Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

“The day after his burial,” she said, “I drove out to our — well, his place near Berryville. I still had a key. I went in and found a manuscript in the dining room. He and his girlfriend had turned it into an office of sorts. The manuscript was in a typewriter-paper box. I only read the title page, ‘Mercenary Calling,’ then his name and a line at the bottom about the copyright. I put the lid back on the box and took it out to my truck. After that I came back in and went into the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee. A couple of guys with paper sacks over their heads jumped me, tied me up, gagged me and locked me in a little dark closet where I’d still be if Erika McCorkle and Granville hadn’t shown up.”

“The McCorkle kid was with Granny, huh?” Burns said, sounding interested. “You were lucky.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about the two guys who jumped me, would you, Tinker?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Maybe who hired them?”

“What makes you think somebody hired ’em?”

“Because they didn’t steal anything.”

Burns considered her logic, gave it a grudging nod of agreement and said, “You still got it?”

“The manuscript? Of course.”

Burns edged forward, his excitement partially concealed by an earnest expression. “Letty, I’d really appreciate it if I could just look through it real quick.”

“See whether your friend is mentioned?”

“Right. It won’t take long.”

Letty Melon smiled for the first time. “No, it probably won’t.”

She rose and began walking toward a wall of books at the room’s far end. Burns rose and followed. In front of the books was a black walnut library table. On it was a white Keebord stationery box. Letty Melon indicated the box and said, “Help yourself.”

Burns stared at the box, picked it up gently, gave it a little shake, put it down and carefully removed its lid. He bent over slightly to read the title page, then lifted out all 386 pages and placed them almost reverently on the table. After turning the title page facedown on the table, he read the Housman lines, turned them facedown, read the dedication to Granville Haynes, put it facedown on top of the other pages and began reading Chapter One. He read its two lines, stopped, read them again and slowly turned his head to glare at a now grinning Letty Melon.

Burns opened his mouth, as if to say something, changed his mind and, his face now turning a dangerous red, flipped quickly through the remaining blank pages. It was then that he straightened, turned and bellowed his question: “Where the fuck is it, Letty?”

“You’re looking at it, Tinker, just as I found it. A fake manuscript. If you want it, it’s all yours.”

Tinker Burns turned back to the four-inch-high stack of mostly blank pages and, after arranging them neatly, put them back in the box and replaced the lid. He picked up the box, cradled it against his chest and looked around the room, as if trying to remember where he’d left his coat.

“I’ll talk to Granny,” he said, more to himself than to Letty Melon. “He’s gotta know where it is.”

“What if there isn’t any book?” she said. “What if it’s Steady’s farewell hoax? His last lie?”

He stared at her long enough for his face to resume its normal tanned and weathered look. “Then a couple of people died for nothing, didn’t they?”

Granville Haynes, propped up in bed on pillows and wearing only Jockey shorts, looked up from a New York Times feature about Hollywood agents to watch a nude Erika McCorkle stroll out of the bathroom, cross to the wheeled room-service table and pop a cold French-fried potato into her mouth. From there she went to the closet to slip on a long white terry-cloth robe that the Willard Hotel gently warned guests they would be billed for if they stole it.

While tying the robe’s belt, she said, “That was the best seventeen-dollar-plus-tip cheeseburger I ever ate.”

A mildly bawdy response occurred to Haynes but before he could utter it the phone rang. He picked it up, said hello and heard a pleasant baritone voice ask, “Mr. Haynes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m replacing Gilbert Undean.”

“Not in the morgue, I trust.”

There was a hesitation, not quite long enough to be considered a pause, before the baritone said, “Then you’ve heard?”

“I’ve heard.”

“On the radio?”

“I haven’t listened to a radio recently.”

“Perhaps from Mr. Padillo then? Or even from Mr. Mott, who, I understand, is now representing Tinker Burns.”

“Since you’re dropping names, why not drop yours?”

“Not over the phone,” the baritone said. “I was hoping you’d come down to the lobby and join me for a drink.”

“We can drink up here.”

“You’re asking me up?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Ace. But if we talk, we talk up here in front of a witness.”

“Out of the question.”

“Too bad,” Haynes said and hung up.

Erika McCorkle said, “Who the hell was that?”

Haynes shook his head and held up a warning hand. The telephone rang a moment later. He answered it with, “Well?”

“Who’s your witness?” the baritone asked.

“Think of her as my fiancée,” Haynes said, causing Erika McCorkle to chuckle.

“Her name?”

“Introductions aren’t necessary. You know who I am but I don’t know who you are. That gives you the advantage.”

“A very slight one.”

“Take what you can get.”

There was another hesitation that this time lasted long enough to qualify as a pause. “Five minutes?”

“Make it ten,” Haynes said and broke the connection.

Erika McCorkle returned to the room-service table, picked up another French fry, bit off half of it, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and asked, “Who were you on the phone just then?”

“Hardcase Haynes of Homicide.”

“A bit overdone, wasn’t it?”

Haynes smiled. “Think so?”

She frowned. “Unless that wasn’t acting.”

A silence grew as she waited for his response. When he made none she untied the robe’s belt and said, “I’ll get dressed.”

“Don’t,” Haynes said as he rose from the bed, picked up his shirt and began putting it on.

Erika McCorkle slowly retied the robe’s belt as she watched him button the shirt and pull on his pants. When he sat down and reached for a sock, she said, “You’re setting the scene, right? The remains of a room-service meal. The half drunk drinks. The rumpled bed. And the unmistakable reek of sex on a Sunday afternoon.”

“I want an edge,” Haynes said.

“And where do you want me — recumbent on the bed, showing a little thigh, a glimpse of tit?”

Haynes now had one sock on, changed his mind, stripped it off and stuck both bare feet into his loafers. “I want you on the bed, well wrapped in the robe and doing the Times Sunday crossword puzzle. With a ballpoint.”

Her grim expression vanished, replaced by her sunshine smile. “Blasé and bored, right?”

“Exactly,” Haynes said, rose, found the crossword puzzle and handed it to her along with a ballpoint pen. She rearranged the pillows, settled cross-legged onto the bed, tucked the robe carefully around her, glanced at the puzzle, then looked up at Haynes and asked, “What does whoever he is want?”

“He wants to offer me a lot of money.”

“For Steady’s memoirs?”

Haynes nodded.

“Will you take it?”

“I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“Maybe tomorrow — or the next day.”

She gave him a sudden smile that Haynes thought was full of childlike anticipation — her can’t-wait smile.