Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

Broker’s turn. He ad-libbed easily.

“The map I gave you is a Xerox. The original shows a grid coordinate circled in grease pencil that pinpoints a location well within the coastal waters of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. And I have the original chopper graphic. And a transcript of an FBI inquiry into a ruckus in the Milan Pen visitor’s room between you and Tuna in 1980.”

LaPorte stroked his chin ruefully. “Now there’s a hitch that Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t have to deal with. Xerox machines.”

Broker paused to let it sink in. “I left them in a sealed envelope in my lawyer’s files in St. Paul. And I wrote a speculative letter that mentions your name frequently. If anything unusual happens to me or Nina Pryce the envelope gets delivered to the United States Attorney. Another copy goes to the Vietnamese Embassy.”

LaPorte glanced at his watch, then smiled. “Maybe you and Bevode Fret are more kin than you think. Have you put a figure on it?”

“First let’s get Nina off the table.”

LaPorte leaned forward. “Is she really…unbalanced?”

“She’s just extreme.”

“Okay, okay…What do you think would solve her problem?”

Broker smiled. “To see you hang for killing her father.”

LaPorte chuckled. “Does she have a fallback position?”

“I could suggest one,” said Broker.

LaPorte opened his hands in an entreating gesture. Broker continued. “You pay for a year of discreet counseling. I mean serious stuff, a psychiatrist. Then you make a good-faith effort to help her get reinstated in the army.”

LaPorte sputtered and smiled at the same time, instantly grasping the symmetry in the solution. “Getting back in would make her well, huh?”

“Just my opinion.”

LaPorte shook his head. “God. I’d lose my pension. The good old boys in the army think she’s a libber fanatic bitch. She was all over the TV.”

“You could do it,” Broker said mildly.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know. Maybe with the Bush crowd but these Arkansas hippies-”

“Easier with the hippies. You could do it,” repeated Broker. “For Ray.”

“Fuck Ray Pryce, the horse he rode in on, and the colonel who sent him.” LaPorte thumped his chest. “I signed for that fucking helicopter he lost. They made me pay for it. You know how much a Chinook costs. I was pay-deducted through Ford and Carter and finally Reagan got me off the hook and got me my money back.”

Broker found the outburst curious. In the public library he’d read that the LaPorte family was worth $70 million. His eyes strayed to the tall portrait of the pirate on the wall. “You’re not in this strictly for the money, are you?” he asked.

“We’re not talking about money. Money just sits in a bank and accrues. This is…treasure. I’m sixty-one years old. This is probably the last exciting thing I’ll do in my life.” LaPorte shook his head impatiently. “The Pryce kid? Will she shut up?”

“Can you grease the skids to get her back in?”

“That would take an absurd, and not entirely legal, contribution to a presidential campaign.” He grimaced. “It might be done.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now for Jimmy Tuna-”

LaPorte raised a hand. His eyes glowed faintly and Broker had conflicting impressions. Sensuality. And molten lead being poured.

“Are you sure you want to mix in our dirty business, Phil?”

Broker looked directly into LaPorte’s metallic eyes. “The Hue gold is…morally ambiguous.”

“The Eagle Scout I knew twenty years ago wouldn’t have said that.”

“People change.”

Something merry danced in LaPorte’s eyes and Broker thought it might be the old male slow dance; LaPorte wanted him to admit he was rolling over and baring his throat to the stronger alpha wolf. “Please continue, Phil,” said LaPorte.

“I don’t want Tuna hurt.”

“The man is dying,” LaPorte said impatiently. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not yet.”

The heat left LaPorte’s eyes and they froze with a subtle click of calculation above his smile. Broker had ceased to be important.

And Broker’s own false smile masked the ice pick that suddenly pinned his heart. He’d made a fatal mistake. A number of them. LaPorte had probably shut his eyes and drawn a circle on that map. The treasure map had no leverage power because it was a phony. Easy bait for an eager Nina. And he knew Fret wasn’t alone. His whole act was designed to siphon Broker off to New Orleans. And if I could figure out that the trail to Tuna led through his banking records, so could Cyrus LaPorte . They were still following her. And if they grabbed her coming out of the bank in Ann Arbor…

“How much?” said LaPorte with a convincing pained expression. Broker was treading water. LaPorte was comfortably standing on the bottom.

“Five hundred thousand. For Nina, for my silence, and for Tuna. Half now. Half when it’s done. And do it some way it can’t be traced.”

“I’m willing to pick up the note on your dad’s white elephant and hold it. If everything works out, you’ll get another hundred thousand.”

“That’s a hundred and fifty thousand shy of the figure I had in mind.”

“Let’s think about it.” LaPorte stood up briskly and pressed the button on his desk. “When are you leaving New Orleans?” he asked.

“Ten tomorrow morning.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Doniat. On Chartiers.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight and drive you to the airport. We’ll see where we’re at then.” They shook hands.

The old black guy in the shiny trousers appeared at the door and LaPorte said cordially, “Hiram, show Mr. Broker out. I’m leaving through the garage. I’d drop you but I’m going in the other direction. Hiram can call you a cab, but you should really take the streetcar.” LaPorte smiled and walked energetically down the hall and through a doorway.

“I need to use a phone,” Broker immediately said to Hiram.

“Uh-huh, but you wait a second.” Hiram cocked his ear out the open balcony doors. Seconds slid by like abacus beads on a wire of sweat. Broker heard the faint squeal of tires on hot cement down near the pool apron.

“Okay. Now you use that phone right there,” said Hiram, pointing to the raised desk. Then he turned and shuffled into the hall.

Broker stabbed in Nina’s number. On the third ring a rough male voice answered, “Hello,” and Broker hammered the desk with his fist. Then the voice said, “I say, Merry. What do you say?”

Broker shook his head, blinked and then almost shouted, “Weather.”

“Hi there,” said Nina in a bright voice.

“Who-”

She cut him off. “I told you we shouldn’t split up. The only guy who was good at that was Robert E. Lee.”

“Nina?”

“Relax. I’m playing Scrabble with Sgt. Danny Larkins of the Michigan Highway Patrol. We took a grad course together, remember.”

In the background the deep voice said, “Sociology of deviance. It was boring .”

Nina continued. “For an outrageous amount of cash Danny has taken two personal leave days to squire me around and tuck me on an airplane. And he’s got this great big gun.”

“She’s just dying to touch it,” yodeled Danny Larkins. They both laughed.

Broker, glad that someone was having fun, sagged on LaPorte’s desk. “I screwed up.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t. How’s it going?”

“You’re it. They got me down here on a draw play. The map’s all bullshit. Watch yourself.” He wondered if the call could be monitored. “Especially tomorrow.”

“About what I figured. No sweat. We’re having a poker party tonight. Six cops. I’m buying the beer.”