“That’s because the only thing human about you,” Carver said, “is that you walk upright.”
“I’m no different from you, except I’m smarter and keep two moves ahead. I don’t do dumb things and get myself in trouble because of some fucked-up sense of morality that don’t mean a thing unless I got the luxury of being able to practice it. You say I ain’t human, but you’re wrong; I’m what human beings are all about. Looking out for ourselves, that’s us. Boil it down, that’s what it’s about for all of us in this shitty world. And that’s what the world is-fermenting shit. I at least got the sense to learn to live in it. Learn to kinda like it, even. More sense than a John Wayne jack-off like you, with your box-top code of honor. Tell you, Carver, the only difference between you and me is I know there ain’t a difference between us. That’s why you’re the one caught in the middle and getting the juice squeezed outa you.”
“Oh? You think we’re not in this together? What are you gonna say if somebody asks you what we talked about here in your office?”
McGregor smiled confidently. “I got a cover story all worked out. It didn’t surprise me, you being rammy enough to come here big as a hard-on despite our agreement. I didn’t get where I am by forgetting to cover my ass.”
Carver believed him. Covering his tracks, covering his ass, that was McGregor’s game and he was the best at it. Still, there was the possibility of that tape recording when he’d put his proposition-his ultimatum-to Carver in the littered office after the car bombing.
Carver said, “What if I told you our conversation in my office the day of Renway’s death was taped?”
“I’d tell you that I don’t believe it. ’Cause I phoned your office that same day and didn’t even get a ring outa that piece of Japanese junk on your desk. So I’m willing to chance it, if it comes to push and shove. Willing to bet that you can’t prove I put you up to whatever it is you been doing. I figure it’s the word of a has-been gimp keyhole-peeper against that of a respected police lieutenant.”
“Who respects you?” Carver asked.
McGregor shrugged. “Legalese,” he explained. “That’s what I’ll be in court, a respected police lieutenant. The guy they’ll have to believe before they believe you. Otherwise where would the law and order come from in this pea-brained society, they start doubting the word of the law in court? That’s what you’ll hear, you fuck with me. The law talking.”
“Some law,” Carver said, glaring at him.
“Right now,” McGregor said, “the law says get the fuck outa my office. It’s not that I ain’t got compassion, but I also got work to do.”
“That’s your final word?”
“My final word is, if you’re afraid she’ll get photographed to death, take care of the bitch yourself.”
“Compassion,” Carver said in disgust, “is something you know nothing about.”
McGregor grinned, absently scratching his testicles like a major-league batter on TV, and said, “Nothing or everything.”
Chapter 25
Carver decided he had to go see Lloyd Van Meter. The man was bizarre, but he had resources and he’d help. And he was a friend, which was a good reason both to confide in him and to leave him out of the action. McGregor had left Carver little choice but to bring Van Meter into the game. That could be like inviting Howard Hughes to sit in on Monopoly.
Carver had first met Van Meter when, as an Orlando patrolman, he’d arrested a burglary suspect who happened to be the wayward lover of Van Meter’s client, a wealthy New York society woman who ran an exclusive call-girl operation. Van Meter had been small-time back then, but he’d gotten the help of a local high-powered lawyer and created enough smoke and confusion to get the suspect returned to New York in a tangle of red tape. Carver had never seen the burglar again. The unconventional but effective Van Meter, with the money-laden gratitude of his wealthy New York client, had soon become head of one of the largest private-investigation agencies in Florida. Within five years he had offices in Miami and Tampa, as well as new and impressive offices in Orlando. Crime paid, even if indirectly.
He sat now in his main office on Orange Avenue in Orlando and listened to Carver. The office was furnished in Danish modern, no doubt by a decorator who’d never seen Van Meter. He was the only thing in the plush office that didn’t fit the decor. His bulk seemed to threaten to break everything. Especially the spindly straight legs of his desk chair. The desk itself was a pale oak creation that sort of resembled the state of Florida painted by Picasso. It was as sharply angled as the obese Van Meter was rounded. On one of its many corners was an ornate walnut pipe rack containing only one curve-stemmed pipe with a huge blackened bowl. A comfortable-looking accessory that also seemed foreign to the room but not to its occupant.
Van Meter, who claimed to be the illegitimate son of famous Prohibition-era gangster Homer Van Meter, was more massive than when Carver had last seen him. His features were sharply defined despite his fleshiness, and his thick white hair and flowing white beard gave him a Biblical look that inspired certain clients with confidence, especially in central Florida. He dressed as if he’d had all his clothes made from fabric bought at an awning-factory sale of material that wouldn’t move. He was wearing a yellow-and-white-striped suit. White shirt with yellow flecks in the material. Brown tie with what appeared to be a yellow mermaid painted on it. Perched in his dainty little chair, he looked like a huge scoop of lemon-vanilla ice cream about to melt over the sides of a dish.
After listening to Carver, he waved a hand bearing a massive silver-and-turquoise ring and said, “Sounds like you’re in deep and sinking toward the bottom to join the whale shit.”
Carver said, “I came here to see if I could borrow some buoyancy.”
Van Meter grinned and patted his huge, protruding stomach. “Came to the right man, old buddy.” He leaned forward; the frail little chair squealed in fright. Van Meter glanced around the office. “I wish somebody’d come in here one night and break all this crap into sticks. I paid a fortune to have it decorated last year; put it all in the hands of my secretary, Marge. It’d hurt her feelings if I told her I didn’t like it and was afraid someday it’d break under me and give me splinters.”
“Must be some secretary, that Marge.”
Van Meter shrugged beneath the yards of yellow material. It was like watching a sail billow. “Well, she’s an old man’s pleasure, you might say.”
Carver figured Van Meter was only about fifty, not much older than Carver, but he let it go. He wondered if Marge was the one who’d ushered him into the office, a tall, noble-looking gray-haired woman, probably older than Van Meter. The sort of woman who’d be attractive all her life. Good bones. Good everything.
Something hissed like a snake in the corner. Carver turned his head and saw one of those automatic scent dispensers timed to emit periodic sprays of fragrance into the air. He sniffed and recognized the scent of cinnamon.
“Another one of Marge’s ideas,” Van Meter said. “She don’t like it when I smoke my pipe in here. Says it smells up the place for a month.”
Carver said, “Maybe you oughta try some cinnamon-scented tobacco.”
“They make that kinda crap?”
“Sure.”
“Hmm.”
The little square scent-dispenser clicked and whirred. Something in it had rewound.
“Women and money,” Van Meter said, shaking his head, “they cause us to do things we wouldn’t ordinarily.”
Carver said, “That’s what keeps you and me in business.”
Van Meter stroked his long beard. Looked wise as Moses behind his peculiar angled desk. “Why you’re here, in fact, would be my guess.”
“That’s right,” Carver said, “Edwina. I want to hire you to put an operative on her for protection, but it’ll have to be without her, or anybody else who might be shadowing her, knowing about it.”