Money To Burn (37 page)

“I know what you mean,” Jack said, snapping a towel. “That stuff can get pretty nauseating. Think of it as hormone-induced insanity. Pity the poor fools. They’ll learn soon enough.”

“That’s not the worst part,” I explained, then I told him about meeting Burly. “The guy tried to trick me,” I complained, hardly noticing when Jack refilled my glass without comment. “He knew I didn’t know he was in a wheelchair and he didn’t say anything about it until after I was attracted to him.”

“So, what’s the problem, Case?” Jack asked. “The guy is in a wheelchair. Big deal. You always wanted a man you could push around.”

“Very funny.” I was annoyed.

“No, really, look at it in a positive light,” he urged me. “You’ve always said the thing you hate the most about men is that they think with their dicks. Well, this guy can’t do that. So, he’s either thinking with his heart, or with his head, and either way, it’s an improvement.”

“Maybe,” I said dubiously. “But speaking of dick…”

“Look at it this way,” Jack interrupted, not wanting to hear more on that subject in case his own performance crept into the discussion. “Between him and me, you’ll have the perfect man. You and I can do our thing, and you and him can, well, sit around and connect. Or whatever.”

“That’s all very fine and good, but who’s going to take me dancing? You won’t and he can’t.” I wasn’t being entirely serious.

“Take lessons at Arthur Murray,” Jack suggested. “Or go hang out with the Mexican guys at the Hilton on salsa night.”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “It just seems so… something. So politically correct. Know what I mean?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Look on the bright side. Maybe he’ll pull out a gun and shoot up a McDonald’s. That ought to make him politically incorrect in a hurry.”

“Don’t joke about that,” I warned. “He does have a gun. He carries it in the storage compartment of his wheelchair.”

“Of course he has a gun,” Jack said reasonably. “The guy is a sitting duck for muggers. Look, Casey,” he added, his voice softening as he leaned over the bar toward me. His smile was patient. “I know you, babe. Pretty well. We’ve been, how should I put it, upfront with each other for what, three years now?”

“We’ve been taking our clothes off and going at it like weasels for three years,” I agreed. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“So I know you pretty well. And, forgive me for saying so, but you are, hands down, the most stubborn woman I have ever known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“It means, get off your ass and stop blaming this guy for your feelings toward him. Call him. He isn’t trying to own you. He isn’t going to erase you. He just wants to be with you. Is that such a bad thing? I told you a week ago, you need to fall in love. Trust me. It will cure what ails you.”

“Great,” I mumbled, raising the glass for another hit. “Now even you’ve turned sappy on me.”

“I’m going to lose my patience with you,” he warned, but stopped abruptly. He stared behind me, his mouth open. I was forgotten.

I turned around and spotted Lydia standing in the doorway of the bar. She was wearing a pale blue sleeveless dress and a string of pink pearls. Her brown hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. Grief had made her even more beautiful. She seemed more delicate than she had before, if that was possible, as if she might shatter if someone spoke too loud.

“Over here,” I said, waving.

“Who’s that?” Jack whispered in an odd tone of voice.

“My client,” I explained as Lydia sat gingerly on the stool next to me. She placed a tiny blue-beaded bag on the counter between us. She smelled like lemons. Up close, I could see that she had applied her makeup carefully to conceal signs of crying. She looked as exquisite—and as unapproachable—as a geisha girl.

“White wine,” she asked politely. “The best you have that’s dry.”

At first she took no notice of Jack, she was staring at her pocketbook. But then, when he set the wine glass down in front of her, she noticed his hands—which, believe me, look kevewas staas capable as they are. Her gaze traveled upward, over his well-toned arms and lingered on his dark Irish face.

That was when it happened. She looked at him. He looked at her. The air around us grew charged and I could practically feel the ions bumping against each other in a frenzied dance. Within seconds, I was odd man out.

“Jack McNeill,” my soon-to-be-former bedmate said, extending a hand.

“Lydia Talbot,” she answered in a funny voice, reaching out to meet his hand. They touched and, when the touch lingered, I picked up my drink with as much dignity as I could muster and slipped away to a corner table where I could lick my wounds in private. Another one bites the dust.

I didn’t begrudge her the attraction. God knows, she could use a little distraction right now. Nor did I resent Jack for being attracted to her. I had no claim on him, didn’t want one, and was not in the mood for one of his rough-and-tumble sessions anyway. That wasn’t what was bothering me at all. Truly.

What was bothering me was that the whole frigging world was pairing up around me. Bobby, Marcus, Doodle and his new girlfriend, now Jack and God knows who else. While I, who didn’t even want someone and who had been perfectly content until now, was feeling bad about being left out.

For a moment there, I hated the whole world. But especially Burly Nash.

“If you want anything else from me,” he’d said, “you’re going to have to come right out and ask for it.”

He was probably sitting by the phone at his parents’ house waiting for me to call, just so he could smirk about it.

Who was I kidding?
I downed the rest of my Jack Daniels and headed for the pay phone before I lost my nerve.
I was carrying his number in my shoe, if that tells you something.

He was there.

“You win,” I said. “I want to see you.”

He didn’t sound smug at all. In fact, he sounded relieved. “I didn’t think you would call,” he said.

“I’m calling.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“When?” he asked.

“W color=“windowtext”>I looked over at the bar. Jack was lighting a cigarette for Lydia and she was trying to smile. “Now,” I said, before I lost my nerve. “My place?”

“Great. I’ll bring dinner.” He cut off my protests. “I mean it. You sound really tired. I’ll make you dinner and then maybe I’ll rub your feet and you can fall asleep on the couch.”

Hearing it, there was suddenly nothing in the world that I wanted more.

“Sounds great,” I agreed.

“It’ll take me an hour to get there. I’m in Kittrell.”

“No problem,” I said, hanging up. I felt strangely exhilarated, yet still afraid. As if I had just safely taken a big step toward a cliff in the dark but knew I would have to take another one.

I wandered back to the bar to tell Jack that I was leaving. He was alone, happily rubbing down the counter in front of Lydia’s stool.

“What did you do with my client?” I asked.

“She’s in the ladies room.” He nodded toward the back. “She’s really nice, Casey.” His voice grew troubled. “You’re not pissed or anything?”

I laughed. With Burly coming over soon, I could afford to. “No, I am not pissed. Just don’t do your usual thing, Jack,” I warned him. “No hit-and-run with her, promise? She’s been going through a rough time.”

He held up his hands to stop me. “Say no more. I have no intention of hurting her.”

“Be careful yourself,” I added. “She’s on the rebound.”

“I don’t care. I have to go for it. Did you feel what I felt?” His eyes grew wide and he gave a sideways smile, in that really annoying way that people about to fall in love
get when they’re in the gooey stage and want to talk about it to everyone. “It was like the air changed or something. There was this … this thing between us.” He moved a hand back and forth, staring at it, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Look, he was a friend. Why piss on his parade?

“I’m happy for you,” I said, insincerely, but he didn’t notice. He’d found a victim to unload his happiness on and wanted to get it all in before she returned.

“It’s so corny, but it’s true,” he said in a wondering voice. “It was like angels singing, you know, a whole choir of them. I looked at her an kkedck”d everything seemed to slow down and then there was this sort of silent music and…” he stopped, at a loss for words. “She’s really something.”

Oh. My. God. That was when it hit me. I knew where I had heard those words before. And I understood why they had come back to me in my dream earlier that day. I had first heard them while lingering on the front porch of a farmhouse near Lake Gaston, standing beside an old tobacco farmer as he watched his wife lead her church’s gospel choir in song. Sanford Hale. The farmer who had been asked to leave Nash’s pilot program.

His name wasn’t on the list that Harry Ingram had given me a few days ago. That was the detail I had been groping for earlier in the day. He should have been on the list of farmers in the pilot program.

Why wasn’t he?

“Casey?” Jack asked. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” I told him absently. “No problem. Listen, can I use the bar phone? I’m out of change. And do you have a phone book?”

“Absolutely,” he said, happy to atone for what his Catholic upbringing probably saw as a betrayal. He slid it across the counter toward me and I looked up the number for Harry Ingram, wondering if he’d still be in. It was past nine.

He picked up the phone himself. “Ingram speaking.”

“Casey Jones speaking,” I replied, matching his businesslike tone.

“Ah, Miss Jones,” he answered in his good-humored voice. “You got my messages then?”

“What messages?” I asked.

“I left one each on your office and home answering machines. Dolores said you called?”

“Oh, that’s right. Yeah.” I thought back to earlier that afternoon. What had I wanted? “I was calling to ask you if there was any contact, to your knowledge, between Jake Talbot and Tom Nash.”

“Jake Talbot?” he asked doubtfully.

“Randolph Talbot’s oldest son. Don’t tell me you don’t know who he is.” He would by the morning, that was for sure. Though I kept why to myself.

“Oh, I know who he is.” Ingram gave a lawyerly laugh. “The heir to the throne. I was just a step ahead of you, trying to figure out why you ke om Nash.” had asked. I thought this whole thing was being brought to a close…” His voice trailed off regretfully, as if he did not want to say more.

“Oh, can it,” I told him, suddenly annoyed at his circumspection. “I know you’re representing Nash’s parents and that Talbot has offered a settlement.”

“Well, then,” he said, sounding relieved. “I just didn’t want to betray any client confi—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Don’t say it. I’m sick of hearing that word.”

“Well, forgive me for asking,” he said more politely. “But since the criminal matter is in the hands of the police and the civil matter is close to being settled, why are you still looking into it?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said with satisfaction. “Client confidentiality and all that.”

He was silent and I hoped he was enjoying having the tables turned on him for a change. “Touché,” he finally said.

“I’m just looking into it for my own edification,” I lied to make him feel better. “It’s no big deal. I hate loose threads.”

“In that case, I’m happy to answer your question,” he said. “No, I don’t know of a connection between the two men. Does that help at all?”

“A little.” It didn’t. “I have another question for you, though.”

“I’m always glad to be of service.”

“You gave me a list of the farmers participating in the King Buffalo pilot tobacco program, right?”

“That’s correct. But it’s a dead end to pursue them. I checked each of them out personally. Or, rather, my regular investigator did.” He managed, without saying so, to make it sound as if his investigator was a lot more on the ball— because he had balls—than I was.

“But did he check out Sanford Hale?” I asked.

“Who?” Ingram sounded confused.

“There’s a farmer near Lake Gaston named Sanford Hale who was asked to leave the pilot program because of suspicion that toxic waste had been dumped on his property.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Ingram said apologetically. klog did he “Where in the world did you hear about him?”

“From Franklin Cosgrove,” I said. “Then I went out to his farm and talked to Mr. Hale personally.”

There was a long silence while he thought my news over.

“I’m completely perplexed,” he finally admitted. “What did this Mr. Hale say? Anything to help our case?”

“Not much.” That was all I would throw him until he begged for more. “Where did you get the list in the first place?”

“From Nash’s office,” Ingram said. “I can’t remember who sent it over to my office. Their secretary at the time, I would imagine. Is it important?”

“It could be,” I said, though I didn’t really know.

There was another long silence, as if he were thinking things over. “Look, is it really necessary for you to continue this inquiry?” he asked. “Since you know about my relationship with the parents, let me be frank. They are distraught about their son’s death and they want the matter put to rest.”