Dead Low Tide (8 page)

We grunted up with it and slid it in. Wargler came over and said to the driver, “He goes to Dangerfield’s, and you there, you tell Billy Dangerfield to make John look perty enough real quick so his missus can come identify.”

EVEN BEFORE I GOT BACK
to the office, it was becoming apparent to me that the firm of John Long, Contractors, Inc., was in a fine mess. It would have been all O.K., and if not O.K., at least a hell of a lot better, if John Long had been less secretive about his business affairs. At no time had I been given any overall picture of what was going on. I had my routine chunk. Steve Marinak had a portion. Another law firm, and a firm of accountants in Tampa, had some more. And apparently Harvey Constanto of the Gulf Savings and Trust knew a little more. But no one of us had enough of the jigsaw pieces to make the whole puzzle.

All I knew was that there was a lot of stuff on order, a lot of stuff on hand, a fat payroll to meet, and a dingy little bank balance with which to meet it. Whenever the operating balance had begun to get low, John would make a deposit from
another account. If Key Estates was going to continue, somebody would have to fatten the kitty. I hoped that somebody, somewhere, would find a report from John describing exactly how he operated.

I parked near the office. I could see Joy Kenney in there typing away. I could see a woman waiting to see me. I sat in the car for a few minutes, wondering how it was to hold that barbed razor against your throat and release the friction trigger with your bare toe. Would you shut your eyes? It was sickening. Maybe he had wanted to talk to me. Waited around, wandered around the place, found my rig and took it off the nail, and then decided there wasn’t anything to say, after all. And I’d come back with Christy, and he had gone out the back and hurried away. Then, perhaps, he’d gone out to take a look at the big dream, take a look at Key Estates, which had been going to turn him into a rich man.

I could sense that the whole town was buzzing with it. I could see people standing in shop doorways, looking over at me and at the office. I went on into the office. Joy glanced up at me and murmured good morning and I knew at once that she knew. Her face was waxy. She looked through those eyes at me, and I felt as if the eyes were both long tunnels, and she was crouched ’way back in there, looking through the tunnels, hiding back there where nobody could find out what she thought or felt.

The one who was waiting was the lady who wanted to build the motel. Happy Saturday morning. She was wound up tight. No salutation. No weather comments. “Young man, all day yesterday I thought about the rudeness of Mr.
Long and the way he turned me down after promising to build for me, and I wish you to inform him that I have seen my attorney and if he knows what is good for him, he will go ahead with what he promised to do. I am not accustomed to being spoken to in the manner in which he spoke to me, and furthermore, I—” She stopped and stared at me, aware that I was trying to say something. “What is it? Has he reconsidered?”

“He’s dead.”

She stared at me some more and then sat down a bit bonelessly. “Oh, dear. He was such a
nice
man. An accident?”

“He—uh—committed suicide sometime very early this morning.”

“Oh, dear. Dreadful. Dreadful!” She got up and fooled with the clasp of her handbag and made a vague about-face, and headed toward the door. “Oh, dear,” she said again, and the screen door hissed and closed after her.

Joy looked at me across the top of the typewriter. “The girl from the dress shop came over and told me.”

“Little round girl?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Nate. Natalia. She’s a Russian.”

“Oh.”

“I went out there.”

“I thought maybe you did.”

“I can’t quite—take it all in. As though any minute he’ll walk in. A very lusty alive guy.”

“He—he seemed to be.”

“I guess he was sick.”

“I couldn’t understand what he did it with.”

“One of those things they use to shoot fish underwater.”

“Like a gun?”

“More like one of those crossbows, only without the bow part. Surgical rubber instead. In the—uh—throat.”

“He—did it to himself, then?” she asked. Her mouth worked soundlessly.

“I can’t see somebody walking up and doing it to him, if that’s what you mean. He had his shoe and sock off so he could work the trigger with his toe.”

Looking at her as I explained it, I could have sworn that I saw a lot of tension go out of her. She half closed her eyes and seemed to sway a little. I got up quickly and went to her. “You all right?”

She gave me an almost formal smile. “Yes. Thank you.” I went back and sat down.

The door was yanked open and Gordy Brogan came steaming in. He came over and put his hands flat on my desk and looked down at me. He is an Irishman, professional variety. Peat bog, potato famine, when Irish eyes are smiling in a whisky tenor, smoky whisky and all. As he is at least fourth generation, he has had to develop his own brogue. It isn’t genuine, but it gives the impression.

“By God, Andy, this is hell!” he said. He was too upset to remember the brogue.

“It’s rough. Sit down.”

He sat, his blue eyes intensely serious, for once. “What’s going to happen?”

“You guess.”

“Man, I’m done out there in a little over a week. Where was I going?”

“He was going to haul you over to Key Estates.”

“And now?”

“Stop asking me. I don’t know. The operating funds will run for maybe three weeks.”

“Why does a man go and do a thing like that to himself, I’m asking you?” The brogue had begun to reappear.

“You do it when you have reasons, they tell me.”

“And his little lady? And how is she bearing up?”

“Not good.”

“Aaa, the poor little thing. It’s alone she is now.” He suddenly became aware of the sound of a typewriter and looked over at Joy. “Say, I was wondering what lovely girl voice it was answering the phone when I called.”

“Miss Kenney, Mr. Brogan,” I said.

“It is an improvement, indeed,” he said, beaming. And then he apparently remembered John Long again, and his face became lugubrious. “The best I can do, lad, is go back out and finish my job, I see.”

“That makes sense. They were paying on the basis of percentage of completion, but they weren’t paying into our operating account. The last quarter payment is due as soon as they inspect and accept.”

“We’ll carry on for John, God rest his soul.” He went out and climbed into the pickup truck and rattled back toward his job.

I hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do. Close the office—Was that what you were supposed to do? I wanted somebody around to tell me what to do. My executive talent had a few mothholes in it. Disuse, perhaps.

I got up, and said, “Hold the fort, Joy. We’ll close up at noon. I’ll be back. If anybody wants me, I’ll be at Mr. Marinak’s office.”

“Shall I call and make sure he’s in?”

I went to the door and looked diagonally across the street and up at the second-story office. I saw the wild flare of a shirt through the window. “He’s in.”

I went over and up the stairs, and Steve’s gaunt girl told me I could go on in.

Steve gave me a quick glance and said, a bit too heartily, “Set, Andy.”

“You know about it, of course.”

“I know about it. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to know what happens now.”

“In what way?”

“With the business. The operating funds are a little feeble. But it is a corporation, I understand. Who makes the decisions now?”

“We don’t know. Not until we get an order to open his lock box over at Gulf Savings and see if there’s a will in there. He held the controlling interest. Mary Eleanor owns about thirty per cent of the outstanding shares. I’ve got a few. Harvey Constanto has a few.”

“You don’t know if there’s a will?”

“He never made one out with me. That isn’t saying there isn’t one. He never let anybody know all his business. If he died intestate, the court will appoint an executor, probably Gulf Savings. Mary Eleanor will have the controlling interest. Until it’s settled up, the executor will be able to release funds from other accounts to keep the business rolling. We’ll have a sort of a directors’ meeting once we find out how the shares are split up.”

“What would you suggest I do, Steve?”

“Carry on. What else? And you have got that contract you—asked for.”

“Actually, Steve, I didn’t ask for it. He insisted.”

I could detect a faint unpleasant aroma of unfriendliness. “That isn’t what you told me, Andy.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that. Poor judgment.”

“You’re sitting pretty.”

“I don’t just know as I care much for your tone.”

“Suit yourself.”

We stared at each other and then he smiled apologetically. “Hell, I’m sorry. I’m just damn upset, that’s all. I want to kick something. You were handy. Truce?”

“Sure. I know what you mean. I’m ready to bite, too.”

“I tried to get hold of Mary Eleanor. Some woman told me she’s sleeping.”

“That’s the nurse, I guess. Graman gave her a shot.”

“She that bad?”

“I was there. She’s real bad.”

“That’s damn funny,” he said, talking half to himself. “They haven’t been getting along worth a—” He caught himself, looked embarrassed.

“I thought they were getting along fine,” I said.

“Skip it.”

“Sure, Steve.”

“I’ll let you know when I know something.”

“Thanks.”

I went down the stairs and back out into the sun heat. Wilburt’s Book Nook is three blocks up the main drag. I decided to walk, and wished I hadn’t, because about seven people stopped me and asked about it. I said the same things over
and over, and they listened and licked their lips and looked like the people who always stand in the street to watch somebody jump off a building.

Christy was on a small ladder rearranging things on a high shelf, and Wilburt was leaning with his elbows on the counter, his eyes a bit glassy, trying to take sneaky looks at her legs. The scene gave the impression that nothing up on that shelf had needed rearranging.

He jumped a bit, and said, “Greetings, Andrew. Kindly accept my sincere regrets on the demise of your employer.”

“Thanks, Will.” Christy turned and looked down at me, her eyes concerned.

I said, “Can I take that big lush blonde out for coffee?”

“Please do,” Will said.

We walked up to Saddler’s and picked up coffee at the counter and carried it back to a shiny blue booth. Christy said, “It’s a terrible thing.”

“It is. Go ahead.”

“Go ahead what?”

“Aren’t you going to ask for a lurid description?”

“Dear, please don’t snarl at me. I know all I want to know, thanks.”

“Sorry, You’re a happy exception. I should know better.”

“I’m sorry, too. You can snarl if you want to. I can guess how you feel.”

I lowered my voice. “Not entirely, you can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That rig he used—mine. After I walked you back last night, I took an inventory of the garage. That was the only thing missing.”

She raised her hand slowly to her throat. Her wine-vinegar eyes went wide, like a startled cocker spaniel. “Oh, my goodness!”

“At least that. And oh, my gracious, too. So it was old John pounding off into the shrubbery.”

Trust women to be very much to the point when somebody tosses blue chips on the table. “You told them it was yours?” she asked.

“Didn’t seem to be the time or place.”

“You bought it in town, didn’t you?”

“Yes, from Wally Farmer. At the Tackle Shop.”

“Won’t it be—Well, sort of routine to check and see where it came from? Like they do with guns?”

“They might. I don’t know.”

“It happened early this morning, didn’t it?”

“Yes. Why?”

She looked down into her coffee and blushed bright pink. “I couldn’t sleep. Nerves or something. I walked over about five-thirty. You were gone and the car was gone, so I guessed you’d gone fishing.”

“I did. Got a couple of reds. Didn’t you hear me come back in?”

“No. I took a pill and went back to bed. Did you go fishing with anybody?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Who was out there? Did you go to the Pass?”

“Not a soul. I had it to myself.”

“Andy, I think you took me fishing with you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Andy, if they find out that thing is yours, and that you were out on the key at the same time he’s supposed to have
done it … I mean it’s all silly, but people always try to make something out of a suicide. You know that. And I bet people have seen you with that Mary Eleanor. I just think I went fishing with you and …” She looked up quickly beyond me and smiled, and said, “Hi, Jack.”

Jack Ryer came to the booth, gingerly carrying a full glass of Coke. He put it on the yellow composition table-top, and said to Christy, “Hi. Shove over, kitten. Give Uncle Jack room.”

She shoved over and he sat down, glanced at his watch. “Jeez, what a morning, kids. I got the newspaper stuff written, and the program set up for the twelve o’clock news, and I feel eighty-five years old.”

“You may be tired, but don’t lean on my girl,” I said.

“He’s light as feathers,” Christy said. “Aren’t you, dear?”

“Feathers. Off horses. Andy, what the hell?”

“Those are my sentiments,” I said. “Suicide always seems like a very unpleasant sneer at the rest of the human race.”

“Suicide. Wargler jumped at that. It’s a hot September. You know how it goes. If a masked man shot the teller over at Gulf Savings, Wargler’d consider suicide first.”

“It’s plain enough, isn’t it?”

“Because his shoe and sock were off? Because his prints will no doubt be on that gizmo, if Wargler ever thinks to have them brought out? Is it too hot for you too, Andy? Use that little pointed head.”

“Tell me how.”

He leaned forward, his eyes intent. He wagged a finger at me. “O.K. I’ll tell you how. Psychologically it stinks. People cutting their own throats are rare as great auks, much less harpooning themselves. That’s what got me going on it. So,
when I get going, I do research. I did some research at the Tackle Shop right after I got back Wally had one left. Same model. John Long had a pair of arms on him. Hell, they practically hung down to his knees. I bet he had four inches reach on me. And I can hold one of those things against my throat, with harpoon or whatever you call it all loaded in there, and push the trigger with my thumb. So somebody shoots him and takes off his shoe and sock and Wargler is happy. At least he’ll stay happy until I can talk facts of life to him. Some of the facts being that a well-off, healthy guy like John Long just doesn’t knock himself off, and if he does, all he has to do is take one of his own pistols. John had about four hand guns, and I know because I’ve seen them in his study, with nice little boxes of shells right next to them in the bottom desk drawer.”