David Duffy - Last to Fold

“God damn it, Turbo, what the hell’s got into you?”

“I told you I didn’t want to work for him.”

“You did a hell of a job telling him, too.”

“He doesn’t want to pay the freight.”

“Can you blame him? Six hundred sixty-six thousand dollars?”

“Plus expenses.”

“Yes, I know. Plus the goddamned expenses.”

“I don’t work cheap.”

“Unless you choose to.”

I’d done a job once for a friend of Bernie’s wife, an artist with a small trust fund whose husband had taken her money and decamped to Las Vegas. I found him before he lost it all, but there wasn’t much left, and it was pretty clear that was what she’d have to live on. I refused payment. She gave me a painting that I like a lot. It hangs in my office. Barbara Kordlite never misses an opportunity to remind her husband what a great guy I am. One reason he puts up with me.

“I’m not working cheap for a man like Mulholland.”

The elevator door slid open. Bernie put out a hand. “Sorry, we’re not leaving just yet.” The door closed again.

“Look, Turbo, Rory’s a proud man, like you. You ought to recognize that. Stubborn, too, just like you. Yes, he’s got people around him all day telling him how brilliant he is, a problem you don’t have, but that goes along with being the kind of guy he is. Cut him some slack. His bank’s on the ropes. His daughter’s been kidnapped. He’s worried. Since he’s the largest client of Hayes & Franklin, when he has worries, I get ulcers. And you, my friend, are supposed to be the solution to his problem and the tonic for my gut, but you have to decide you’re not going to like the guy and then you have to prove to yourself that he really is an asshole so you can tell yourself how you were right all along. You’re the one who’s acting like a stubborn ass.”

I laughed. That’s the thing I love about Bernie. He gets right to the heart of the matter, and he isn’t afraid to tell you exactly what he thinks.

“Stubborn Russian asses turned the course of the Great Patriotic War.”

“So you’ve told me—a dozen times. It’s still World War II to me, and D-day the turning point. Come on, Turbo. If I can fix it with Rory, will you at least finish hearing him out?”

I made a small show of thinking it over. Moscow was tugging hard, but those ghosts could wait another few days. I wasn’t going to turn Bernie down. “Okay.”

“Good. Be right back.”

I waited in the small vestibule, half hoping Mulholland proved as stubborn as Bernie said he was and half wondering what about the man made me dislike him. The sanctimonious questioning made it easy to find him objectionable. Half a lifetime under Soviet rule led me to distrust anyone who takes overt pride in his or her beliefs, be they religious, political, or whatever. Then there were those eyes. I was thinking about them and getting ready to call the elevator again when Bernie returned, smiling.

“All set,” he said, leading the way back inside. “Watch your step, though. I think he kind of likes you.”

Mulholland came across the carpet this time, hand extended. I took it, and we all went back to the same chairs we were sitting in before.

“This may sound like impertinence,” he said. “I don’t mean it that way. Your son—how do you get on with him?”

That wasn’t any of his damned business, but I sensed he was either sincerely curious or looking for some common ground between us. Anyway, I was on my good behavior now.

“I haven’t seen him since he was two.”

I expected a look of exasperation, even hostility, but I swear the black eyes softened, then dampened, in sympathy, perhaps even sorrow. Maybe Bernie was right and I was being stubborn.

“My fault entirely,” I said quickly. “I made mistakes. I won’t bore you with the details. A lot of them don’t make much sense anymore. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about the things that happened and what I could’ve—should’ve—done differently.”

I definitely saw black kindness now. I looked for sincerity behind it. That’s the toughest thing to fake. To my surprise, that was there, too. Another point for Bernie.

Mulholland sensed my investigation and misread it. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry. We all make mistakes, I… Being a good parent is…”

I waited for him to finish one sentence or the other, but he stared off into the dark room, lost in his own thoughts. I kept thinking about that look and why I’d told him as much as I had. Maybe underneath it all, I liked him, too?

After a moment, Bernie cleared his throat, and Mulholland seemed to return to the present. The black eyes regained their hardness.

“I apologize for my earlier outburst, Mr. Vlost. This has been a difficult day—one of many. Of course your fee is not an issue. I must ask, however, that you keep this matter entirely between us. I believe what the kidnappers say—about the police. No one must know, including my wife. She’s been under tremendous strain, for which I feel responsible. My business problems. She and Eva had a huge fight the last time Eva was here, which is why we haven’t seen her. I’m very afraid Felix will think she’s to blame for what’s happened.”

“Felix?”

“Her given name’s Felicity. She won’t use it.”

“What did they fight over?”

“It’s not important. Felix and Eva… they have a complicated relationship, like many mothers and daughters, I suppose. Theirs has a tendency to erupt from time to time.”

“You’re sure it has no bearing? It’s possible Eva could—”

He cut me off. “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t believe it. She may have her issues, but she’s not that kind of girl.”

I tried to remember when the word “issue” replaced “problem” in the American branch of the English language. As if nomenclature could make either go away. Not enough Americans read Orwell. I let it go—I could find out plenty about whatever problems Eva had in due course and make my own assessment as to what kind of girl she was.

“You need anything else from me?” Mulholland said.

“I’ll need to borrow the picture.”

“I don’t see—”

“I’m only interested in where and when it was taken. I’ll make no copies, and I’ll return it as soon as I’m finished.”

“I’m going to assume you’re a man of your word.”

Mulholland had a way of ending every sentence with a grimace as if he expected you to take issue with what he’d just said. He didn’t make it easy to get along.

A knock on the door made us all turn. The man in the silver tie entered and crossed the big carpet, looking left and right and wringing his hands. He whispered a few words in his employer’s ear and hurried back the way he’d come. Black turned to midnight as Mulholland swung toward Bernie.

“You said we had a deal with her.”

“Victoria? We did. We do.”

“Not anymore. The FBI is on its way up.”

“That can’t be. I—”

Mulholland started issuing orders, the anger in his voice replaced by cool efficiency. Bernie nodded, making a mental list, as he searched his pockets until he found his cell phone. A plan was being put into motion.

“Get hold of Coughlin and O’Neal at the office,” Mulholland said. “They’ll know what to do.”

Bernie was punching a number into the phone. “We’ll have to put out an announcement. No question this is a disclosable event.”

“I know. We have a crisis plan. Supposed to be for the plane going down or something like that, but it’ll serve the purpose.”

“I’ll get Alan and his team downtown ASAP,” Bernie said. “You won’t be there any longer than necessary.”