“He didn’t send it to me.”
“Then who did?”
“Tinker Burns sent it—indirectly. Tinker’s the one your lawyer hired in Paris to do some work for you here.”
“What kind of work was that?”
“Find out whether Steady Haynes had mentioned you in his memoirs. You’re still interested in the memoirs, aren’t you?”
“Not nearly as much as I was. I think that particular—what should I call it—problem?—”
“Problem’s good,” McCorkle said.
“I think that particular problem’s been resolved.”
“Sorry, Muriel,” Padillo said. “It’s just beginning.”
Granville Haynes, driving the old Cadillac, was nearing McCorkle’s Connecticut Avenue apartment building at 9:45 A.M. when Erika said, “I’ll be your slave for a year if you can work me into that meeting.”
Haynes smiled. “I would if I could.”
“But I’ll get a full play-by-play later?”
“Everything.”
“God, that’ll be interesting,” she said and leaned over to kiss him good-bye just as he stopped in front of the old gray building’s no-standing zone. The car behind honked immediately.
“Stick by the phone,” he said as she got out and turned to give the honker the finger, which produced yet another honk. Just as she closed the door, Haynes raised his voice to say, “And keep your doors locked.” She nodded that she understood and hurried toward the building.
Haynes continued down Connecticut, went around Dupont Circle and found a parking place in front of 1633 Connecticut next door to where the razed Junkanoo nightclub had once stood.
He dropped some coins into the meter, looked at his watch and saw that he had five minutes. He pulled the collar of his new topcoat up around his chin, stuck his hands down into its pockets and rediscovered McCorkle’s pistol. It felt cold to the touch and he saw no need to wrap his right hand around its butt.
Although he was exactly on time, Haynes was the last to arrive at the 10 A.M. meeting in the former senator’s office. Haynes thought the place had the leathery smell of a shoe store—or the way shoe stores smelled before they started selling so many athletic shoes.
Haynes shook hands with Hamilton Keyes first because it seemed to be part of some business ritual. He even shook hands with Howard Mott, who introduced him to the former senator. The senator had retained his professional politician’s quick-release handshake.
Haynes sat down in one of the three leather armchairs in front of the ornate desk. He sat next to Mott, who separated him from Hamilton Keyes. The senator, presiding from behind the desk, smiled a brief smile of commerce and said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we can begin.”
When no one objected, he continued. “We will entertain offers this morning for the copyright to a written work by the late Steadfast Haynes, entitled Mercenary Calling, said copyright being the property of Mr. Haynes’s son, Granville, who is the sole owner.”
He looked around for confirmation and received a nod from Howard Mott. “Papers for the consummation of the sale have been drawn up by Mr. Mott, who is Mr. Haynes’s attorney. I have examined them and find them to be in order. Any questions?”
There weren’t any. The senator nodded again and said, “There are two parties who plan to tender offers for the copyright. One is Mr. Keyes, representing Write-Away, Incorporated, of Miami, Florida. The other is a client of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.”
Haynes decided to nod. So did Hamilton Keyes.
“Very well. Since Mr. Keyes is present he is entitled to make the first offer.”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Keyes said.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the senator said. “I will now telephone the only other bidder to see whether Mr. Keyes’s bid will be topped.”
The senator pushed a single button on his telephone console. He listened just long enough for a phone to ring once somewhere before he said, “Seven hundred and fifty.” There had been no faint click of a phone call being answered, nor of a voice saying hello. The senator listened for a moment to what seemed to be a silent voice, looked up at Keyes and said, “Eight hundred thousand dollars is bid.”
Haynes smiled. Hamilton Keyes cleared his throat and said, “One million.”
The senator spoke into the phone. “One million has been bid.” He listened for a few seconds, nodded to the unseen caller and said, “I understand. Thank you.”
The senator slowly put the phone down, looked at Keyes and said, “Yours is the high bid, Mr. Keyes. Congratulations.”
Keyes nodded and Haynes said, “Where do I sign?”
Howard Mott produced five bound photocopied legal documents from his briefcase, placed them on the desk, offered Haynes a ballpoint pen and said, “Sign each document at the blue X on each last page.”
Haynes quickly signed his name five times and said, “When do I get my money?”
Hamilton Keyes withdrew a plain white No. 10 envelope from the breast pocket of his dark blue double-breasted suit and handed the unsealed envelope to the senator. The senator opened it and took out five checks, three of them gray, two of them green.
“I have here five cashier’s checks for two hundred thousand dollars apiece. Two of the checks are drawn on the Riggs National Bank and three on American Security.”
He put the checks back in the envelope and handed it to Howard Mott, who looked at each check briefly, then passed them on to Haynes. Using the pen Mott had lent him, Haynes endorsed the checks and handed them back to Mott.
“Here you go, Howard. I’ll tell you what to do with them later.” Haynes rose and shook his head a little regretfully. “Well, gentlemen, it would’ve made a hell of a picture.”
He smiled at the senator, winked at Keyes, turned and left the room.
There was a long silence until the senator said, “I think that boy might’ve at least said, ‘Much obliged,’ or ‘Kiss my ass.’ ”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Howard Mott.
Chapter 46
Haynes stood at a bank of three phones across the street from the faded tan brick building where the senator had his law offices and where the bachelor Speaker of the House of Representatives had long ago had an apartment. Haynes was turned around, facing the building, a phone to his ear, listening to Erika McCorkle relay a phoned-in report from Michael Padillo.
“It was her money?” Haynes said.
“Hers, not the spooks,” Erika said.
“Does Padillo believe it?”
“He’s ninety-nine percent convinced.”
“He’s coming out now,” Haynes said, hung up the phone and jay-walked across the street, catching up with Hamilton Keyes, who had stopped at the corner for a red light. Guessing that Keyes hated to be touched, Haynes grabbed his left elbow, ready to give its prime nerve an almost crippling squeeze—even through the dark blue cashmere topcoat.
“Let’s talk,” Haynes growled.
A startled Hamilton Keyes quickly recovered and, without turning, said, “About what?”
“Your wife and the three people she killed.”
That made Keyes turn and stare at Haynes. Haynes offered some clearly audible breathing through a slightly open mouth and also a noticeable collection of spittle in the mouth’s left corner.
“You’re really quite mad, aren’t you?” Keyes said.
“If you mean angry, pissed off and enraged, you fucking-A right I’m mad. Two of the three people she killed were friends of mine—my oldest friends. You got a car?”
Keyes tore his elbow loose from Haynes’s grasp, rubbed it and said, “Up the street.”
“Let’s go take us a ride and have us a talk then. Topic A will be the Undean memo.”