Twilight at Mac's Place (24 page)

By 5:32
P
.
M
. that Monday they had checked into the Bellevue Motel in Bethesda,
Maryland, as Mr. and Mrs. Jeff T. Clarkson. The room was $58 a night and the motel owner demanded a $100 deposit after Haynes announced he would pay cash. The owner wasn’t in the least interested in either the make of Haynes’s car or its license number. Nor did he ask to see a driver’s license or other identification.

The pink and teal Bellevue Motel was built in the shape of a two-story U. The view it offered was that of the McDonald’s across the street. Haynes’s room was at the bottom of the U and as he nosed the Cadillac into the vacant parking space, he felt, then heard, the right front wheel run over and crush a glass bottle. He and Erika got out to inspect what damage, if any, a broken 750-milliliter Smirnoff vodka bottle had done to the tire. Apparently none, they decided.

Erika went into the room first after Haynes unlocked the door. He followed, carrying her canvas overnight bag that looked like something a stonemason might carry his tools in. After dumping the bag onto one of the twin beds, Haynes sat down on the other one, picked up the telephone and made a call to Sheriff Jenkins Shipp in Berryville, Virginia.

“That you, Granville?” the sheriff said, once a deputy had transferred the call to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“What can I do you for?”

“I’m calling about that car my father left me.”

“Steady’s big old Cadillac?”

“Right. Did the man who came to pick it up check with you first?”

“That fella Dark? He like to talk my arm off.” Sheriff Shipp paused to let a small measure of concern creep into his tone. “He was supposed to pick it up, wasn’t he? Least, that’s what Mr. Mott called and told me.”

“That’s right, he was,” Haynes said. “But I’m wondering whether anyone ever said anything about wanting to buy it?”

“You fixin’ to sell it?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, Granville, a fella did drop by last week and say he was interested in buying it. Wasn’t more’n a day or two after Dark came and got it. I told him to call Mr. Mott or go talk to Dark. Even gave him the address of Dark’s garage in Falls Church. Tell the truth, I think this fella was more’n just interested. I think he was in love with that car.”

“He give you his name?”

“If he did, I forgot it.”

“Was his name Purchase by any chance?”

There was a long silence until the sheriff said, “Granville?”

“Yes.”

“Just what the fuck’re you up to? We may be way out here in the boonies but when somebody with the name of Purchase gets himself killed during a shoot-out in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, the name sort of sticks in the mind—know what I mean?”

“Probably a different Purchase,” Haynes said.

“I’m afraid I lied to you, Granville. The man who wanted to buy Steady’s car—his name was Horace Purchase. The man who got killed in the Willard—his name was also Horace Purchase, or so CNN claims. Soon as I heard his name mentioned on the TV I got on the phone and called Washington homicide. They put me onto a real smart colored fella—Detective-Sergeant Pouncy—and him and me got to talking and it turns out he’s just dying to have a word with you.”

“I’ll call him,” Haynes said.

“Might be a good idea because soon as we hang up I’m gonna call and tell him I just talked to you.” Shipp paused yet again. “Or I could have him call you if you’ll gimme the number you’re calling from.”

Haynes made up a number. Shipp repeated it, sounding dubious, and said, “Just a couple of more things, Granville. First of all, I’m sorry I had to lie to you about not remembering that fella Purchase’s name. And second, they came out early yesterday and got old Zip and I expect he’s doggie dinner by now.”

“Thanks very much, Sheriff,” Haynes said, ended the call and turned to look up at Erika, who was standing between the two beds. “You get most of that?”

“Your lies anyway.”

“Here’s the rest: Purchase found out the car was at Dark’s from the sheriff. The sheriff found out who Purchase was from CNN. He then talked to Sergeant Pouncy, who wants to talk to me more than ever.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“When I have something to say, I will,” Haynes said, rose and started toward the door, patting the right pocket of his topcoat as if to make certain McCorkle’s pistol was still there.

Erika picked up her coat from the bed and asked, “Where’re we going?”

“To stash the car someplace. Maybe at Howard Mott’s.”

“Why there?”

“So I can take it apart.”

“Steady wouldn’t have hidden the manuscript in his car.”

“You might think that. And I might think that. But Horace Purchase sure as hell didn’t. And I’m fairly sure that whoever hired Purchase has by now talked to Ledell Dark, Prop. And Mr. Dark has probably told him all about my interest in Purchase and even what your overnight bag looks like. And I’d also bet that right now somebody is checking motel registers by phone and in person, asking about an attractive young couple in an old black Cadillac convertible—not exactly the world’s most anonymous car.”

“The manuscript could be in a safety-deposit box—or buried on Steady’s farm eight paces north of the sour apple tree.”

Haynes stared at her. “You’re convinced there is no manuscript, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Pretend there is. Just pretend. If you pretend that, then you know where the manuscript isn’t. You know it’s not in Steady’s farmhouse and wasn’t in the hotel room where he died. You know it wasn’t in Isabelle’s apartment and that Undean didn’t have it and neither did Tinker Burns.”

“Explain why I know all that.”

“Because the CIA and Mr. Anonymous, whoever he is, are still anxious to buy it.”

“What about all those fake manuscripts?” she said. “What the hell were they for if not to pull some kind of rip-off?”

“How should I know?” Haynes said. “Sure. It could’ve been a dodge of some sort—a con. Even a false trail. Or maybe Steady’d decided he wasn’t going to split fifty-fifty with Isabelle after all. You’ve got to remember that Steady wasn’t expecting to die. And that manuscript, if there is one—or even if there isn’t—was to be his annuity. His fuck-you money. And he could’ve decided it would fetch just enough for one but not nearly enough for two. So he hid the real manuscript where nobody would look and then salted the obvious hiding places with fake ones.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be looking for a manuscript after all,” she said. “Maybe we should be looking for a hotel claim check clipped to the sun visor. Or microfilm that was tossed into the glove compartment. Or maybe—”

“You going to put that coat on or not?”

She looked down at the polo coat she was still holding, slipped into it quickly and said, “Let’s go.”

Haynes went out the motel room door first, stopped, stared and said, “Well, shit.”

The exterior light above the room’s door shined directly down onto the Cadillac’s flat front tire. The left one. Erika glanced at it and said, “No big problem.”

“Not if there’s a spare.”

They hurried to the rear of the car, where Haynes unlocked the trunk lid. There was a spare. He also found the jack and the lug wrench. He handed the wrench to Erika and said, “You can start on the lugs while I get the spare out.”

She nodded and went back to the flat tire. Haynes watched as she knelt, used the chisel end of the lug wrench to pop the hubcap off with one deft blow and started loosening the wheel nuts.

Haynes unscrewed the big butterfly nut that anchored the spare. With the aid of the trunk’s interior light, he noticed that the spare’s tread apparently had never touched the ground. After wrestling the heavy wheel out of its well, he stopped, balancing it on the lip of the trunk, and stared down into the wheel well at the thick, slightly curved manila envelope that the never-used spare tire had been resting on.

When Erika McCorkle returned from her mission to McDonald’s, bearing two Big Macs, two large fries and two large coffees, she found Granville Haynes still sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds, still wearing his topcoat and still staring at the unopened manila envelope that lay on the opposite bed. The .38 Chief’s Special in his right hand was still pointed at nothing in particular.

“I thought you’d be starting Chapter Three by now,” she said, placing the food on the desk.

“I didn’t open it.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted a witness.”

“Now that you have one, what do we do first—eat or open it?”

“Let’s open it,” he said, put the revolver back in his topcoat pocket and reached for the twelve-by-fourteen-inch envelope. After weighing the envelope and its contents by hefting it in the palm of his right hand, Haynes said, “Around three hundred and seventy-five pages.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because it weighs about three times as much as a screenplay for a feature and they usually run one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pages.”

“Open it, for God’s sake.”

Haynes used a forefinger to rip the envelope’s flap. He removed a 2½-inch-thick manuscript, quickly flipped through it and looked up at Erika. “No blank pages,” he said.

“I noticed.”

He turned to the last page. “Three hundred and seventy-four.”

“You were close.”

“So I was.”

“How d’you want to work it?” she asked.

“Work what?”

“Do we eat first, read first or do both at the same time?”

“Let’s eat first,” he said. “Then I’ll start reading and hand you each page when I’m done.”

“You read fast?”

“Very.”

“Good,” she said. “So do I.”

At 8:32
P
.
M
. that Monday, just as Granville Haynes and Erika McCorkle reached
page 102 of
Mercenary Calling
by the late Steadfast Haynes, a procession of invisible dignitaries was being led by Herr Horst through the twilight at Mac’s Place.

After the stately, if imaginary, procession came to a halt, Herr Horst gave two newly arrived diners one of his whiplash nods and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Pouncy. How nice. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of your company since June of last year. June fourteenth, I think it was.”

A flattered Detective-Sergeant Darius Pouncy used gruffness to conceal pleasure. “Didn’t make a reservation.”

Herr Horst smiled. “We’ve just had a cancellation. Will a booth be satisfactory?”

“Yeah, that’ll do.”

“Please,” Herr Horst said and led them slowly across the dining room that was unusually crowded for a Monday night. At the booth, a choice one, Herr Horst helped the Pouncys out of their coats, which he deposited in the waiting arms of a busboy. As he handed them menus, Herr Horst complimented Mrs. Pouncy on her dress, causing her to beam, and asked whether they would care for something from the bar.

Pouncy quickly ordered an extra-dry martini straight up, but not quickly enough to avoid his wife’s disapproving glare. She asked for a lime-flavored Perrier, if such were available. Herr Horst assured her it was.

At the bar, Herr Horst handed the drinks order to a waiter, picked up the bar phone and tapped two numbers. When McCorkle answered, Herr Horst said, “Sergeant and Mrs. Pouncy. No reservation. I gave them the number three booth.”

“Comp their drinks and take their orders yourself,” McCorkle said. “He likes his food, by the way.”

“I know,” Herr Horst said a little stiffly. “And if he should ask for you?”

“I’m available.”

“And Padillo?”

“Also.”

“Very good,” Herr Horst said, ending the call.

After a thoughtful and detailed discussion of the menu with Herr Horst, Sergeant Pouncy ordered grilled squab on a nest of green beans for himself and fettuccine with strips of Norwegian salmon, tomatoes and blanched garlic for Mrs. Pouncy. By the time the food was selected, Mrs. Pouncy and Herr Horst were such friends that he even convinced her to have a glass of wine with her fettuccine. Sergeant Pouncy announced that he didn’t usually drink wine either, but maybe Herr Horst could recommend a glass of something to go with the squab. Herr Horst said he was confident that he could.

By 9:36
P.M
. the Pouncys had finished their dinner, turned down dessert and were waiting for their coffee. In the Bellevue Motel, Erika McCorkle and Granville Haynes had just reached page 233 of
Mercenary Calling.
Neither had spoken for almost two hours except when Haynes occasionally said, “Here,” when he handed her a new page.

McCorkle and the Pouncys’ coffee arrived together. After being introduced to Mrs. Pouncy, McCorkle agreed to join them for an espresso. He found Ozella Pouncy to be an unusually handsome woman still a few years shy of forty. She wore a beige silk dress that complemented her olive-brown skin, whose shade, McCorkle thought, was almost that of true sepia. He noticed that she also had enormous gentle-looking eyes and a wide, surprisingly stern mouth. McCorkle decided that if she wasn’t exactly formidable, she was at least stalwart and obviously her husband’s self-appointed protector, although he couldn’t help but wonder why she thought Pouncy needed one.

After the espresso arrived, Pouncy said, “That was one of the ten best meals I’ve had in a year.”

“Then I’m not only pleased but flattered,” McCorkle said.

“If you hadn’t dropped by, I was fixing to ask for you.”

“Any special reason?”

“That partner of yours around?”

McCorkle nodded. “Somewhere.”

“Then maybe you oughta invite him to join us because what I’ve gotta say concerns the two of you and he might as well hear it firsthand.”

When McCorkle hesitated, Pouncy said, “Don’t worry about Ozella here. I tell her everything.” He gave his wife a fond look. “Well, damn near everything. Helps keep my head on straight.”

“I can imagine,” McCorkle said, called a waiter over and asked him to relay an invitation to Padillo.

By the time Padillo arrived, McCorkle had learned that Ozella Pouncy taught music and art in a District junior high school, was an assistant choir director at her church and that there were two Pouncy children, Graham, fifteen, and Amelia, twelve.

Once the introductions were made, Padillo sat down next to Sergeant Pouncy. When Ozella Pouncy asked if he would like some coffee, Padillo smiled and said he had already reached his limit for the evening.

Pouncy leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial murmur. “I could’ve called you guys with what I’m gonna say, but I figured they might’ve tapped your phones by now.”

He ended the statement with a glance at Padillo. If Pouncy was expecting a reaction, all he received was a polite nod. Pouncy nodded back thoughtfully and turned to McCorkle. “We closed the file on Horace Purchase early this evening. In fact, it was just after I dropped you off at your house with a message for Granville Haynes. He ever get my message?”

“He got it,” McCorkle said.

“Haven’t heard from him.”

“He has a lot on his mind.”

“Who closed the file on Purchase?” Padillo asked.

“Maybe you oughta be asking why, not who.”

“All right. Why?”

“Because we were told to.”

“Who told you?”

“The mayor told the chief and the chief told the captain who told the lieutenant who told me. I didn’t have nobody left to tell so I started closing it out. You’ll have to guess who told the mayor because juicy stuff like that never quite dribbles down to my level.”

“What’re you closing it out as?” McCorkle asked.

“Either self-defense or justifiable homicide,” Pouncy said. “They were still arguing about it when I got up and left.”

“It was both,” McCorkle said.

“Well, you were there and I wasn’t so I won’t argue. Besides, we got plenty of eyewitnesses who back you up. But that ain’t the point.”

“What is?” Padillo said.

“The point is that they’re not gonna go after who hired Horse Purchase.” Pouncy paused, frowned and said, “And that’s why I got so pissed off, excuse me, sugar.”

Mrs. Pouncy gave him a reluctant nod of absolution.

“They just say no?” Padillo asked.

“They don’t ever come out and give you a flat no on something like that,” Pouncy said. “They say it’d be inappropriate or maybe counterproductive or even—and this was a new one on me—nugatory.” Pouncy’s smile was bitter. “Nu-ga-to-ry. Shit.”

Before Pouncy could apologize to his wife again, McCorkle said, “So you’re dropping Purchase altogether?”

“Done dropped him right alongside of who hired him. Of course, that still leaves me with Gelinet, Undean and old Tinker Burns—except Undean’s outta my jurisdiction, although me and the Fairfax County sheriff’re trading back and forth on what we got, which ain’t much. But those three are a kind of natural progression. Gelinet, one; Undean, two; Burns, three—and four could be Granville Haynes. Course, I’m not too worried about Granville because he was in homicide out in L.A. and knows how to do. But I thought somebody oughta tell him we’re nugatorizing Horse Purchase and mention that whoever hired Horse is still on the loose. That means—well, Granville can figure out what it means for himself.”

“We’ll tell him when he checks in,” Padillo said.

“When you reckon that’s gonna be?”

“We don’t know.”

“Bet I know.”

“Okay. When?” Padillo said.

“When it’s too damn late. That’s when.”

Haynes watched Erika McCorkle read the final page of his father’s memoirs and place it on the upside-down manuscript that was next to her on the bed. She sighed, leaned back into the four pillows she had piled against the bed’s headboard, locked her hands behind her head and stared at the motel room’s ceiling.

She was still staring at it a minute later when Haynes began speaking in a clipped, mannered voice whose intonation and timbre bore an uncanny resemblance to that of his dead father:

“Had it not been for certain operations I conducted at the behest of the Central Intelligence Agency in Africa, the Middle East, Central America and, to a certain extent, in Southeast Asia, at least five—and possibly six—third world countries would still be laboring beneath the yokes of their Marxist-oriented governments.” Haynes paused dramatically. “My only failure was in Southeast Asia. And that was a failure of nerve. But it was America’s nerve that failed—not mine.”

Erika brought her gaze down from the ceiling, her hands from behind her head, and clapped softly three times.

Haynes grinned. “A fair summation?”

“Fair but broad,” she said. “I’ve never read such crap.”

“Maybe not such well-written crap anyway. No dull moments. Lots of action and lots of gossip. A bit of potted and easily digested history. And you get yanked from one adventure to another so fast you barely have time to wonder what happens next. Isabelle did a great job. She even made it sound like Steady when he’d had two or three belts and was feeling expansive.”

“You’re still sure she wrote it?”

Haynes nodded. “I think Steady gave her the blueprints and the specifications and she put it together. Didn’t you notice the wire service urgency? Short punchy sentences with no more than two of them to a paragraph. All villains clearly defined, labeled and outnumbering our paramount hero—Steady, of course—by ten to one. But what’s especially clever is the way the CIA comes across as a bumbling, if benevolent, think tank staffed by nice tweedy chaps who smoke pipes and twinkle a lot. Twenty thousand Allen Dulleses guarding the Republic night and day. Wonderful.”

“That the Dulles they named the airport after?” she asked.

“That was John Foster, his brother and also secretary of state under Eisenhower. Allen was Director of Central Intelligence.”

“Now I remember.”

“Sure you do.”

“Well, it’s no steamy exposé, is it?”

“No.”

“Then how could the CIA object?”

“They couldn’t. That’s the point.”

“Of what?”

“Of Steady’s very long, very elaborate joke.”

“You sound relieved.”

“Wouldn’t you be if you discovered your father was a prankster instead of a blackmailer?”

“Not if his pranks got three people killed.”

“Four—counting Horace Purchase.”

“Okay. Four. But if Steady’s memoirs are some kind of never-ending practical joke, wouldn’t a lot of his satisfaction have come from making sure the CIA knew the joke was on them?”

“Sure. It would’ve come from that. And from the money. Don’t ever forget the money.”

“The money turns him into a con artist instead of a prankster.”

“Still better than a blackmailer.”

“So when was the CIA supposed to find out they were the butt of a joke?”

“After they paid Steady the money not to publish. And after they read the manuscript that he’d sent them to make sure they knew what they’d paid to suppress.”

“And learned they’d been had.”

Haynes looked thoughtful and, for the first time, a little sad. “He must’ve had it all planned out—everything except the part about his death.”

“His and the others,” she said, sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now we go see Howard Mott, stash the car with him and figure out some way to get what Steady wanted.”

“The last laugh—or the money?”

Haynes grinned his inherited grin. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “Maybe both.”