No Nance.
“They headed for the interstate bridge,” Stick explained. “I radioed ahead, had the bridge sealed off.
They tried to go cross-country and hit a delivery truck. Nance was AWOL. I don‟t know what the hell
happened to him, but I‟ve put an all points out on him.”
“We got the little s.o.b. this time,” Dutch said. “We can nail him with murder, arson, creating a public
nuisance, discharging firearms in the street.
“Yeah,” 1 said, “all we got to do is find him.”
“How about Nose?” the Kid asked. “What do we charge him with? He was just protecting his ass.”
“Concealed weapons?” Stick suggested.
“There wasn‟t anything concealed about them,” Dutch said. “1 don‟t know what we‟re gonna do
about Nose. There‟s gotta be something we can stick him with.”
“One thing for certain,” Stick said, “it‟s sure as hell gonna attract a lot of people.”
It did. Within thirty minutes Chief Walters, Titan, Donleavy, and several other dignitaries were in the
emergency clinic, all asking questions. I had better things to do. 1 asked the Stick to run me back to
the park to get my car and check on the progress of our black-water diver. As we started to leave,
Titan grabbed my arm.
“What the hell happened over there?” he demanded.
“Ask Dutch,” I said. “I‟m busy.”
“I‟ll bet my pension you shook up this ruckus,” he said, his voice beginning to rise. He sounded like a
dog whining.
“That‟s right. I attacked all twenty-five of them with my nail file,” I said, and walked out.
A few doors down from emergency, bronze casket was being loaded through the morgue entrance into
a hearse. Doe Raines was standing alone, watching the procedure. I walked down to her. She was
wearing a severe black suit and a black hat and was carrying a black purse. As usual, she was dressed
impeccably for the occasion.
“I‟m sorry,” I said. “If it‟s any consolation, I really think Harry was one of the few people in this town
who weren‟t involved in the whole mess. His only sin was naiveté.”
She looked up at me. She was drifting aimlessly through a bad dream. Her makeup, heavier than
usual, could not cover the grief lines around her eyes. Her voice, low and husky with sorrow, sounded
like it was coming from someplace far, far away.
“It‟s been ghastly,” she said in a tiny voice. “The newspapers in Atlanta and New York have been
calling. TV stations. I don‟t know what to say.”
“Let somebody else do the talking. Let Donleavy do it. Besides, when they get down here they‟re
going to find a lot more to interest them than you.”
“I‟ve done a lot of thinking,” she said. “Can we talk a little later on? I‟ll be at the funeral home until
seven. Can we have a drink after that?”
“Sure.”
“I‟ll be at the townhouse,” she said. “It‟s on Palm right up the street from the hotel. The Breezes.”
“I‟ll see you about seven thirty,” I said.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, shifting her attention back to the hearse.
I watched her drive away, remembering what DeeDee had said about Doe being a princess and
everything always working out well for her.
The Stick drove back to the park like a human being, apparently having had enough action to hold
him for an hour or two. The fog had lifted and a warm drizzle had started. We found Baker emptyhanded.
“I have just about cleared the shelf,” he said. “But I been thinking, this killer might just have thrown
the gun up under the pier. For one thing, it would not have made as loud a sound such as throwing it
out in the river would have.”
“What‟s under there?” I asked.
“One helluva mess,” Whippet said around his chewing tobacco.
“It‟s liken I told you, sir,” Baker said. “Cables, old rope, ship propellers, lust a lot of junk. The
weapon could have slipped down amongst all that there, but it might be stuck close up to the surface
of it also. I‟ll certainly give her a try.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I looked at my watch. It was barely one o‟clock but it seemed like days since dawn. I sat down under
a tree to think while the Stick went off for hot dogs and Cokes. Then I remembered the tape recorder.
I took it out and rewound it. There was an hour‟s worth of tape, all of it full, none of it worth the
bother. The Stick came back and we listened as we ate.
We could hear Raines‟ voice, muttering, sometimes yelling in agony. Once it sounded like he was
giving football signals. Another time he said Doe‟s name very distinctly, but nothing before or after it.
Nothing else was intelligible.
I looked at Seaborn‟s window several times, but if he was there, he wasn‟t showing himself. Someone
had already placed a black wreath on the side door of Warehouse Three.
“What next?” the Stick asked.
“I‟m going to sit here for a while, while Baker plumbs the murky depths,” I said.
“It‟s swarthy depths,” said the Stick. “He‟s plumbing the swarthy depths.”
“Right, swarthy,” I said.
We watched Baker‟s air bubbles playing on the surface of the river while I mentally catalogued the
events of the previous five days. Ideas were forming slowly. There‟s a thin line between what is
logically true and what is fact, what can be proven and what can‟t. Most of my ideas were logically
true. Proving them was going to be touchy. I decided to go for broke, throw the long bomb, and break
up the ballgame. it was a risky plan but Stick loved it. I knew he would. It appealed to every perverse
bone in his body.
Facing Nose Graves had been nervy. Now it was time to try something rash.
68
MONEY TALK
It was nearly five when I went to the bank. It was closed but I had been watching the place for two
hours and I knew Seaborn was still there, Now I could see him, through the double glass doors, sitting
back in his office behind that massive desk, talking frantically into the phone.
I tapped on the front door. A bank guard, swaybacked by time, shuffled slowly up, tried to talk to me
through the door, and gave up. I could have driven to Key West in the time it took him to open the
door. He fiddled with his keys, took two or three stabs at the latch before he got the key in, arid finally
got the door open a sliver.
“We‟re closed,” he said, in a patronizing voice that sounded like it was squeezed from a balloon.
“Open at nine in the morning.”
“I‟ve got an appointment with Mr. Seaborn,” I said. I was getting almost casual about lying.
He looked me up and down, sizing me up. “I‟ll check with the president,” he said. “What was the
name?”
“Khmer. it still is.,,
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said.
He closed and locked the door and shuffled across a wide, cold, marble lobby to the office in the back.
I could see his stooped frame, silhouetted in Seaborn‟s doorway. Finally he turned and sine-footed
back to the door. He didn‟t have a fast bone in his body.
He opened it another sliver.
“The president says he‟s busy and—”
I had my wallet out and I flashed my buzzer as I shoved past the old gentleman. “The hell with
protocol,” I said. “This is business.”
Seaborn looked up wide-eyed when I entered the office. I closed the door behind me and leaned
against it. He looked out the window, then back at me, his face doing every number in the book as he
tried to change his expression from fear to anger.