He looked at the note again, just to be sure. "Dear Mr. McDeere: Please meet me at Ernie's Lounge on Winchester tonight-late. It's about Eddie Lomax. Very important. Tammy Hemphill, his secretary."
The note had been tacked on the door to the kitchen when he arrived home. He remembered her from the one visit to Eddie's office, back in November. He remembered the tight leather skirt, huge breasts, bleached hair, red sticky lips and smoke billowing from her nose. And he remembered the story about her husband, Elvis.
The door opened without incident, and he slid inside. A row of pool tables covered the left half of the room. Through the darkness and black smoke, he could make out a small dance floor in the rear. To the right was a long saloon-type bar crowded with cowboys and cowgirls, all drinking Bud longnecks. No one seemed to notice him. He walked quickly to the end of the bar and slid onto the stool. "Bud longneck," he told the bartender.
Tammy arrived before the beer. She was sitting and waiting on a crowded bench by the pool tables. She wore tight washed jeans, faded denim shirt and kinky red high-heels. The hair had just received a fresh bleaching.
"Thanks for coming," she said into his face. "I've been waiting for four hours. I knew of no other way to find you."
Mitch nodded and smiled as if to say, "It's okay. You did the right thing."
"What's up?" he said.
She looked around. "We need, to talk, but not here."
"Where do you suggest?"
"Could we maybe drive around?"
"Sure, but not in my car. It, uh, it may not be a good idea."
"I've got a car. It's old, but it'll do."
Mitch paid for the beer and followed her to the door. A cowpoke sitting near the door said, "Getta loada this. Guy shows up with a suit and picks her up in thirty seconds." Mitch smiled at him and hurried out the door. Dwarfed in a row of massive mud-eating machinery was a well-worn Volkswagen Rabbit. She unlocked it, and Mitch doubled over and squeezed into the cluttered seat. She pumped the accelerator five times and turned the key. Mitch held his breath until it started.
"Where would you like to go?" she asked.
Where we can't be seen, Mitch thought. "You're driving."
"You're married, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes, and my husband would not understand this situation right here. That's why I chose that dump back there. We never go there."
She said this as if she and her husband were discriminating critics of dark redneck dives.
"I don't think my wife would understand either. She's out of town, though."
Tammy drove in the direction of the airport. "I've got an idea," she said. She clutched the steering wheel tightly and spoke nervously.
"What's on your mind?" Mitch asked.
"Well, you heard about Eddie."
"Yes."
"When did you last see him?"
"We met ten days or so before Christmas. It was sort of a secret meeting."
"That's what I thought. He kept no records of the work he was doing for you. Said you wanted it that way. He didn't tell me much. But me and Eddie, well, we, uh, we were . . . close."
Mitch could think of no response.
"I mean, we were very close. Know what I mean?"
Mitch grunted and sipped the longneck.
"And he told me things I guess he wasn't supposed to tell me. Said you had a real strange case, that some lawyers in your firm had died under suspicious circumstances. And that you always thought somebody was following and listening. That's pretty weird for a law firm."
So much for the confidentiality, thought Mitch. "That it is."
She turned, made the exit to the airport and headed for the acres of parked cars.
"And after he finished his work for you, he told me once, just once, in bed, that he thought he was being followed. This was three days before Christmas. And I asked him who it was. He said he didn't know, but mentioned your case and something about it was probably related to the same people who were following you. He didn't say much."
She parked in the short-term section near the terminal.
"Who else would follow him?" Mitch asked.
"No one. He was a good investigator who left no trail. I mean, he was an ex-cop and an ex-con. He was very street-smart. He got paid to follow people and collect dirt. No one followed him. Never."
"So who killed him?"
"Whoever was following him. The paper made like he got caught snooping on some rich guy and was wasted. It's not true."
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, she produced a filter-tip 1000 and shot a flame at the end. Mitch rolled down the window.
"Mind if I smoke?" she asked.
"No, just blow it that way," he said, pointing to her window.
"Anyway, I'm scared. Eddie was convinced the people following you are extremely dangerous and extremely smart. Very sophisticated, was what he said. And if they killed him, what about me? Maybe they think I know something. I haven't been to the office since the day he was killed. Don't plan to go back."
"I wouldn't if I were you."
"I'm not stupid. I worked for him for two years and learned a lot. There's a lot of nuts out there. We saw all kinds."
"How did they shoot him?"
"He's got a friend in Homicide. Guy told me confidentially that Eddie got hit three times in the back of the head, point-blank range, with a .22 pistol. And they don't have a clue. He told me it was a very clean, professional job."
Mitch finished the longneck and laid the bottle on the floorboard with a half dozen empty beer cans. A very clean, professional job.
"It doesn't make sense," she repeated. "I mean, how could anyone sneak up behind Eddie, somehow get in the back seat and shoot him three times in the back of the head? And he wasn't even supposed to be there."
"Maybe he fell asleep and they ambushed him."
"No. He took all kinds of speed when he worked late at night. Stayed wired."
"Are there any records at the oflice?"
"You mean about you?"
"Yeah, about me."
"I doubt it. I never saw nothing in writing. He said you wanted it that way."
"That's right," Mitch said with relief.
They watched a 727 lift off to the north. The parking lot vibrated.
"I'm really scared, Mitch. Can I call you Mitch?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I think he got killed because of the work he did for you. That's all it could be. And if they'd kill him because he knew something, they probably assume I know it too. What do you think?"
"I wouldn't take any chances."
"I might disappear for a while. My husband does a little nightclub work, and we can get mobile if we have to. I haven't told him all this, but I guess I have to. What do you think?"
"Where would you go?"
"Little Rock, St. Louis, Nashville. He's laid off, so we can move around, I guess." Her words trailed off. She lit another one.
A very clean, professional job, Mitch repeated to himself. He glanced at her and noticed a small tear on her cheek. She was not ugly, but the years in lounges and nightclubs were taking their toll. Her features were strong, and minus the bleach and heavy makeup she would be somewhat attractive for her age. About forty, he guessed.
She took a mighty drag and sent a cloud of smoke surging from the Rabbit. "I guess we're in the same boat, aren't we? I mean, they're after both of us. They've killed all those lawyers, now Eddie, and I guess we're next."
Don't hold back, baby, just blurt it out. "Look, let's do this. We need to keep in touch. You can't call me on the phone, and we can't be seen together. My wife knows everything, and I'll tell her about this little meeting. Don't worry about her. Once a week, write me a note and tell me where you are. What's your mother's name?"
"Doris."
"Good. That's your code name. Sign the name Doris on anything you send me."
"Do they read your mail too?"