done he nodded in a satisfied way and said, “What did you think of our two patrons?”
“I think I like Lynch better.”
He nodded understandingly. “That old man is simply fantastic, isn’t he? One can literally smell the evil coming out of him.”
“That doctor friend of his has a nice bedside manner, too.”
“Oh, he’s terrible!” Orcutt said. “A real villain. But they both liked you very much.”
“That’s what bothers me.”
Orcutt waved his hand gracefully. “Think of them as chess pieces. I do.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
“Now. Call Necessary’s room and tell him to bring the man down.”
“What man?”
“He’s a photographer. A motion picture cameraman really. Homer has cooked up something that should prove most exciting.”
“What?”
“We’re going to expose the Swankerton police. And you must inform Lynch, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Call Necessary and tell him to bring Carol along too. She often has some excellent suggestions.”
“It’s a fur job,” Necessary said.
“How much?” Orcutt asked.
“They might get away with seventy-five, maybe even ninety thousand worth. They’ll fence it for maybe thirty thousand if they’re lucky. More like twenty-five.”
The cameraman’s name was Arch Soderbell and he was about twenty-five years old, had a fine black beard, smoked Gauloises, and seemed to wear whatever was handy. That afternoon he had on tan chinos, white sneakers, a blue chambray shirt, and dark glasses.
“Are you all set, Mr. Soderbell?” Orcutt said.
“All set,” Soderbell said.
“What time, Homer?” Orcutt said.
“They got it planned for around three-thirty tomorrow morning. We’ll be there by three to get set up.”
“Have you made all the necessary arrangements?”
“Quit worrying, Victor,” Necessary said. “You sound like some old maid.”
“I’m paid to worry, Homer. Some call it infinite attention to detail and there are others who call that genius.”
“All right,” Necessary said. “You’re a genius.”
“I want Mr. Dye to go with you.”
“Why?” Necessary said. “I don’t mind Dye coming along. But it’s really a two-man job and we might have to get out of there damned fast.”
“It has something to do with Lynch,” Orcutt said.
Necessary nodded. “Dye’s tipping him off, huh?”
“Not all the way.”
“Okay,” Necessary said. “I get it.” He turned to me. “I’ll call you about two unless you want to stay up.”
“Call me,” I said. “I’ll call Lynch from a phone booth.”
“When it’s too late,” Necessary said.
“That’s right,” I said. “When it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 29
Homer Necessary came back up to my room with me, probably because he knew that I had laid in a new supply of Scotch, and he was thirsty as usual. I ordered up some ice and some coffee for myself while Necessary mixed himself a drink, not waiting for the ice.
“Where’d you find Soderbell?” I said.
“Cleveland,” Necessary said. “He was in the army in Vietnam for a year and when he got discharged he went back out there as a civilian free lance. He helped shoot a documentary for some German producer that won an award in Berlin.”
“What was he doing in Cleveland?”
“Looking for a job.”
“D
oes he know what he’s getting into tonight?”
“Hell, this isn’t his first time. He’s been flying in and out of here for the last month from New Orleans. Old man Phetwick let us commission him to do a documentary on Swankerton. He’s shot some real nice stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he sets up inside a delivery truck at noon around a grade school and gets some close-up stuff of kids spending their lunch money on numbers. Now that’s not bad, is it?”
“No, that’s pretty good.”
“Then he sets up just above that dirty book store we were in and shoots the payoffs of the cops and the customers going in and out across the street without any dry cleaning. Then he rigs a camera up in a briefcase and goes to one of the better cathouses and gets some prominent citizens coming and going. He rigs another one up in a big box, like it was gift-wrapped, you know, and puts it on the front seat of his car and then goes out and gets himself arrested for stop line running and speeding. They arrest him six times in one day and he pays the cops off on the spot with five-dollar bills and gets it all down on film. You can even read their numbers. Then he gets some good shots out in Niggertown of cops just standing around on a corner grinning while a pusher takes care of his customers.”
“Have you seen any of it?” I asked.
Necessary shook his head. “He’s keeping it all in New Orleans. He’s made duplicate prints of everything just in case. Oh, yeah, he got one more pretty good shot too—with sound.”
“What?” I said.
“Well, Phetwick owns a hell of a lot of property around town, you know, and he owns this small store building that he’s going to tear down anyway. It’s a three-story building over on Early. The top two floors are vacant and downstairs is a grocery store, one of those mom and pop things, and their lease is about to run out. So I make a deal with them.”
“What kind of deal?”
“The old guy has been paying protection to some of Lynch’s hard cases. Not much. About twenty-five or thirty a week. We offer him a bundle not to pay the next time they come around and to let Soderbell film and tape it.
“The old guy’s afraid he might get beat up, but we tell him not to worry about it, and that we’ll stop any rough stuff. Soderbell rigs everything up in the back room, gets his mikes hidden away, and we sit and wait.”
