“So far.”
“Well, I fly over for the burial. And what gets me is that Steady knew hundreds and hundreds of people, but nobody shows up at Arlington except me, Granny, Isabelle and this old semi-retired spook, Gilbert Undean. So Isabelle, Granny and me have lunch and Isabelle starts talking about how she’d helped Steady write his memoirs. But I can’t talk to her in front of Granny and Padillo—”
“You ate at Mac’s Place,” Letty Melon said. “How sweet. I think Steady practically lived there for a time after we split.”
Burns ignored the interruption. “Anyway, an hour or two later I go in this limo I rented out to Isabelle’s apartment to see if I can talk her into letting me read the thing. Steady’s book. I go up to her floor, knock on her door, no answer. So I try the door and it opens. I go in and find her stark naked in the bathtub, wrists and ankles wired, drowned. Probably.”
Letty Melon looked away from Burns and toward the far end of the big room. “How was the Undean guy killed?”
“Shot.”
She turned back to him. “You also found him, right?”
Burns nodded. “Looks kinda funny, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
“I can’t help how it looks. All I can do is keep nosing around, trying to find out who’s got Steady’s book.”
“Maybe I should get up and poke the fire, Tinker. Isn’t that what people in movies do when they’re about to deliver the bad news?”
Burns thought about it. “Yeah, I guess I’ve seen a lot of fire-poking in movies. You got some bad news, Letty?”
Instead of answering his question, she said, “Right after Steady died, the next day, in fact, I got a call from one of our few mutual friends who told me Steady’d been quietly spreading the word around Washington that he’d written his memoirs. So I asked this mutual friend, a rather silly little bitch, ‘Why tell me?’ She said she just thought I might be curious about how Steady’d treated me in his book. I told her I didn’t give a damn and hung up.”
“But you gave a real big damn, right?”
“Sure I did. Mostly because he was such a liar.”
“He could dream ’em up all right,” Burns said with obvious admiration.
“The day after his burial,” she said, “I drove out to our — well, his place near Berryville. I still had a key. I went in and found a manuscript in the dining room. He and his girlfriend had turned it into an office of sorts. The manuscript was in a typewriter-paper box. I only read the title page, ‘Mercenary Calling,’ then his name and a line at the bottom about the copyright. I put the lid back on the box and took it out to my truck. After that I came back in and went into the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee. A couple of guys with paper sacks over their heads jumped me, tied me up, gagged me and locked me in a little dark closet where I’d still be if Erika McCorkle and Granville hadn’t shown up.”
“The McCorkle kid was with Granny, huh?” Burns said, sounding interested. “You were lucky.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about the two guys who jumped me, would you, Tinker?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Maybe who hired them?”
“What makes you think somebody hired ’em?”
“Because they didn’t steal anything.”
Burns considered her logic, gave it a grudging nod of agreement and said, “You still got it?”
“The manuscript? Of course.”
Burns edged forward, his excitement partially concealed by an earnest expression. “Letty, I’d really appreciate it if I could just look through it real quick.”
“See whether your friend is mentioned?”
“Right. It won’t take long.”
Letty Melon smiled for the first time. “No, it probably won’t.”
She rose and began walking toward a wall of books at the room’s far end. Burns rose and followed. In front of the books was a black walnut library table. On it was a white Keebord stationery box. Letty Melon indicated the box and said, “Help yourself.”
Burns stared at the box, picked it up gently, gave it a little shake, put it down and carefully removed its lid. He bent over slightly to read the title page, then lifted out all 386 pages and placed them almost reverently on the table. After turning the title page facedown on the table, he read the Housman lines, turned them facedown, read the dedication to Granville Haynes, put it facedown on top of the other pages and began reading Chapter One. He read its two lines, stopped, read them again and slowly turned his head to glare at a now grinning Letty Melon.
Burns opened his mouth, as if to say something, changed his mind and, his face now turning a dangerous red, flipped quickly through the remaining blank pages. It was then that he straightened, turned and bellowed his question: “Where the fuck is it, Letty?”
“You’re looking at it, Tinker, just as I found it. A fake manuscript. If you want it, it’s all yours.”
Tinker Burns turned back to the four-inch-high stack of mostly blank pages and, after arranging them neatly, put them back in the box and replaced the lid. He picked up the box, cradled it against his chest and looked around the room, as if trying to remember where he’d left his coat.
“I’ll talk to Granny,” he said, more to himself than to Letty Melon. “He’s gotta know where it is.”
“What if there isn’t any book?” she said. “What if it’s Steady’s farewell hoax? His last lie?”
He stared at her long enough for his face to resume its normal tanned and weathered look. “Then a couple of people died for nothing, didn’t they?”
Twenty-nine
Granville Haynes, propped up in bed on pillows and wearing only Jockey shorts, looked up from a New York Times feature about Hollywood agents to watch a nude Erika McCorkle stroll out of the bathroom, cross to the wheeled room-service table and pop a cold French-fried potato into her mouth. From there she went to the closet to slip on a long white terry-cloth robe that the Willard Hotel gently warned guests they would be billed for if they stole it.
While tying the robe’s belt, she said, “That was the best seventeen-dollar-plus-tip cheeseburger I ever ate.”
A mildly bawdy response occurred to Haynes but before he could utter it the phone rang. He picked it up, said hello and heard a pleasant baritone voice ask, “Mr. Haynes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m replacing Gilbert Undean.”
“Not in the morgue, I trust.”
There was a hesitation, not quite long enough to be considered a pause, before the baritone said, “Then you’ve heard?”
“I’ve heard.”
“On the radio?”
“I haven’t listened to a radio recently.”
“Perhaps from Mr. Padillo then? Or even from Mr. Mott, who, I understand, is now representing Tinker Burns.”
“Since you’re dropping names, why not drop yours?”
“Not over the phone,” the baritone said. “I was hoping you’d come down to the lobby and join me for a drink.”
“We can drink up here.”
“You’re asking me up?”
“I’m not asking you to do anything, Ace. But if we talk, we talk up here in front of a witness.”
“Out of the question.”
“Too bad,” Haynes said and hung up.
Erika McCorkle said, “Who the hell was that?”
Haynes shook his head and held up a warning hand. The telephone rang a moment later. He answered it with, “Well?”
“Who’s your witness?” the baritone asked.
“Think of her as my fiancée,” Haynes said, causing Erika McCorkle to chuckle.
“Her name?”
“Introductions aren’t necessary. You know who I am but I don’t know who you are. That gives you the advantage.”
“A very slight one.”
“Take what you can get.”