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“You don’t think we’re very important, do you?”

“No,” I said. “Not very.”

Carmingler nodded and rose. He took out his pipe, looked at it, and then replaced it in his coat pocket. He studied me for several moments as if trying to decide how to say what I knew that he had to say. “I’m sorry,” he finally said and sounded as if he might really mean it, if he could ever mean anything. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “but you’re not very important to us either.”

Chapter 38

I had breakfast with Victor Orcutt the next morning. Or rather he had breakfast while I nursed a hangover, the rotten kind that makes everything taste yellow, even coffee and tomato juice.

“Breakfast is really the only hotel food that I can abide,” Victor Orcutt said, and I nodded my agreement or understanding or whatever it was. I didn’t yet feel like talking.

“Do you like the South, Mr. Dye? I don’t think I’ve ever asked,”

“It’s all right,” I said.

“There’s something about it that fascinates and repels me at the same time.”

“It affects a lot of people like that, I’ve heard.”

“Really? Does it affect you that way?”

“No.”

“Of course, Swankerton isn’t really the South.”

“It isn’t?”

“Well, it’s in the South, but it’s right on the Gulf and it gets all the traffic from New Orleans and Texas and Florida and those places. No, to be in the South, the real South, you have to go about forty miles north of Swankerton.”

I decided to try a cigarette.

“Swankerton is such an ugly name for a city, I think,” Orcutt said, spooning some marmalade on to his toast, which still looked warm as did his link sausage and scrambled eggs. He must have had a different room waiter.

“It also has an unfortunate nickname,” I said and felt as if I were prattling.

“You mean Chancre Town? Isn’t that perfectly ghastly?”

“Terrible.”

“They have such beautiful names down here. Natchez-under-the-Hill. That’s really nice. So is Pascagoula.”

“They’re in Mississippi.”

“But they’re still beautiful names. So is Mississippi. It’s from the Chippewa and they pronounced it more like mici-zibi.” He spelled it for me. “It means large river.”

I put out my cigarette after the third puff.

“You sure you won’t have a piece of toast?” Orcutt asked.

“No, thank you.”

“I called New York and Washington yesterday,” he said.

“Hmmm,” I said to indicate interest.

“I learned that magazine story is definitely scheduled and that any amount of pressure has been brought to have it killed. I also learned that Senator Simon is adamant about making his speech.”

“I heard the same thing.”

“You’re going to bear the brunt of it, you know.”

“I know.”

“Does it bother you? I know that’s such a personal question.”

“It’s what I’m being paid for.”

“I do hope Homer will bear up under it.”

“He’ll be all right,” I said. “He did fine yesterday.”

“I heard! He really seemed to enjoy himself. Let’s see, you have your meeting with Luccarella this morning, right?”

“At ten,” I said.

“I’d so like to be there.”

“I’ll try to give you a spicier report.”

“Do. Please. Incidentally, I had a most curious call this morning.”

“Who?”

“Frank Mouton, the druggist.”

“Our candidate for the City Council?”

“The same. You did turn that evidence of his drug-peddling activities over to Lynch, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, Mouton was weeping and sobbing into the phone. He kept telling me how he had betrayed the Clean Government Association because Lynch had forced him to.”

“That was the plan,” I said.

“But then he stopped crying and started to shout. He said that he knew what we were up to, that we were out to ruin him.”

“He’s right. Or at least he was.”

“He really sounded disturbed, poor man. He said Lynch had told him the entire story.”

“It probably was the last thing Lynch did before he left town.”

“Mouton was almost hysterical.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Orcutt shook his head. “No. He said that God would take care of me.

“Well, Mouton is a deacon in his church.”

“That’s right,” Orcutt said. “I’d almost forgotten. The First Methodist.”

At three minutes to ten Homer Necessary came by Orcutt’s room for me and we rode the elevator down to the sixth floor of the hotel. We stopped in front of 622 and Necessary tugged at his new uniform. “This is gonna be interesting,” he said.

“Let’s hope that’s all it is,” I said and knocked on the door.

It was once again opened by Shorty and the baldheaded man who knew about bumblebees. “Come on in,” the baldheaded man said. We went in and once again they steered from the rear.

Luccarella had a suite, not quite as large as Orcutt’s, and his two human sheepdogs nudged us into the living room where Luccarella and Samuels, the lawyer, sat side by side on a couch. Two large closed briefcases rested on a low coffee table that was within handy reach of both.

Luccarella looked at his watch when we came in. “You’re right on time,” he said. “That’s a good sign. I like doing business with people who’re on time.”

“This is Chief Necessary,” I said. “Mr. Luccarella and Mr. Samuels who is his attorney.” Necessary shook hands with both of them.

“Sit down, sit down,” Luccarella said, making vague gestures toward a couple of chairs that were drawn up to the coffee table. We sat down. “You want some coffee?” he said.

“You wanta drink?”

“I’ll take a drink,” I said and drew a disapproving glance from Samuels, who apparently didn’t think much of those who drink in the morning. I didn’t feel that I could stand to care what he thought.

“How about you, Chief?” Luccarella said.

“Scotch and water,” Necessary said.

“Dye?”

“That’s fine.”

Luccarella jerked his head at Shorty. “Fix them,” he said.

After Shorty mixed and served the drinks, he moved over to help the baldheaded man lean against a wall. “Go on, beat it,” Luccarella snapped at them. “And close the door behind you.”

When they had gone, Luccarella leaned back on the couch and smiled with his gray teeth. “Heard a lot about you, Chief Necessary.”

“That right?”

“You got a good reputation up North. Reputation of a man you can do business with.”

“I like a quiet town,” Necessary said, “where everything fits in place.”

“You’ve sort of quieted this town down,” Luccarella said.

“It could get even quieter.”

“I think I sort of understand you,” Luccarella said.

Necessary smiled. “I hope so.”

Samuels cleared his throat. “Shall we go over the books?”

“We ain’t got no deal yet. What do you mean go over the books? We go over the books when we got a deal.” Luccarella was growing excited again,

“I just thought—”

“Don’t think,” Luccarella said sourly.

“Let’s talk deal, Luccarella,” Necessary said.

“There,” Luccarella said to Samuels. “You see what I mean. We make a deal and then we look at the books.” He waved a hand at Necessary. “Go ahead, Chief. I hear you like to talk for yourself.”

Necessary lit one of his Camels and blew some smoke at the fourth gold button on his uniform. “Before we do, I thought I’d mention something and if it offends you, I’m sorry.”