Twilight at Mac's Place (27 page)

McCorkle shifted his position again, trying to accommodate his long legs to
Padillo’s 280 SL. After failing to cross them for the third time, he said, “You ever think of buying something a little more sedate and comfortable—maybe a Volvo station wagon?”

Padillo ignored the question and said, “He should’ve left by now.”

“It’s only a little after nine and the meeting’s not till ten.”

“Keyes isn’t one to arrive last at any meeting,” Padillo said. “Especially this one.”

They were parked on California Street two houses east of the Georgian one that belonged to Hamilton and Muriel Keyes. They assumed that when Keyes left he would probably head west—away from them—then south. Otherwise, he would have to cope with California Street when it suddenly turned one-way.

“He’s in there, sipping his second cup of coffee out of a gold-rimmed Haviland cup,” McCorkle said. “And we’re trapped in this clapped-out roadster with a slit top that lets in wind with a chill factor of fifteen degrees. And what have we got to drink? Cold Roy Rogers coffee in plastic cups.”

“Howard Johnson coffee,” Padillo said.

“I haven’t had a cup of Ho-Jo coffee in twenty years and, by my troth, it hasn’t improved any.”

“I’d almost forgotten,” Padillo said.

“What?”

“What a sunbeam you are in the morning.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Open the window.”

“It’s thirty-three degrees.”

“And life is a series of hard choices.”

“I’ll chew instead,” McCorkle said and produced a packet of Nicorette gum.

“Here he comes.”

“So he does,” McCorkle said, putting away the Nicorette.

The automatic overhead door of the Keyeses’ three-car garage was nearly all the way up. A moment later a dark blue Buick sedan, with Keyes at the wheel, backed out onto the turnaround slab. Keyes then drove down the driveway and turned west, away from Padillo’s coupe.

“Which car does she drive?” McCorkle asked as the garage door came back down.

“The Mercedes sedan.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.”

“When—the night you forgot to tell me who she was?”

“I didn’t forget,” Padillo said, started the engine and drove less than seventy-five yards before turning into the Keyes driveway. He stopped his car a foot away from the overhead door, blocking it nicely. He and McCorkle got out, walked to the front door and pushed a bell that rang some chimes. A moment later the door was opened by the Salvadoran maid.

Padillo snapped out a sentence in rapid Spanish that was much too fast for McCorkle. The only words he got were “la Señora” and “los Señores Padillo y McCorkle.” But the maid understood perfectly, especially the imperious tone, which caused her to duck her head, open the door wider and invite them inside to wait while she informed la Señora.

“The help must’ve loved you back at the old hacienda,
mi jefe,
” McCorkle said.

“It was a verbal shortcut.”

“Which scared the hell out of her.”

“She heard worse in El Salvador.”

“How do you know where she’s from?”

Before Padillo could reply, the maid returned, still scurrying and bobbing a little, to announce that la Señora would join them presently in the room of reception.

Padillo gave her his most charming smile, thanked her graciously and inquired if her longing for San Salvador remained acute. She replied that it had lessened a little in recent months. Padillo said he hoped she would soon be able to return for a visit in safety. She thanked him and said he was very kind.

By then they were in the living room that was filled with antiques. The maid left and Padillo and McCorkle sat on what seemed to be the two sturdiest chairs. A few minutes later Muriel Keyes entered, wearing fawn slacks, sandals, a silk blouse the color of bitter chocolate and a nervous smile.

Padillo rose quickly, McCorkle more slowly. Muriel Keyes chose to ignore McCorkle, except for a brief glance, and smiled at Padillo. “Michael, how nice.”

“Muriel.”

After she offered him her cheek to brush with his lips, he said, “I think you met my partner, Mr. McCorkle, when you were playing Reba Skelton, noted calligrapher.”

“Fast! Accurate! Prompt!” McCorkle said.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked Padillo.

“Not really.”

She turned to McCorkle and said, “I apologize, Mr. McCorkle. It was very stupid of me.”

“You were really very good,” he said.

“But obviously not good enough.” She looked at Padillo. “What gave it away?”

“You shuffled in but loped out. That Lamphier lope, once seen, is hard to forget.”

“I was so damned frightened.”

“Not as much as I was,” McCorkle said.

“Please sit down,” she said. “Could I offer you some coffee? It’s probably still too early for a drink.”

“Coffee’ll be fine, Muriel,” Padillo said as he sat down. “Especially since we’re going to be here a while.”

“Oh?” she said, going to the near wall to press an ivory button.

“There’s something we’d like you to read,” McCorkle said as he resumed his seat.

“Read? Read what?”

Before either of them could reply, the maid, who must’ve been hovering just outside the living room door, entered to find out what she would be asked to fetch or carry. Muriel Keyes, using serviceable, if halting, Spanish, asked for coffee and rolls.

When the maid left, Muriel Keyes turned back to McCorkle and said, “You said you wanted me to read something?”

Padillo said, “A memo from the late Gilbert Undean.” He paused. “You did know him, didn’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

“Seen him recently?”

“Yes. He came to see my husband last—Friday, I think. Rather late.”

McCorkle and Padillo said nothing. After the silence had gone on for thirty seconds, she said, “Why would Mr. Undean send you a memorandum, Michael?”

“He didn’t send it to me.”

“Then who did?”

“Tinker Burns sent it—indirectly. Tinker’s the one your lawyer hired in Paris to do some work for you here.”

“What kind of work was that?”

“Find out whether Steady Haynes had mentioned you in his memoirs. You’re still interested in the memoirs, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as I was. I think that particular—what should I call it—problem?—”

“Problem’s good,” McCorkle said.

“I think that particular problem’s been resolved.”

“Sorry, Muriel,” Padillo said. “It’s just beginning.”

Granville Haynes, driving the old Cadillac, was nearing McCorkle’s Connecticut Avenue apartment building at 9:45
A.M
. when Erika said, “I’ll be your slave for a year if you can work me into that meeting.”

Haynes smiled. “I would if I could.”

“But I’ll get a full play-by-play later?”

“Everything.”

“God, that’ll be interesting,” she said and leaned over to kiss him good-bye just as he stopped in front of the old gray building’s no-standing zone. The car behind honked immediately.

“Stick by the phone,” he said as she got out and turned to give the honker the finger, which produced yet another honk. Just as she closed the door, Haynes raised his voice to say, “And keep your doors locked.” She nodded that she understood and hurried toward the building.

Haynes continued down Connecticut, went around Dupont Circle and found a parking place in front of 1633 Connecticut next door to where the razed Junkanoo nightclub had once stood.

He dropped some coins into the meter, looked at his watch and saw that he had five minutes. He pulled the collar of his new topcoat up around his chin, stuck his hands down into its pockets and rediscovered McCorkle’s pistol. It felt cold to the touch and he saw no need to wrap his right hand around its butt.

Although he was exactly on time, Haynes was the last to arrive at the 10
A.M
. meeting in the former senator’s office. Haynes thought the place had the leathery smell of a shoe store—or the way shoe stores smelled before they started selling so many athletic shoes.

Haynes shook hands with Hamilton Keyes first because it seemed to be part of some business ritual. He even shook hands with Howard Mott, who introduced him to the former senator. The senator had retained his professional politician’s quick-release handshake.

Haynes sat down in one of the three leather armchairs in front of the ornate desk. He sat next to Mott, who separated him from Hamilton Keyes. The senator, presiding from behind the desk, smiled a brief smile of commerce and said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we can begin.”

When no one objected, he continued. “We will entertain offers this morning for the copyright to a written work by the late Steadfast Haynes, entitled
Mercenary Calling,
said copyright being the property of Mr. Haynes’s son, Granville, who is the sole owner.”

He looked around for confirmation and received a nod from Howard Mott. “Papers for the consummation of the sale have been drawn up by Mr. Mott, who is Mr. Haynes’s attorney. I have examined them and find them to be in order. Any questions?”

There weren’t any. The senator nodded again and said, “There are two parties who plan to tender offers for the copyright. One is Mr. Keyes, representing Write-Away, Incorporated, of Miami, Florida. The other is a client of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.”

Haynes decided to nod. So did Hamilton Keyes.

“Very well. Since Mr. Keyes is present he is entitled to make the first offer.”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Keyes said.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the senator said. “I will now telephone the only other bidder to see whether Mr. Keyes’s bid will be topped.”

The senator pushed a single button on his telephone console. He listened just long enough for a phone to ring once somewhere before he said, “Seven hundred and fifty.” There had been no faint click of a phone call being answered, nor of a voice saying hello. The senator listened for a moment to what seemed to be a silent voice, looked up at Keyes and said, “Eight hundred thousand dollars is bid.”

Haynes smiled. Hamilton Keyes cleared his throat and said, “One million.”

The senator spoke into the phone. “One million has been bid.” He listened for a few seconds, nodded to the unseen caller and said, “I understand. Thank you.”

The senator slowly put the phone down, looked at Keyes and said, “Yours is the high bid, Mr. Keyes. Congratulations.”

Keyes nodded and Haynes said, “Where do I sign?”

Howard Mott produced five bound photocopied legal documents from his briefcase, placed them on the desk, offered Haynes a ballpoint pen and said, “Sign each document at the blue X on each last page.”

Haynes quickly signed his name five times and said, “When do I get my money?”

Hamilton Keyes withdrew a plain white No. 10 envelope from the breast pocket of his dark blue double-breasted suit and handed the unsealed envelope to the senator. The senator opened it and took out five checks, three of them gray, two of them green.

“I have here five cashier’s checks for two hundred thousand dollars apiece. Two of the checks are drawn on the Riggs National Bank and three on American Security.”

He put the checks back in the envelope and handed it to Howard Mott, who looked at each check briefly, then passed them on to Haynes. Using the pen Mott had lent him, Haynes endorsed the checks and handed them back to Mott.

“Here you go, Howard. I’ll tell you what to do with them later.” Haynes rose and shook his head a little regretfully. “Well, gentlemen, it would’ve made a hell of a picture.”

He smiled at the senator, winked at Keyes, turned and left the room.

There was a long silence until the senator said, “I think that boy might’ve at least said, ‘Much obliged,’ or ‘Kiss my ass.’ ”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Howard Mott.

Haynes stood at a bank of three phones across the street from the faded tan brick
building where the senator had his law offices and where the bachelor Speaker of the House of Representatives had long ago had an apartment. Haynes was turned around, facing the building, a phone to his ear, listening to Erika McCorkle relay a phoned-in report from Michael Padillo.

“It was
her
money?” Haynes said.

“Hers, not the spooks,” Erika said.

“Does Padillo believe it?”

“He’s ninety-nine percent convinced.”

“He’s coming out now,” Haynes said, hung up the phone and jay-walked across the street, catching up with Hamilton Keyes, who had stopped at the corner for a red light. Guessing that Keyes hated to be touched, Haynes grabbed his left elbow, ready to give its prime nerve an almost crippling squeeze—even through the dark blue cashmere topcoat.

“Let’s talk,” Haynes growled.

A startled Hamilton Keyes quickly recovered and, without turning, said, “About what?”

“Your wife and the three people she killed.”

That made Keyes turn and stare at Haynes. Haynes offered some clearly audible breathing through a slightly open mouth and also a noticeable collection of spittle in the mouth’s left corner.

“You’re really quite mad, aren’t you?” Keyes said.

“If you mean angry, pissed off and enraged, you fucking-A right I’m mad. Two of the three people she killed were friends of mine—my oldest friends. You got a car?”

Keyes tore his elbow loose from Haynes’s grasp, rubbed it and said, “Up the street.”

“Let’s go take us a ride and have us a talk then. Topic A will be the Undean memo.”

Keyes cocked his head to examine Haynes almost sympathetically. “You don’t even know you’re raving, do you?”

Haynes raised a forefinger to his lips. “Shhh. They’ll hear us.”

When they reached Keyes’s dark blue Buick sedan, Haynes stared at it for fifteen seconds, not moving, not even breathing.

“I’ve seen this fucking car before,” he said and walked slowly all the way around it, pausing to kick two of the tires. He then whirled on Keyes and said, “This is the fucking car she shot at me from.”

“She?”

“Your heiress wife. Muriel Lamphier Keyes.”

“Shot at you, did she?”

“Last night at the Bellevue Motel out in Bethesda where nobody knew I was, except Muriel. She used a twenty-two rifle, probably loaded with longs. Could’ve wiped me out if she’d wanted to. Hell of a good shot.”

“You saw her?”

“I saw this same exact car take off like a scalded snake right after she shot at me. Now I’m about to be taken for a ride in it. You might like coincidences, but I hate ’em.” Haynes sounded even less happy when he asked, “This really your car?”

Keyes quickly unlocked the passenger door, as if to prove ownership. Haynes got in. After Keyes was behind the wheel, Haynes said, “Muriel borrowed your car last night, right? Sure she did. Probably scooted over in the seat, rolled down this very same window, used the sill for a rest—maybe even had herself a scope—squeezed off three rounds, bang, bang, bang, and missed me by inches on purpose.”

Keyes started the engine and said, “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Stick up for her then. I don’t blame you.”

With a sigh, Keyes asked, “Where to?”

“Straight out Connecticut to the District line. Makes a nice drive and ought to give us plenty of time to talk.”

“About the Undean memo,” Keyes said, pulling away from the curb. “Whatever that is.”

Haynes said nothing for nearly two minutes, then snarled his question. “Where the fuck was she Sunday morning right after the big snow?”

“It’s none of your fucking business, but she was with an old friend in McLean.”

Haynes’s expression turned sly, his voice insinuating. “Muriel a pretty fair skier?”

“She didn’t go skiing in McLean.”

“No, but she skied right up to old Gilbert Undean’s front door in Reston, didn’t she? All masked and goggled and bundled up so nobody could tell if she was male, female or in between. Undean let her in. Can’t really blame him for that since she was pointing her piece at him. They go up the stairs to his office. Maybe they talk a little; maybe they don’t. Or maybe they reminisce about old times in Vientiane when Muriel got caught fucking some woman’s husband, and how the woman got mad and shot him and then fought Muriel for the gun, but Muriel won and shot the woman dead. All that was in the Undean memo.”

“Really,” Keyes said.

“This is all old stuff to you, isn’t it, Ham? In the memo it says you were the guy who brought the money from Saigon to Vientiane that paid off the slope general who covered the whole mess up. What a nasty piece of shit he must’ve been. But it wasn’t a total loss because that’s when you met Muriel, right?”

“That’s when I met her,” Keyes said, stopping for a light at Connecticut and Columbia Road.

“Can’t be too hard to fall for a beauty who’s got sixty million bucks in the bank. Most guys wouldn’t have any trouble at all—even if Muriel is kinda weird. Take old Gilbert Undean. He was still covering up for her after all these years.”

“Covering up what?” Keyes said, sounding a bit interested for the first time.

“In his memo Undean claims the two-hundred-thousand-dollar payoff to the slope general was spook money. But it wasn’t. It was Muriel’s. Of course, that’s no flash to you since you were the bag man who toted it to Vientiane.”

Keyes frowned, looking almost puzzled. “You’re claiming the two hundred thousand wasn’t agency money?”

“Hey! I said something he didn’t already know. Lemme ask you this: Where’d you pick up all that cash in Saigon? At a bank? The embassy?”

“It was delivered to me.”

“Who by?”

“You don’t ask.”

“White man?”

“Yes.”

“You sign for it?”

“Never.”

“Well, there you go. It wasn’t agency money. It was Muriel’s. You wanta know what really happened?”

Keyes shrugged.

“I didn’t hear that, Ham.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Okay. Here’s the no-shit story. After Steady makes his deal for the cover-up with the general, he tells Muriel she’s gotta come up with two hundred K—all cash. Now, Muriel could’ve asked the spooks for it. And maybe they’d’ve come up with it and maybe they wouldn’t have. But she’d’ve had to tell ’em all about what a wife-killer she was and once they heard that, they’d’ve bounced her back home and out of the agency, right?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, two hundred K’s no problem to Muriel,” Haynes said, recalling the information Erika McCorkle had relayed to him from Padillo. “But the slope general is an all-cash kind of guy, and there’s no way Muriel can lay hands on that much cash in twelve hours or whatever time she’s got. But Steady knows how.”

“He would,” Keyes said.

“Steady knows some three-for-two black-market guys in Saigon who’ll front Muriel the two hundred K if she’ll pay back three hundred K in a week or ten days. Well, what’s a hundred thou in vigorish to somebody like Muriel? So she says, swell, let’s do it.”

“I doubt that she said ‘swell,’ but go on.”

“Okay. She and Steady’ve got the money all lined up. But now they’ve gotta figure out how to get it from Saigon to Vientiane fast. Very fast. And that’s where you come in, Ham.”

“Steady’s choice. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You were first pick because Steady figured that when you heard the Lamphier name, bells would go off. Cash register bells. You know the kind in old-timey cash registers that rang when you—”

“You’re wearing it out,” Keyes said.

Haynes smiled not only at his cash register metaphor but also at the irritation it had caused Keyes. “Bet it was love at first sight. You and Muriel.”

“Hardly,” Keyes said. “Are you sure Undean didn’t know it was Muriel’s money?”

“Absolutely positive. The only ones who knew were Muriel and Steady—plus the three-for-two guys in Saigon.”

“But you said none of this was in Undean’s memo.”

“You calling me a liar, Ham?” Haynes said, trying to turn the question into a softly spoken death threat and not at all displeased with the result.

“Merely curious,” Keyes said.

“I accept your apology.”

“I made none.”

“But the thought was there and I shouldn’t blame you for asking dumb questions. If I was married to somebody who’d knocked off three people, I’d sure as hell want to learn everything about her I could.”

“Please answer my question,” Keyes said.

“Okay. I found out about the money stuff in Steady’s memoirs.”

“You read them?”

“What else would I do—lick it off the page?”

“When?”

“Right after I found them yesterday—or was it the day before? But lemme tell you one thing about the memoirs and it’s just what I said in the senator’s office. They’d make just one hell of a picture.”

“May I ask where you found the manuscript?”

“Sure. In Steady’s car. He had this old Caddie ragtop that he left me in his will and I’ve been driving it around. Well, it had a flat and when I changed it, there was the manuscript in a nice safe nest under the spare. And you wanta know something else about Muriel—about her and the old Caddie?”

Keyes nodded once as if he no longer trusted himself to speak.

“Muriel tried to buy the Caddie on the Q.T. because she figured the manuscript might be in it. She didn’t try herself, of course. What she did was hire some pro hitter, a guy called Horace Purchase, to buy it. Ever hear of him?”

“I think I saw his name in the
Post,
” Keyes said.

“Well, it looks like Purchase had three goals or assignments or targets—whatever. Number one was to switch my lights off and he damn near did it at the Willard. Number two: try and buy Steady’s old Caddie. Well, he couldn’t manage that, but he did do number three.”

Haynes shut up and waited for Keyes to ask what number three was. Instead, Keyes asked, “You’re quite sure Muriel hired him?”

“Who else would?”

Keyes shrugged and asked, “What was the third objective? Of the Purchase person, I mean.”

“It was kind of a fallback thing. If he couldn’t buy the Caddie, he oughta try and plant a sender on it. You know, an electronic transmitter.”

“And did he?”

“How the fuck d’you think Muriel found and shot at me out there at the Bellevue Motel where nobody knew I was?” Haynes chuckled. “Funny thing happened to that sender though.”

“What?”

“I found it and slapped it right up against the frame of some taxicab.” He chuckled again. “Must’ve driven whoever was tracking me nuts following that cab all over town and out to Dulles and everywhere.” This time Haynes giggled, hoping it would suggest neurosis.

He apparently succeeded because Keyes asked, “Are you all right?”

“Sure I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

Keyes ignored the question to ask one of his own. “You still have a copy of the Undean memo?”

“Not of the original. What I got is a copy of the carbon and what you wanta know is how’d I get it, right?”

Keyes only nodded, not taking his eyes from the road.

“I figure Muriel found the original memo right after she shot old man Undean. But she missed the carbon. Now, who should waltz into Undean’s house two minutes later but Tinker Burns himself, the born snoop. Tinker finds the carbon under Undean’s desk blotter right after he calls the cops, which leaves him with nothing to do but snoop around till they get there. Now you gotta understand this. If the cops’d found that carbon it’d’ve been, So long, Muriel. I mean that memo really nails her. Motive. Opportunity. All that good shit. But when Tinker reads it, all he smells is money. And since he’s on her payroll anyway, he knows just which buttons to push.”

“On her payroll?” Keyes said, not trying to conceal his surprise.

“Well, maybe he was just on retainer. The senator’d hired him in Paris because Muriel’d heard rumors about Steady’s manuscript. And since Tinker was tight with both Steady
and
Isabelle, it seemed possible that they might let him peek at the memoirs and see if Muriel was mentioned or not. And, if so, how? You know, bad or good?”

“And is she mentioned?” Keyes asked.

“What’s that got to do with Tinker Burns?” Haynes said. “Let’s stick to him. Okay?”

“For now,” Keyes said.

“Before Tinker can even get started on seeing about the memoirs, Steady dies on him. But because he’s already been paid, Tinker flies over for the funeral and then starts snooping around, but finds fuck all—except for Isabelle’s body—until he stumbles across the Undean memo. Well, that memo is money in the bank to Tinker. The first thing he does is pay the senator a visit and put the arm on him. The senator reports all this to Muriel, who says she’ll take care of it. She and Tinker agree on Rock Creek Park as the payoff site. But there’s no payoff and it’s good-bye, Tinker.”