Джо Горес - Dead Man

The stranger said, “Hello, Douglas,” in a voice Sherman almost knew. The voice was deeper than the remembered one, and there was no playfulness in it.

Sherman, elegant as ever, was caught up short. He stared.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dain,” the man said. Flat voice, flat eyes. Something dead in them, also something intensely alive.

“Eddie Dain! My God, man...”

Sherman tried to embrace him, but Dain stepped quickly back out of his arms, callused hand extended to shake instead. It was like grasping a rock.

“It’s... good to see you...” said Sherman lamely.

Dain nodded but didn’t respond. Sherman kept busy unlocking the door and deactivating the alarms while casting covert sidelong glances at Dain. Keeping up a running chatter to cover his embarrassment and his scrutiny.

“Where have you been? After you checked out of Marin General I couldn’t find any trace...” The door was open. Dain walked through it ahead of him, a leather-bound book under one arm. Sherman caught himself stammering inanely, “I... I’m sorry, I... didn’t...” He went around behind his desk. “I’ll make coffee...”

“Coffee would be fine.”

Sherman busied himself with the Melitta, talking over his shoulder as he measured out fragrant ground beans into the paper cone, covertly watching Dain’s reflection off a glass-protected Greek icon of St. Nicholas above the table.

“What’s the book?”

“Ever the dealer,” that deeper voice rumbled. Dain almost smiled. Held it up to see. “The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”

“The same one that I got you for Marie’s—”

“The very same,” said Dain without apparent emotion. He lifted a shoulder. Muscles slid beneath his smooth hide like the muscles of a tiger. “Physical therapy. You carry a heavy book around all day, it strengthens your hands and forearms.” He chuckled. “So you’ll be ready.”

Sherman had recovered. “Ready.” He nodded as if he understood what it meant, added, “Of course. Ah... and so, these past four years... where have you...?”

Dain put his leather-bound book down on the edge of the desk and sat down in the same chair he had habitually sat in four years earlier, but there was no unconscious lotus pose this time. He still looked flexible enough to do one, but now he was solid, hard. Prepared. Power seemed to come off him like heat.

But he only said, conventionally, “Hospitals, mostly.”

The water was heating. Sherman sat down behind the desk which had, as always, the inlaid chessboard with a classic problem laid out on it. For the first time, Sherman’s sad, beautiful eyes studied Dain quite openly.

“And?”

“And nothing.” Dain almost shrugged. His smile was very slightly lopsided from the tiny white plastic surgery scars on one side of his face. “Lots of operations, lots of pain, lots of physical therapy. All of which cost a great deal of money.”

Money. Familiar ground here. Doug Sherman knew all about using money to control situations. And he wanted to control this one. This Edgar Dain made him feel defensive, uneasy, perhaps a little frightened. Talking to him was like stroking a tiger.

“I can imagine. If there’s anything I can...”

“There is.”

A statement so bald startled the aesthete in Sherman. He felt almost embarrassed for Dain; such a blatant pitch for charity diminished the man’s power. The kettle started to sing. He poured boiling water to the top of the paper cone.

“Listen, Dain, I don’t have a great deal put by, but...”

“Not money.” Dain stood up, started to pace. It was the impatient padding of a tiger about its cell. “Business.”

Intriguing. “I’m in the book business.” He suddenly thought he knew where this was going. Needed money, too proud to ask. He gestured toward the book. “That would be worth a good deal of money... and it must be painful psychologically to...”

“It’s not for sale.”

Sherman sighed, nonplussed. “A pity. But then, what...?”

“I’m going back into private investigations.” Dain paused, staring at a new painting in one of the alcoves. A Magritte original, he was sure. He shivered slightly, picked up his thread again. “For... unconventional clients. I know of no other way to make the kind of money I need relatively quickly.” He looked over at Sherman. “I need a front man. A go-between.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Sure you do. I want heavy-money clients on the shady side who will pay a lot to find someone they need found without questions asked. I don’t want anyone else as clients. So I need a cutout, a go-between to screen out the unwanted.”

“But how can you... I mean, four years ago you were...”

“Naive? Inexperienced?”

“Bluntly... yes.” He poured coffee into two exquisite Meissen china cups, set out cream and sugar in solid silver bowls. “Why would anyone in that... underbelly sector of the... um, American experience, say, want to hire you?”

“You’re right. I was a fool. I wasn’t ready. But that won’t happen again.” Dain had stopped pacing. His face, voice, eyes, had lost their impassivity; there was an almost guttural intensity to his words. “Now I know how to create the sort of reputation I want. Trust me on that. With a screen, a filter, I can say no easily. That’s all I need from you.”

He sat down with that looseness of muscle that typifies all big predators off duty. Both men sipped their coffee. They exchanged pleased looks over its quality.

Four years ago Sherman would have laughed in his face if Eddie Dain had come to him with such a proposition. But not now. Now he couldn’t even think of him as Eddie any more. He spread his hands in deprecation.

“Even if everything you say is true, why do you think I’m the man for this sort of thing?”

“You were born for it. Everybody knows you, you know everybody, you love to gossip, you love intrigue. And I can trust your judgment. Maybe I even can trust you.”

“I’m flattered by your confidence,” said Sherman coldly.

Dain ignored his pique. “If a recovery of some sort is involved — skim money, stolen narcotics, whatever — my fee will be ten percent of recovery against a twenty-five K floor. That’s sixty-two hundred fifty minimum per case for you — tax-free.”

“Do you really think you can...” Sherman paused. He rubbed his eyes. He fidgeted. The offer was actually intriguing, not for the money, but... but he didn’t want to show he was interested. “The thing is...”

He fell silent in midsentence. He knew he was going to do it. Dain was right it was the sort of offbeat situation he couldn’t resist. To know all the dangers beforehand... to ride the tiger... Yes! Absolutely delicious...

“Well... against my better judgment...”

Dain didn’t do any cartwheels. There was that cold center Sherman hadn’t adjusted to yet. He merely picked up his book from the desk and stood up. Standing, he drained his cup.

“Wonderful coffee,” he said.

“Another cup—”

He shook his head. His eyes sought the tall grandfather clock in a shadowy corner of the room. Something flickered momentarily in those eyes, then was gone. Some feeling that might have been described as deep purple had it been a color.

“I’m due at Homicide in fifteen minutes,” he said.

Sherman was on his feet also. “Deja vu.”

Dain nodded. He stuck out his hand. Sherman took it. He was delighted with the way he had handled himself. He loved the image of himself at the edge of the precipice. He gestured at the chessboard.

“Did you notice this endgame problem? The thirteenth game of Fischer versus Spassky World Championship match at Reykjavik, nineteen seventy-two? Extraordinary encounter.” He moved eagerly to the nine pieces left on the board. “Look here—”