Once a Mutt (Trace 5) (11 page)

“I would suppose that, yes, they did have such a marriage.”

“I was told that Mrs. Paddington may have thought that her husband had been fooling around with motion-picture actresses,” Trace said.

“May I ask where you heard that?” Johnson said.

“From Dr. Bigot. He was the Paddingtons’ physician.”

The first glimmer of emotion showed on Johnson’s face. His eyes narrowed, and if he were a gunfighter, Trace knew he would have drawn and fired at that moment.

“Dr. Bigot is an idiot,” Johnson said.

“I know what you mean,” Trace said. “California life-style, blond nurse, that kind of thing.”

“I mean that the man is an idiot. I don’t care at all about his life-style. He is a certifiable idiot who had to go to medical school in Guiana. He should not be permitted to practice. He knows less about medicine than I do.”

“He told me that a lot of people in this town didn’t like him,” Trace said leadingly.

“Did he tell you that he is under indictment?” Johnson asked.

“No,” Trace said.

“Very well. There are many retired persons in this area. Dr. Bigot began a service specializing in the treatment of the retired, those on Social Security pension. It all sounded very good except that he billed for services he did not perform, and for tests he did not administer, and several patients found they had serious illnesses after Bigot assured them they had none. He has been indicted for fraud and his medical license is under review.”

“I didn’t know that,” Trace said.

“I would not imagine that he had told you that,” Johnson said.

“No, he didn’t. Basically, all he said was that he was the Paddingtons’ only real friend in town.”

“Friend? That man has no friends. By friendship, I would imagine that he meant he was always nosing around the Paddingtons trying to get them to invest money in some scheme or other.”

“He said he wants to open a restaurant,” Trace said.

“Seventy-five percent of all new restaurants fail,” Johnson said.

“I know.”

“In the case of any that Dr. Bigot is associated with, you may raise that figure to one hundred percent,” Johnson said.

There was a pause for silence and Johnson said, “Is there anything else, Mr. Tracy?”

“Just one thing. Did you handle the sale of the Paddington house here when Mrs. Paddington moved?”

Johnson thought silently for a moment, then spun his chair around and removed a file from a cabinet behind him. As he leafed through it, he said, “I don’t believe that the house was sold, Mr. Tracy. I believe it was only rented. Yes, here it is.”

He was holding a letter typewritten on a small sheet of ivory-colored stationery. Stapled to it was a larger piece of onionskin paper with typing on it and the red word “Copy” printed across it.

Johnson began to read.

“‘Dear Mr. Johnson, Could you please recommend the name of a real-estate agent who might be able to handle the rental of our home? We are considering leaving West Hampstead for a while. Thank you. Mrs. Helmsley Paddington.’” He flipped the paper and said, “And I recommended they contact Mr. Barton McNick. He is a local realtor.”

“She never told you why she was planning to move?” Trace said.

“We did not communicate except by these two letters,” Johnson said.

“Her letter is pretty formal, isn’t it?” Trace asked.

Johnson looked at it again and finally did something human. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems clear enough. Considering moving, looking for a real-estate man to rent their house. Do you think Nadine should have included a recipe for apple turnovers?”

“I guess not,” Trace said. “Can I find this Barton McNick in town?”

“One block south from here,” Johnson said.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Trace said.

“You’re very welcome,” Johnson said. He had spun again in his chair to return the Paddington file to the cabinet.

At the door, Trace stopped and asked, “Mr. Johnson, why do you dislike Dr. Bigot so?”

Johnson looked surprised that such a question need be asked. “Because he is an incompetent, sir.”

“Is that the only reason?” Trace persisted.

“Need there be any other?” Johnson said.

“I guess not,” Trace said.

Barton McNick was a medium-sized man whose pear-shaped body seemed designed by nature and ordained by gravity to sit in a chair. All the while he talked to Trace, he ate with both hands from a large salad-sized bowl of salted peanuts. Trace moved his chair back an extra foot, which he figured was just outside the effective spray range of peanut chips. When one landed in his lap, he moved the chair back another foot.

“There’s a house on Eugene Road,” Trace said. “I was wondering if it’s for sale or rent.”

“What’s it look like?” McNick asked.

“Big English Tudor house, fenced grounds, couple of acres, looks like it’s got kennels alongside it.”

“That’s the Paddington place,” McNick said. He took time out to chew and swallow. “Too bad. That place is already rented out.”

“Oh, damn,” Trace said.

“I’ve got some other good stuff just like that to look at,” McNick said.

“Stay with this one house for a minute. What’d you call it, the Paddington house?”

“Right.”

“Why’s it called that?”

“Those were the people who used to live there. They still own it. The Paddingtons. They were big into dog food or something. That’s why the kennels.”

“They moved from that beautiful house?” Trace said.

“Yeah. About seven, eight years, I guess.”

“And you’ve been renting it since then?”

“That’s right. Why you so interested in that house?” McNick asked.

“Because it’s my dream house. For Lola and me and little Ernie and Benjie. Benjie’s our dog. He’s a surly mistrustful paranoid little cur, but we love him. We’ve always looked for a house just like that. Tell me. Just a rough idea. What’s a house like that worth around here?”

“Three hundred thousand, I guess. Or you mean rental?”

“I mean rental,” Trace said.

“They’re paying twenty-two hundred a month plus utilities,” McNick said. For the first time, he broke the symmetrical poetry of his motion. He had been eating peanuts from his two hands alternately. Now he grabbed two handfuls and tried to push both into his mouth at once. A lot of them dribbled on the desk. He picked them up and popped them into his mouth and smiled sheepishly at Trace. “I skipped breakfast and lunch today. I’m dieting.”

“I’ve heard good things about the Peanut Diet,” Trace said.

“Well, it’s not really a diet. These are just a snack until I eat dinner,” McNick said.

“The tenants at the Paddington house, they have a long lease or something?”

“No, they just rent month to month, but they’ve been there a couple of years now.”

“Do you think that house might come available in the future?”

“Maybe. Would you be interested in just renting or possibly buying?” McNick asked.

“Would the owners sell?”

“I think they still want to rent.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to sell?” Trace said. “I mean, if it’s gone up, it’s a big capital gain, right?”

“Sure. But the woman, I don’t think she wants to sell.”

“Did you ask her?” Trace said.

“I wrote her a couple of letters. Every so often somebody says that maybe they’d like to buy it, and I write her a letter and she writes back and says, No, just keep renting it.”

“Where does she live? Would it help if I called her?”

“In Connecticut, but you couldn’t get through. Like I just heard that her husband died, this woman’s, and I called to ask her if she wanted to sell, but I couldn’t get through.”

“No answer?” Trace said.

“No, this Mrs. Paddington has these two people that work for her, they used to work for her up here too. This redhead with beautiful knockers. I talked to her. She said Mrs. Paddington wasn’t feeling good but just keep renting the house.”

“What do you do with the rent money, if you don’t mind my asking?” Trace said.

“I just mail it to Mrs. Paddington, after I deduct my fees for management,” McNick said.

“Well, listen, I’m sorry that house isn’t available now,” Trace said. “I’m just passing through, but I’d really be interested in any property you have to offer.”

“That’s why we’re here,” McNick said, peanuts flying.

“So would you put me on your mailing list? For everything. And commercial property too. I might be interested in opening a restaurant around here.”

“Restaurants are always good,” McNick said. “A good investment.”

“I know that. Take my card,” Trace said. He shuffled in the back of his wallet for a business card. “Send me everything you’ve got on different properties.”

McNick looked at the card. “Walter Marks,” he said.

“That’s right. I’m the vice-president of that company.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Marks. I’ll keep you posted on everything.”

“Good. And if you get anything really special, give me a call, will you?” He took the business card and wrote Walter Marks’ phone number on the back of it.

“That’s my home number,” he said. “Call me with anything good.”

“Sure. Any best time to call?”

Trace thought a moment, then said, “I’m sorry about this, but I do most of my work at home at night. You know, from midnight till eight A.M. Could you possibly call me after midnight?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you,” Trace said. “You’re very kind.”

Trace got back to the Westport motel after eleven P.M. He had stopped along the highway a couple of times for drinks and had bought a bottle of vodka because he didn’t want to spend the night in his room without a drink.

He thought, fleetingly, that he might be drinking too much. “But,” he said aloud in the car as he drove, “how much is too much?” For a child or a person who couldn’t handle it, even one drink might be too much. Yet there were people in the world who drank vast amounts and stayed sober and in good health. In some places in Russia, they drank vodka every day and lived to be 912 years old. At least. He had seen it on a yogurt commercial, and yogurt commercials never lied. So that was that. Trace decided that he drank just enough, and he was very glad that this current “just enough” was so much more than the “just enough” of the past few months when he was drinking virtually nothing but wine and hating every sip of it.

When he was rich, as soon he must be, no one would ever again tell him how much he should drink.

Two messages had been slipped under the door of his room; he picked them up and lay them side by side on his bed and poured himself a drink. Vodka, neat. No ice. No mixer. Just a plastic tumbler of liquor with nothing to spoil it. Then he looked at the two messages.

One read, “Call Chico.” The other read, “Please call E.L.V.”

Chico. He understood that message. “Call Chico.” Clear and simple. But “Please call E.L.V.” What was that all about? First of all, he knew no E.L.V. Second, he knew no one whose message to him would be preceded by “Please.” Who could this E.L.V. be who dared say please to him?

Maybe someone he had befriended many years ago? He lay on the bed with his drink in hand and looked at the message. That could be. Maybe someone he had done a favor for years before, someone who had now come into a lot of money and wanted to share their good fortune with Trace. He’d have to think about that some more.

He called Chico after first looking up their telephone number on the back of a matchbook cover he kept in his wallet. That was another thing wrong with the world. Matchbook covers. He had once spent three months perfecting his big trick: opening a matchbook with one hand, folding down a match, closing the book, and striking the match, all with the one hand. It was a wonderful trick to use when driving, particularly when your cigarette lighter didn’t work, and his never did, or when you were driving in Texas, where everybody wanted to smash head-on into your car and you needed to keep both eyes on the road. It was a real good trick and then some Naderian idiot had decided that the world was in danger of incineration because the striking pad on matchbooks was on the front of the matchbook and they had put the pad on the back of the book. And his trick was rendered obsolete. His one trick. Why didn’t the busybodies of the world stick to toxic waste and wheels that fell off cars, and leave the important things, like matchbooks, alone? If they wanted to warn America about something, why didn’t they warn it about the Mexicans? Didn’t they know that the Mexicans had won both gold medals in walking at the Olympic Games? If sleeping ever became an Olympic event, the Mexicans were going to be a real danger to U.S. sports supremacy. Why didn’t they worry about things like that?

If they needed something to keep them busy, why not find out who E.L.V. was and make him stop bothering people?

Chico annoyed him just by answering the telephone. Her voice was light and airy and happy, the way it always was. Just by saying hello, she could disgust an ordinary person who knew that the world was a mean and sour place. What was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she know that a telephone call could be a harbinger of disaster?

Hello, indeed. I’m calling to tell you that you have an incurable illness. Hello. This is the IRS. We want all your money and we’re impounding your sixty-five pairs of shoes until we get it. Hello. This is the Berlitz school; your Japanese mother has finally decided to learn to speak English and she has driven three instructors crazy and we’re suing, and we’re calling you because your mother says she is not desponsible and why are we horrowing her?

“Hello” was all Chico said.

“This is Trace.”

“Drunk again, I see,” Chico said.

“That isn’t quite correct. If I were really drunk, I wouldn’t have called. Yet, here I am, calling. I am not drunk. Q.E.D.”

“You sound drunk.”

“A serious throat malady,” Trace said. “One for which the cure is very expensive and I just can’t afford it. I drink to numb the pain.”

“I’m sorry for your troubles,” Chico said.

“But not sorry enough,” Trace said.

“Exactly. Not sorry enough,” she agreed.

“Why did you call?” Trace asked.

“That so-called friend of yours from New Jersey, what’s his name, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“He called,” she said.

“What’d he want?”

“He said he got new repair estimates on the restaurant. There was more damage than he thought. Your share of the repairs is eighteen thousand dollars. He needs it right away,” Chico said.

“Eighteen thousand? That thief.”

“That’s what I told him,” Chico said.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him he was a thief,” she said.

“What’d you go and do that for?” Trace said.

“Because he’s a thief and you’re not likely to tell him and I thought somebody should.”

“Madam. Unless you are willing to invest in this golden opportunity, I think you should refrain from calling the general partners names.”

“I feel better for having done it, and no, I’m not investing in that beached whale. Why are you drinking so much?”

“I feel better for it,” Trace said.

“You were doing reasonably well with the wine,” Chico said.

“It’s job-related stress. It has forced me back to hard liquor.”

“Exercise is good for stress. Much better than alcohol,” Chico said.

“I tried exercising for you. I even bought running shoes. And what did it get me?”

“You ran once around the dining-room table. You did one push-up three times a day. For two days. That’s not really an exercise program.”

“You have to start somewhere,” Trace said. “I’m thinking of going back to it. What are you doing?”

“I’m dieting and exercising.”

“You exercise every day,” Trace said.

“I’m exercising more now,” she said.

“Why are you dieting?” Trace said.

“I gained three pounds and it’s got to come off.”

Trace said, “I gained three pounds today between twelve and one.”

“That’s you, not me. I’m dieting.”

“I think you should only diet on high-protein flesh sticks,” Trace said.

“You’re a sex maniac,” she said.

“True. So true,” Trace agreed. “So are you going to lend me the money or not?”

“Not,” she said.

“Well, then, this is probably it for us,” Trace said.

“I’m really sorry about that,” she said.

“If I shouldn’t call again, remember…well, remember that I only wanted the best for you.”

“I will,” Chico promised. “Good night.”

“Wait a minute,” Trace said.

“What?”

“Do I know anybody named E.L.V.?”

“E.L.V.?” Chico said. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Somebody called and left those initials,” Trace said.

“Man or woman?”

“I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”

“Probably some woman you’ve picked up in the last couple of days. That broad you bopped the other night when you were mad at me.”

“I’m still mad at you,” he said. He was thinking that Chico was right. E.L.V. stood for Elvira. She hadn’t wanted to leave her name, so she left the code initials. Good thinking, Elvira.

“You’ll sleep it off,” Chico said.

“Not this time,” Trace said.

“Good night,” Chico said.

“Good-bye forever,” Trace said.

He hung up the telephone. He didn’t want to call Elvira. He didn’t want to call anybody. All he wanted to do was to feel sorry for himself.

It was midnight.