Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

Haynes shook hands with Hamilton Keyes first because it seemed to be part of some business ritual. He even shook hands with Howard Mott, who introduced him to the former senator. The senator had retained his professional politician’s quick-release handshake.

Haynes sat down in one of the three leather armchairs in front of the ornate desk. He sat next to Mott, who separated him from Hamilton Keyes. The senator, presiding from behind the desk, smiled a brief smile of commerce and said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we can begin.”

When no one objected, he continued. “We will entertain offers this morning for the copyright to a written work by the late Steadfast Haynes, entitled Mercenary Calling , said copyright being the property of Mr, Haynes’s son, Granville, who is the sole owner.”

He looked around for confirmation and received a nod from Howard Mott. “Papers for the consummation of the sale have been drawn up by Mr. Mott, who is Mr. Haynes’s attorney. I have examined them and find them to be in order. Any questions?”

There weren’t any. The senator nodded again and said, “There are two parties who plan to tender offers for the copyright. One is Mr. Keyes, representing Write-Away, Incorporated, of Miami, Florida. The other is a client of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.”

Haynes decided to nod. So did Hamilton Keyes.

“Very well. Since Mr. Keyes is present he is entitled to make the first offer.”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Keyes said.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the senator said. “I will now telephone the only other bidder to see whether Mr. Keyes’s bid will be topped.”

The senator pushed a single button on his telephone console. He listened just long enough for a phone to ring once somewhere before he said, “Seven hundred and fifty.” There had been no faint click of a phone call being answered, nor of a voice saying hello. The senator listened for a moment to what seemed to be a silent voice, looked up at Keyes and said, “Eight hundred thousand dollars is bid.”

Haynes smiled. Hamilton Keyes cleared his throat and said, “One million.”

The senator spoke into the phone. “One million has been bid.” He listened for a few seconds, nodded to the unseen caller and said, “I under stand. Thank you.”

The senator slowly put the phone down, looked at Keyes and said, “Yours is the high bid, Mr. Keyes. Congratulations.”

Keyes nodded and Haynes said, “Where do I sign?”

Howard Mott produced five bound photocopied legal documents from his briefcase, placed them on the desk, offered Haynes a ballpoint pen and said, “Sign each document at the blue X on each last page.”

Haynes quickly signed his name five times and said, “When do I get my money?”

Hamilton Keyes withdrew a plain white No. 10 envelope from the breast pocket of his dark blue double-breasted suit and handed the unsealed envelope to the senator. The senator opened it and took out five checks, three of them gray, two of them green.

“I have here five cashier’s checks for two hundred thousand dollars apiece. Two of the checks are drawn on the Riggs National Bank and three on American Security.”

He put the checks back in the envelope and handed it to Howard Mott, who looked at each check briefly, then passed them on to Haynes. Using the pen Mott had lent him, Haynes endorsed the checks and handed them back to Mott.

“Here you go, Howard. I’ll tell you what to do with them later.” Haynes rose and shook his head a little regretfully. “Well, gentlemen, it would’ve made a hell of a picture.”

He smiled at the senator, winked at Keyes, turned and left the room.

There was a long silence until the senator said, “I think that boy might’ve at least said, ‘Much obliged,’ or ‘Kiss my ass.’ ”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Howard Mott.

Haynes stood at a bank of three phones across the street from the faded tan brick building where the senator had his law offices and where the bachelor Speaker of the House of Representatives had long ago had an apartment. Haynes was turned around, facing the building, a phone to his ear, listening to Erika McCorkle relay a phoned-in report from Michael Padillo.

“It was her money?” Haynes said.

“Hers, not the spooks,” Erika said.

“Does Padillo believe it?”

“He’s ninety-nine percent convinced.”

“He’s coming out now,” Haynes said, hung up the phone and jaywalked across the street, catching up with Hamilton Keyes, who had stopped at the corner for a red light. Guessing that Keyes hated to be touched, Haynes grabbed his left elbow, ready to give its prime nerve an almost crippling squeeze — even through the dark blue cashmere topcoat.

“Let’s talk,” Haynes growled.

A startled Hamilton Keyes quickly recovered and, without turning, said, “About what?”

“Your wife and the three people she killed.”

That made Keyes turn and stare at Haynes. Haynes offered some clearly audible breathing through a slightly open mouth and also a noticeable collection of spittle in the mouth’s left corner.

“You’re really quite mad, aren’t you?” Keyes said.

“If you mean angry, pissed off and enraged, you fucking-A right I’m mad. Two of the three people she killed were friends of mine — my oldest friends. You got a car?”

Keyes tore his elbow loose from Haynes’s grasp, rubbed it and said, “Up the street.”

“Let’s go take us a ride and have us a talk then. Topic A will be the Undean memo.”

Keyes cocked his head to examine Haynes almost sympathetically. “You don’t even know you’re raving, do you?”

Haynes raised a forefinger to his lips. “Shhh. They’ll hear us.”

When they reached Keyes’s dark blue Buick sedan, Haynes stared at it for fifteen seconds, not moving, not even breathing.

“I’ve seen this fucking car before,” he said and walked slowly all the way around it, pausing to kick two of the tires. He then whirled on Keyes and said, “This is the fucking car she shot at me from.”

“She?”

“Your heiress wife. Muriel Lamphier Keyes.”

“Shot at you, did she?”

“Last night at the Bellevue Motel out in Bethesda where nobody knew I was, except Muriel. She used a twenty-two rifle, probably loaded with longs. Could’ve wiped me out if she’d wanted to. Hell of a good shot.”

“You saw her?”

“I saw this same exact car take off like a scalded snake right after she shot at me. Now I’m about to be taken for a ride in it. You might like coincidences, but I hate ’em.” Haynes sounded even less happy when he asked, “This really your car?”

Keyes quickly unlocked the passenger door, as if to prove ownership. Haynes got in. After Keyes was behind the wheel, Haynes said, “Muriel borrowed your car last night, right? Sure she did. Probably scooted over in the seat, rolled down this very same window, used the sill for a rest — maybe even had herself a scope — squeezed off three rounds, bang, bang, bang, and missed me by inches on purpose.”

Keyes started the engine and said, “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Stick up for her then. I don’t blame you.”

With a sigh, Keyes asked, “Where to?”

“Straight out Connecticut to the District line. Makes a nice drive and ought to give us plenty of time to talk.”

“About the Undean memo,” Keyes said, pulling away from the curb. “Whatever that is.”

Haynes said nothing for nearly two minutes, then snarled his question. “Where the fuck was she Sunday morning right after the big snow?”

“It’s none of your fucking business, but she was with an old friend in McLean.”