Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  I gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’re probably right. I spent most of the night down at police headquarters, and my manners leave something to be desired at the best of times. But I like to keep my appointments.”

  Considering how the last appointment I’d had with a member of his clan had turned out, it occurred to me that he might think I was trying to be rudely ironic. But I’m not sure he even noticed. He had seemed hopeful at the start of my statement, then by the end was back to looking tired and glum. He patted his breast pocket and then his hip pockets. He looked up at me, nearly in pain. “Spare a smoke?”

  I gave him one without grumbling. Even lit it for him. Some guys in my income bracket might have minded his bumming a cigarette off them, seeing as he lived in that house and probably drove at least one of those cars in the drive. But I knew he asked because it never occurred to him that supplying oneself with smokes might be a hardship. Had the situation been reversed, he would have given me two without a second thought.

  He started up the steps, beckoning me along with a jerk of his head. Fenton, who had stood waiting, opened the door for us and also took my hat. After that crack of Holmsby’s, I was glad to be rid of it. Kelly led me across a foyer bigger than my entire apartment—including the attached toilet—to a set of open double doors. The room beyond was probably the size of an entire floor of my apartment building.

  It was a two story chamber, decorated in high class Edwardian, not antiques. Most of the sitting furniture was arranged a good pace away from the walls, probably to spare any occupants the trouble of shouting at one another just to be heard. Two long sofas sat in a row, with a table between them and matching tables at either end. At ninety-degree angles to the sofas were two sets of high-back easy chairs, comprising three-quarters of a square with the open end facing a large, unlit fireplace. The wall opposite the fireplace, behind the two sofas, was made of floor-to-ceiling windows, several of them open with their light white curtains billowing lazily. The view looked out across an expanse of lawn, a tiled patio with more furniture and a swimming pool that was not square at all, but formed of great curvy overlapping circles.

  They were all waiting. Everyone from the photos, except Miss O’Malley’s dead beau, of course, and a few extras besides. Lana herself was perched on the end of the nearest sofa, her face looking more pinched than ever, with my old friend Joe Lovejoy standing behind her like a bodyguard. On the next sofa over, all by himself, was an aged bird I didn’t recognize, but from the style of his attire and the nature of his mien, I pegged him as Jasper Reed, Lawrence O’Malley’s former attorney, Adam Reed’s father, and Wayne Holmsby’s boss—the colonel. He had silver hair and silver eyebrows and a very well-kept silver mustache. But the bags below his eyes sagged half way down his face, and he looked like he might never smile again. That’s what becomes of old guys who spend all day getting hammered by the cops.

  The succubus stood at a wet bar on the far side of the fireplace, probably mixing some potion or other. She alone didn’t look up and over at us as we entered. Morgan O’Malley, who had been seated in one of the easy chairs with its back toward the door, got up and took a step around his chair, coming toward us.

  “Listen, I need a word with you.” What he needed was a comb run through his ginger hair, and possibly some cold water splashed on his heroic mug. He was dressed in an off-white suit without a tie, his white shirt open at the collar. He looked not only ready for an afternoon out on the patio, but desperately in need of it. Michelangelo could come another day.

  I didn’t get to answer him, as George Kelly, still leading me forward, said, “Not now, Morg.” He took me over in front of the fireplace, where we stopped and he said, “Miranda, this is Mr. Declan Colette.”

  She looked up and over as if she hadn’t noticed us enter, nor heard O’Malley’s request for a word, and it was all right there, just like in the photographs, only more so.

  First, I noticed her hair, which the camera had not managed to capture at all. Sure it was black as night, but it was also every other color too, like the wing of a raven stretched out in the sunlight. She wore it long, below her shoulders, in a simple Veronica Lake wave. Only black. Did I mention it was black?

  Her face was white, nearly alabaster, and as smooth as the lawn jockey’s grin. The red lips seemed to explode across the bottom, even though she kept her mouth small, somewhere between a pucker and a pout. Her eyelids fluttered slightly as she looked at me, rose a bit as if she wanted to be sure, then came down to significantly less than half-mast as she turned and offered me her hand.

  “You weren’t the disturbance Fenton mentioned?”

  George Kelly had somehow positioned himself between us, and I nearly had to knock him aside to get my hand over and into hers. “No, ma’am. Just an innocent bystander,” I said.

  Her grip was warm and sure, everything you’d hope for but not what you’d expect. She managed to give me the feeling, while she was holding on to me, that she was actually holding on and it mattered because in a moment she might have to let go.

  “How do you do?” I asked.

  She tightened her lips slightly as if I had committed some social misstep, and she removed her hand from mine. “Thank you for coming. Can I get you a drink?”

  I glanced at the bar, saw bottles of both Sazerac and Paul Jones, and told her the latter would be fine with lots of water in a tall glass. Meanwhile, the old bird on the second sofa worked himself to his feet, an operation requiring a cane and heavy reliance on an arm of the furniture. The struggle was somewhat more understandable once I saw the result. Unfolded, he stood about six foot four. Sadly, he weighed perhaps a buck-fifty, wet. His shoulders were as narrow as his waist, but they had very little stoop to them, even after what I estimated had to be about sixty-five years and a full day with the police.

  “Was it Wayne, George?”

  George Kelly stepped behind me toward the others. “It was nothing, Jay. Everything’s under control.”

  After my glances at the bar and the member of the bar, I found myself gazing down at the hand Miranda O’Malley had shaken. I felt a queer tingling in my palm. So I glanced up at her, at the flowing shoulders under the silk dress. She was concocting my beverage like a skilled mixologist, neither hurrying nor struggling. Bourbon, ice cubes, seltzer, and a cherry. In that order. I figured in a pinch, I could get her a job tending bar anywhere.

  Jasper Reed took a step toward the door through which Kelly and I had entered. With him erect, the cane seemed little more than a prop. His legs and feet worked fine. “I had better speak to him myself. If you will excuse me, Miranda, Lana.”

  Lana O’Malley spoke up for the first time. “I want you to stay, Uncle Jay. You promised to support me in this. If he won’t cooperate…”

  She didn’t finish the thought; she didn’t have to. The way she looked at me as she said the word ‘he’ left little doubt to whom the pronoun referred. And if I refused to do as I was told, I would be sent to the dungeon, probably to be slapped by that chauffeur until I learned my place.

  So, maybe they really were all laying in wait for me. It wasn’t half so imposing a notion as it might have been if they’d given a bit more consideration to the seating arrangements. It was clearly not a united front; they were too spaced out. With the exception of Joe Lovejoy and Lana O’Malley, no two others had less than six feet between them. Morgan in his easy chair closest to the door, Lana on the first sofa, Jasper Reed perhaps ten feet the other side of her on his sofa, and Miranda nearly twenty-five feet away at the bar. Although, after handing me my drink, she did glide over and take the nearest easy chair, only eight feet from the second sofa.

  But the old lawyer was ambling toward the door by then. “I’ll return shortly, my dear.”

  George Kelly took one final stab at stopping him. “Really, Jay, everything is handled. There’s no need.” Either the old bird was all but stone deaf, or he was ignoring Kelly. He proceeded out through the doors with neither another word nor
a backward glance. Kelly went to the bar to stub out the cigarette I’d given him. “You’ve met everyone else, haven’t you, Colette?”

  “I believe so,” I told him. Then I nodded at Lovejoy. “You’re Lowell, right? Jim?”

  Lana nearly launched herself, but Lovejoy managed to get a calming hand on her shoulder. That girl was all about the soothing touch. He didn’t acknowledge me, but said, “Really Mr. Kelly, if you want I can talk to him privately. I’ll have this whole thing sorted in no time.” Then he did look at me, offering the type of sneer that made me think he might really believe the gibberish he was peddling.

  Personally, after the day I’d had, a few minutes alone with Joe Lovejoy in a soundproofed room, or even a room where the noise wouldn’t disturb anyone who happened to overhear it, sounded like more fun than I deserved. I’d even have been willing to tie one of my arms behind my back to make it last longer.

  But it was not to be. Mrs. O’Malley swept her arm in a graceful arc. “George, get me a cigarette? Won’t you sit down, Mr. Colette? I know our appointment was for six, but I promised them they could speak with you first. We’ve had a very—hmm, I nearly said trying day, but I doubt that would begin to cover it. We’re all in something of a state of shock. And Lana and Morgan and George and Jay were all curious about your connection to my niece. Sit here.” She indicated the easy chair between her own and the sofa Reed had abandoned. That put me opposite Morgan O’Malley, who glowered at me from beneath his disheveled head of ginger hair.

  “You’re not curious about my connection to your niece?” I said to Mrs. O’Malley.

  “I’m curious about a great many things.” She took the cigarette Kelly offered her and affixed it to the end of a jade holder, perhaps six inches long. She put that between her teeth, and Kelly provided a light. The way she was settled in the chair didn’t strike me as indicative of any emotional turmoil. Her legs were folded up and to the side, exposing her bare feet. Her toenails were painted green or purple, it seemed to depend on how the light hit them. But the green was neither sickly nor reptilian; it was deep and luxurious, like emeralds or more jade. And the purple was dark and regal. The effect reminded me of peacock feathers.

  She looked at me through a swirl of smoke. “You and I shall speak privately.” And then, she gave me the impression she might smile. “When they feel they’ve ridden you enough.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Damn it, Colette, watch your manners.” That was from Joe Lovejoy who took several steps along the back of the two sofas in my direction.

  Kelly, crossing in front of me toward the second sofa, frowned at him. “Thanks, Joe. I think we agreed I’d start this.” That deflated Lovejoy’s sails a bit, and he slunk back to his place behind Miss O’Malley’s shoulders. Kelly claimed Jasper Reed’s seat, sort of the way he’d claimed Jasper Reed’s job as Lawrence O’Malley’s attorney. A fresh cigarette bobbed between his lips, and he sucked on it a good three times gathering his thoughts. “Why did you arrange to meet Ramona?”

  I reached up to scratch the back of my neck. “Really? That’s no way to start.”

  He seemed incredulous. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that,” I said, shrugging. “Are you a trial attorney? That’s probably a neat trick in a court room, but no one swore me in, and I am under no obligation to tell the truth. So was the hope to catch me in a lie early? I’ll happily oblige. I called her up to discuss French literature. Discovering a mutual interest, we agreed to meet. But where does that get you? You are who you are, so I assume the cops were not completely tight-lipped about facts.” I got out a cigarette and prepared to light it. “Start over. Rephrase.”

  He was sitting forward on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. He lowered his face and rubbed it with several long, rough strokes of his palm. “You did arrange to meet her.”

  “Fine. You’re bushed.” I looked up at the others. “Frankly, I’m surprised you all wanted to do this today. Tomorrow would have been better. Has anyone slept?”

  Morgan O’Malley got up suddenly and crossed to the bar, a hike of at least thirty feet in that room. Though he didn’t tarry, it took some time and gave the rest of us something to look at while we waited.

  “Listen,” Kelly said. “We just want to know if she was in some sort of trouble. We want to understand.”

  That surprised me, and I took a moment to look him over. Even allowing that he was exhausted, it struck me as a ridiculously inept question. What sort of lawyer was he, exactly? But he seemed genuinely bereaved. Hurt and helpless. His eyes were full of moisture, and his palm had smudged his cheek nearly purple.

  I exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Fine. She called me up and arranged for me to meet her at Eisley’s deli. She wouldn’t say why. I went there at the appointed time—”

  Lana O’Malley nearly shouted. “There! He just confessed it. He agreed to meet her, even though he knew it was…” Joe Lovejoy had his hand on her shoulder again, and she placed hers atop his. “What did you say, Joe? It was unethical! He never should have agreed to meet her when he knew she was her niece—”

  “I didn’t know anything about her.” I didn’t shout, just said it like the simple truth it was.

  “Liar.” Morgan had leaned his back against the bar, bent a few degrees at the waist, his ankles crossed. He had his left hand in his pocket, clutching a fat lowball glass in his right. The liquid was so dark, I knew it couldn’t have been diluted with anything, not even an ice cube. He looked as intrigued as he did mad, though he was sticking out his lower lip at me and still holding his head like it weighed about ten pounds too much.

  I shrugged again. “As I said, this isn’t a court of law. And your calling me a liar just points out what a waste of time the whole thing is. Any one of you probably knows twice as much about this affair as I do. If I was interested, which I’m not, I’d suggest we’d all be better served by letting me ask some questions. Alibis, for instance.”

  “I’m certainly not answering anything,” Lana O’Malley told me, turning away.

  “And I don’t recommend any of the rest of you do either.” That was from Joe Lovejoy.

  “You,” I said. “Haven’t you been snooping around here the past few weeks? Where the hell were you when that poor girl—”

  Lana faced me angrily. “Shut up! Shut up at once!”

  “Yes.” Miranda O’Malley was unfolding out of her chair. She rose, slowly and gracefully, a dark flower in search of the sun. “That’s plenty. I apologize, Mr. Colette. I never should have agreed to their being here. If you’ll follow me.”

  I had risen already, and Kelly also nearly leapt to his feet. But it was Lana who spoke. “No! I want to know what he told her. It’s ridiculous to just believe…He was going to blackmail us. Tell them Joe!”

  Yeah, I thought, tell us, Joe. But Kelly, without glancing over, barked, “That’s enough, Lana!” He then appealed to Mrs. O’Malley. “Miranda? Do you want me to come along?”

  She didn’t favor him with a glance either. “That won’t be necessary.” She walked toward a door opposite the ones through which I’d entered, leading me deeper into the labyrinth.

  The ice cubes jangled in my glass, and I thought I’d like another, but Morgan O’Malley was still guarding the bar and didn’t look predisposed to fix me up with anything except maybe a black eye. I drained the last few drops and set the empty glass on the table between the two easy chairs Mrs. O’Malley and I had been occupying. Then I went after her, sparing myself any fond farewells to the rest of those sorry souls.

  Chapter Eight

  The room she led me to was about half the size of the one we exited. It only had two normal sized windows facing the front of the house, and both were heavily draped. A few pieces of furniture had been scattered around, but I was left pondering the room’s purpose. There appeared to be a daybed at the far end, and a desk against the right wall. But another wet bar was centered between the two windows.

  Mrs. O’Malley went directly to the b
ar. “Paul Jones, you said?”

  “Yes, please.” I trailed along behind her, watching the sway of her hips. They didn’t put me in mind of Billie Holiday; there was no slow jazz in them, no deep blues. But I do acknowledge being aware of something primal in the reaction they stirred. I said, “Is that natural? I mean for Mr. Kelly to try and horn in like that.”

  She started mixing up two copies of my drink, tossing me a tiny laugh to let me know I was being silly. “He wasn’t horning in. My, you’re certainly a different sort of detective than I’m used to.”

  “Have you much experience with detectives?”

  “Absolutely none, until recently. I meant you’re nothing at all like Joe. You’re much more like the police.”

  “Joe?”

  “Yes. Joe Lovejoy.” She made a vague gesture back the way we’d come. “The detective from the Cobb Agency.”

  “Oh! Joe!” I said it like I hadn’t actually known to whom she’d been referring. I thought I should point out how remarkable I considered it that she called him Joe as opposed to, say, Mr. Lovejoy, or the other detective.

  Finished with our drinks, she handed one to me. Then she extinguished the smoldering remnants of her cigarette and got another from a collection on the bar. She didn’t reach for the gold-plated lighter in front of her, but she glanced back over her shoulder to see what kind of a gentleman I was. I think I surprised her by being there.

  I struck the match I had ready, got her started, then, having a fresh butt between my own lips, did me as well. Before I could shake out the flame, she closed her hands around my fist, pulling it back toward her. She puckered gently and blew.

  She shouldn’t have done that. A woman like her, so fully possessed of the self-awareness required to go on being a woman like her—she’d doubtless sussed fast enough that her usual toolkit wasn’t equipped for me, but at least until that moment she’d been something of a kick. The match trick was just sad. It cheapened the whole effect.