The Blackmail Club (37 page)

“Seems right to me, after all I work for you.”

“You can’t call me Matt, but you can wear my pants?” I held up my empty cup.

“Now you got it, boss.” He filled my cup.

“The appointment, fill me in.”

Axel took a seat and poured himself a little coffee. “Not much yet to tell. This guy, Franklin’s his name, Reginald Franklin III, how’s that for a handle, he’s an attorney with a client who needs your help. He freely admitted his client specified Matthew Kile as the investigator he wanted. Admitting that up front told me that money’s not an issue. I told him it would be a grand for this morning, just to talk to you and see if you’ll handle the case. He understands that money’s gone whether or not you join up. He didn’t quibble. He’s bringing the check.”

I expected Axel would be around during the Franklin meeting. Axel didn’t really have a set schedule. If I needed him, I told him and he’d be there. Otherwise, he came and went as he pleased and when he wasn’t around I shifted for myself. I think Axel saw himself as my Kato or Dr. Watson or some such character. If I could have my choice, I’d prefer him as Archie Goodwin, the able assistant of Nero Wolfe, but then I would fail in comparison to Wolfe. My waistline was likely only half of Wolfe’s girth, not to mention my falling well short of his genius.

“So what do you have going today?” I asked.

“After our meeting with Franklin, I’ve got a few errands then I’ll have lunch with the fellas at Mackie’s. Don’t worry, boss, Franklin won’t know I’m around unless you call for me.”

“You think Franklin could be the real client?”

“No way, he’s fronting for someone. I could tell by his voice. He wasn’t uptight. He did tell me it was some old case the cops have tossed aside. The dude’s a smoker too, so get him out on the balcony if he tries to light up. A pipe, I think. I could hear him inhale and bite down on the stem.”

After thirty years in the big house, as Axel still called prison, he had mastered reading the tone and pace of people’s voices. He can read body language or faces, cons or bulls. All the old timers could do it, at least the ones with an ample helping of brains and judgment.

“The odds say I won’t take it.”

“Why not? You’ve about done up the book you was working on. And, hey, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at. You know?”

The Original Alibi
Chapter Two

It was the eighteenth of December, when I parked my new Ford Expedition in the turnaround in front of the home of General Whittaker, the client of the attorney, Reginald Franklin III. His home, an elegant place that looked to be about six thousand square feet, located south of Long Beach, backed up to the Pacific Ocean. The door was opened by a man about fifty in a white shirt with a starched collar, the rest of his dress being black. His pants were hitched up closer to his neck than his navel. His ears reached out from his head like they were expected to catch balls rather than words.

He looked me up and down without disclosing the impression he gleaned from having done so. “Good evening, Mr. Kile. You’re expected.” Seeing my surprise at being recognized, he added, “Your picture is on the dust covers of your books. My name is Charles, Mr. Kile.”

Few people called them dust covers any longer so Charles was a reader and, apparently, one not yet converted to reading eBooks.

“Please follow me.” Charles was an average sized man in his late fifties. He looked fit and confident in his ability to do his job. He led me into a wide junction in the hallway, next to a wonderfully decorated Christmas tree, tall enough to grace both the ground floor and the second story which was open overhead. “Please wait here, Mr. Kile, while I let the general know you’ve arrived. Some slight noise or movement caused me to step beyond the tree and look up the stairwell to my left.

From the balcony, a nubile woman wearing a black something that aggressively fell within the category of lingerie, said, “You must be Mr. Kile.” It wasn’t a question. Not the way she said it.

I smiled and nodded. Having always believed that seeing a woman in skimpy lingerie meant, at the very least, that the relationship automatically advanced to a first name basis, I said, “Call me, Matt.” We exchanged smiles only they weren’t equal. Hers was framed in red and had a gloss that reflected the top light on the Christmas tree.

“Well, Matt,” she said, “Charles sat a tray on the side table when he went to answer the door. Would you be a sweetheart and finish bringing it up?” She added, “Please,” while leaning her forearms on the banister. At least I assumed her forearms were on the banister. I wanted to be a good sweetheart so I picked up the tray which held one glass and a decanter of something you and I would both guess was alcoholic and started up the stairs.

“This is a lovely home,” I said after advancing a short distance.

“Yes it is. During the general’s career, toward the end when he was a member of the joint chiefs, this home entertained two U.S. presidents and one pope.”

“With you wearing a much different outfit, I’m sure.”

“I was living with my mother then,” she said, “and a little young during those years to wear something like this.” She stood straight, bust out, and turned slowly to be certain I had fully grasped, figuratively speaking of course, the composition of “something like this.” I actually preferred her adorning the banister, but if that sounded like a complaint, it lacked substance. I had come not expecting to see anyone more attractive than a long-retired general.

I was ten steps from her when Charles silently arrived beside me and took the tray. I stopped, wishing that Charles had waited for me at the bottom of the stairs.

“The General will see you now, Mr. Kile. Please follow me back downstairs to the study.”

As we turned, she revealed her platform heels and red toenails by coming down the stairs far enough to take the tray. She was old enough to realize that platform heels and skimpy lingerie went together like me and a warm feeling. Had I worn a hat I would have held in front myself as she came closer. She and I exchanged one of those smiles that meant the kinds of things that smilers in such situations are never sure about. Then I switched my attention to not tripping and rolling down the stairs.

Over my shoulder, she said, “I hope we can continue getting acquainted some other time.” I held the railing and turned to see her again displayed on the banister.

“I’d like that,” I said. Then I followed Charles down the stairs, well, I did after wishing I might one day be reincarnated as a banister, but not just any banister, her banister.

“Matt.” I turned back and looked up at her. “Ditch the tie. You can do better.” Then she turned her head, tossing her blond hair across her shoulders, and she was gone.

“Charles, who was the lady?”

“Karen Whittaker, sir, the general’s daughter. She’s thirty-five, in case you’re curious about that. The general was a late poppa.” His tone did not disclose disapproval, but I did detect a slight shake of his head.

“Why, Charles, I understood it was bad form to talk about a woman’s age.”

“Yes, sir. But not Karen. She’s proud of being thirty-five and looking twenty-five. She works at it. Hard.” We shared those brief looks that men share. I’d explain, but the guys would kick me out of the club because they would know some ladies would read this.

General Whittaker rose from his chair, slowly, but agilely for his age. His body was now slighter than it looked in pictures of him from his robust years, yet he still had a military posture. A burgundy colored jacket, not exactly a smoking jacket, but not a sport coat either, covered a long-sleeved khaki shirt. The jacket tailored to expose a matching measure of shirt cuff on each of his arms, which were thin enough that the garment hung as cleanly as it would on a store mannequin. He was well dressed and neat except for a crop of white hair freely growing from his ears. His wrists were frail. The skin on the backs of hands, mottled. Still, his handshake remained mildly firm, yet cool to the touch.

“Mr. Kile,” he said, “as you stated in one of your books, I like people better than principles, and people without principles best of all. And from what I’ve learned you should be one of my favorites. And I like your tie, but you didn’t need to wear one on my account.”

So far I had learned that my ties were a matter that could divide families. I agreed with the general, I liked the tie, but I doubted I would ever wear it again. Women who show cleavage don’t fully realize the power they possess and please don’t tell ‘em.

“Are you married, Mr. Kile?”

“Once.”

“Divorced?”

I nodded without hiding my irritation at his questions.

“Too bad.”

“My ex-wife would disagree with you.”

“Kids?”

“With due respect, General, that’s enough of that. This isn’t a lonely hearts meeting.”

He smiled the kind that said he didn’t do it much.

“Before we get started I want to return the check your attorney, Mr. Franklin, gave me yesterday.” I put it on his desk. “I can’t help you with your case.”

He left the check lying there and flicked his wrist a few times as if shooing a fly. I took this as an invitation to sit down; I did. After looking at his pocket watch, likely the one the articles reported he had carried since his youth, he said, “You are on time; I like that, sir.”

His study was as elegant as the rest of the house, though decidedly more masculine. A massive mahogany desk sat between us, a wall of glass behind him showing off the Pacific Ocean like it flowed simply to grace his home. The moon glazing the night fog sitting on the horizon gave the sheen of a protective coating. The way the sky looked, we might have another hour of good visibility, depending on the wind. The light in the study had been designed to be soft and indirect. According to that daily column in the newspaper that announces the ages of people they figure the rest of us care to know, the general was eighty-seven. One of the articles on him that I read before coming said he suffered from chronic uveitis, an inflammation of the eye. The condition would explain the subdued lighting.

The sidewall of the general’s study closest to his desk was mostly bookcases, with some wall area left for photos from his career; the wall on the other side crowded with more photos and plaques. One four-shelf bookcase held only VCR tapes. He noticed my looking and said, “Family events mostly, I’ve had the older ones originally in film converted.”

“I wish I had done more of that. My early family life is mostly in still pictures, but I’ve got a ton of those.”

“Mr. Kile, if you won’t help me, why in tarnation did you come?”

“You’re a great American, General Whitaker. It would be disrespectful not to tell you in person.”

“Call me, General. Everybody does, even my daughter. As long as you were kind enough to come, before you leave please do me two favors?” Not used to being opposed, he went on without waiting for my answer. “The first, you should find decidedly easy. Drink a Tullamore Dew on crushed ice with a lemon twist.” He picked up a handheld bell and rang it. Charles came through the door instantly with a pewter tray centered by a short frosted glass, apparently filled with the Irish whiskey of my ancestors.

The reports said the general could no longer drink himself, but enjoyed watching others imbibe. If he liked them, he felt he was drinking with them. If he didn’t like them, well, they didn’t get offered the drink in the first place.

The general gave the impression that being eccentric could be a lot of fun. Of course you had to be somewhat wealthy to be eccentric. If one is poor and unconventional in manner and deed, one is simply considered a bit nutty.

“You said two things, General?”

“That I did. While sipping your Dew, read this letter. It is addressed to you. You will notice it is not opened. The letter is from one of my dearest friends, yours too, Mr. Barton Cowen.

I took the letter gingerly between two fingertips and held it for a moment, feeling like a mouse eyeing trapped cheese. Barton Cowen was the father and husband of the family killed by the thug I shot dead on the courthouse steps to earn my four years inside with Axel. Bart came to see me every week while he relentlessly inspired public opinion until the governor’s office granted my pardon. Like the mouse, I could not turn from the trap.

When I finished reading Bart’s request that I help the general, I sat motionless, looking, I suspect, like an envelope without a name or address on its face. But I knew I had no real choice.

“General, tell me about the case.”

“The older I become,” he said, “the more impressed I am with what a man is, rather than what he seems. And I like who you are.”

“Were it not for Mr. Cowen I would have spent three more years as a guest of the state, and then walked out as an ex-con rather than a pardoned man. But you knew that, General. You knew I could not refuse you after reading this letter.” I dropped it onto his desk.

“What I knew, Mr. Kile . . . may I call you Matt?”

“I’d prefer you did, General. Please go on.”

“What I knew, Matt, was that you were intrigued. Perhaps it was my reputation mixing with your curiosity. Perhaps from the stories you wished to learn if I would offer you a drink. Then it may have simply been that you are divorced and hoped to meet my celebrated daughter.”

“Hmmmm.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means, hmmmm. But to revise and extend my remarks as you regularly heard members of congress say during your years as a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter on the way in. She is a lovely woman.”

“Nicely said. A man predisposed to be a fighting man, learns to do so. A woman predisposed to being a seductress hones her skills similarly. Both arts designed to control the man before them. My daughter is not an excessively promiscuous woman, but, like her mother, she enjoys men and is an unapologetic tease.”

I recalled a quote from Count Tallyrand,
In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily.

The tone in which the general spoke about his daughter, suggested he was not stressed in the slightest by his daughter’s choices or personality. I also guessed he liked the style of woman she had grown to be, or so it seemed from his reference to her mother.