by Ross Thomas
“That’s quite acceptable, Mrs. Wigmore,” Dr. Pease said.
Dixie picked up a large woven-fiber purse from the floor and began rummaging through it, pausing three times to shove her glasses back up her nose. She finally found the envelope from Shearson Lehman Hutton addressed to Mr. Nelson Wigmore on Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. She slid the unsealed envelope across the desk to Dr. Pease, the address up. After he had glanced at the name and address and was looking inside, Dixie said, “Could I have that back, please?”
An almost startled Dr. Pease started to return the envelope. But Dixie shook her head. “Not the money, sugar; just the envelope. It’s got an address and a phone number I need on the back.”
Trying to remember the last time anyone had called him sugar, Dr. Pease removed the sixty hundred-dollar bills and handed back the envelope. Dixie tucked it into her large purse and said, “Would it be okay if I drop by on the fifteenth of each month, a day or two either way, and maybe say hello to Dannie after I pay the bill?”
“Would you like to see her now?”
“Oh! Could I really?” Dixie said, pushing her glasses back up for what Dr. Pease estimated was the dozenth time. Dixie’s expression suddenly went from pleased to concerned. “You think she’ll know me? Aunt Lena says Dannie doesn’t even recognize Kelly or Uncle Jack.”
“Regardless of whether she recognizes you,” he said, “it might prove beneficial if you saw her.”
Dixie pushed the glasses up again. “You know, Dr. Pease, I was just thinking? What if I took Dannie out and bought her a chocolate sundae or something? Just for an hour or so? And the next time I’m here to, you know, pay the bill, maybe I could take her out for lunch and a little drive? That wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?”
Dr. Pease glanced at the money, looked up at Dixie and smiled. “I can’t say that it will help, Mrs. Wigmore. But I’m quite confident it won’t hurt anything.”
Pushing her glasses back up again, Dixie frowned, leaned forward and almost whispered, “She’s not, well, violent or anything, is she?”
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t think so.” Dixie sighed. “Dannie was always just the sweetest, gentlest thing you ever saw.”
Danielle Adair Vines finished her chocolate fudge sundae as Dixie turned into the motel that was just off U.S. 101 and near the Kanan Dume Road, which led to the ocean and Malibu.
“I thought we’d go in here an’ maybe look at television and have something cool to drink.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Danielle Vines said, “but I don’t remember your name.”
“Betty.”
“Yes. Betty. Right.”
“And maybe a little later,” Dixie said as she pulled the Cadillac into the parking space in front of room 141, “we could call Jack and Kelly.”
“Who?”
“Jack Adair and Kelly Vines.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Adair. He’s very nice. But that Mr. Vines is such a silly man.”
Chapter 41
After the gray Volvo sedan reached the fifth hairpin turn up on Garner Road, B. D. Huckins took a right into Don Domingo Drive and headed for Chief Sid Fork’s measle-white house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
It was Merriman Dorr, seated next to the mayor, whose pilot’s eye spotted the catastrophe first and said, “Hey, Sid. Somebody went and chopped down all your cactuses.”
Sid Fork shot forward in the backseat, staring with disbelief through the windshield at his twelve immense, if ailing, saguaro cacti that had been felled, obviously by a chain saw, leaving a dozen one-foot-high stumps.
“Son of a bitch,” Fork said, much as he might say a prayer.
“Now who the hell’d want to do something like that?” Dorr asked.
Neither Huckins nor Fork replied as the mayor turned slowly into the chief’s driveway and stopped, but kept the Volvo’s engine running.
“Stay here a minute,” Fork said, getting out of the sedan’s rear, taking his time, a.38 Smith & Wesson Bodyguard Airweight revolver now in his right hand. He strolled past the felled cacti without a glance, keeping his eyes on the front door of his house.
When he reached the door he found it had been left slightly ajar. Fork stepped back and kicked it open, flattening his back against the brick wall on the right. He waited almost a full minute, the revolver pointed up and held in a two-handed grip. When nothing happened, he ducked through the open door in a crouch and disappeared from view.
Fork reappeared two minutes later with a stricken expression and his revolver dangling, apparently forgotten, at his right side. With his left hand he made a curiously defeated gesture that beckoned Huckins and Dorr.
The first thing they saw when they entered the living room was the far wall. All the framed pictures had been stripped from it and dropped to the floor where someone had apparently jumped up and down on them. Spray-painted on the wall was a greeting that read, “Snout says Hi!”
The mayor inspected the rest of the living room, saw nothing else that had been vandalized and said, “This it?”
Fork shook his head. “The big bedroom.”
Followed by Dorr, the mayor went down the short hall and into the larger of the two bedrooms that housed the Fork Collection of American Artifacts. The sixty-two pre-1941 Coca-Cola bottles were all smashed. The ninety-four varieties of “I Like Ike” campaign buttons had been dropped to the floor and pounded with something, possibly a hammer. The last editions ever printed of the extinct magazines had been ripped apart. Maple syrup had been poured over the mounted barbed-wire display. All of the glass insulators, Fork’s special pride, had been smashed.
“Jesus,” Dorr said and again asked, “Who’d want to do this?”
“Kids probably,” Huckins said. “During the parade when none of the neighbors were home.”
They went back to the living room to find Fork leaning against one wall and glaring at the opposite one with its spray-painted greeting of “Snout says Hi!” The revolver was no longer in sight. Fork’s arms were folded across his chest, giving him an almost defensive posture.
Huckins turned to Dorr and said, “Why not wait for us in the car, Merriman? We’ll be out in a minute.”
“Yeah,” Dorr said, nodding his understanding. “Sure.”
After he had gone, the mayor went over to the chief of police and put a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s go, Sid. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Fork ignored her and continued to glare at the opposite wall.
“Teddy did all this to make you come after him,” Huckins said. “So he can kill you.”
He looked at her. “Who told him, B. D.?”
“Told him what?”
“About my collection of-stuff.”
“That’s no secret.”
Fork shook his head stubbornly. “Somebody told him.”
“Maybe he’s got a partner,” she said. “Maybe it’s even somebody here in town.”
“After I fix Teddy,” Fork said, “then I’ll fix his partner.”
Kelly Vines parked the blue Mercedes behind Cousin Mary’s at 2:45 P.M. on Monday, July 4, exactly as Parvis Mansur had instructed. Vines got out first. Then came Jack Adair, who stood, leaning on his black cane and looking around the restaurant’s rear parking lot that was empty of cars save for the blue Acura Legend coupe that Mansur had said he would be driving.
Vines and Adair started toward the rear steel-sheathed door. It was opened before they could reach it by Parvis Mansur, who wore a nervous, excited air and his raw-silk bush jacket.
“You didn’t wear coats,” he said by way of greeting. “Good.”
“As instructed,” Vines said.
Eyeing Adair’s black cane, Mansur said, “That a sword cane?”
Adair handed the cane to him and said, “Turn the handle to the right, not the left.”
Following instructions, Mansur removed the handle, smiled at the sight of the silver-topped cork, drew it out, raised
the cane and sniffed. “Bourbon, right?”
“Nerve tonic,” Adair said.
Mansur put the cane back together and returned it to Adair. “You probably want to inspect the poker room first.”
“Alone,” Vines said.
“Yes, of course. Alone.”
The poker room was almost as Sid Fork had described it. There was a seven-player table covered with green baize. There were also seven comfortable chairs drawn up to it. There were three leather couches (instead of two by Fork’s count) that were long enough to nap on; a bar, nicely stocked; a coffeemaker; a large GE refrigerator with an automatic ice-maker; a toaster oven; a cabinet full of plates, glasses, cups, bowls and flatware; a long narrow table where the buffets were presumably laid out; a six-line phone; and no windows.
“What about the john?” Adair said.
Vines nodded toward a closed door at the rear of the room. “Let’s check it out.”
The bathroom was large enough for a urinal, a toilet, a sink, and a metal shower stall with a green rubberized shower curtain that hung on plastic ivory-colored rings. Vines pushed the shower curtain to one side, looked down and saw that the floor was cement with a metal drain. He reached into the shower, grasped the cold water faucet and turned it to the right, jerking his arm back as if to avoid the spray. But there was no spray.
“Suspicious bastard, aren’t you?” Adair said.
“Cautious,” said Vines as he stepped into the shower and gave a hard push to the metal wall that held the faucets and showerhead. The wall swung away, revealing a three-by-three foot wooden landing. A large five-cell chrome flashlight was held in place on the landing by a bracket.
They used the flashlight to go down a steep flight of wooden stairs made of unfinished pine lumber. There was no banister. The stairs led down to a small room with concrete walls and floor. The room contained a wooden bench, a chemical toilet, a five-gallon sealed plastic bottle of Arrowhead drinking water, two metal cups and nothing else.
Vines played the flashlight around the room, exploring the ceiling and all four corners. “No escape hatch,” Adair said.
“No.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
When they reentered the poker room the telephone was chirping softly. Vines picked it up and said, “Yes.”
“Mansur here. I’m calling from the private dining room. The phone, either this one or the one in Dorr’s office, will be our communications channel. If necessary, we can even set up a conference call although I don’t foresee that necessity.”
“What about the safe?” Vines said.
“It’s open and completely empty.”
“Any sign of the money man?”
“None. But he still has five minutes. After he arrives and I’ve tallied the money, I’ll lock it in the safe, hand him the key to the poker room and take my leave.”
“Are you saying we’re already locked in here?” Vines asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
“We weren’t expecting that. At least, not yet.”
Mansur sighed deeply. “You must remember that I was to have lured you here, Mr. Vines, on the pretext of a poker game. I am supposedly acting as agent for B. D. and Sid, who’re selling you to whoever appears with the money. If our little playlet is to have any credibility, I can’t have you and Mr. Adair running up and down the hall, now can I?”
“Parvis,” Vines said.
“Yes?”
“What if he doesn’t have the money?”
“Then I’m prepared to defend myself. And you, too, of course.” There was a brief pause that ended when Mansur said, “Sorry to cut this short, but he’s here.”
After the line went dead, Vines hung up the poker room phone and turned to Adair. “He’s here.”
“And we’re locked in.”
“You want a drink?” Vines said.
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
“What a couple of liars,” said Jack Adair.
Theodore Contraire, who sometimes called himself Teddy Jones or Smith, came into the private dining room in Cousin Mary’s dressed for the Fourth of July as a Vietnam veteran. He wore camouflage fatigues, jump boots, a fatigue hat and, cradled in his right arm, an unaltered and therefore illegal M-16 that was aimed at Parvis Mansur.
“You’re Parvis, right?”
“I’m Parvis.”
“Where’s Adair and Vines?”
“Where, I might ask, is the money?”
“What money?” said Theodore Contraire.
Chapter 42
Mansur, his hands now clasped behind his neck, walked into Merriman Dorr’s small office, followed by Contraire and the M-16. Contraire looked around, taking in the two wingback chairs, the safe and the child’s desk. “Cute,” he said. “What’s in the safe?”
“Nothing.”
“Open it up and let’s see.”
Parvis moved to the safe and pulled the heavy door open.
“Hands behind your neck,” Contraire reminded Mansur, backing up to get a better view of the safe, whose interior space was approximately three feet high, two feet wide and three feet deep.
“Big bastard,” Contraire said.
“Yes.”
“All cleaned out, too. Not even a shelf left. Hold a million bucks with no trouble at all, even if it was in twenties and fifties.”
“Twenties and fifties will be perfectly acceptable.”
“I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” Contraire said. “There’s not gonna be any money. But there is gonna be something worth a whole lot more’n a million to somebody.”
“What?”
Contraire used the M-16 to indicate the child’s desk. “Sit down over at that kiddie’s desk. Once you’re there you can take your hands down and fold ’em together on top of the desk like you did in grade school.”
“I never went to grade school, as you call it,” Mansur said. “I was privately tutored.”
“Sit down any way and I’ll sit in one of these chairs over here and we’ll wait for the phone to ring.”
“Merriman has an unlisted number in here,” Mansur said.
“There’s no such thing as an unlisted number.”
The telephone rang two minutes later at exactly 3:05 P.M. Aiming the M-16 at Mansur with his right hand, Contraire picked up the ringing phone with his left and said, “It’s me.”
He listened, smiling his gray-toothed smile at Mansur, who, still seated at the child’s desk, his hands folded on its top, smiled politely back.
“Hold on,” Contraire said into the phone. To Mansur he said, “I bet you can turn this into a conference call-you and me in here, whoever’s just called, and Vines and Adair in the poker room. You can do that, can’t you, Parvie?”
Mansur nodded.
Cradling the phone’s receiver between his ear and left shoulder, Contraire used his now freed left hand to pick up the rest of the telephone and place it in front of Mansur, who tapped out four numbers on the Touch-Tone buttons.
Nodding and smiling at Mansur, Contraire said into the receiver: “Hear it ringing? Now let’s see which one answers.”
Vines picked up the phone on its fourth chirp and said, “Yes.”
“Who’s this?” a man’s voice said.
“Kelly Vines.”
“Well, look, Kelly, I’m gonna put Parvie on for a second so he can tell you what the score is. Okay?”
“Yes.”
There was a wait of a second or two until Mansur came on and said, “There’s no money.”
“No money?” Vines said, lifting the phone an inch or so from his ear so Jack Adair could also listen.
“No. He’s here and there’s an M-16 pointed at me. I might add that the safety’s off. He has someone on the telephone whom he wishes you to speak with. That’s all I know.”
There was another pause before Contraire came back on and said, “You get all that, Kelly?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s see if you recognize t
he next voice you hear.”
The next voice Vines and Adair heard said, “Hello, Mr. Vines. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Dannie. And you?”
“I’ve had such a nice outing. We took a short drive and I had an ice cream sundae and now we’re having a little rest before I go back.”
“Someone’s with you then?” Vines said.
“Betty’s with me.”
“Betty who?”
Vines could hear his wife’s voice through the hand she must have placed over the phone. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your last name.”
There was an indistinct, muffled reply, a pause and Danielle Vines was again speaking to her husband. “Betty Thompson.”
“May I speak to Miss Thompson?” Vines said.
Contraire cut in. “Sorry, Kelly.”
“Who was that, Mr. Vines?” Danielle asked.
“A friend.”
“Is Mr. Adair with you? Betty said I could also talk with Mr. Adair, who I think is quite nice.”
Vines handed the phone to Adair, who closed his eyes, massaged them with the thumb and middle finger on his left hand, and said to his daughter, “Hello, Dannie. This is Jack Adair.”
“How are you today, Mr. Adair?”
“I’m fine, Dannie. Where’re you calling from?”
“I’m in-”
There was the sound of a phone being hung up. But Contraire was still on the line. “That’s enough chitchat, Jack. You wanta talk to me or do you wanta put Vines back on?”
“I’ll talk to you,” Adair said, holding the receiver away from his ear so Vines could listen.
“Well, it’s like this, Jack. I need to get some answers from you guys face-to-face and, if I don’t get ’em, well, I’m afraid Dannie’s not gonna make it back to the nut farm. So what I want you to do is tell Parvis to give me the key to the poker room.”
“What happens to him after he gives you the key?”
“Nothing happens to him. Why would anything happen to him? Well, sure, I might lock him in the dining room there, but it’s got a nice little bar where he can sit and drink himself shitfaced until it’s all over.”
