So what was going on here?
«I think I’ve said enough,» Myron said.
Bradford took a long pull on his lemonade glass, draining it. He stirred the pitcher and poured himself another. He gestured toward Myron’s glass. Myron shook him off. Both men settled back.
«I would like to hire you,» Bradford said.
Myron tried a smile. «As?»
«An adviser of sorts. Security, perhaps. I want to hire you to keep me up to date on your investigation. Hell, I have enough morons on the payroll in charge of damage control. Who better than the inside man? You’ll be able to prepare me for a potential scandal. What do you say?»
«I think I’ll pass.»
«Don’t be so hasty,» Bradford said. «I will pledge my cooperation as well as that of my staff.»
«Right. And if something bad turns up, you squash it.»
«I won’t deny that I’ll be interested in making sure the facts are put in the proper light.»
«Or shade.»
He smiled. «You’re not keeping your eyes on the prize, Myron. Your client is not interested in me or my political career. She is interested in finding her mother. I’d like to help.»
«Sure you would. After all, helping people is why you got into politics in the first place.»
Bradford shook his head. «I’m making you a serious offer, and you choose to be glib.»
«It’s not that.» Time to shift the momentum again. Myron chose his words carefully. «Even if I wanted to,» he said, «I can’t.»
«Why not?»
«I mentioned a second condition before.»
Bradford put a finger to his lips. «So you did.»
«I already work for Brenda Slaughter. She must remain my primary concern in this matter.»
Bradford put his hand behind his neck. Relaxed. «Yes, of course.»
«You read the papers. The police think she did it.»
«Well, you’ll have to admit,» Bradford said, «she makes a good suspect.»
«Maybe. But if they arrest her, I’ll have to act in her best interest.» Myron looked straight at him. «That means I’ll have to toss out any information that will lead the police to look at other potential suspects.»
Bradford smiled. He saw where this was going. «Including me.»
Myron turned both palms up and shrugged. «What choice would I have? My client must come first.» Slight hesitation. «But of course none of that will occur if Brenda Slaughter remains free.»
Still the smile. «Ah,» Bradford said.
Myron kept still.
Bradford sat up and put up both hands in stop position. «Say no more.»
Myron didn’t.
«It’ll be dealt with.» Bradford checked his watch. «Now I must get dressed. Campaign obligations.»
They both rose. Bradford stuck out his hand. Myron shook it. Bradford had not come clean, but Myron had «not expected him to. They’d both learned a bit here. Myron was not sure who had gotten the better of the deal. But the first rule of any negotiation is not to be a pig. If you just keep taking, it will backfire in the long run.
Still he wondered.
«Good-bye,» Bradford said, still shaking the hand. «I do hope you’ll keep me up to date on your progress.»
The two men released their grips. Myron looked at Bradford. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking:
«Do you know my father?»
Bradford angled his head and smiled. «Did he tell you that?»
«No. Your friend Sam mentioned it.»
«Sam has worked for me a long time.»
«I didn’t ask about Sam. I asked about my father.»
Mattius opened the door. Bradford motioned to it.
«Why don’t you ask your father, Myron? Maybe it will help clarify the situation.»
23
As Mattius the Manservant led Myron back down the long corridor, the same two words kept rocking through Myron’s bone-dry skulclass="underline"
My father?
Myron searched for a memory, a casual mention of the Bradford name in the house, a political tete-a-tete surrounding Livingston’s most prominent resident. Nothing came to him.
So how did Bradford know his father?
Big Guy Mario and Skinny Sam were in the foyer. Mario stamped back and forth as though the very floor had pissed him off. His arms and hands gestured with the subtlety of a Jerry Lewis flick. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke would have been power-shooting out of both ears.
Skinny Sam pulled on a Marlboro, leaning against the banister like Sinatra waiting for Dino. Sam had that ease. Like Win. Myron could engage in violence, and he was good at it, but there were adrenal spikes and tingling legs and postcombat cold sweats when he did so. That was normal, of course. Only a rare few had the ability to disconnect, to remain calm in the eye, to view the outbursts in slow motion.
Big Guy Mario stormed toward Myron. His fists were clenched at his sides. His face was contorted like it’d been pressed up against a glass door. «You’re dead, asshole. You hear me? Dead. Dead and buried. I’m gonna take you outside and-»
Myron snapped up the knee again. And again it found its target. Big Dope Mario landed hard on the cool marble and thrashed around like a dying fish.
«Today’s friendly tip,» Myron said. «A protective cup is a worthwhile investment, though not as a drinking receptacle.»
Myron looked over at Sam. Sam still rested on the banister. He took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke ease out of his nostrils.
«New guy,» Sam said in way of explanation.
Myron nodded.
«Sometimes you just want to scare stupid people,» Sam said. «Stupid people are scared by big muscles.» Another drag. «But don’t let his incompetence get you cocky.»
Myron looked down. He was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself and shook his head. Cocky, a knee in the balls.
Too easy.
Win waited by Myron’s car. He was bent slightly at the waist, practicing his golf swing. He did not have a club or a ball, of course. Remember blasting rock music and jumping on your bed and playing air guitar? Golfers do the same thing. They hear some internal sounds of nature, step on imaginary first tees, and swing air clubs. Air woods usually. Sometimes, when they want more control, they take air irons out of their air bags. And like teens with air guitars, golfers like to watch themselves in mirrors. Win, for example, often checks out his reflection in store windows. He stops on the sidewalk, makes sure his grip is right, checks his backswing, recocks his wrists, whatever.
«Win?»
«A moment.»
Win had repositioned Myron’s passenger side mirror for a better full-body view. He stopped mid-swing, spotted something in the reflection, frowned.
«Remember,» Myron said. «Objects in the mirror may appear smaller than they are.»
Win ignored him. He readdressed the, uh, ball, selected an air sand wedge, and tried a little air chip. From the look on Win’s face the, uh, ball landed on the green and rolled within three feet of the cup. Win smiled and put up a hand to acknowledge the, uh, appreciative crowd.
Golfers.
«How did you get here so fast?» Myron asked.
«Batcopter.»
Lock-Horne Securities had a helicopter and a landing pad on the roof. Win had probably flown to a nearby field and jogged over.
«So you heard everything?»
Win nodded.
«What do you think?»
«Wasteful,» Win said.
«Right, I should have shot him in the knee.»
«Well, yes, there is that. But in this instance I am referring to the entire matter.»
«Meaning?»
«Meaning that Arthur Bradford may be on to something. You are not keeping your eyes on the prize.»
«And what is the prize?»
Win smiled. «Exactly.»
Myron nodded. «Yet again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.»
He unlocked the car doors, and the two men slid into their seats. The leatherette was hot from the sun. The air conditioner sputtered out something close to warm spit.