“You just had to know how to handle her, that’s all. I never had any trouble with her.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a disposable butane lighter, then fired it up and relit the cigar with the three-inch-long flame. He inhaled deeply, taking the smoke into his chest like it was a cigarette, then sighed as he exhaled a stream of blue toward the ceiling. Iron lungs, I guess.
I thought for a moment. “So if you were drawing up a list, you’d put Dwight Parmenter and Mike Pinkleton at the top?”
“Yeah, that’d have to be it. You can take it to the bank, bud; if Slim Gibson didn’t kill Rebecca, then one of them two others did.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me that might lead somewhere?”
He thought for a second. “Nope, that’s about it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I guess that’s all I need for now. Like I say, I’m just following a trail to see where it goes. Thanks for helping me out. Can I call you again if I need anything else?”
“Hey, bud, you call me anytime. Grab one of those cards off the desk. It’s got my home phone number. And you be careful, you hear? Anybody that can beat the dogshit out of somebody as hard as he did Rebecca ain’t going to be shy about doing it again.”
“That’s already occurred to me,” I said.
He didn’t look like he was going to make any attempt to crawl out of that chair, and I didn’t feel like leaning across his desk through the smoke to beg for a hand-shake. I stood up and pocketed one of his cards, then turned for the door. As I opened it I caught a glimpse of him reaching for the remote control. He punched a button, and this time the room was filled with a raw, rocking beat that had the momentum of a runaway locomotive.
When I closed the door, the roar inside Mac Ford’s office was muffled almost completely. Alvy Barnes sat at her desk, typing something into a computer. She turned and smiled at me.
“Get everything you need?”
“For the time being,” I said.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of business cards. “I meant to give him one of these. Can I leave it with you?”
“Sure.”
“There’s another one there. You keep it. Like I told Mac, I’m just trying to find out anything that will lead me to the truth. If you think of anything that might help, will you give me a call, too?”
She brushed the two cards into the center of her desk drawer. “Glad to.”
“Thanks. It was good to see you again,” I said, turning to leave. “By the way, how does he get any work done in there with all that noise?”
Alvy shook her head. “Beats me. I’ve been working here two years, and he does that every day. He has a great mind, but it works in mysterious ways.”
I walked down the long hallway alone, then down the stairs. Next to the receptionist’s desk, I stopped and listened. I was directly below Mac Ford’s office. Amazing, I thought, these old buildings are really solid.
Outside, I settled into the Mazda and managed to get it cranked up. The traffic on Music Row was backed up so far I couldn’t get out of the parking lot, so I turned and went down the driveway and into the alley, figuring I’d exit out onto a side street. Behind Mac Ford’s building, like a lot of buildings on the Row, there was a private parking lot carved out of what had once been somebody’s backyard. Signs warned strangers not to park and threatened towing to Siberia. Other signs marked off slots by name. The center parking space, the one closest to the back entrance of the building, had a sign that read RESERVED: MAC FORD.
A silver Rolls-Royce was parked in the slot. I don’t know much about Rolls-Royces, only that they cost a hell of a lot and are real nice to look at. I don’t know what year or model this one was, but I recognized the insignia.
On the back of the Rolls was a mounted vanity plate: TRUSNO1. It took me a second to figure it out.
Trust no one.
My office building seemed especially dusty and seedy in the bright morning light, although damn little sunshine managed to filter in. Down the hall on the first floor, a door opened and a fat, balding man with thick glasses and khaki pants pulled up to his sternum looked out into the hallway. From under his right armpit, a shoulder holster with a Smith amp; Wesson .38 dangled loosely.
“Hi, Mr. Porter,” I said as I passed.
“Hello,” he said, ducking back into his office and closing the door. Mr. Porter was a gem dealer, had been in the building since the late Forties, and had seen life evolve from Ozzie and Harriet days until the time when he had to carry a pistol inside his own office. I’d seen him maybe three times since I’d rented my office. He never seemed to have any customers, never seemed to leave the place. I wondered if he lived there.
I trotted up the stairs to the second floor and turned the corner toward my office, then stopped. I reversed direction and went down to the end of the hallway and rapped on Slim and Ray’s office door.
There was no answer, no sound from inside, so I went back to my office. Occupancy in the building had dropped off lately, with our two offices the only ones rented on the second floor. Maybe I should move, I thought. This old building wasn’t exactly the most prestigious address in the city. On the other hand, it was one of the most affordable.
I unlocked my door and went in. The red light on my answering machine was blinking away. I pulled my coat off and hit the playback button, then grabbed a pencil to write down numbers.
Six messages; what a pain.
Lonnie was number one. “Just checking in,” he said, followed by a message from Marsha saying she’d tried to reach me at home last night and was I okay? Ray was number three, asking me to call him at home. Number four was a hang-up. Five was Mrs. Hawkins saying she hadn’t seen me home in a couple of days and was I okay?
Blast, I thought, I could use a message from Phil Anderson about my check from the insurance company, not to mention a new client every now and then.
Message number six began with silence and I thought it was another hang-up, then an old familiar voice came on.
“Nice place you stayed at last night, you son of a bitch. Trying to hide from me? That it? Well, you keep right on trying, bubba, ’cause there ain’t nowhere you gonna hide from me. You got that? Nowhere.”
I felt myself turning cold from the inside out, and like a kneecapped figure skater training for the Olympics, I found myself asking the age-old question.
Why me?
I began working my way down the list, first with an answering-machine message to Mrs. Hawkins to reassure her I was still around. I resisted the urge to think she was only keeping track of a tenant. She was a genuinely sweet old lady who seemed to consider me more of an adopted son than a paying customer. Then I tried Lonnie’s number, with no luck there, either, and left a quick message telling him I’d drop by that night on my way home if he was around.
I tried once again to get Phil Anderson on the phone at the insurance company, but this time even the secretary got a little smart with me.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available,” she said as soon as I identified myself. I felt her unspoken at least not to you.
“When will he be available?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, just the slightest little teaspoon of screw you in her voice.
“Would you mind checking?”
“I can’t disturb him. He’s in conference. If you’d like to leave a message …”
Yeah, I thought, I’d like to leave him a message. How about: Fuck you, Phil. Strong letter to follow.
“If you’d just tell him I called,” I said.
“I’ll give him the message.” Click.
I growled out loud, then dialed Ray’s number at home. It rang four times and an answering machine came on. Impatient and tired of having the phone glued to my ear, I started to hang up, then decided to at least leave a courtesy message.