Макс Коллинз - Hush Money

Francine found her father with her uncle in the study. They were talking to a tall, gaunt man with shaggy dark hair and a droopy mustache and a sort of Indian look to him around the cheekbones and eyes. Though the man was nicely dressed, in an obviously expensive tailor-made suit, he had that vaguely sinister aura of so many of the men Francine had seen in this house over the years.

“My daughter,” her father explained to his guest and took her by the arm and stepped outside the study with her. “What is it, honey?”

“I’m going on ahead to school, Daddy. I don’t see any reason missing any more classes. Unless you want me to stay and fix you lunch or something.”

“Baby, I don’t care about lunch, but don’t you think you ought to be helping your aunt at the funeral home? People are coming from out of town, friends of the family. Lot of important people will be expecting to see you there.”

“Come on, Daddy. It’s a funeral home, not my coming-out party. I won’t be missed. Besides, it’s just too much of a downer, Daddy, please.”

“Downer? What land of word is that?”

“Please, Daddy.”

“You should help out.”

“Maybe tonight.”

“For sure tonight?”

“Maybe for sure.”

She kissed him on the cheek and he pushed her away gently, with a teasing get-outta-here-you look on his face.

The white Mustang she’d gotten for high-school graduation was parked in the graveled area next to the house. The house was a red brick two-story with a large red tile sloping roof, brick chimney, and cute little windows whose woodwork was painted white, as was an awning arched over the front door. The house sat on a huge lawn, a lake of grass turning brown now, though the shrubs hugging the house, and the occasional trees all around the big yard, were evergreen. It was the dream cottage every couple would like to while the years away in, right down to the picket fence, but on a larger scale than most would dare dream. Immediately after Mother’s death, her father had put the house up for sale; soon after, though, he’d relented, and had since treated the house like a museum, keeping everything just the same as when Mother was alive — Daddy’s-little-girl pink bedroom included.

At first she didn’t notice the other car parked on the gravel on the other side of her Mustang. But it was hard to miss for long, a bright gold Cadillac that was finding light to reflect even on an overcast day like this one. A young guy was standing beside the car, leaning against it. He was cute. Curly hair, pug nose, nice eyes and altogether pleasant, boyish face. He was probably around twenty or twenty-one, kind of small, not a whole lot taller than she, and looking very uncomfortable in light blue shirt and dark blue pullover sweater and denim slacks. Looking as though he wasn’t used to wearing anything but T-shirts and worn out jeans and no shoes.

“Hi,” she said, when she was within a foot or so of him.

“Hi yourself.”

“Are you a relative?”

He grinned. “I’m somebody’s relative, I guess.”

“But not mine?”

“I hope not.”

“You hope not?”

“If I was too close a relative of yours, it would spoil the plans I’ve been making, ever since I saw you come out that door over there.”

This time she grinned. “You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Normally. It’s just that sometimes I come right out and introduce myself to pretty girls. It’s a sickness. I’ll just all of a sudden blurt out my name. Which is Jon, by the way.”

“Hi, Jon. I’m Francine.”

“Hi, Francine. We said hi before, seems like.”

“But we didn’t know each other then.”

“Now that we do, can I ask you something personal? What the hell made you think I was your relative? Because we both got blue eyes?”

“My uncle died yesterday. People are coming in for the funeral by the busload.”

“Oh... hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense, I mean I guess I picked a poor time to make with the snappy patter.”

“Don’t worry about it. My uncle was a nice man, but he’s dead, and I can’t see crying’ll do any good. So, listen, if you aren’t here for my uncle’s funeral, I mean if you aren’t my cousin or something, what are you doing leaning against a Cadillac in my driveway?”

“I’m here with the guy who’s inside talking to some people who probably are relatives of yours.”

“You mean the guy with the mustache? Sour looking guy?”

Jon grinned again. “That’s him. Brought me along for company and then didn’t say word one the whole way.”

“How far did you come?”

“Iowa City. Left this morning. What time is it now?”

“Getting close to noon, I suppose. Maybe noon already. When did you leave Iowa City?”

“Around seven. We had some business in Des Moines first, then we drove out here. My friend didn’t say why, though. Didn’t know he was paying last respects, though I should’ve figured it.”

“Why? Should you have figured it, I mean.”

“Well, this friend of mine usually dresses pretty casual for a guy his age... sport shirt, slacks. Today, we’re setting out on a fairly long drive, and he shows up in a gray suit and tie and shined shoes, the works. And tells me to lose my T-shirt and get into something respectable, which is something he’s hardly ever done before.”

She smirked.

“And just what are you smirking about?”

“Just that I guessed right, that’s all. The way you’re squirming in those clothes you’d think you were wearing a tux.”

“Is it that obvious? Hey, is that a sketch pad?”

“Yeah. I’m taking an art course at Drake. I was on my way to class, before you sidetracked me.”

“Let me see.”

She shrugged, said okay, and handed him the pad.

“Pretty good,” he said, thumbing through. “That’s a nice horse, right there.”

“We own a farm with some horses down the road. I do some riding sometimes.”

“Why is it girls always draw horses?”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it.”

“Must be something sexual.”

“Probably,” she said, laughing.

“Shit,” Jon said.

“Why shit?”

“Shit because you are one terrific girl and I’m meeting you in the worst possible situation. Why didn’t I meet you in goddamn high school? Why didn’t I meet you in a bar in Iowa City? Why do I meet you during the warm-up for your uncle’s funeral, while my friend’s in the house talking to somebody for a minute?”

“I think they call it fate. How long you going to be in Des Moines?”

“Don’t know. Today and tonight, reading between the lines.”

“Your friend doesn’t tell you much.”

“What I don’t know can’t hurt me.”

“That’s your friend’s philosophy, huh?”

“Christ, I don’t know. He’s never even told me that much.”

“Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“I like you.”

“You like me. Okay. Sounds good. I like you, too, then. The back of the Caddy’s nice and roomy. Wanna wrestle or something?”

“Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind it. My father, however, just might. Could you leave for a while? How long’s your friend going to be inside?”

“I don’t know. He never—”

“—tells you anything.”

“Right.”

“Right. So leave a note. Here, tear a corner off one of the sketch pad pages. I’ll get a pen out of my purse.”

They did all that, and Jon said, “Swell. Now. What do I write?”

“Did you see a sleazy little joint called Chuck’s on the way here? Just outside of town?”

“Weird Mexican or Spanish-type architecture? Yeah. I mentioned it to my friend as we passed by.”

“And what did your friend say?”