That softened her. “I’m sorry if I seemed rude. Come on in. They told me they were sending me a student, and I expected an undergraduate.”
“I got burned out of my dorm room. Not my day, I guess.”
She motioned him into the parlor. “Ah. Well, us being all grown up, a drink, then?”
It sounded like she only offered because of her gaff and wanted him to say no, thanks. Unused to being disliked by women, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He set down the bags and beamed, “Great, I’d like that. I’ll be glad of a little adult company. What have you got?”
“Oh. There’s beer, scotch, and a bottle of some German wine, but I think it’s pretty sweet. Cellar something.”
“
Zellerschwartzkatze
. It is sweet. I’ll have the scotch with some ice.”
“Coming up.” She spoke flatly and moved without enthusiasm toward her kitchen.
While she was gone he looked around the living room and foyer, assessing the house’s defensive potential. It was no fortress. A lot of good thought had gone into the decorating, though. When she came back with the drinks, two glasses of scotch-rocks, and generous ones at that, he said, “Thank you. You’ve got a great place here.” Not much of a comment with which to charm her but it was his best shot.
I probably sound like a vacuum cleaner salesman, he thought.
It seemed to work, since she sat and her body language relaxed. She admitted, “This house has been a lot of hard work so I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Hawk.”
“Call me Tom.”
She frowned ever so slightly, perhaps disliking his name, or more likely disliking the invitation to informality. Eventually she allowed, “Call me Beth.”
He sipped the drink. “Yup, looking fine.” He gave approval with a sweep of his left hand.
She raised her glass in salute. “I’m getting there. Decent antiques are still cheap around here, but that’ll change in a few years, so I’m racing against the clock. When I get two more rooms done my cash flow will improve. Skiers are good revenue, come winter, and we have plenty of winter.”
“It’s a huge house, a big project. It must be hard.”
“It is, especially start-up costs. The thing that’s keeping me going is a loan from my great-aunt who seems to believe in this and cuts me some slack, and a small investment by a cousin. Look at me, boring you with the family business. So what’s your history, what brings you to Tech, Tom?”
Tricky girl. She’d given him a more complete answer about her affairs than he deserved so she could ask a similarly personal question. He kept it simple. “I’m a California boy. UCLA, some defense work and then the Marines. I need to freshen up to do the engineering work I want to do.”
He managed, or she allowed him, to turn the conversation to the innocuous: weather, show business and the like. He finished the drink and she finished hers in sync with him.
He stifled a yawn. “Thanks for the refreshment. I think I’m about done for today.” He rose with a little difficulty, and she also winced as she got up. “Back,” he grimaced.
“China cabinet. Old age is hell.”
They laughed. The drink had mellowed her.
“I’ll show you to your room.”
He took up his bags. “I need to make a long distance call tonight. Is there a way I can do that and pay you?”
“You can do it in the upstairs hall. You can’t pay me, I owe you. Without you, Robert would still be trying to pry that damned hutch off my flattened belly.”
At the top of the stairs he started to turn toward the long-term wing, toward Robert’s unrestored wing, but she took his arm. He was surprised at the feeling of pleasure when she did that.
She informed him, “No, tonight you’re getting the best of the refurbished rooms. Over here.”
She led him into a room the size of Robert’s. This room had a queen bed, a fancy armoire, two armchairs flanking a lamp table, a little desk and side chair, and its own bathroom. He was starting to like this place, where the parlor, the foyer, the stairwell and halls were all
big
, where the walls left you alone.
“Wow,” he whispered aloud.
“I’m glad you approve. I’m trying to make everything first class. I’ll give you time to make your telephone call and check back to see if you’ve got everything you need. Is fifteen minutes enough?”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
She walked down the stairs with effortless grace and just enough oscillation of a tight little butt to hold his full attention. Not a stunning woman, but hardly plain either. She had relaxed partially after the scotch, but in a way was as guarded as he. What was the thing with Nixon?
He went to the phone. He needed to talk to Claire, try to get an idea on a cop he could trust, assure each other they were well. But there was still no answer. It was strange. Her work ended early, at four, and he had always assumed she got home between five and seven. She should have been there.
The
Chicago Tribune
lay on the little table by the hall telephone, and he took it into his room, thumbing through it idly to distract himself from the unavailable Claire. Deep inside the front page section he found a small article:
Los Angeles; AP. The murder trial of reputed mob boss Tony Sartorelli has again been delayed because of unavailability of a key witness. The district attorney’s office, labeled as ridiculous, charges that the new witness protection program had failed, that the key witness had fled a safe house in Phoenix, Arizona, ten days ago and was missing. An assistant DA claimed there was no problem and this crucial trial would go on as scheduled.
Sartorelli’s attorney called the pursuit of his client
“
groundless persecution of a prominent businessman.
”
He stated
,
“T
here could have been no witness protection failure as there could have been no witness to a crime that had never occurred. The claim of a small person roasted to death in a pizza oven was ludicrous and ethnically offensive.” Additional motions for dismissal will soon be filed.
“Shit,” Tom breathed the curse more than spoke it out loud.
There was a polite knock at the door and he opened it to Beth. She held the scotch glass one-third full. Hadn’t she finished it off downstairs? She inquired, “Got everything you need?”
He couldn’t say
Everything but a woman in my bed
, so he smiled. “I’m all set. It’s a great room, thanks.”
“We aim to please. There is one thing. With so few people here, I have to do breakfast at a set time for everyone. If everyone agrees a different time is better for the following day, that’s what I do. Anyway, tomorrow it’s eight and it will be Robert, you, and Danielle. Good night, Tom.”
“Good night, Beth.” He closed the door once she had turned away.
Danielle? Dani?
****
The California sun was at its late summer best. After lunch, Harold stopped by the office of the One True Path with the swear word money. Reverend Timmy-Bob gave him the usual lecture about how he couldn’t simply buy his way onto The Path. He needed to get directly involved in the community, to get his hands dirty helping others. There was no need to go to a place like South L.A.—Harold should try to help someone at the soup kitchen next door. Harold promised maybe later. The Reverend was disappointed but he took the swear word money.
Leaving the office, Harold scanned the line of men outside the soup kitchen and one caught his eye. At first he thought it was because the man was built like him, or slightly taller and heavier and prematurely slick bald like him. His clothes were expensive; dirty maybe, but expensive. He looked terribly sad, like the others, but lacked their defeated posture.
He approached the fellow and offered to buy him a good meal at the shopworn but reputable corner diner. The man resisted a bit, but Harold convinced him his motives were pure. At the diner he learned Bill, as the man introduced himself, was also a financial guy, a fellow Stanford alumnus. His life as a mutual fund salesman had been destroyed by the recession. It was a very competitive business so he had, as a personal and private service to his clients, sold them insurance guaranteeing their principle would not decrease. When the market tanked, they’d requested to be paid off. He couldn’t, of course. He was fired, and was personally ruined.
Harold, down over half a million bucks himself since 1971, empathized. He took the man home to his place at the beach, telling him he could wash his sack of belongings, eat anything he could find except the Oreos, and stay a week if he wanted. He set him up in the master bedroom he used as a guest room. Harold slept in the back bedroom because it had the spectacular ocean view and was almost as big. He gave him the garish red silk pajamas his cousin Tony had sent for his birthday, still sealed in plastic.
Then Harold became hungry himself. He went out to dinner, glad to leave behind a person whose tale was making him sad and afraid. He lingered long over dessert and longer over brandy until finally he had no choice but to pay his dinner tab, go home and face his desolate houseguest. He over-tipped the sweet brunette and drove his Cadillac back to his spot next to the elevator in the garage at the bottom of his building. The sun set over the Pacific Ocean as he parked.
The door to his penthouse was unlocked. That’s what you get for letting an irresponsible stranger into your home. What if the homeless guy had told him a pack of lies? What if he had cleaned the place out and fled? Harold marched to the guest room. The homeless guy was on the bed. Harold shook him and got no response. He lifted and dropped a wrist with no reaction. Then he noticed the dark red marks on the guy’s neck. He tried to get a pulse and failed. This couldn’t be happening!
His extra wristwatches, a lot of cash and his bank books were still in his desk. In the kitchen, the pantry had been emptied but the false panel at the back was secure. He opened it. The copy of the cassette tape Tony Sartorelli had given him was still there. Praise the Lord. If made public, that tape could destroy him. He had kept it as a defense against Tony, but he had to burn it now.
A new fear seized him. He rushed to the laundry room and opened the door. Sinatra and Damone were sleeping blissfully. He resisted the urge to pick the dogs up and hug them and went to the telephone to call his casino in Vegas. Stinky picked up on the third ring.
“Stinky, I got a problem. Does your friend still know that guy with the cleaning service in L.A.?”
“Ah, yeah, I guess. I ain’t heard otherwise.”
“I need his people at my penthouse like right away.”
“Your own penthouse? Cripes, how many hits?”
“Just one guy.”
“He anybody I know?”
“No. He’s not even anybody I know. I think Tony intended to have me, you know. They got this guy who was staying with me instead.”
“Tony? That jerk got no feelings for anybody, not even family. Why’d he try to whack you?”
“It’s complicated. A little while ago he gave me a copy of a stupid tape recording he made. It lets all the old cats out of the bag. After the thing with the jockey in the pizza oven he wanted it back. I said if he was crazy enough to make it I was keeping it for insurance ’cause he’s going down when they find that Marine and have him testify. Tony didn’t like that. I guess he sent someone after the tape. And me.”
“Did he get it?”
“No. I can’t afford to keep it any more. You and I and others are on it and I’m cutting it into little pieces now and I’m going to burn them.”
“Swell, you do that. I’ll take care of the cleaner.”
“Thank you. The Marine kid who opened the oven, is our friend
sure
he’s in Michigan?”
“She’s sure where he went to Michigan. We don’t know if he’s still there.”
“Try to find out. I’m on my way to Vegas to stay with you for a while. I’m bringing the dogs. Make the call to the cleaner. Get someone to my place now.” Harold hung up.
He sat by the phone, willing his heart rate to fall to only a hundred and fifty or so. Then he dialed again, a Detroit number this time.
“Lester, it’s your old frat brother, Harold.”
“You know what time it is here, Harold?”
Harold didn’t, actually, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Nor did it matter. Lester Stone’s idea of a big Saturday night out was a walk to the new McDonald’s restaurant for dinner and the purchase of
The New York Times
on the way home. He could well afford a nice hooker, for goodness sake. “I’ve got a job for a good detective agency, a job there in Michigan.”
“I’m totally legitimate now, Harold, you know that.”
“Hey, so am I.” Harold cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder at his guest room. “I just need you to keep an eye on someone and let me know if any of Tony’s friends show up near him.”
“Tony? Aw crap. What kind of guy are we to keep an eye on? Is this guy dirty?”
“Goodness, no, he’s a boy scout, a college boy Marine with medals for being clean-cut.”
“Oh. Well, I guess my nephew Wyatt could handle that. I need to start him on his own case. Where is this guy in Michigan?”
“Houghton. I think it’s somewhere north of Birmingham, where you live.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake, Harold, it’s five hundred miles. It’s easier to get to L.A. from here.”
“Then your nephew needs to leave now.”
Chapter Four
Tom awoke ravenous, but when he tried to get out of bed his shoulder and back screamed their protest. He maneuvered first one foot and then the other down to the floor with minimum body rotation, and was finally en route to the bathroom. A long, hot shower restored mobility, although he took the stairs slowly. He expected to be the first one at the breakfast table, but when he entered the dining room the big blonde, Dani, was already standing there, cradling a mug of coffee. A thermos carafe of the welcome beverage sat on the table before her.
“How are you doing today?” she chirped as he filled a coffee mug.
“I’ve been better.” Tom took a chair opposite her.
“And you will be again.” She came around the table to sit next to him.
“I was burned out of my student room last night.”
“That’s sad. Can you hand me the sugar?”
Beth entered the room carrying orange juice and blueberries. If the seating arrangement surprised her, she concealed it. The warmth generated by the scotch the night before had dissipated.