“You always were a great wrestler, Beau.”
“Used to be, honey. Used to be.”
“I don’t think there’s a man in this town who could take you at the table, right this minute,” Cynthia said, shaking her head as if to dispute any doubters.
“I guess I should be strong, all those exercises you used to make me do.”
“You had to do them, Beau. The doctors said… this would happen, someday.”
“You can say ‘wheelchair,’ Cyn. The word doesn’t scare me. Not anymore, anyway. When I was a kid, I hated those braces I had to wear. Now I wish I had them back.”
“Beau, we don’t have to… do any of this. We could go somewhere else. Florida, maybe. We have enough money…”
“How long you think all that money would last us, we did that? Most of what we have, it’s not hard cash, Cyn. It’s tied up, in all kinds of things. The money that keeps you safe is the money that keeps coming in. Like an electric fence-the minute you turn off the power, anyone can just walk right through it.” Beaumont looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Power,” he said, quietly. “That’s what keeps us safe. And money, money coming in, that’s only a piece of it. The men, my men, the men who stand between me and everyone else, you think I could buy that with money?”
“Of course not. Even if you were down to your last penny, Luther would never-”
“Yeah, I know, honey. But Luther’s our own, like Sammy and Faron are. You can buy a man’s gun, but that doesn’t mean you bought his heart. Bodyguards, they’re nothing but bullet-catchers-and they know it. One day, you pay them to stand in front of you; another day, someone else could pay them to stand aside.
“You look at some of those countries in South America. Every time you turn around, they got a new guy in charge. You think, how could that happen when the boss, he’s got a whole army on his side? Easy. Somebody in that same army decides he wants to be the boss. You read between the lines, you can see it clear. The difference between a bodyguard and a hit man, it’s whose money he’s taking, that’s all.”
“Is that why Lymon-?”
“Lymon? No. He doesn’t have it in him to even think about taking over from me. He’s the kind of man who’s got to be with someone stronger. That’s why he’s always been with me. And that’s why he’s talking to the Irish guys, too. Hedging his bets.”
“But why would they trust someone like him? If he’d sell us out, why wouldn’t he-?”
“-do the same to them? He would. And they have to know it. Once a man betrays his own, no one else can ever trust him again. Lymon was a good man, once. But even back then, he never knew how to plan ahead.”
“Nobody can plan like you, Beau,” his sister said.
1959 September 29 Tuesday 11:53
“Welcome to the Claremont,” the desk clerk said, glancing down at where the guest had signed the register. “We have you in 809, Mr. Dett. That’s a corner room, deluxe, with shower and bath, for two weeks, is that correct?”
“Two weeks, that’s right,” the guest agreed.
“Let me get you some help with that luggage,” the clerk said, hitting a bell and hollering “Front!” simultaneously.
“Appreciate it,” Dett said.
“Would you like me to send a boy out to take care of your car, too, sir? We have parking around the back, complimentary for hotel guests.”
“No thanks,” Dett replied. “I didn’t drive. Came in on the plane from Cincinnati, then I grabbed a cab. I figured I’d rent a car while I’m in town. That’s the way I always do it.”
The desk clerk prided himself on being a superb judge of humanity, able to size up any new guest in minutes. He often regaled his mother with his Sherlockian deductions at the end of his shift. As he filled out the registration card, he covertly took stock.
The man on the other side of the counter was clean-shaven, the facial skin stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones. His dark-chestnut hair was cut almost military-short. His hands were well cared for, but two knuckles of his right hand were flattened, marked with white keloid starbursts. A simple steel watch with an expansion bracelet constituted his only jewelry. His dark-blue suit, although clearly well fitted, was what the clerk’s mother would have dismissed as “decent.” A gray felt fedora, a plain white shirt with a spread collar and button cuffs, and a black tie-a little wider than was currently fashionable-didn’t help with the diagnosis. Nor did the man’s luggage, an unmatched set of two suitcases, a Pullman and a smaller job, plus a generic attaché case.
A traveling salesman working the circuit would have made conversation about the weather, like a boxer sparring to keep in shape. A confidence man would be either flashier or more richly conservative in dress. A gambler would carry cash in the buttoned breast pocket of his shirt. A gunman would be wearing a shoulder holster. An itinerant preacher would have a Bible somewhere in sight. The clerk glanced down at the register, saw that Mr. Walker Dett had listed his business as “real estate,” whatever that meant.
Under other circumstances, the clerk would have asked a couple of questions-friendly questions, of course. But there was something about this man, some… stillness to him, that made the clerk nervously finger the single pearl anchored precisely in the center of his plum-colored necktie.
“Rufus will show you up to your room, sir,” the clerk said, as a handsome mahogany-colored man in his early thirties approached the front desk, dressed in a resplendent red bellhop’s uniform, with rows of gold braid across the chest and “Claremont” spelled in the same material on his round cap. “We hope you enjoy your stay with us. If there’s anything you need, just let us know.”
“Thanks,” said the guest. He picked up his attaché case, and pointed with his chin to the two suitcases on the floor. The bellhop hefted the two suitcases, said, “This way, sir,” and started toward the elevator.
In response to the bellhop’s ring, the elevator cage slowly descended. It was opened by an elderly man whose teakwood complexion was set off by a skullcap of tight gray curls. He was wearing a red blazer with the “Claremont” name and crest on the breast pocket.
“We need eight, Moses,” the bellhop told him. “The top floor,” he added, unnecessarily.
“Sure thing,” the elderly man said. “Welcome to the Claremont, suh,” he told the guest.
“Thank you,” Dett replied.
The cage came to a dead-level stop on the eighth floor, the operator working the lever so smoothly there was no sensation of movement.
“Very nice,” the guest said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Yes suh!” the operator said, flustered. He had been driving that elevator car for more than twenty years, and this was the first time anyone had ever taken note of his dextrous touch, much less complimented him on it.
The bellhop led the way down the hall. When he came to the last door on his left, he put down one of the suitcases and withdrew a key from his pants pocket in one fluid motion. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, stood aside for the guest to precede him, then picked up both suitcases and followed.
The bellhop opened the door to the bathroom, turned on the taps, opened the medicine cabinet. Then he walked officiously to the windows and drew back the curtains, clearly on a tour of inspection.
“This here’s one of our very best rooms,” he told the guest. “Over to the front side, it can get real noisy, with all the traffic in the street. Back here, it stays nice and quiet.”
“It’ll be fine,” the guest said, handing over a dollar.
The bellhop’s smile broadened. Most professional travelers generally thought a quarter was generous. The action men, the gamblers and the hustlers, they always went for halves. Only Hoosiers and honeymooners tipped dollars. Rufus, who knew an omen when he saw one, resolved to play 809 when the numbers runner came by that afternoon.