The Do-Right (23 page)

XXXV
XXXV

JOE FORD SAT on Phelan's couch, long legs stretched out over the coffee table, big feet dangling. The orange glow had faded from his cigar, and he hadn't bothered to relight it. Chugging the beers, though. On his fifth or sixth out of the case that guarded the petrified cheddar cheese in the fridge.

“How'm I gonna do it, Tom? I won't know what to do with her. Counting on my wife making us another boy, and she let me down.”

Phelan was drinking vodka on ice, squirting it with limes from a plate. His own feet were up on a cardboard-box ottoman. He stuck to cigarettes, his ashtray a souvenir from the Astrodome. Celebratory cigar poked out of his breast pocket.

“Tell me that again next year when that little girl is running your life.”

“You know she's gonna be six foot six.”

“So what. Time she turns eighteen there'll be pro leagues for women, and you'll have yourself a star. Listen at it. Give it up for numberrr…what's today?”

Joe lugged his wristwatch up to his eyes. “August the 15th.”

“Give it up for numberrr fifteen! Standing six foot six, weighing in at 180 pounds, averaging 22 points a game and leading the league in rebounds—All-American Jennnie Forrrrd!”

Joe sat up and smushed his face around. He was nodding. “OK. OK, I can live with that.”

“Yeah, but can you drive? 'Cause you better get a hour or two's sleep so you can bring the new mama home in the morning. And your daughter.”

“I can always drive. I'm ticket-proof. Know every cop in town. No, don't get up there, Mr. P.I. Believe I can find my own way out through the box piles. Your décor is, I don't know, maybe
absent
would do it justice. Hey, Delpha Wade must be working out for you. She tells me she's still employed.”

Phelan drained his fifth vodka including ice bitlets and let the heavy highball glass drop to his rug. “Seriously. Joe Ford, you whistledick. It was a good day you called me about her. Glad you talked me into the interview. I coulda hired somebody that wasn't, that just wasn't, you know…wasn't her.”

Joe stared down at him, jingle of car keys, superior smile. “That's eloquent, Tom, it is. Well, thanks for the beers. And the company, poor as it was.”

Phelan waved.

Snap, five fifteen a.m, had to pee. He opened his eyes in his bedroom, dark as Hades, read the shapes languidly arranging and rearranging themselves on the air. They finished their work and stopped and the dark was still.

Phelan got out of bed naked, pissed, and put on jeans and his watch. Tied his Adidas, palmed his car keys. He was at the gate to Golden Hills Memorial in nine minutes. Parked, snagged his flashlight and jumped the chain, hiked the oyster shell lane to his grandmother Lila.

Plato's hyperventilating crossed his mind. Guy'd been terrified of who might be knocking at his front door: whoever had decommissioned John Daughtry, dropped off a box of bacteria that might have wriggled onto Plato and nestled in to colonize. And that would be a weepy-eyed brunette in a
charcoal suit. The chemist's widow. Plato should be worried. He'd probably started it all by whispering into Lloyd's ear. Or Wallace's. Yeah, Wallace's. By tiptoeing the logbook, with Wallace's blessing, to somebody in R&D Enroco. Phelan bet Plato still had it, on the bottom of his suitcase, riding in the back seat of his Rambler wagon.

Plato Willis had not woken Phelan up though. A glove did that. A glove sailed out of a dream and drew shapes on the air until the shapes settled in a particular formation that pointed to Lila. Which didn't make sense until it did.

He crunched along on the oyster shell until he found her.

Lila Pearl McNight. April 19, 1890—June 1, 1973. Rains had beaten down the raw dirt, grass blades scattered all across her. He told her why he was here. “But that's second, darlin'. First is, I sure miss seeing you.”

He turned the direction he'd walked after the graveside ceremony and slowly walked that way. Played the flashlight along the headstones.

Johnson, Acuff, Radley. Smith, Mabel and William. Greco. Greco. Patterson. Reaud. Nance. Forrester, Rodney and Evangeline.

Robbins. Charles Francis Robbins. December 7, 1926—June 2, 1973. Single word chiseled in granite:
Beloved
. He aimed the beam rightward onto the other name.

Lucinda Scourie Robbins November 1, 1928—

Lucinda Robbins, the widow behind the veil, had slipped on a glove from her purse. Set her finger to the lips of a rueful old man who was trying to say something to her. One glove. With a spot of invisible, crawly stuff on it? Removed the glove by pinching its cuff and dropped it into a purse. He'd seen that. You could burn a glove. Or alcohol-dip it, donate the pair and the purse to the Salvation Army.

You could put invisible, crawly creatures in other places, too.

The old man trudging back to his car: had to have been John Daughtry, chiseled in shame. Simple to verify. Few days later, Mr. Daughtry feeling a worse internal disturbance than usual. Then worse.

Then Arizona.

Sky gray, few birds stirring, warm mist. Driving back to his apartment, Phelan pictured the executive meeting that deprived Charles Robbins of the rewards of his labor. The founding moment, as it were. Present, he figured: Wallace Daughtry and an ounce of stardust mounded on a dish carved from African ivory. Plato and Lloyd would have done their parts, but the final decision lay with Wallace.

Had he given the future widow ten seconds' thought? Phelan doubted it. If he had, that thought might have run along the lines of a Hallmark card, potted rhododendron for the funeral. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Well, no
.

Phelan found a parking spot, jogged up to his apartment. Six dead soldiers where Joe Ford had sat and a
Congratulations, It's a Girl
cigar butt. Place smelled like the club car of the Sunset Limited. He peed again and dove back into bed.

Gargled the vodka out of his sinuses and combed his hair. Getting long, maybe he would collide with fashion at some point. Fiddled with the knot in his tie and called it good. He was feeling pretty triumphant about his cemetery work, also sheepish. He veered into a 7-11, bought a packaged cinnamon bun with wax-sugar frosting and some weak coffee and called the office. Checked his watch—9:10 a.m.—as his secretary
answered: “Good morning, Phelan Investigations. How may we help you?”

“Whoa, you sound like you're on your last legs, Miss Wade. You have a cold?”

“Just tired. Didn't sleep sound.”

“Take the day off then. You sent all those sales letters out, right?”

“Marketing letters. Just about. I want to finish the last ones.”

“Nobody'll die if you market tomorrow. Whyn't you go on home.”

“I'm OK. I get a sense of satisfaction when I put another letter in the box.”

He wasn't going to tell her about his visit to the assistant chemist, but suddenly he was telling her. “Know I was 'sposed to leave off, but I went and talked to Plato Willis. Ninety-nine point nine percent sure I know who blackmailed Lloyd Elliott.”

Delpha said nothing.

“Thought that would interest you.”

“How…how'd you find out?”

“Process of elimination.” He was leaving out a glove dream and shapes in the dark. “Let's talk about it later. You know, I kinda count on you for that. Talking things over, I mean. Right now, can you see if there's a Margaret Hanski listed? Phone book's gone at this phone.”

He heard a drawer slide out. Pages rustling. He leaned against a plate glass window, blocking a hand-scribbled advertisement for six-packs of Texas Pride. Mist had lifted, but a breath of dew hovered in the morning heat. Some lazy rooster crowed.

“There's a Howard and Margaret at 3630 El Paso Avenue. Here's the number—”

“Don't need it, thanks. Listen, if you start feeling worse, go home. Bye now.”

He headed down El Paso Avenue, a neat, working-class neighborhood, calculating what he might say to Margaret Hanski to bridge his transformation from petrochemical company rep to investigator. Then again, she might not remember him.

But she did. Phelan cut his engine by a ditch that bounded a yard decked out with a Slip'N Slide and three shrieking little boys. No sign of the sober suit. Margaret wore a floppy sunhat, pedal-pushers, and a happy expression. Her feet were bare. “My goodness,” she said, “what are you doing here, young man? I'm sorry, I don't recall your name, but I remember you. Salesman.”

Phelan smiled. “Let me come clean, Mrs. Hanski. Margaret. Here's that card you wanted from me the day we met. Moving day, I believe.”

She read the card, looked up quizzically. “Private investigator?”

“My apologies for misleading you. I was hired to check into a few things concerning the company, the lawsuit, you know, without stirring up a fuss. One of the people I interviewed indicated you weren't working there anymore, and since I enjoyed talking to you so much that day, I thought I'd stop by. I guess there have been a lot of changes at Daughtry.”

The happy expression washed away. “Sure have. The company is Wallace's, and it's all about money now, not about making a product. Calls it Daughtry & Company. Could be selling tires or ladies' underwear, anything. Larry! Larry, you let Michael have his turn.” Protests and general guff from skinny, wet Larry. “He's not too little. You let him slide.”

Phelan cut in. “Wallace's no sweetheart, is he?”

“Oh, don't get me started. Wallace was the cutest little boy, used to ride him on my hip like one of my own. Grew up to be a weevil. He just flat fired me, after thirty-four years. I went to work for his father in 1939. My husband's up in arms, but I'm trying to put all that behind me, and you know what? Turning out to be easier than I thought it would be.” She cast a look toward the boys, Larry taking giraffe-steps backward to get a running start on the Slip'N Slide, and her face softened.

“So you won't miss working at the new office.”

“That house. Anybody with sense would've knocked it down and put up something modern. Not Wallace. Raved over it, called it authentic Queen Anne Revival style. He brought in an architect from New York City and carpenters and such, spent money like water. I give him this—it's a showy property, if you like old-fashioned. Fancy woodwork. Antiques everywhere, leaded glass, claw-foot tub. That scalloped siding looks like fish scales. Garish, if you ask me.”

A wail pulled her from the lawn chair. She squatted down and opened her arms. “Those big boys not letting you play? Tum here, baby, tum'ere.”

The smallest boy, mouth tragically downturned, staggered toward his grandmother. She swooped him up, streaming shorts and all, and sat back down with him on her lap.

“I see you're busy, Mrs. Hanski, so I won't keep you but a minute. Guess I was wondering what you could tell me about Charles Robbins.”

Her head angled around to him. She contemplated Phelan with a blink or two, measuring. “Charles Robbins was the smartest man I ever ran into. He had a kind word for anybody needed it, and he seemed to know when you did. He was…well, it made you feel better to be around him. Mr. Daughtry
respected Charles. I'll never understand how he came to let Wallace do what he did.”

Phelan raised his eyebrows.

“Just because a contract allows you to cheat somebody doesn't mean you're obliged to do it.” Margaret was swaying her knees sideways, rocking the toddler. “Who are you working for…Sam, was it?”

“Tom. Did Plato take the logbook or was it Wallace?”

This time the measuring look contained wariness. “I think you better answer me first.”

He was aware that revealing what he believed could turn out to be a massively airhead move. But something told him to say it. “Mrs. Robbins.”

Sympathy replaced suspicion. Still rocking the child, she whispered, “Well, why didn't you say so? You already know what they did to Charles.”

“Professional ethics, Mrs. Hanski.”

“Margaret. I believe Plato took it, but Wallace knew.”

“Did it ever show back up?”

Her head jerked toward him, then she looked away, over to the older boys, who were flinging water out of their hair like wet puppies. “How
is
Cindy? My goodness, I haven't seen her since…well, the reception, I guess it was.” Margaret suddenly developed a film of sunburn. “You know, I better get this baby inside. He's sound asleep.”

The boy was judging Phelan from the corners of his eyes.

“The reception on Daughtry's moving day, you mean? I hadn't realized Mrs. Robbins attended that party.”

“Oh good Lord, no. Wallace and Cindy in the same room? Cindy and me just…ran into each other afterward. Grocery store. Larry, you and Shawn turn off the hose. Let's go have us a snack.”

Clearly his exit. Phelan thanked her, tendered his opinion that baby Michael favored his grandmother.

Cindy.

He drove thoughtfully over to the new office of Daughtry & Co. Sunny and talkative Margaret was, until the logbook was mentioned. And the reception. She'd run into Mrs. Robbins at the grocery store after that reception. How many people, after being fired from a lifetime job, went grocery shopping? Pick up some Hamburger Helper, Skippy peanut butter on sale. Phelan thought you'd more likely go to a friend you could talk to. Preferably one who knew the parties involved. You'd recount the terrible deed, get some outraged noises and a hug.

He drove right past Wallace's new place of business, a tremendous feat of non-detection. Banged a U-ey and drove a full four blocks back.

The sign was discreet, black with gold letters, small and rectangular, mounted on a pole like an old-time lawyer's. The house though more than lived up to Margaret's description of showy: peaks to the roof, wrap-around porch, goddamn turret on the side. Painted in a luscious jade-green, it looked almost animated, as if alligators in top hats might perform a song-and-dance number on its veranda. Phelan liked it at once. Maybe loved it. Wallace's Z was parked in the wide drive, along with several other late-model cars.