Макс Коллинз - Killing Quarry

“You must know that Charles Vanhorn was murdered day before yesterday,” I went on cheerfully. I began cutting my prime rib. My knife would stay in hand for a while, too. “Him and the two guys who were protecting him. Poorly.”

Poole almost smiled. “That doesn’t explain your presence.”

“I was Vanhorn’s partner,” I said. “But this hostile welcome from you gentlemen makes me think I probably shouldn’t give you any name other than one you have right now.”

“His partner, you say,” Poole said.

“That’s right. Silent partner. Now he’s my really silent partner.”

“You killed him?”

“No. Did you?”

Of the four, only Poole did not respond by letting his jaw drop open, at least a little.

“I came here,” I said, “because I have the same interest in the possibilities of offshore banking in the Caymans that my late partner had.”

“ That’s why you’re here,” Poole said.

“That’s why I’m here,” I said with a shrug, and cut my prime rib for another bite.

A doorbell rang and Dan came quickly out of the kitchen, nodding at his guests, and going to answer it.

“I wonder,” Kraft said, frowning, “who that could be.”

I said, “Not Charles Vanhorn.”

Then Dan was back and with him was a handsome black man in the nicest suit in the place, double-breasted gray with an olive silk tie on a striped dress shirt. Tailored, not Chess King.

“Gentlemen,” Dan said with a smile and with an open-handed gesture to the newcomer, his other hand on the African-American’s shoulder, “this is our seminar leader... Seymour M. Goldman.”

Oy vey.

Dan ushered the handsome, impeccably attired financial guru around the table, where he was introduced to the individual seminar participants, each of whom stood and shook his hand, nodded, smiled. Myself included. To Goldman’s credit, though, he had first paused at the ladies’ table to smile and half-bow. They looked at him the way a chubby teenage girl looks at a chocolate sundae.

With the exception of Lu, of course, who already had the man of her dreams handy.

As far as those introductions went, the real names of the attendees — not their phony check-in “John Smith” aliases — were not only given to Goldman, but already known to him.

Poole, who seemed to be the table’s spokesman, gestured to an empty chair and said, “Help yourself to the buffet, Mr. Goldman, and then join us, if you would.”

“Thank you,” Goldman said, with another half-bow, displaying a charming Caribbean-tinged English accent, “but I have already eaten and should prepare for tonight’s presentation.”

I’d had my fill too, of the food and of the tight-lipped company at this table, and rose and said, “Happy to give you a hand, Mr. Goldman.”

“Very kind, Mr. Vanhorn.” Which was the name I’d given him when I could see everybody was dropping the “John Smith” routine. And though my fellow attendees knew I wasn’t Vanhorn, of course, that was the name Goldman and Dan (as far as anybody knew) expected to hear.

The financial guru had a high-end rental ride outside — a silver Olds Cutlass, fitting for an offshore pirate, I thought — and from there I helped him haul in an easel and some big cards with graphs and charts and a few mounted posters of his beautiful island paradise, to spice up the boredom of how to dodge taxes.

We did this quickly, as it was colder out now and we hadn’t bothered with a coat or anything. Back inside, I pitched in, setting up, which included wheeling around, from where it had been tucked against a hallway wall, a cart with a TV and a professional videotape player, provided by the lodge.

“I need to tell you,” I said, “that I am not Charles Vanhorn.”

“Actually,” he said, with that crisp appealing accent and a flash of smile, “I knew that. Word of Mr. Vanhorn’s demise reached me when I arrived in Chicago this afternoon. But I’m afraid I must insist upon an explanation.”

I noticed he hadn’t insisted until after I helped him haul his shit in.

“I’m the late Mr. Vanhorn’s business partner,” I said. “I was aware of this meeting and thought it best I fill in.”

“I see.” He frowned. “Well... actually I don’t see. With your business partner dying so recently, I would think you would have other, better things to do.”

“Well, I am interested in what banking has to offer in the Caymans,” I lied. “But I’m also here because of the circumstances of Mr. Vanhorn’s demise, as you put it.”

His eyes narrowed, his head cocked. “I understand that the circumstances are... troubling.”

“Murder usually is. I don’t know for sure, but I strongly suspect that one or more of your participants here were responsible for that demise.”

“Oh my.”

The mildness of his reaction made me smile. “I don’t think you’re in any danger, Mr. Goldman, but it’s only fair that you know there are underlying circumstances here.”

“I understand, Mr., uh...?”

“We can get to my real name later.” No we wouldn’t. “For now, it’s better that you call me Vanhorn.”

“ Mister Vanhorn,” he corrected with a smile.

He was a cool customer, all right.

“Might help me to know,” I said, “who arranged this seminar — who requested it?”

He took a few moments to consider his reply. “My understanding is that Mr. Poole, representing this small consortium of business associates, through our friends in Chicago, arranged things with their hotel here.”

I figured I knew what “Chicago friends” he meant, but I hadn’t realized Hefner had been bought out by the Outfit. Not that I was exactly shocked.

Everything was set up and ready for the presentation, so I figured I better get back to the table with my ugly friends. Maybe a second helping of cherry crisp was in order.

But first I asked the guru, “So — is Goldman an alias? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He laughed. “I don’t mind, and it isn’t. I actually am Seymour M. Goldman, Jr. My mother was native to the Caymans, my father wasn’t. I take after my mother. She’s a Catholic and so am I.”

“Hey, some of my best friends are Catholic.”

Another laugh, then a shrug. “But, I have come to find, as the representative of banking interests in the Caymans? My name can be... helpful.”

Before the presentation began, Lu and the other females were sent off to their respective rooms. Time for the meeting of the He-Man Woman Haters Klub — no Girlz Allowed. Dan was still around, supervising the clearing of the kitchen, making sure everybody had what they needed.

But he did not attend the first session of the seminar, pausing to make an announcement at the door, on his way back to the main lodge.

“I hope this retreat is a profitable one for all concerned,” he said with a smile. “I’m staying on site throughout your weekend, so if you have any needs, just call the desk.”

The four booking agents of murder paired off on the facing couches by the fire, in front of which the easel and the TV on its stand were positioned. I had the couch with the windows to my back, facing Goldman and his dog-and-pony show.

Tonight was just an opening salvo and, accordingly, brief. In that charming English-Caribbean accent, the financial guru explained the development of what he termed “bank secrecy” in the Cayman Islands, whose government worked hard at preserving its financial industry’s integrity. On the TV a short travelogue played, with the expected sun and sand and ocean representing “the Cayman Islands, a British colony only an hour by jet from Miami.”

But the key selling point came quick — that this colony was “free from all forms of direct taxation and currency constraints.” The country’s laws were designed to invite international business with a minimum of regulatory control.