Case of Lucy Bending (37 page)

"A messy lawsuit during which the purpose and business dealings of EBH Enterprises, Inc., would become a matter of public record. I would imagine that is the last thing in the world you gentlemen desire."

"Yeah," Stone said. "You're right. Those assholes! They're going to bollix up the whole goddamn deal."

"Precisely," Diedrickson said, nodding. "And that, of course, is the reason for Mrs. Holloway's concern. She is, as you said, a bright broad, and knows a profitable business arrangement when she sees one. She is against anything that might endanger the mutually profitable relationship between you gentlemen and EBH."

"Shit," Santangelo said disgustedly. "And everything was going so nice and quiet."

"May I prevail upon one of you to pour me a little more of this excellent libation?" Diedrickson asked, holding out his glass. "Amazing what a splendid medicine it is for the pains that afflict these old joints."

His mild humor had the desired effect; his guests visibly calmed. Stone rose to fill the senator's glass and top off his own as well.

"Actually," Diedrickson went on seriously, "I do not believe matters have progressed to the point where action is required. But it is a situation I thought you gentlemen should be aware of. The potential is there for serious injury to your endeavors and plans for the future."

"You can say that again," Santangelo said mournfully. "We got big plans for the future."

"I am sure you have," the senator said sympathetically. He addressed Stone directly: "I assume you'll repeat to Uncle Dom the details of this conversation?"

"Yeah," Stone said, "we gotta tell him."

"Of course. And please inform him that I am being kept abreast of the situation, on almost a daily basis, and will certainly contact you if any significant developments occur. Mrs. Holloway visits here and telephones me frequently. I am sure she sees me as a wise father to whom she can come for advice and counsel. She is a very intelligent lady, shrewd and ambitious."

"She's got some good ideas," Jimmy Stone said.

"Of course she does," Diedrickson said heartily. "In addition, she is very knowledgeable about financial affairs and business administration. In any event, she is keeping me fully informed as to what transpires with EBH Enterprises. And I, in turn, will keep you informed."

"We appreciate what you're doing," Stone said, looking at the senator curiously. "And I know Uncle Dom will appreciate it, too. Speaking for myself, let me ask you this: What's in it for you?"

Randolph Diedrickson laughed, a deep, booming, resonating laugh that filled the room.

"Of course," he said finally, "and I am sure Uncle Dom will ask the same thing.
Quid pro quo.
Something for something. Well, I could tell you gentlemen that I am providing my services out of the goodness of my heart, and out of my deep, enduring friendship for Uncle Dom. But if I claimed that, I fear you would think me a fool or a liar or both."

Santangelo grinned at that, and even stolid Jimmy Stone managed to twist his lips.

"Actually, there
is
something," the senator continued. "Not a demand, but merely a humble request that I would appreciate your bringing to Uncle Dom's attention. It will not, I assure you, result in any great profit tomorrow for you or for myself. But within several years, it may prove to be the best investment Uncle Dom ever made."

Diedrickson then told them about the young, talented assistant district attorney in Okeechobee County.

"Contributions can be handled a hundred different ways," he reminded them, "to keep within the law. But I prefer to use the word 'investment.'"

"This guy is practical?" Stone demanded.

"I have had only one meeting with him, but my impression—based on many years of association with public servants—is that he is an eminently practical man. All I am suggesting to Uncle Dom is that he conduct his own investigation into this man's trustworthiness. If Uncle Dom wishes, I might arrange a discreet personal meeting. May I ask you to convey my sentiments?"

"Sure," Stone said,
^N
"we'll tell him."

"Excellent," Diedrickson said, smiling broadly. "I think that with the assistance of my party and your, ah, organization, this man could have a very successful career, to the benefit of our great nation."

They all relaxed then and had another drink.

When his guests rose to leave, Diedrickson rolled his wheelchair to the door, then held up a hand to restrain them for a moment.

"I just want to make clear," he said, "that all the information I shall be able to furnish you will be due to the perspicacity and alertness of Jane Holloway. She is indeed a remarkable young lady, and it might be worthwhile to consider how her ambition, intelligence, and executive ability could be put to more profitable use."

They nodded, shook hands, and said they'd be in touch. Stone and Santangelo walked down through the shadowed, empty mansion. They exited into bright, searing sunlight. The uniformed chauffeur of their limousine scrambled out of the air conditioning to hold the rear door open for them.

Just before they entered the car, Jimmy Stone caught Santangelo's arm.

"She's blowing him," he said.

The offices of Dr. Theodore Levin were closed on Saturdays; neither he nor Dr. Mary Scotsby saw patients on weekends, except in cases of direst necessity. However, both psychiatrists spent many weekend hours listening to tapes, reviewing cases, and bringing their personal journals up to date.

That year, New Year's Eve fell on a Saturday. The doctors planned to spend the evening together in restrained celebration: dinner at Down Under, an honored Fort Lauderdale restaurant, and then perhaps a bottle of wine at Pier 66 or a drive up to the Bridge in Boca Raton.

Levin had a set routine for Saturday mornings. His cleaning lady, Mrs. Lopez, arrived at 9:00
A.M
. and departed at noon. The doctor used this period for weekly chores: taking in and picking up laundry and dry cleaning, shopping for food, liquor, and sundries, buying magazines and books, etc.

Since he didn't own a car (he didn't know how to drive and had no desire to learn), he went shopping on foot, trundling a two-wheeled cart. When this was insufficient for his purchases, he also carried a string-handled, brown paper shopping bag.

On that morning he spent some time in the gourmet section of the Publix supermarket he patronized. The reservation for dinner at Down Under had been made for 8:00
P.M
., but Mary Scotsby had promised to come for him at seven o'clock, so he planned to serve a few hors d'oeuvres to whet their appetites.

He wasn't very good at entertaining—or at anything domestic, for that matter—and the enormous selection of delicacies bewildered him. He finally settled on rye-flavored melba toast, smoked oysters, chocolate macaroons, black Icelandic lump-fish, tiny ears of pickled corn, a can of Swedish meatballs, cocktail sausages, herring in dill sauce, a large jar of baba rhum, boneless Portuguese sardines, garlic pickles,, baby shrimp, a small loaf of black bread, capers, a container of sour cream, a can of macadamia nuts, and blocks of Swiss cheese, sharp cheddar, and Muenster. Also, a small jar of Louisiana mustard that was labeled "X-Rated."

On the way home, he bought a box of cigars (Cuesta-Rey #95), and then stopped at the liquor store. Here he purchased a half-gallon of the rough jug burgundy he liked, and asked the clerk to recommend a dry white wine and a champagne. These last two were for Dr. Mary Scotsby.

Upstairs, his apartment looked as littered as ever. Mrs. Lopez dusted and vacuumed, and did a good job in the kitchen and bathroom. She also changed all the linen. But she was under orders not to touch the stacks of books, magazines, and papers, so the rooms never looked neat.

On the kitchen counter she had left him a small, home-baked lemon meringue pie and a New Year's card in Spanish, which pleased him. He sampled a sliver of the pie before putting it in the refrigerator. The flavor was so tart it puckered his mouth.

After his purchases were stored away, he lighted a cigar and took a bag of cookies and a water glass of the jug wine to his living room desk. He took off his nylon jacket, loosened his belt, and unlaced the soft jogging shoes he wore when relaxing on weekends. He had never jogged in his life and didn't intend to.

He had a portable audio cassette recorder in addition to a large, expensive hi-fi system that could handle cassettes, LPs, open-end tapes, and eight-track cartridges. He used the small portable to play back the cassettes recorded in his office: the case of Lucy B.

He now had more than twelve hours of taped recordings, beginning with the initial interview with Mr. and Mrs. Bending, and ending with his most recent session with Ronald. Dr. Levin figured he could listen to about half of this material before it would be necessary to start preparing for Mary Scotsby's arrival.

He was searching for—what? He didn't know exactly. A clue, an indication, a signal, an intimation—something he might have missed at first hearing. And he knew how valuable it was for the therapist to listen only to words without being distracted by the appearance, gestures, expressions, body movements of the analysand.

He had no great hopes of finding anything of value until he had run through all twelve hours of tape. And perhaps not once, but twice or three times.

But he was on his third hour of listening and finishing his second glass of wine (the cigar and cookies were long gone), when he found it. He slapped his forehead with an open palm, so chagrined was he that he had not recognized it before.

He jerked to his feet, glanced at his watch. He had about four hours before Dr. Scotsby arrived. He thought he could have the job finished by then.

He put a blank tape on the big deck and began recording sections of the office cassettes. He worked frantically, sometimes running the portable player at double speed to find the parts he wanted. As he recorded, he prefaced each section with his own voice identifying the speaker and the number of the tape.

He finished a few minutes after 6:00
P.M
., and, in his unlaced shoes, flapped into the kitchen to start opening jars, cans, bottles, packages. He spread a paper tablecloth on his walnut dining table. He put out everything in their containers, adding some cutlery and paper plates, and stood back to admire the effect. A feast!

He showered hurriedly, rubbed some cologne into his beard, and was half-dressed when his doorbell chimed. He went rushing to answer in his bare feet, shirt unbuttoned, wiry chest hair sprouting wildly.

Dr. Mary Scotsby, looking tall, thin, angularly elegant, wore an ankle-length gown of wine-colored velvet. From one arm, on a linked chain, hung a beaded, fringed reticule, circa 1912. She also carried a box wrapped in holiday paper. High heels towered her.

"Happy New Year, Ted," she said, smiling.

"Thank you, thank you!" he cried, going up on his toes to kiss her cheek. "Come in, come in!"

"My," she said, looking at him curiously, "we are hyper tonight."

"You'll see," he said, grinning crazily. "Or rather, you'll hear. Later."

"What on earth
are
you talking about? You're not drunk, are you?"

He got her inside, door closed, and relieved her of cashmere shawl, heavy purse, and the package—which turned out to be a bottle of champagne. Then he led her into the dining room.

"Look," he said proudly, making a grand, sweeping gesture at the laden table. The opened cans, jars, packages, bottles. How she laughed!

"Oh Ted," she said, "it's beautiful. We don't have to go to dinner."

"Nonsense," he said gruffly. "Just a nosh. Now I have some white wine for you. All right? And I have a bottle of champagne, too, but we'll have that and yours later. All right? I'll put yours in to chill. And I'll pour you a glass of white wine now—the man said it's very good, very dry—and I'll go in and finish dressing. Just a few minutes. All right?"

"Ted," she said, touching his cheek, "will you please calm down? The evening is just starting."

"Be right out," he called over his shoulder, rushing toward the bedroom. "Try the oysters." ^

He wore his best black suit, the newest one, with a puce shirt and black knitted tie. He dressed hastily and came flying back to the dining room, crying, "I forgot to get your wine!"

But Mary had already found the bottle, opened it, and poured herself a glass.

"All right?" he asked anxiously.

"Excellent," she assured him. "Very flinty. And I've sampled
everything.
Ted, you've got to try those baby shrimp."

"Oh yes," he said greedily, and plunged in.

They ate demoniacally, not a great deal of any one thing, but little snippets of this and that. They didn't try to converse, just going "Ooh" and "Umm" and "Ahh," and taking perverse pleasure from the raw clash of tastes.

"Enough," Mary Scotsby said firmly, finally. "We've got to get to dinner."

"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "We can't be late."

He was never late, not even for a restaurant reservation. Punctuality was a fetish. When he had to travel, he arrived at the airport two hours before takeoff. And when he had a personal appointment, he frequently showed up a half-hour early and walked around the block until it was time.

He popped a final meatball into his mouth, scrubbed his beard with a paper napkin, and—"Let's go!" "Aren't you going to put all this away?" she asked. "You'll get roaches," she warned.