“You took the living room set back to them people at the Furniture Ranch,” he said without making it a question.
“Yep,” said a sad O’B.
“An’ they told you I ain’t paid them on this...” His gesture took in the rug on the floor, the two bedside tables and lamps, the dressers against either sidewall, the ornate gilded bench at the foot of the bed, the bed itself.
“Yep,” said an even sadder O’B, “for a whole lotta months.”
“Well, shit, Hoss, I guess I better get up, then.”
The corporate entity known as Bascom, Buschman, Beaton and Block — the FourBees — had three floors of the Transamerica Tower at 600 Montgomery Street. A couple of years before, Transamerica had been absorbed without fanfare by an outfit in Battle Creek, Michigan, that called itself TIG Insurance, but the tall graceful tapering white pyramid was still the Transamerica Tower to most San Franciscans. The TIG Tower? Never.
FourBees represented Electrotec, which was buying all rights to Paul Rochemonts new computer chip for $500 million cash and options. Paul was represented by Mother’s law firm of Malloy, Monserrat, Morrison and Myron — the FourEms. Only the senior partner of each firm was present; also present was the CEO of Electrotec, which expected Paul’s microchip to triple its net worth within two years of production.
And of course Paul, Inga, and Bernardine, backed up by Dan Kearny, Giselle Marc, and Ken Warren.
In the center of the corporate boardroom was a gleaming oval walnut table that would seat twenty-five lawyers or, as the wags in the mailroom were wont to say, a like number of human beings. Clustered along its length were bottles of iced Perrier and crystal water glasses. In front of each hardwood chair was a yellow legal pad, two freshly sharpened pencils, and two new ballpoint pens.
Nobody was sitting in any of the chairs: the principals formed a knot at the head of the table with the DKA contingent standing, backs to the windows, behind its clients.
At exactly 9:00 A.M., Senior Partner Berty Bascom stepped forward. He was a tall, lean, weathered 79, dressed in a $3,000 suit and $700 shoes, his sharp blue eyes beneath beetling brows as warm as winter windchill.
With great ceremony, he spoke to Electrotec’s president, Gottward Greenleaf, 43 years old and wearing buckskin with fringe and big yellow teeth and contacts. An artfully calculated miniature calculator peeked out of the pocket of his rumpled bilious green shirt. Looking at him as representative of breed made Giselle realize how fond she’d somehow become of Paul.
“You may put out the contract,” said Berty Bascom.
Greenleaf slid a sheaf of papers out of a manila folder and squared it on the desk and opened it to the last, signature page.
FourEms’ William Malloy, surprisingly solid and bearlike in wool tweeds, at his youthful 53 still had all his finespun brown hair. Spurning contacts, he turned ice-chip blue eyes on Paul from behind his trademark horn-rims.
“You may sign the contract,” he said formally.
Paul stepped up and signed the contract, and stepped back.
Bascom to Greenleaf, “You may countersign the contract.”
Greenleaf did. Paul was half a billion bucks richer.
Giselle realized they all had been unconsciously holding their breath. Everyone was shaking hands, slapping backs; Bernardine embraced her son, who then embraced his wife. Bernardine embraced Ken, putting some bosom and maybe some thigh into it before moving back to her own kind.
Kearny said with a straight face, “It’s an unhealthy relationship, Ken. But since we haven’t been paid yet, you’d better relate to her until we are.”
“Hnsgrew nyoo.” Ken made a rude gesture as the principals began moving toward the door.
Giselle asked, “What’s our next move in the investigation?”
“What investigation?” asked Kearny. “The case is closed. Nobody is after Paul anymore.”
“You don’t believe that, and neither do I. If Paul should die now, Inga would inherit everything, and she and Frank Nugent could go off together rich and happy.” Just to bug him, she added, “What if Nugent should poison the food at the dinner tonight? A hundred people dead because you did nothing.”
He surprised her by seeming to take the suggestion seriously. “Hmm,” he said in apparent thought, “clumsy but effective.”
“So you’ll do something?”
“Sure,” said Dan Kearny, “I won’t eat anything.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Nobody could have been more shocked than Trin Morales when he rolled out of bed to switch on the TV for the noon news and learned that Assemblyman Rick Kiely had been gunned down in his home the night before.
“Hey, that can’t be right!” Morales exclaimed out loud to the TV set.
But it was right. They were rerunning the footage from the morning newscast, and there was Kiely’s big goddam mansion out in St. Francis Woods and the body bag coming out of the front door to the porch where Morales had been impaled on police lights and bullhorn just five nights before. Only five? Dios, it seemed longer than that.
Moving with the body were a couple of big homicide dicks who somehow looked alike, even though one was bald and the other had hair. Then Kiely’s face and dates were flashed on the screen, talking heads endlessly mouthed words over the visuals...
Same M.O. as Petrock. Which meant Kiely hadn’t ordered Petrock’s killing after all — not unless it was a deliberate payback by Petrock’s pals, and Morales didn’t believe that for a second. Petrock hadn’t had any pals.
So why had Kiely seemed to go along with it when Morales had hinted he knew Kiely had ordered the killing?
To find out what he knew, maybe. Or in hopes Morales would go out and blunder around and stir things up and maybe get the real killers after him so Kiely could scope them out...
He flicked off the TV with an angry gesture, went in for his shower and shave. As he dressed, he thought in his usual pissed-off way that he’d been shafted again. No plush security job on Kiely’s Sacramento staff. No high-class chicas, no big expense account...
Hijo de puta! Why hadn’t Kiely been who Morales thought he had been, a murderer that Morales had a lock on? Now... Shit, now back to repossessions for goddam Dan Kearny.
He went out his front door and goddam Dan Kearny was standing on the stoop, just about to push his bell.
“I want to know what you were doing nosing around down at Local Three, Trin.”
Morales started to bluster. “That goddam Ballard...”
Kearny took him by the arm and turned him around and escorted him back into his own damn house. Kicked the door shut behind them.
“That isn’t what I asked you, Morales. Why were you snooping around down at that labor union?”
“What if I told you to shove it?”
“You wouldn’t want to do that,” said Kearny in his coldest voice. He hadn’t moved, had gotten very still, in fact; it was as if he were leaning a tremendous weight on Morales without even touching him. Kearny was a guy who would go all the way, every time. “You were on my time, driving my car, with my gasoline, so spit it out.”
“Aw, shit,” said Trin, resignation on his brown moon face.
He told Kearny everything he knew, right from the time he’d been hired anonymously by phone to snoop Kiely’s house, down to hiding out because he’d put the arm on Kiely and was afraid the politician might send someone after him.
Everything he had done had been stupid, Kearny said, pure Morales, and everything he knew was a big handful of nothing.
“You’ll be lucky if Homicide doesn’t pay you a call.”
“He didn’t press charges so I was never booked.” Some of Trin’s jauntiness was coming back. “I’ll make out okay.”