When his narrative ended, bringing him back to the very table at which they sat, at the bar by the pool of the El San Juan hotel, he stopped. Drawing conclusions was uncalled for. This was no time for contemplation. The information was here. She had it now. A decision was called for. Making demands was unnecessary. He remained silent. He just looked at her.
“I’m ready,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation. Then Tucker Poesy bent down and picked up something from beneath the table. She stood up, reared back, and tossed a strike, flinging something that flew over the patio, past the thatched-roof poolside bar, and landed somewhere on the beach, in the sand. She noticed a slightly bewildered take from Walter. “Peppershaker,” she said.
Tucker Poesy couldn’t get an appointment with Abby O’Malley. She did everything Walter told her to do. But it didn’t work. She said everything he said she should. But she couldn’t get past O’Malley’s secretary’s assistant. Leave your number, she was told, Ms. O’Malley’s secretary would get back to her. Fuck! Ms. O’Malley’s secretary. Not even Ms. O’Malley herself. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
“Tell Ms. O’Malley I’m calling for Walter Sherman,” she said the next time she called. “Tell her also, if she doesn’t talk to me now-and I mean right now-I won’t call again.”
“I’m sorry, but Ms. O’Malley…”
“Did you fucking understand me? You have a second job to go to when you lose this one? I’ll wait twenty seconds.” In half that time, Abby O’Malley picked up the phone.
“Abby O’Malley,” she said.
“Look,” said Tucker Poesy, still pissed. “My name is Helen Valdecanas.” That was the name she and Walter decided she would use. Tucker was no stranger to phony names. She used them all the time in her line of work. She thought this one had a certain lilt to it-Helen Valdecanas. “I have a message from Walter Sherman.”
“Well, I…”
“Meet me at a place called the Chelsea Royal Diner. It’s an old wooden building, painted white with green trim and the name all over it, on Route 9W about two miles outside Brattleboro, Vermont, going west. You can’t miss it. I’ll be there at four. I’ll recognize you. Come alone. If you don’t, you’ll make the trip for nothing.”
“Miss…”
“Valdecanas.”
“Yes, Miss Valdecanas, please tell Mr. Sherman…”
“You better leave soon. It’s a long drive.” With that Tucker Poesy hung up. She was sitting in her room when she made the call, a very comfortable room at that, at Toomey’s Inn. As she spoke, she was eating the marvelous breakfast that had been delivered only moments before. Norman and Ethel Toomey ran a delightful place. The accommodations were a little pricey, she thought, but the best part of it was the location, just down the road not far from the Chelsea Royal Diner. Tucker planned to go back to sleep after breakfast. These must be 750-count sheets, she was happy to note. In six hours she would know exactly where the Kennedys fit in this whole thing. If Walter Sherman was right-and she was ninety-nine percent sure he was, especially after her conversation with Professor Leon yesterday, at Marlboro College only fifteen minutes farther along on Route 9W-then Walter was some kind of guy. She was beginning to get over what he did to her.
Abby O’Malley showed up right on time. She was alone. No one had driven up to the diner in a half-hour and everyone was there who had been there when Tucker Poesy arrived. When Abby walked in, Tucker stood up and signaled to her. The two women shook hands, exchanged smiles and sat across from each other at a table by the window, looking out on Route 9W.
“You’re younger than I thought you would be,” said Abby. “I suppose you sound older when you’re angry.”
“I couldn’t get through to you. I couldn’t even get to your secretary. How do you do business like that?”
“I don’t do business. I guess, if you stop to think about it, I don’t talk to anyone I don’t already know.” Tucker Poesy frowned and shook her head as if to say, what the fuck is wrong with you, lady?
But instead she asked Abby, “Are you hungry? I’ve already eaten-great cheeseburgers here, with white cheddar cheese-but I suggest the macaroni and cheese-same cheese. Must be Vermont cheddar, wouldn’t you think?”
“I would. But coffee will do just fine.” Tucker hailed the waitress, ordered coffee for her guest and another cup of tea for herself. When they had their coffee and tea, and the privacy they were looking for, Tucker spoke.
“How much are you prepared to pay for the document?”
“Do you speak for Walter Sherman?”
“I do.”
“Or, do you speak for Harry Levine?”
“Does it matter? Walter has an offer for you-the document for the right amount of money. What’s it worth to you?”
“Miss Valdecanas, I’ve met Mr. Sherman. Have you?”
“What is this, some kind of joke?”
“Walter doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would sell the document, if he had it-which he most likely does not. And I am not an old lady with attention deficit disorder. I know Harry Levine is dead.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” asked Tucker Poesy. “This is a long way to come if you think I’m full of shit.”
“I didn’t say that. I merely asked who you represent. It can’t be Walter Sherman, or the late Harry Levine, for reasons I’ve just made clear. I’m sure you can see that I am aware that this promises to be a costly transaction. You can’t expect me to deal with-you’ll pardon me-just you. If you have it to offer, you must make a good faith sign by telling me-in a way I can verify-for whom you work. At that point we can do business, as you say.”
“So,” said Tucker, in a much more relaxed tone of voice than she’d been using, “you came here, all the way from Boston, hoping to buy Lacey’s document, from me.”
“For no other reason, Miss Valdecanas.”
“I don’t have it,” said Tucker.
Before leaving Puerto Rico, Walter put Tucker Poesy through a short course in understanding people as you talked to them, especially people under pressure. He explained how he noticed the tiny acne mark still there, just above her lip on the right side of her face, and how he knew she would glance at it, even if just for a split second, and how he was certain he could coldcock her with a right cross when she did.
“It was that bullshit about Denise, wasn’t it? You said she was behind me and I, stupidly, looked. That was it, sonofabitch!” she said.
“That didn’t help you, but that wasn’t it.”
“What was it?”
“Your breasts. When I told you, you had lovely breasts-you looked. Your eyelids gave you away,” he told her. She shook her head slightly, looking at him with what he took to be admiration. He thought he saw the beginnings of a smile.
They didn’t have much time. Walter concentrated on changes in respiration, lines around the mouth and eyes, expansion of the pupils, sweat starting at the hairline. She was using that lesson talking to Abby O’Malley. She decided Abby was telling the truth. She decided Abby was a buyer, and therefore, not an owner and therefore, not a killer. Just as Walter said she should, Tucker moved forward.
“You knew Walter and Levine were in Amsterdam.”
“I did,” said Abby.
“Sean Dooley was your man.”
“He was. Has Walter told you everything?”
“Well,” laughed Tucker, “one never knows, does one? Walter is weird.” Abby smiled and reached out to touch Tucker’s hand. It was a friendly gesture, some kind of sign they had become friends.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked.
“I’m not done yet,” said Tucker. “Did you know when Walter’s plane got in to Schiphol?”
“You mean in Amsterdam? No. No, I didn’t.”
“You learned he was in that apartment later?”