Wendy Hornsby - The Hanging

“What is that back door?” I asked. “The same company you work for won the contract to complete a major building program at Anacapa College where Hiram and Park have been working. A four-hundred-million-dollar bond project. What is Hiram’s connection to the construction company?”

He shook his head. “All I know is, I did Clarice a favor, Hiram did me a favor. Now we’re even. Finished.”

“Hiram and Clarice are close?”

“They’re kin of some kind. It was Hiram who introduced her to Park during a trade junket to China, years ago.”

He looked at his watch.

“All this talk has made me thirsty,” he said. “How about I buy you a drink?”

“I would,” I said. “But what would Phillida say?”

He tossed his head to the side, grimaced good-naturedly at the mention of his wife. There was a sort of smarmy charm about him, the salesman’s glibness and sense of humor. He might be fun at a backyard barbecue, but I wasn’t sure he could ever be sufficiently domesticated to bring indoors.

I rose and offered my hand.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Sure,” he said, taking my hand in both of his and holding on to it. “I have nothing else to do with my time except put up a new hospital wing. All the time in the world.”

I tugged my hand and he released it.

“I don’t suppose you’ll repeat any of this on camera for me?” I said.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Too bad,” I said. “You’d film like a champ.”

He laughed. “I bet Hiram already turned you down, didn’t he? If I know Hiram, he’s milking a cash cow somehow at that college and he won’t risk losing hold of the teat by talking to you.”

“You seem to have some affection for him.”

He shrugged. “Hiram and I go back a long way. We had some good times, put together some big deals. Everything fell apart, sure, but it seems to me those were better times than these.”

There was sadness in his smile. “Does that make me sound old?”

“No, it makes you sound human,” I said. “Mr. Weidermeyer, I’m sorry to tell you. Hiram Chin passed away this morning.”

He paled, visibly upset. “I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Only sick at heart,” I said. “He went by his own hand.”

Uncle Max was waiting for me on the tarmac outside the executive jet terminal at Burbank Airport.

“Flying like a plutocrat now, huh?” he said, wrapping an arm around me and guiding me toward the exit.

I looked back at the sleek little jet the network had provided for my quick jaunt to Vegas.

“I could get used to that,” I said. “If only to skip the airport security shuffle.”

He gave me a squeeze. “Glad you’re home safe. Successful trip?”

“Very.” I asked, “Did you go to Frankie Weidermeyer’s arraignment this afternoon?”

“As you asked. D.A. said attempted murder, added lying in wait and use of firearm as special circumstances, asked for remand. Frankie told the judge he was indigent, drew a public defender, declared not guilty, got remanded-no bail-to the county lockup until trial.”

“How did he look?”

“How did he look ?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“Like a deer caught in the headlights.”

“Poor kid.”

Max’s Beemer was parked at the curb. After we were buckled in and headed toward the exit, I turned toward him.

“The most productive part of this very long, strange day was the quiet time alone during the flight home. Some time to think.”

“Can be dangerous, thinking. So, did you figure it all out?”

“The essentials, maybe,” I said. “After everything I’ve learned, I finally realized that, at its heart, this is a story about two young men more than it is about a congressman who lost his way.”

He furrowed his brow. “Is it?”

“Think about it, Max. First, there’s Sly, who has no idea who his father is, junkie mother, raised by the county from the time he was a baby, spent some time living on the streets at the tender age of nine, surviving by his wits. Yet, along the way he acquired this great network of supporters who truly care about him. He grows up to become a supremely talented, and now, recognized artist. The best part is, I think he’s happy.”

“You can take the credit for that, sweetheart.”

“Only a small share of the credit. I brought Sly in off the street, but it was Mike and his son, Michael, who made certain that Sly got everything he needed, especially unconditional love. Especially love.” I felt my throat constrict and my eyes fill. “I wish Mike could be there next week for the hanging ceremony.”

“He’d be so damn proud.”

Max turned onto Hollywood Way and headed toward the freeway.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My house,” he said. “You’re staying over; you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“Thanks, Uncle. I’ll need to borrow some skivvies.”

He laughed. “It’s your mother’s idea, Maggot. She and Gracie went to your house this afternoon to kibitz with the glazier when he was replacing your windows. While they were there they packed a nice little bag of necessities for you and brought it to my office.”

“Dear God.” The image of my mother and her friend rifling through my underwear drawer flashed behind my eyes like a bad scene from a bad comedy.

Max put the conversation back on topic. “The other boy you’re thinking about is the Weidermeyer kid?”

“Yes,” I said. “Except he turns out to be Holloway’s kid.”

“Wow!” Max glanced at me. “Is that true?”

“Seems so.”

“That’s big, honey. Really big.”

“What it is, is cruel,” I said. “Think about it: All of his life, Frankie has known who his father was, and apparently spent a certain amount of time with him. His father was very prominent, but Frankie was never publicly acknowledged. He was even denied the right to use his father’s name. Kept hidden in what the older Mr. Weidermeyer called the parents’ love nest. Until…”

I let that hang in the air.

He gripped my knee. “Don’t be mean. Until what?”

“Until his father, the late Park Holloway, promised that he would use his influence on the art award committee at the college so that his son’s sculpture would win the competition and be enshrined, forever, in that great monument to his own tenure at Anacapa College, the Taj Ma’Holloway. A gesture far short of announcing paternity, but a public embrace, nonetheless.”

“Interesting,” Max said. “Must have hurt when Sly won.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said. “The other day, I got really angry with one of my students, a kid named Preston Nguyen, for digging up facts about Sly’s mother and spreading them around.”

“That’s a natural reaction,” Max said. “You were protecting your boy.”

“I was. And Preston was being a good investigative journalist, though a bit of a gossip. I owe him an apology,” I said. “I owe him more than that. As background for an article he’s writing for the student newspaper about Sly’s sculpture, Preston sought out Frankie and asked him how he felt about losing to Sly. He also told him about Sly’s mother, which was gratuitous, in my humble and very biased opinion. It was after that conversation that Frankie let us know exactly how he felt.”

“He came gunning for you,” Max said.

“The first episode, with the pellet gun, I think he hit his intended target, Sly, with the graffiti, and I was collateral damage. But when he came to my house last night, I wonder if he was trying to protect his mother from me.”

“Your visit to her gallery certainly set a few things in motion.”

“It was Jean-Paul who set things in motion for Clarice Snow,” I said. “Do you think Frankie could have been gunning for Jean-Paul?”