Walk a Black Wind (8 page)

Crawford said, “The city, in my judgment, needs the project. Inducements are often necessary to entice a private businessman to help the city.”

Sasser said, “Every public project benefits someone in our country, Fortune. You can't build a sandbox without using someone's land and paying him for it. A man has a right to make money on his property.”

“It looks like Mark Leland didn't think so.”

Sasser said, “Maybe Leland was a crook out for himself. Blackmail to get cut in. A guy like that could ruin a good project, and that could make some people awful mad.”

“That justifies murder, Sasser?” I said.

“No, but maybe it explains it,” Sasser said softly.

They both sat like impassive Buddhas in the quiet office. Were they telling me something? Had Mark Leland been out to make a nuisance of himself, stir up doubts, in the hope of being bought off? It had happened before.

I said, “Tell me about Joel Pender. He works for you?”

“Pender?” Crawford said, surprised. “He's a minor employee, useful for small jobs, yes.”

“He's worked for the city quite a while?”

“Eighteen years, yes. He's useful, sort of an errand boy. He's good at that kind of thing, reliable.”

“Would he like to be part of your family?”

“My family? How the devil—”

Sasser said, “He means Francesca and Frank Keefer. You know, Marty, Keefer was making a big play for Fran.”

Crawford watched me. “You think Keefer, or Joel Pender, might have killed her? That's crazy, no.”

“Keefer was in New York when it happened, she'd dropped him just before she vanished. Pender had a fight with her. I'll bet she could make people pretty mad, right?”

“She had a sharp tongue,” Crawford admitted. “But if Keefer wanted her, why would he—”

“Men lose their heads over women. Or maybe make mistakes.”

“Then find out, Fortune!” Crawford said.

Sasser said, “What makes you think the motive has to be up here, Fortune? She was gone three months. A wild kid.”

“She was excited by something here before she left, and she'd been involved with Mark Leland and the housing project.”

Martin Crawford leaned across his desk at me. “Listen, Fortune. We don't know why Mark Leland was killed, but it's clear that whatever the reason was it ended with Leland. Three months have passed with no trace of the killer. Leland had a partner, George Tabor. No one has touched Tabor. If Francesca or Tabor had known anything, do you think the killer would have waited three months, let them walk around to talk to almost anyone in that time? No. Do you think I'd cover anything that had led to the murder of my daughter? Do you?”

I said, “I don't know what you'd do.”

They both just looked at me.

10.

I checked into a motel not far from Black Mountain Lake. George Tabor was listed in the telephone book. I called from my room, late as it was, and he answered. I told him my name, and that I wanted to talk to him about Mark Leland. He had a flat, colorless voice.

“There's nothing I know,” he said. “I told the police.”

“It's two murders now, Tabor,” I said. “Your partner had talked to Francesca Crawford, now she's dead. I want to know what he was doing with her.”

“Using her,” Tabor's blank voice said. “The way he used everyone else.”

“I still want to talk to you,” I said.

He breathed slowly on the other end. “All right. Come over,” and he gave me the address.

I got my old pistol from my bag. Tabor had been close to Mark Leland. I drove to the address. It was a large park of garden apartments in a new suburb. A place for professional men, junior executives on the way up, and middle-aged businessmen who were as high as they would go. Tabor lived in the second building, third floor. He met me at his door.

He was a tall, thin man with the unsure eyes of a door-to-door salesman who wasn't doing well. He walked me inside without speaking. The television set was on to a football game. A can of beer stood on a table beside an easy chair. Tabor sat down in the easy chair, his eyes fixed toward the TV set. He waved me to a seat. I sat down.

“The Jets are ahead,” Tabor said. “Fourth quarter.”

On the TV the quarterback completed a long pass. Tabor sipped his beer, leaned forward to watch the dark-shirted defenders swarm down the white-shirted receiver.

I said, “You worked with Leland on the Black Mountain Lake project? Investigating it?”

“I don't know what Mark was working on,” he said. “Damn!”

The damn was for an interception on the TV. The Jets had been stopped. Tabor watched the teams change.

“His partner?” I said. “And you don't know his work?”

“We need linebackers,” Tabor said as the enemy gained five yards up center on the TV. “Mark wanted publicity, had ideas of running for office. He was working on his own.”

“Not working for any client? Any group?”

There was time out on the screen, but Tabor continued to watch. “No,” he said.

“You know that much? Negative, but nothing positive?”

“Mark didn't tell me what he was doing, or what he'd found if anything,” Tabor said, drank his beer, watched the TV screen where the Jets had the ball now.

“Why did he go to Francesca Crawford?”

“I don't know he did,” Tabor said, moved forward in his chair as the Jets acted. “Look at that? What a catch! Go, go, go! He's loose! He … damn! It's okay, we'll score soon.”

I said, “You can't help me at all?”

“There! Off-tackle, right, right—” Eager in his chair, battling through the line with the ball carrier. “I'm in all private practice now. Corporation stuff. No politics.”

“Leland's work dropped? That was fast.”

“Touchdown!” Tabor cried, turned to me with glittering eyes. I didn't even look at the screen. His eyes looked away. “I'm no hero, Mr. Fortune. Mark is dead, buried.”

“Dead and forgotten?”

Tabor watched the kickoff on the screen. Behind us the outer door opened. Tabor didn't turn. I had heard no key in the door lock, it had been left open. I turned. Abram Zaremba stood in the room, the door shut behind him. He was alone.

“Out,” Abram Zaremba said.

He wasn't talking to me. George Tabor went to a closet, got a coat, and walked out of his apartment. Zaremba went to the TV set and turned it off.

“Jets win by two touchdowns,” he said, sat down facing me. “Who are you working for, Fortune?”

“So you got to Tabor? Gave him some business work?”

“I got to Tabor,” he said. “Now I get to you. How much?”

“For what?”

“For your client's name, and for walking away.”

“I don't have a client. I liked Francesca Crawford.”

“You never met the girl until a morgue slab.”

“If you know that, you know what she was doing in New York. You knew who she was, all about her. You were watching her.”

“I watch what concerns my business.”

“Like Mark Leland, Zaremba?”

“Commissioner to you,” he said. “Don't talk too much.”

He leaned, and slapped me across the mouth. I jumped up, my one fist balled, ready to hit him. An automatic response. But I didn't hit him. I just stood there. He was smiling.

“You want to hit me, Fortune?” he said. “Go ahead. Look, I don't carry a weapon,” and he opened his elegant suit coat to show me. “I'm alone, right? Sure, I am. Go ahead.”

I didn't move. Suddenly, there seemed to be doors all around me, open windows, other rooms where his men could be hidden and watching. My neck crawled. He almost purred, he was so pleased with himself, with his power.

“I'm no match for you, even with that one arm. You've got a gun in your pocket, right? What's stopping you? Go on, take a chance, maybe I'm really alone. No one around.”

I was sure he was alone, but could I take the chance? No. His men could be behind any door, at any window. It's how men like him win—the fear of what they might do, can do.

I said, “You don't want me dead. Not yet.”

“That would be stupid,” he nodded. “But better silent and dead, than silent and alive to talk to someone else.”

“A warning, Zaremba?” I said, my throat very dry.

“I don't warn,” he said, disgusted with me. “If one means business, a warning simply alerts the enemy. If one doesn't mean business, the warning rarely has the desired effect. Men who are dangerous enough to need a warning rather than just a suggestion are usually much too intent on what they want to heed a warning. No, action counts, warnings dissipate force. If I intend to strike, Fortune, I don't warn. I'm not warning you, I'm simply offering to pay for information. What I'll do if you refuse, I haven't considered yet. It would depend on what you really know, and that's hard to assess.”

There was just enough cold calculation in the speech to make me shiver inside. Menace without threat—the possible dangers left for me to consider. Up to me to decide where the balance lay. Was he stating his case openly, or bluffing me?

“You won't hurt me, not when I might know something,” I said. “That's logical.”

He sighed at me. “Logical? Rational? I make my living because people are rarely rational, Fortune, or logical. What people think is rational is only making what they need to do and be seem right and true. Ever see the man who is furious at the way the Commies send writers to jail when the writers do what the Commies don't like, turn around and favor, censoring all writers who don't agree with him, picket un-American movies? Are you any better? Am I? No. Maybe I know what's logical, but maybe my private irrationality makes me act against logic.”

“You should have gone into politics.”

“It's easier to buy politicians. Do I get the name?”

“Maybe, if I get something, and not money,” I said. “You knew Francesca Crawford was in New York. She was making plays for older men. Did she make a play for you, Zaremba? Did you tell her too much about something? Or did you like her, and after teasing you she turned you down?”

“Don't play guessing games, Fortune.”

“Maybe you killed Mark Leland, or knew who did, and Francesca knew that?”

He moved in his chair, restless, as if making up his mind about me. Reluctant to decide. But decide what?

“I'll level, Fortune, this once. I've got a feeling that someone is using me. A private matter, okay?”

“Used you to kill Francesca?” I said.

He watched my face. “You know, I wonder if you do know anything? If you have a client after all? You're pretty free with the accusations, maybe shooting wild, hoping for a hit.”

“But you don't know, and until you do you won't do anything to me, will you? No, you couldn't. You're stumped.”

“Are you so sure?” he said.

“I'm sure,” I said. I could bluff too.

“Then let's have a drink, and talk man-to-man, okay?”

He went into Tabor's kitchen, out of my sight. When he came back he had a bottle of cognac and two snifters. He poured the brandy where I could see him, but he had the glasses hidden in his fleshy hands. I couldn't see if anything had been in the glasses before he poured. Smiling, he handed me a glass. I looked at the dark brown liquid, the pungent smell of brandy hiding almost any other odor.

“Drink up, Fortune,” Zaremba said, still smiling.

He knew what he was doing. Anything could be in my glass. If I refused to drink, his men could be in the room in seconds—if there were any of his men hidden and watching. I had to hope that I was right, that he was bluffing, putting a subtle pressure on me. I drank.

“You're a brave man,” he said.

There was a taste to the brandy.

“Just relax,” he said, purred. “You'll be fine soon. I really have to be sure, you see?”

I sat, and his face slowly began to dissolve like molten liquid. He became hazy. I tried to stand. I fell over. I was on the floor. I knew he was bluffing. Just a … drug.

I knew he was … bluffing.

… I knew …

11.

I opened my eyes. There was muted light. Not in the room where I lay, in some other room. I had a headache.

A headache!

I was alive. It had been only a drug. Alive!

Drugged, why? To take me somewhere, of course. So where was I? I looked at my watch. Eleven o'clock? The darkness said it was night, so unless I'd been out over twenty-four hours, less than an hour had passed. Then I couldn't have been moved far. I sat up.

I hadn't been moved at all. The same TV set seemed to watch me like a cyclops' eye. The same room, Abram Zaremba smiling at me from the same chair but with the lights out. The only light was from the kitchen. I stood up, swaying on rubber legs.

“Okay,” I said to Zaremba, “you slipped me a knockout. Why? To prove you could kill me if you wanted to?”

I think I hated Abram Zaremba at that moment as much as I had ever hated any man. The way he sat watching me shake with the effects of his power. He enjoyed it—making a man less than a man. There is nothing slimier on earth than one man making another less than a man out of very human fear. Fear is in all of us, can be used against all of us, and no one should enjoy that fear in another.

“Goddamn you, Zaremba,” I said. “You hear me?”

He just smiled—and I saw the blood.

I swayed against a table. His white shirt was dark with blood in the dim light. He didn't hear me, no. He didn't hear anything. Zaremba was dead. In that chair, bloody and dead with a rigid death smile.

I held onto the table. I breathed to clear the drug from my head, and stepped closer. I touched him. He was still limp. Less than half an hour. The blood had dripped from his chest onto the floor under the chair, and had dripped nowhere else. Someone he had known then? Killed in that chair facing his killer, unaware of the danger?