Book Deal

by Les Standiford

  He laid the ruined book aside, turned the card over, unfolded it. It took him a moment to comprehend what he was looking at, but then, even as he stared at the bold block letters printed there, all the loose shards of thought that had been jiggling inside his mind began to mesh, pieces of a stubborn puzzle finally falling into place.

  “Look at this,” he said, nudging Janice, who had squatted down to resume her digging through the files.

  She took the card in both hands, scanned it, shaking her head. “Asbestos…stop order…,” she said, her voice puzzled.

  “Check the address that’s written in the blanks,” he said.

  She glanced at the card again, and this time her mouth formed an O. “It’s right across the street.”

  “Check the handwriting in the corner.”

  He pointed to a hastily scrawled note: “A—You may be amused. Call me.—E.L.”

  “E.L.,” she said. “Eddie Lightner?”

  “Arch’s trump card,” Deal said, reaching to take the card back from her. “He told me he had a couple of tricks up his sleeve. This must be one of the things he was talking about.”

  He reached across the desk for the telephone. “If you were a hotshot CEO, what Gables hotel would you pick?” he asked her, already punching numbers.

  She stared at him, still puzzled. “The Biltmore, I suppose, but why…?”

  “I’ll explain it in a minute,” he said, then motioned her for quiet. “Miami,” he told the operator. “The Biltmore Hotel…and the Grand Bay, just in case.”

  As it turned out, he didn’t need the second number and it wasn’t really that much of a surprise. Any other city the size of Miami, there’d be half a dozen choices at the very least—but here, where thirty years ago there’d been a hotel glut, there was the Biltmore in the Gables, the Grand Bay—and maybe the Mayfair House—in Coconut Grove, a few miles away, and then there was everything else. In addition to the steadily decaying mainstays, there had appeared some pleasant enough chain hotels catering to business travelers, and a few renovated Decostyled inns on South Beach, but investors had steered clear of lavish hotel building for a good long time.

  Too bad for big-bucks travelers, Deal thought, good luck for him. Yes, there was a Mr. Rosenhaus registered. No, he could not be disturbed. It was 4:00 A.M., after all. Which led to their being in the Hog at this moment, headed toward…well, toward some sort of confrontation, although Deal hadn’t figured out the precise shape of it yet.

  Deal swung the Hog off Coral Way at Granada, sped down the two-lane road that here seemed more like a leafy-roofed tunnel than a city street.

  “You’re going to get a ticket,” Janice said, clutching at her armrest.

  “Probably,” Deal said, pressing the accelerator down. “They do tickets pretty well in the Gables.”

  He was at seventy now, the Hog’s motor settling into a purr that seemed ever more contented the faster they went. The thick trunks of the banyans, oaks, and ficus that canopied the street flashed past in a blur, clouds of leaves whirling up in a glowing wake he could make out in his rearview mirror. It was like a dream-drive, Deal thought: the car hurtling like some capsule out of time, Janice on the seat beside him, her face pensive, reflecting the ghostly green light from the dash…

  He turned back to the road, saw a car edging to a stop on a side street up ahead, caught sight of the familiar flasher rack on the roof. His foot flew to the brakes, knowing he’d be late, late, late…

  Then his headlights illuminated the lettering on the vehicle’s side, the logo of some home security outfit, a Beagle Boys burglar with his hands upflung, a rent-cop drawing down on him.

  Deal hit the accelerator again, blew past the intersection, shooting a skiff of oak leaves over the rent-cop’s hood. “You’re lucky,” Janice said.

  Deal shot a glance her way. “In this instance, yes,” he said.

  “Would you like to remind me why we’re doing this?” She pointed out the window in the direction they were traveling.

  “Sometimes you just need to shake the tree, see what might fall out.” He could see himself in the reflection of the window behind her: his shrug, his deadpan expression lit in the glow of the dash lights. It seemed the sort of thing Driscoll might have done, he thought.

  “Why don’t we just take the thing to the police?” Janice said. At Deal’s request, she’d folded the stop order, put it in the purse that rested on the seat between them, beside the sleeping terrier.

  “And what do you think Floyd Flynn would do with it?” Deal asked. His eyes were forward now, locked on the luminous spire of the Biltmore, which rose up in the distance like a beacon. “Thanks very much, Mr. and Mrs. Deal, we’ll take this information into account just as soon as I study Eddie Lightner’s sexual technique a couple more times.”

  “Still…,” she said. “I don’t see what you hope to accomplish.”

  Deal shrugged, turning off Granada onto a side street that led to the hotel’s entrance. “I’m not sure, either. But if nothing comes of this, I can always go see Floyd Flynn, right?”

  She shrugged, then gasped, pointing at something in front of them. Deal had stopped at a cross street, was about to pull on through, but now stared as a grayish-hued animal the size of a dog, trailing a huge, bushy tail, trotted gracefully across the intersection in front of them, giving the Hog a sidelong glance as it mounted the opposite curb and disappeared into the darkness.

  “That was a wolf,” Janice managed, her voice a mixture of fear and surprise.

  “A fox,” Deal said, thinking how glad he was the dog at his side hadn’t been awake to see it. “They’re just a little smaller.”

  “It’s the same thing,” Janice said. “What’s a fox doing in the middle of Coral Gables?”

  Deal shrugged. “It probably lives on the golf course. I used to see them out there, years ago. I had no idea there were any left.”

  “You say it like it was a good thing,” Janice said, her voice still reflecting amazement.

  “Well, it is, isn’t it?” Deal turned to her. “They don’t hurt people. They eat rabbits, possum, raccoon. Maybe a house cat every now and then.”

  “It’s the city, Deal. There aren’t supposed to be wolves running around a city.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess somebody forgot to tell him.”

  They stared at each other in silence until Janice finally turned away.

  “It’s the same thing with Arch, you know,” he found himself saying.

  At that, Janice turned back to him, her face a mask of disbelief.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Arch and his bookstore. Some people would say he was like that fox, some creature out of time and place. World’s changed, so close down your mom-and-pop operation, Arch, go burrow somewhere else, leave retailing to the big boys, they know how to move those bestsellers.”

  “You have a very strange way of seeing things, Deal.”

  “You disagree with me?”

  Janice sighed in exasperation, but something like a smile crossed her features.

  “Are we really going in there?” she asked, turning to point at the massive hotel that rose up before them like some fairyland palace: spires, bell towers, cupolas, and curlicues, Gothic archways, and cantilevered balconies everywhere, all of it lit up golden against the night. His boyhood dream, finally come to life.

  “We gotta go in,” Deal said, and guided the Hog up the long, elevated incline that led to the second-story entrance of the hotel.

  ***

  “That valet looked at you a little strangely,” Janice said. She kept her voice low, trying to keep it from echoing as they crossed the immense tiled lobby. Deal wondered who she was hiding it from. The bellhop stand was deserted, the public rooms empty, even the reception desk was unoccupied.

  “He doesn’t see too many cars like the Hog,” Deal said. “Not to mention it’s 5:00 A.M.” He gave her a smile. Even though his adrenaline was pumping, he was beginn
ing to feel a bit light-headed. His eyes roamed the lobby automatically, taking in the heavy furniture—all of it original, or seeming so—the decorated columns, the gilt-work on the vaulted ceiling, the antique pieces in the dim recesses. Amazing. As a kid, he’d peered through the grimy windows into this room, it had looked like the kind of place where winos would hold a convention, and had. Now it was a showpiece. A museum. Not only had it cost a fortune to restore, he thought, it would cost another fortune to maintain. He wondered idly how long it could last.

  On their way to the reception desk, they had to work their way past a pair of sizable aviaries, both of them draped to keep the birds quiet for the night. “These are the hundred-dollar rooms,” Deal said, gesturing at the big cages.

  “Funny,” Janice said.

  “Other people have laughed at my jokes,” Deal said.

  She gave him a look, headed on to the vacant counter. Deal joined her there, gazed through an open door into an operations area where a young woman in a navy suit, her hair pulled into a tight bun, sat at a desk, vacantly sipping at a cup of coffee. When Deal cleared his throat, she started, sloshing coffee onto her hand. She stood quickly, started to wipe her hand on her skirt, then stopped.

  She hurried out toward them, waving her hand dry at her side. “I am sorry,” she said, her accent vague. German, Deal wondered? Or Dutch? “I did not see you.”

  “It’s okay,” Deal said.

  “You are checking in?”

  “No,” he said. “We came to see Mr. Rosenhaus. Martin Rosenhaus.” He nodded at the computer monitor behind the desk.

  She hesitated, glancing at her watch. When she looked up again, she was wearing a practiced smile. “Yes, well, the house phones are around the corner…”

  “I know,” Deal said, checking the girl’s nametag. “I’ve already spoken to the operator, Mette. There’s a block on Mr. Rosenhaus’s phone.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Well, then…” She opened her hands to show him that nothing could be done. “I will be glad to take a message,” she added.

  Deal nodded reassuringly. “I know it’s late, Mette. But it’s important.” He turned his hand up on the marble counter between them, showed her the bill that he had folded there. Before she could protest, he had clasped her hand in his. “All I need is for someone to call upstairs, let Mr. Rosenhaus know I’m here. Tell him it’s Mr. Kendricks, from Carver Construction in Omaha. He’ll want to see me.”

  The girl looked at Deal, then at Janice, who smiled pleasantly. “We were supposed to meet Marty for dinner last night. Our plane was delayed.”

  “The airline flies so late?” the girl said.

  “Our own plane,” Deal said. “We had a little trouble, had to set her down in St. Louis awhile.”

  The girl lifted her chin in acknowledgment. She glanced down at the counter, withdrew her hand from Deal’s grasp, smoothed the front of her suit jacket. Even someone standing at Deal’s shoulder wouldn’t have been able to see her pocketing the bill.

  “One moment,” she said, picking up a phone. She turned her back to them, spoke softly into the receiver, using a language that Deal could not quite discern.

  “Ya, ya,” he made out, and the name of Kendricks and Carver, and then there was silence. After a moment, he saw the girl’s head bob, and then she had turned back to him once again. She glanced quickly around the lobby, then opened a drawer beneath the counter. She withdrew a key and slid it across the marble to Deal.

  “It’s the thirteenth floor,” she said, pointing across the lobby toward a bank of elevators. “Use the first car. You must use the key to make the elevator stop there.”

  Deal palmed the key, smiled his thanks, extended his arm for Janice. “Good old Marty,” he said. “I knew he’d be happy to hear from us.”

  ***

  “You gave her a hundred dollars?” Janice said. She’d let go of his arm the moment the elevator doors had closed behind them, moved into the opposite corner of the car.

  Deal found the key slot beside the button for number 13, inserted it, twisted. As the car began to rise, he turned, gave her a sheepish look. He reached into his pocket, opened his palm, displayed the same folded-up bill with a sliver of Ben Franklin’s grin showing.

  “But how…?” She began, as Deal clasped her hand between his own. She gave him a look, withdrew her hand, glanced down at the bill in her hand, unfolded it.

  “This is a five,” she said, protesting. “How did you do that?”

  “Actually I gave Mette a ten,” he said. “I figure that’s fair. Besides, you fold a ten the right way, it can look like a hundred at a quick glance.”

  “Deal…” Janice said, still aggrieved.

  “Blame my old man,” he said. “Work as a building contractor long enough in this town, you get pretty good at passing bills around. It’s one thing he taught me that still pays off, no pun intended.” He nodded as the elevator car began to slow and the number 13 lit up on the burnished brass panel. “You can keep the five,” he added.

  “Forget it,” she said. She was stuffing the bill in his shirt pocket when the elevator doors slid open and she stopped with a gasp. “Oh my God,” she said, staring out into the opulent room that opened directly before them.

  “If it was good enough for Al Capone,” Deal said, taking her elbow to guide her out, “it ought to be good enough for Martin Rosenhaus.”

  ***

  They stood in the vestibule of the suite for a moment, caught by the other-era splendor of it all: Persian carpets, crystal chandeliers, the kind of fussy antique furnishings that Deal would never want but knew would cost a fortune. Even more impressive was the view: floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a 180-degree panorama, the streetlights of the still-sleeping Gables just below, the skyline of downtown Miami five miles to the east, all of it backlit by the barest hint of dawn edging up from the Atlantic in the distance.

  “What was it Arch used to say, ‘Don’t get involved with books if you want to make money?’”

  Janice shook her head. “Rosenhaus isn’t ‘involved with books,’ Deal. He’s basically playing the stock market, positioning himself for a big public offering.”

  They heard slapping footsteps then and turned to find Rosenhaus, still clad in pajamas and slippers, hurrying down a staircase that gave out into the vestibule behind them. He hit the bottom landing, was cinching the belt of his robe tight about his waist when he saw them. He stopped short, his expression of annoyance faltering momentarily. Shake the tree, Deal thought. You never know.

  “What is going on here?” Rosenhaus said, his bluster back.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Deal said. “I’m John Deal…”

  “I remember you,” Rosenhaus said, his face dark. “What is this? I got a call saying the project manager was here, some kind of an emergency…”

  “Maybe there is an emergency,” Deal said mildly. He motioned for Janice to open her purse.

  “This is my wife, Janice,” Deal said, trying to ignore the flash of awkwardness that swept over him as he spoke. If Janice noticed, she didn’t betray it.

  “We were going through some papers in Arch Dolan’s office,” Deal continued, “we came across something interesting.”

  Janice gave Deal a look, handed over the folded stop order. Deal held it up in one hand, spread it open for Rosenhaus, who shook his head. “What’s that supposed to be?” he said, still surly. His face was puffy from sleep, and there was a cross-hatching of lines on his cheek where he’d lain too long against some bunched sheets.

  “It’s a stop order issued by Gables Building and Zoning,” Deal said. “It says they found asbestos shot through the Trailways building you all were planning to make into a bookstore.”

  “A media retail center,” Janice said wryly. “Bookstore sounds a little quaint these days.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rosenhaus said, glaring at Deal.

  “Of course I don’t know exactly
what you ran into,” Deal continued, “but judging by the way everything went to dead stop over there, I’d gather you’ve got yourselves a doozy of a problem. Kind of thing that could double, even triple a cost estimate, real quick, not to mention the down time. It’s the sort of thing that makes stockholders nervous, the kind of problem building inspectors sometimes get paid to reconsider.” Deal paused, letting the implication hang for a moment before going on. “I tried to ask this Kendricks about it, but he wasn’t in the mood to be sociable…”

  “You called Carver Construction?” Rosenhaus said, shaking his head in amazement. He looked more closely at Deal. “You want money, is that what this is about?”

  Deal folded the stop order, handed it back to Janice. “No, Mr. Rosenhaus, I’m not here looking for money. What I’d like to know is what passed between you and Arch Dolan when he told you he’d found out about your little problem.”

  “You must be crazy,” Rosenhaus said, “force yourself into my room and accuse me of some ridiculous…” Rosenhaus stopped then, stood staring at them, his jaw working. “I want you out of here,” he said, gesturing at the open elevator.

  When Deal didn’t move, Rosenhaus reached for a phone resting on a narrow vestibule table. Before he could lift the receiver, Deal clamped his hand atop Rosenhaus’s. Deal was close enough now to smell him—a hint of cologne, the sour musk of night sweat.

  “Deal…” Janice called, but he did not turn.

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything. But somebody killed my good friend and I’d like to find out who that somebody was. If you talked to Arch Dolan about this matter before he died, I’d like to know about it, it’s as simple as that.”

  Rosenhaus stared back at him, his eyes just inches away. Deal felt the man’s grip on the phone relent, and he relaxed his own grip in turn, stepped back. Janice stood staring at the two of them, her face pale.

  “I didn’t talk to Arch Dolan about this or anything else,” Rosenhaus said, straightening his robe.

  “You think he was just saving that stop order for his scrapbook?”