Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

She began a smile that ended as a laugh that was almost a giggle. “He didn’t — call them that?”

“Afraid so.”

“What a juicy read they must be.”

“More than juicy, I’d say. Steady probably told everything he suspected, which is enormous, and all he knew, which is alarming.”

She nodded gravely and studied her husband for a moment. “From what you’ve said, I assume you haven’t read them yet.”

“All I did was dispatch Gilbert Undean to buy all rights from Steady’s son.”

She nodded again, this time as if at some nagging question. “Which is why Mr. Undean came calling Friday night.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember his name,” she said. “The son’s.”

“Granville.”

“He must be fully grown now. Didn’t Steady always keep him parked somewhere — or warehoused? What is he now — twenty-three or — four?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Good Lord. He was here for the services, of course. Have you talked to him?”

“No. I merely instructed Undean to offer him fifty thousand dollars for all rights to his father’s memoirs. The offer was rejected.”

“Do the memoirs have anything to do with Mr. Undean’s death?”

“I really don’t know.”

“How did you find out they existed? Did Steady try to sell them to you? It sounds so very like him.”

“His live-in companion called just after he died. She said that unless he was buried at Arlington with standard military honors, the memoirs would be sent to some New York literary agent. It was blackmail, of course, but the price was cheap, so I paid.”

“She was French, I believe. Isabelle Gelinet.”

Keyes nodded.

“She came to see me a few years ago when she was doing a story for Agence France-Presse. Something silly about the wives of spies. My answers nearly bored her to tears.

“And the story never ran.”

“Are her death and Undean’s connected?”

“If I were to guess, I’d say probably.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How many friends would you say Steady had?” he asked.

“I’d say dozens. Perhaps even hundreds.”

“There were only four at the Arlington services. Four, including Undean, who’d known him only in Laos.”

“You didn’t go?”

“I sent Undean.”

“You should’ve gone, Ham.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t. Of the four who were at Arlington, two have been killed. Murdered.”

She shivered slightly. “Leaving only the son and who else?”

“Linker Burns. An ex-mercenary turned small-time arms dealer. He’s an old friend of Steady’s. Perhaps his oldest.”

Muriel Keyes put her drink down and stared at her husband. “Tell me about your resignation and the offer to make you ambassador.”

“That royal summons I received yesterday morning?”

She nodded.

“It was from a White House hatchet man. A new boy. They need’a few slots to pay off some political debts — to the far right, I’d guess, but I could very well be wrong. Anyway, it seems, my job will do nicely. So I resigned before the chop landed, but then, at the last moment, maybe on impulse—”

“You never did anything in your life on impulse.”

Keyes smiled. “At the last moment, I told the White House hatchet wallah all about the memoirs of Steadfast Haynes. He turned quite green. That done, he ordered me to buy the memoirs and hang the cost.”

“He would seem to be a real player.”

“He wants to be, but lacks finesse. He even offered me ten percent of the memoirs’ price.”

Muriel Keyes giggled again.

“Somehow sensing his faux pas, he then offered me my old job back. I made him a counterproposal.”

“Ambassador,” she said.

Keyes nodded, smiling and looking quite pleased.

“How much does young Haynes want for Steady’s memoirs?” she said.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Then it’s really quite simple, isn’t it? You buy the memoirs. Young Haynes gets three quarters of a million. The White House sleeps nights. And you become ambassador.”

“It would be that simple,” Keyes said, “were it not for the mystery man.”

She giggled for the third time. “A mystery man. Dear God.”

“He’s the one responsible for the bidding escalation.”

“When do you make your new offer to — Granville, isn’t it?”

“Tonight. Whenever he gets back to his hotel room.”

“What if the mystery man tops your bid?” she asked. “Will the White House raise back?”

“I doubt it. They’d probably fall back on damage control instead. And I can forget about being ambassador.”

“Was a particular posting mentioned?”

“The Caribbean.”

“Better than Chad.”

“Much.”

Muriel Keyes rose, went over to her husband’s chair, sat on its broad arm and absently began to massage his neck with one hand. “If the mystery man tops your bid of seven hundred and fifty thousand, he’ll probably go to eight hundred, right?”

“Probably.”

“I think we can afford to increase the White House bid with a personal contribution of, say, two hundred and fifty thousand.”

He turned to stare up at her with a look that was part wonder and part admiration. “Making it a preemptive one million.”

“Yes.”

“I see no reason to mention your generosity to the White House.”

“Why would you?” she said. “After all, they have no real need to know.”

Tinker Burns found Letitia Melon’s house just before dark. It was a huge 201-year-old fieldstone place, three stories high, with a pair of newer two-story wings that were 143 and 96 years old respectively. The old house sat on the crest of a rise a quarter of a mile from the county blacktop. It was surrounded by tall pines whose branches were bowed under their burdens of snow and ice. A narrow concrete drive, only forty-four years old and clear of snow, ran from the county blacktop up to the house. At the top of the drive was a small green John Deere tractor that Burns assumed had done the snowplowing.

He turned the Jeep Wagoneer into the drive, stopped and studied the house and the snow-covered roof of the long low horse barn which could be seen just beyond the crest of the rise. Burns looked for signs of life but found none. The last of the sun’s rays were turning the stonework of the house into old gold but Burns ignored the pretty-picture effect and instead examined the six chimneys for smoke. There wasn’t any.

He drove up to the house and parked in front of its entrance on jigsaw slabs of black slate. Once out of the station wagon, he scanned the windows for chinks of light. Finding none, he went back to the station wagon and blew its horn five times. Somewhere, close by, a dog barked. Thus encouraged, Burns mounted the six steps and rang the doorbell. He rang it six times before trying the big brass knob only to find the door locked. Burns stubbornly jammed his right thumb against the doorbell and hammered the door itself with his left fist.

He was still ringing and hammering away when a woman’s voice from behind him said, “Get the fuck off my property, Tinker.”

Without turning, Tinker Burns stuck cold bare hands into his topcoat pockets and said, “How you doing, Letty?”

“Get off my property. Now.”

“We’ve gotta talk.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Mind if I turn around?”

“You have to turn around to get off my property.”

Burns turned slowly to his left and, when all the way around, smiled at Letty Melon and the pump shotgun she was aiming at his chest.

“You look cold, Letty. Have a long wait?”

“Go, Tinker. Now.”

“I figured Howard Mott’d let you know I was coming. That’s why I didn’t call myself.”