Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“Tell them I’ll be there this afternoon. As soon as I’m out of court.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“I miss her, Kath,” he said gently, and paused again. “I miss you, too.” Ignoring this, she went to the door, opened it. and waited for him to go out of the apartment before she locked the door behind her.

In the hallway, she said, “I hope I can catch a taxi.”

It was cold even in Phoenix. The forecasters said an Arctic front was sweeping down over most of the country. The sun was shining here, but it was cold. For Phoenix, anyway. Thirty-four degrees. The rambling house had not been built for such weather. The mean maximum wintertime temperature was supposed to be sixty-five degrees. Thirty-four was incredible. The house was centrally heated, but somehow psychology worked against reality when the temperature dropped so low. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold here. When it got this cold, there seemed no way to keep the house warm, empirical knowledge to the contrary. Expectations, Olivia thought. Tell someone you’re serving him pineapple juice, hand him a glass of fine white wine instead, and he’ll spit it out because he was expecting pineapple juice. The black eggs. Somewhere, she forgot where, chickens laid eggs with black yolks. The locals ate those eggs, but nobody else would. They expected yellow yolks. The black-yolked eggs tasted exactly the same, but sorry. Expectations.

The house she’d grown up in could have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, would have been designed by him — money was no object — if he hadn’t been busy with a hundred other projects when her father approached him. Low and rambling, with massive stone walls and large areas of glass, it sprawled over the Arizona landscape as if it were a part of it, there when the land was being formed. Arid land for the most part, though through the large pane of glass in the study Olivia could see a dozen or more horses grazing in a meadow that glistened like an emerald in sand. Beyond that, the open mouth of the abandoned copper mine, inoperative now, but a reminder. The study was distinctly Western in flavor, the furnishings and carpeting echoing the earth tones of the landscape, the several pieces of Sarge’s pre-Columbian sculpture — the major part of his collection was stored in New York — emphasizing the brownish-red tones.

Andrew Kidd sat behind a desk in that study.

He was in a wheelchair.

He was wearing a blue robe. A blanket was over his lap. His face was pale, his blue eyes rheumy, the skin on his hands virtually translucent, strewn with liver spots. Sunlight touched his bald head as he looked over the papers on his desk. Seventy-eight years old. Olivia could remember when they used to ride the fields together, his blond hair blowing in the wind, his hands strong on the reins.

“You’re not drinking your tea,” she said.

“I don’t like drinking through a straw,” he said.

“It’ll take the chill off. Daddy.”

“You get old, it always seems too cold. Why do you suppose that is?”

“It is cold,” she said.

“Not as cold as it seems. I hate being old, Livvie.”

“You’re not old.”

“Too damn old,” he said. “Where the hell did the time go?” He glanced through the window, where in the distance the ugly copper mine dominated the horizon. “I came out here in 1922 without a cent,” he said, “started working for the railroad. Won this patch of godforsaken land in a poker game, thought it was worthless, would’ve preferred a hundred dollars in cash instead.” He nodded, remembering. “Who’d have dreamt there was copper on it?” He nodded again. “I’ll never plow that first mine under as long as I live.” He turned to her. “I hope you’ll leave it there after I’m dead, Livvie.”

“You’re the only one in the world who calls me Livvie,” she said.

“You’re the only one who calls me Daddy. Something old-fashioned about ‘Daddy.’ And nice. Sarge calls me ‘Father,’ Jessica calls me ‘Pop.’ Everybody else calls me the Captain, started calling me that when I bought out Lambert Shipping forty years ago. The Captain. Sarge resents it. Thinks I named him Sargent to keep him in his place, the captain and the sergeant. He’s wrong. I named him after the painter. John Singer Sargent, best portrait artist who ever lived. Little did I know my only son would turn out to be a collector. Was he upset?”

“A little.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be. I wasn’t about to divest the firm of anything, not for a small-potatoes deal like this one. What’d he realize on the sale, anyway?”

“A bit over thirty-six million.”

“And the margins worldwide? What’ll they be costing us?”

“Just about that.”

“Well, he can buy his pictures back after Christmas. Hundreds more if he feels like.”

“I’m sure he knows that.”

“How’d Jessie take what you told her?”

“Badly.”

“She isn’t worth a hill of beans, that girl, as much a nitwit as her mother was, dancing her life away, whoring it away. Only worthwhile thing about her is her signature. Didn’t much like your calling off her trip, huh?”

“Not much, Daddy.”

“Hell with her. Shoulda whipped her little ass ages ago, taught her how to sit on a raw bottom. Taught Sarge, though. That time in the bathroom with her.” He shook his head. “His own sister naked as a sparrow, and him sittin’ on the crapper watching her, all eyes. Blistered his bottom till he couldn’t walk straight. The shame of it.”

He scowled, remembering. And then his face softened.

“You’re all I’ve got, Livvie. I love you to death.”

“And I love you,” she said softly.

“Ah. I hope so,” Andrew said, “I hope so.”

He looked through the window again, toward the copper mine in the distance.

“Do you think I’m greedy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and smiled.

“There’s my girl,” he said, returning the smile. “Never lies to me, does she? I’m greedy, you’re damn right. You and I both know what’ll happen to the Kidd oil interests after Christmas Day. So why am I bothering with this other crap? Why make Sarge unhappy? For a lousy three, four billion worldwide? If indeed we net that much in the long run? Peanuts compared to what we’ll realize on the oil alone. But I can’t be bothered with Sarge’s... do you know the story about the Texas oil man and the Chicano?”

“No,” she said.

“This Texas oil zillionaire...”

“Like you.”

“Yes, except I’m in Arizona. This Texas oil zillionaire is sitting at the back of a little chapel, praying, when this little Chicano comes in, goes to the altar, looks up at Christ on the cross there, and begins praying out loud. ‘Lord,’ he says... I wish I could do a Spanish accent, Livvie, but I can’t... ‘Lord,’ he says, ‘I really need your help. My wife just gave birth to our fifth baby, and she’s very sick, and my son is in jail, and my daughter is a prostitute, and if you could find a way for me to get five hundred dollars, I would be very grateful. Five hundred dollars is all I need, Lord, that’s all I’m asking for, can you please help me?’ Well, the big Texan goes up to the altar, and he hands the little Chicano five hundred bucks, and he says to him, ‘Here, don’t bother Him with that shit.’ ”

Andrew burst out laughing.

“So what Sarge must be wondering is why I’m bothering with this shit. Well, if he should ask you, Livvie...”

“I don’t think he’ll ask me.”

“I’m saying if he should. You just tell him it’s greed. Good, old-fashioned greed. I want it all Livvie, whatever I can lay my hands on. Before I die, I want to...”