J. Black - The Shop

At the moment, Franklin was regaining consciousness. Landry adjusted the petcock on the IV upward just a tick. This was tricky. How would Franklin react when he realized where he was?

Franklin was propped up against stacked pillows in the forward stateroom. Landry sat beside him, his long legs stretched out past the foot of the bed. They could have been a married couple watching the evening news. Only way he could do it—even luxury cruisers like the Hinckley were tight on space. The cherry wood and teak of the cabin was mellow and, Landry hoped, soothing. The bedspread and cushions were deep blue. Restful. Franklin stirred. His expression was amiable. So far, so good.

“Hey,” Franklin said, his voice woozy. His eyes widened when he saw Landry—a small shine of fear.

“That was a nasty fall,” Landry said.

“Fall?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.” Bleary smile. “You’re Nick, right?”

“Right.”

A shadow seemed to pass across Haddox’s face. Uncertainty. Landry opened the petcock a little more.

Goofy grin. “Hey! You’re my cousin!”

“That’s right. Remember I was going to interview you?”

“You were?”

“Uh-huh, for Esquire .”

“Oh.” His hand rose and pulled on the IV tube. “Wass that?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Let’s get to the interview, shall we?” Landry adjusted the drip and waited for it to take effect.

“What is your name?”

“Franklin Edison Haddox the Third.”

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Grace. Goodnight Gracie.” Smile.

“Do you have children?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One. No, two. Does Frank the Fourth count?”

“Sure.”

“Frank the Fourth died.” He stopped, bemused.

Landry waited.

A tear squeezed out of Haddox’s eye. “That wasn’t fair.”

Landry didn’t want to push any emotional buttons yet. He adjusted the IV up another tick.

“What were we talking about?” Haddox asked. “Hey, are we on the boat?”

Landry said, “Where do you live?”

“That’s easy. Indigo.”

“What is Indigo?”

“It’s an island. Off Cape San Blas. My family’s version of a gated community. Haven’t you seen it?” He sat up straighter. “Is your magazine going to take photos? You know we have an octagon house that was built in 1849 by Orson Fowler.” He spoke like a drunk, carefully enunciating the numbers.

“Oh. What kind of boat do you have?”

“A Hinckley T44 FB. Have you seen it?”

Loopy smile.

Landry had established Franklin’s truthfulness and willingness to talk with the control questions, leading Haddox through his occupation (attorney general); his hobbies (fishing and hunting); his daughter’s name and age (Riley, seventeen). Two sisters, one deceased. Two nieces, Kay the real estate agent and Jolie the cop; his grand-niece, Zoe, currently staying with his daughter in the guest house. He went into depth here, explaining that although Riley and Zoe were the same age, Riley was actually Zoe’s aunt. He found this endlessly entertaining. Landry pushed him—gently—to move on. Franklin told Landry his mother was long dead and his father, Franklin II, was a former senator and was once “very powerful.” Landry caught some emotion there and quickly moved to safer ground. “What’s the best fishing day you ever had?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He gave the date, the location, the catch, and the weather conditions.

Landry wrote everything in a small spiral notebook. Even though these were throwaway questions used to establish a baseline, they could be important in putting together a picture of the man.

Landry led the attorney general into phase II. This was where he asked “reactor” questions meant to elicit emotion. He wanted to prod Haddox into reacting viscerally. He wanted to see how the man handled questions that might threaten him.

This was what he learned:

Haddox’s daughter Riley would never amount to anything. She was the biggest disappointment of his life.

His son, the apple of his eye (he actually said this), died in a drag-racing accident his senior year in high school, eight years ago.

His wife was his best friend. He was guarded about her. Landry tried to find out why, but ran into a brick wall. Franklin said twice, “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He did, however, resent the time she spent with her horses.

His father was a “great man,” but he was stubborn, arrogant, and dismissive. “I’m the attorney general of the United States of America, and he still treats me like a child. I got farther up the ladder than he ever did.”

Franklin added, “Now he’s got dementia, he’s still stubborn and dismissive, but he’s nuts, too. Living with him is like Groundhog Day —he can blame me for the same thing over and over.”

Franklin hated celebrities, especially Hollywood liberals. “They’re what’s wrong with America. They’re bringing us down. They have no morals, but God, are they self-righteous! What an example to set for Riley—you can see why she’s so messed up.”

A diatribe followed, morphing into how President Stephen Baird had kept the country safe. He “almost eradicated terrorism in our time,” but then he died and now “that woman,” nothing but a placeholder, was the president of the United States.

“You can’t work with her. You wouldn’t believe what a fucking hillbilly she is. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, she should be running bake sales for the PTA, and here she is, the most powerful person in the world. And she has no idea how to use that power. Grace defends her. I guess women stick together, am I right?”

He rambled on. Landry let him.

Now he knew the former attorney general’s sticking points. He knew just how Haddox reacted when threatened. Franklin was a master of righteous indignation. He bridled at “the ingratitude of people.” His sense of entitlement was astounding.

Landry adjusted the IV down a notch. He had to achieve just the right balance, and the triptascoline was very strong.

Landry went back to the initial questions, staying away from anything controversial. He asked Franklin his name, his age, favorite color, hobbies, what the island was like. Haddox became genial again, forthcoming. A happy drunk.

He was primed.

Now the interrogation would begin.

31

Cove Bar was heating up. Scott pushed through the crush, Jolie in his wake, and called out over the thumping bass to a man in a white tee and jeans. “Brock?”

The man moved slightly, under the arm of his taller boyfriend. Pantomimed: “Me?”

Scott said to Jolie, “Brock attracts men like flies. If Blazer Man was trolling, trust me, he’d start with Brock.”

Jolie motioned toward the door. “Can we talk outside for a minute?”

“Sure thing, hon.” They filed out into daylight, Brock’s lover holding on to his belt like the caboose on a choo-choo train.

The sun hit them, bright and hot. But at least they could talk out here. They stood in the shade of the sign’s big round shadow sprawled on the sidewalk like a reverse spotlight.

Jolie described the guy, Rick. Asked if he had tried to pick Brock up. Brock’s boyfriend, Roger, straightened, glared at her.

Brock said to Roger, “You remember, I told you about him.”

Roger glowered.

Brock said, “He’s mad because when he was visiting his sister in Tampa, I went to the bar. I mean, where else would I go? These are my friends .”