The Reckoning (12 page)

What, no nooky tonight, darling? And I feel so horny, too. Actually have a hard-on. But is it a hard-on for you?

Lying in his bed Thursday night, Royce struggled to keep from giggling out loud.

What a strange, perverse, completely unfair turn of events today, he ruminated. Caught with his pants down, that’s what had happened to him. In a way, it had been a relief. A fever had broken; a carbuncle had been lanced. The foul pus, all the ugliness, could now be squeezed and drained. The question is, would there be anything left of him when all the nastiness was out?

Leslie certainly wasn’t hopeful about the procedure’s outcome. Things between them had cooled to dry ice. He feared, dreaded accidentally touching her body, way over on the farthest reaches of their queen-sized bed. His wife might have been occupying space in his proximity, but they had not gone “to bed together” in the conjugal sense. For all the warmth passing between them, they could have been standing side-by-side on a crowded elevator.

All right, so he hadn’t been fully candid with her about his past. He’d said he was sorry, didn’t he? It wasn’t like he’d murdered anyone.

Royce shuddered. Okay, fuck it. If Leslie insisted on playing this big chill for long he’d just split, say bye-bye. She and her numskull son could just get along fine without him. She’d find herself another man pretty quick, a dull plodder. Some banker who’d overlook her flat…

There it was again, that convulsion, like his body was experiencing some kind of melt down. Maybe he was suffering a nervous breakdown?

He’d grown fat, lazy, that was it. Indecisive, too. Edge gone. That lowball consulting gig of his was a joke. He was better than that. Time to kick ass again, make some real money. Even in this crappy economy there were opportunities for a man with his talents (What had Cliff called it? His “special expertise”?) Hell, this kind of downturn made it even easier, if you could hustle up some sincerity and instill trust. And that he could do. “Greed is good,” as Gekko said in
Wall Street
. Greed is always good. When times are tough, and folks—rich folks, in particular—are wary, all you had to do is tickle them a little until they felt good about greed again. Slap on some blue chip, FDIC-insured icing and they’ll still eat it. Still eat shit and ask for more.

Unfortunately, Papa Bears with thirty-year mortgages and Chevy Cavaliers couldn’t hunt such game, only tigers with big, heavy-hanging cajones—and big, swinging dicks.

Resolve steeled him.

That’s it. He knew what he had to do.

He had to let his claws grow back in.

9

Seek the Woman

The Denny’s on East Joppa Road was jammed Saturday afternoon with diners seeking a respite from turkey leftovers.

So Royce was surprised when Marvin Garden ordered a hot turkey sandwich.

“You didn’t get your fill of the bird on Thanksgiving?” Royce asked, grinning.

“Didn’t get any turkey at all, just donuts and coffee for the most part,” Marvin said. He rubbed his tired eyes. “On a photo stakeout in Hunt Valley. A nasty one—divorce.”

“You get a lot of nasty ones?”

“Sometimes it seems that’s all I get,” he said, sounding world-weary. “People come to me when they want to get married, to find out if their prospective mate is really who they say they are, isn’t a flaming bisexual or check kiter. And they come to me when they want to get out of their marriage, catch their sweetums in the act for hard evidence.”

“You must see some pretty sleazy things.”

Marvin shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Royce wasn’t “reading” Marvin yet. The private investigator was a little rough around the edges, slight, late forties, with a balding head (threads of dark hair combed ridiculously across his glowing skull) that seemed too big for his body. This morning he wore a leather jacket that creaked as he leaned forward on the table. The guy needed a shave, a bath. Still, Tony said the man got results.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice, on a holiday weekend and all,” Royce told him.

“That’s okay. Anything for a friend of Tony’s. He’s a good man.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “A good man.” Royce stirred his black coffee with a spoon, delaying. There he was, being indecisive again, when he swore he was going to stop being that way.

Marvin said, “So how can I help you, Mr. McCulloch?”

“Call me Royce.”

“Royce then. How can I help?”

“I need you to trace someone. A woman.”

Marvin smiled knowingly. “Seek the woman?”

“Pardon?”

“An old gumshoe line. Sorry. Go on.”

“I’m looking for this woman, not personally, you understand, but on behalf of one of my clients.”

“You run a small business consulting firm, right?”

“Yes.” So Marvin had talked to Tony. “That’s correct, Marvin. And as it turns out, this woman owes one of my clients a considerable sum of money. Sixty-thousand dollars. She defaulted on a personal loan.”

The food arrived—Marvin’s open-faced turkey sandwich and a Denver omelet for Royce. Marvin surveyed his plate and told the waitress, “I ordered French fries, not mashed potatoes.”

The waitress apologized and promised to correct the oversight. “And put gravy on those fries,” the detective called after her. He started cutting his sandwich up in hefty bite-sized pieces as he said, “They do have collection agencies for that sort of thing. I can recommend a couple.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s a little too complex for that. My client, a friend, actually, happens to be a very high-profile Baltimore bank executive. Symphony board, all that. He made this loan to a friend of a friend, and well, unfortunately, he did not follow the normal procedures, bypassing his financial institution’s loan committee.”

The fries arrived, served, it seemed, just the way Marvin liked them: soppy. He forked a greasy bundle into his mouth, chewed.

“And your client, your friend, actually, can’t just write off the loan ? They do that all the time nowadays.”

Royce flashed his best worldly grin. “Yes, well, like I said, it’s a little more complicated than that. You see, if this loan were discovered, my client might be implicated in some impropriety. The lady, as it turns out, claims to have had a sexual liaison with him.”

“Your friend,” Marvin pressed, pointing his fork at Royce.

“Yes,” he conceded, knowing full well he was now sparring with Marvin. “As a favor, I said that I would do what I could, which led me to consult with Tony, who recommended you.” Christ, did it really sound so thin?

“I see. So you want me to locate this woman.”

“That’s correct.”

“Up front, Royce, I need to tell you I only touch civil matters and do not get involved in any shape or form with the commission of a criminal act or in helping anyone avoid criminal prosecution. If I run into illegality, I notify my client and immediately turn it over to the police. Now, defaulting on a bank loan is not a criminal offense, unless fraud is involved.”

“No, no,” Royce assured him. “This woman did nothing criminal. Just reneged on the loan.”

“So you just want me to locate her. Not serve her or apprehend her. Correct?”

“That is correct.”

Marvin wolfed down a huge slab of turkey sandwich. Choking, he drank down half a glass of water, made a face.

“Royce,” he said painfully, “you sure you’ve told me everything I need to know?”

“Well, you have to tell me,” he responded. “This is all new to me.”

Marvin gestured with his right hand; it seemed to help the food unclog in his throat.

“Like aren’t you going to tell me who this lady is?” he asked, red-faced.

Royce smiled. “Yes, of course. Her name is Carly Anderton.”

Marvin pulled a notebook from his inside coat pocket, started scribbling and belched.

“Excuse me. Last known whereabouts?”

“Sinclair, Wyoming. A little refinery town out west in the boonies. Frankly, I don’t know exactly where it is on the map.”

“That’s okay. Is that her last known whereabouts or where Carly is from?”

“Both, I think.”

“Why wouldn’t she be in Baltimore?”

“She may very well be.”

“How old is she?”

“Oh, about thirty-three, maybe thirty-four by now, I guess.”

“So you know her too.”

Royce had slipped. “No. Never even met her,” he rebounded. “My client, in his worry, has talked to me about her so much that I feel I’ve come to know her.”

“Then what else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s tallish, with a modelish figure.”

“Flat-chested, you mean.”

“Yes, I was about to say willowy, but flat-chested would probably do. Anyway, I think my client said she has brown eyes, freckles; her hair is naturally brown, though she sometimes dyes it blonde. And…never mind.”

“Go on.”

“She’s something of a chameleon. Likes to change her appearance. A thing she has. Amateur theatrics.”

Marvin said, “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. That’s pretty good for starters. Know what make of car she would be driving?”

“Not at all. Something modest, though. An unassuming compact. Probably American.”

“Tell me about her lifestyle. She live life in the fast lane? Have a lot of boyfriends? Into drugs or recreational sex?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Royce said thoughtfully.

“Doesn’t sound the type.”

“Type?”

“To get involved in a pay-for-play scheme like this.”

“Well, people sometimes fool you.”

“Does Carly have relatives in Sinclair?”

“Her father, though he may not still be living.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Marvin agreed to take the case, so the conversation got around to what Royce would be charged for the trace. Marvin gave Royce a bookmark that also served as a fee schedule. At Marvin’s direction, Royce flipped it over to the backside, and the detective ran his sticky finger down the list of services, past “White Knight’s Quest for Children” (“fees quoted by phone”) to “Whereabouts Search III,” for a minimum of $685.

Marvin explained, “I recommend this level of commitment for missing persons, runaways and spouses who don’t want to be found. I estimate we’re talking about three days worth of work here. Additionally, I charge twenty-five-cents-a-mile drive time, plus expenses. If I had to go to Wyoming, it would mean airfare, motel and per diem expenses, of course. And I don’t think there are any bargain flights to Wyoming.”

Royce nodded. “I understand.” He wondered how fast he could get a cash advance on his credit card.

The waitress arrived to remove their plates and asked if there would be anything else. Marvin ordered a chocolate ice cream sundae. Royce begged off, patting his stomach and making a reference to stuffing himself over Thanksgiving. Just before the girl took the plates, Marvin snatched a piece of toast off Royce’s.

Marvin munched and said, “I usually ask for my base fee up front, but since you’re a friend of Tony’s…”

“That’s quite all right,” Royce said, pulling out his McCulloch & Company checkbook. “I know what it is to be in business for yourself. Six-eighty-five you said?”

The investigator nodded.

Royce filled out the check, signed it and passed it to Marvin. Frankly, it felt good to him to be the client for once, the one in the driver’s seat.

“I assume I’ll receive timely updates from you?” he inquired.

“Certainly. But like I said, I think it will all be over by the middle part of next week. Do you have a business card? And I’ll need your home phone and cell number.”

Royce handed him a business card, saying, “Tell you what. I’d prefer you contact me at my office—afternoons are best. If something comes up and you do happen to get my answering service, I’m very good about checking my messages.”

Marvin looked like he was about to protest but didn’t. His sundae arrived and he jammed a spoon into it.

“Okay, Royce. If that’s the way you want it.”

“Thank you, Marvin. I appreciate your understanding.”

Royce picked up the check for the chow, feeling more like a tiger all the time.

He arrived home to discover the “quiet treatment” had evolved into something more foreboding. Leslie was outraged with him, waiting to pounce.

“Look what I found in my son’s bedroom!” she screeched, angrily proffering the Naughty’s portfolio that Monica had left behind Thanksgiving day.

“So?” he sneered.

“Craig had this—this thing hidden under his bed,” she spat. “And I want to know what you’re going to do about it?”

Royce smiled. “Absolutely nothing, except return it to Monica when I meet with her this week.” He pulled the book from his wife’s hands.

“Don’t you think you should talk to Craig about this? I mean, obviously if he wasn’t curious about sex before, he must be now. And this is disgusting! No telling what harm looking at this perverted pornography has done to him.”

He scowled. “There you go again, blaming me for the fucked-up job you’ve done raising him. Why don’t you talk to the boy, Leslie? It’s been made very clear to me that he’s your son, not mine.”

“Bastard!”

“I thought I was a shit, dear?”

10

No More Mr. Nice Guy

“What clients I elect to work with is my concern, not yours. Do you understand, Brenda?”

First thing Monday morning Royce decided to “clear the air” with his secretary.

“I understand. It’s your company,” she said defensively.

He knew she was taken back by his directness.

“But…”

“But what, Brenda?”

“But I have a basic right to not associate with people I find morally objectionable.”

“You’re referring to Monica Pleshette.”

“Yes. There’s something about her, Royce. It’s not just the slutty act she puts on, or the kind of business she runs. She’s trouble.”

“Trouble? What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “I guess that’s all I can say for now.”

“Okay, Brenda, maybe she is a little
different
. But this company has always been open to helping different people. Baltimore prides itself in its diversity.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fine, but I do intend to retain her as a client.”

Brenda ruminated, her eyes getting bigger, softer. “I like you, Royce. More importantly, I respect you. You’ve been decent to me. But I’d be doing both of us a disservice if I stayed.”

He exhaled, saying, “If that’s your decision.”

She said it was. While he wrote out her final paycheck, Brenda gathered her personal belongings from her desk, including all the photos of her kids. He could tell she was fighting hard not to cry.

“Here,” he said, giving her the check. “I put two week’s severance in there, too. If you need a letter of reference, just let me know.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, slinging the strap of her book bag over her shoulder. “I guess that’s it.”

Royce smiled. “I guess so.”

And she was gone.

Royce felt bad, yeah. Hey, even tigers can be soft-hearted, he told himself.

Then the pragmatic side of the loss began to sink in. True, she was only halftime, but she was a whiz on that word processor, doing all his correspondence and proposals, making everything look crisp and professional, no typos,
etc.
Well, he’d just have to bite the bullet and learn how to use the friggin’ computer—or hire a temp (with big jugs) to come in. Either avenue posed no real problem. He assumed any work in progress must be stored on a disk somewhere.

Brenda did answer the phone in the morning, but that was an easy fix. He’d just use the answering service more often, covering himself when he was in a meeting or out and about.

The only real problem he could see was her attachment to many of his clients. They’d come to appreciate her dry sense of humor, her “street smarts,” even her mystical aloofness. She sat in on many of his meetings; her insights were often right on the mark, though she possessed no business training or experience. More important, the woman was an underdog, and Royce had relied on her to make his clients (most of them underdogs themselves) feel more at ease.

He needed a script. The phone rang. It was Tony.

“Hey, what’s up? Long time no see.”

“Been busy, Tony.”

“Brenda out?”

“No, she’s home hitting the books. Preparing for midterm exams or whatever they have in shyster school. I guess you wouldn’t know about that. You studied law through a correspondence course, right?”

“Hell, it was even easier on me than that. The university needed at least one Mexican to graduate so they could continue receiving federal grants to research foreskin smegma.”

Royce laughed. “Tough all over.”

“Hope you haven’t forgotten we’re up tomorrow night.”

“Up?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot our little dog-and-pony tomorrow night. Remember? The Hispanic Chamber?”

Royce squeezed the bridge of his nose. Hell, he’d completely spaced it. He and Tony were going to give a little primer on establishing a small business, from both the legal and marketing points of view.

“Sorry, Tony. Like I said, I’ve been awful busy. Do I need to prepare anything?”

“No, bud. Just bring yourself and your brain and mouth in decent working order. The Hacienda restaurant, seven o’clock. If you don’t like Mexican food, they—”

“I know! They have crab cakes, too.”

“Someday I’m going to open a first-class Mexican restaurant in this town, no Tex-Mex, no barbecue.”

“I’d help you swing an SBA loan, Tony, but with your checkered past—”

“Smart ass!”

“Seriously, though, Tony, I’m swamped on a special project.”

“Cal’s program at Old Dominion?” Tony asked hopefully.

“No, something entirely different for me. Retail. Ladies’ apparel, of all things. They want my help to go national, structure some franchises. I may be out of pocket the next few weeks, at least through the holidays.”

“Well, you got to do what you got to do. Sounds like a great opportunity for you.”

“Hey, thanks for understanding. See you tomorrow night.”

“Say, you know what’s black and tan and looks good on a lawyer?”

Royce made an impatient face and snapped, “No. What?”

“A pit bull.”

“Bye, Tony.”

He pressed the on-hook button on his phone to get another dial tone and punched in Naughty’s number. As it rang, he checked his watch. At nine-fifteen he doubted anyone would be there.

“Yes?” The voice was girlish, spacey.

“Allison?”

“Who is this?”

“Royce McCulloch.”

“Oh, Mr. McCulloch.”

“Call me Royce. I was wondering if Monica might be in yet.”

“No, well she’s in, but it was kind of weird here last night.”

He relished the way she said “weird” and slavered over a mental picture of the girl in his head. Probably standing there in just her panties, her pendulous tits bare, her body all sexed out.

“I can imagine, Allison. Can you have Monica call me when she’s available?”

“Certainly, Mr. McCulloch—ah, Royce, I mean.”

He gave the girl his number and was about to hang up when he had a thought.

“Oh, Allison?”

“Yes.”

“How’s Christine?”

Allison giggled. “Weird.”