First Gravedigger (14 page)

Suddenly Charlie hopped up with that newfound energy of his. He stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, old buddy. And good luck.”

I shook his hand, remembering the last time we'd gone through the ritual. “Goodbye, Charlie. Stay healthy.”

“Count on it.” He turned and walked away with the jaunty air of a man who knows he's got the world on a string. He lifted a hand without turning his head—a farewell salute. I hoped to god that was the last time I'd ever see my old buddy Charlie Bates.

The yak was staring at me with a baleful eye. Suddenly I was cold—cold right down to my bones. I hurried to the parking lot and drove back to the gallery in a daze, miraculously escaping getting killed on the way.

June Murray looked up from her desk as I passed through, saw the gaudy package under my arm, and said brightly, “Somebody give you a present?”

“No calls, June.” I closed the door and put the package on the cherrywood table. Then I sat down and dropped my head into my hands.

Charlie Bates a hit man! Contract killers were tall men who wore black suits and tinted glasses and never spoke much. They were cool and smart and taciturn—the exact opposite of Charlie Bates. This must be the most fantastic piece of miscasting since Richard Nixon was elected President. How had he managed it? How had Charlie Bates suddenly stood up and taken control of his life? And what a way to take control!

All the old clichés about sex and violence came rushing to mind. Charlie had had two loaded guns, one in his hand and one in his pants. Spurting out life and death, feeling like God. Just one more nothing little man who'd found his courage in a gun. And even that consolation he hadn't discovered for himself; on his own Charlie had given up, he'd been ready to die. He could have gone to his grave without ever knowing about the kicks and the money and the feeling of omnipotence a gun could give him.

And I'd been the one who put the gun in his hand.

In a way, Charlie had gone through with his self-destructive intentions after all. It had been a symbolic suicide; he'd had to kill off the old Charlie Bates before the new one could come into being.
I was reborn
, he'd said, thinking he was making a joke. But that was exactly what had happened—he'd been born again with a vigor the God-exploiters themselves would have envied. And that made me a kind of midwife, I guess. It was a totally different Charlie I'd helped bring into the world—a man who acted instead of one who sat back waiting for things to happen to him.

The people he'd killed, the people he was yet to kill—I couldn't let myself think about them. And what if Charlie's new profession suddenly turned sour on him for some reason? Would he blame me for that, the way he'd credited me with steering him in the right direction in the first place? I couldn't think about that either.

Charlie had taken charge; sick as it sounded, he had stature now. It wasn't that he'd suddenly grown a new set of brains. He still saw nothing, he still understood nothing—he was the same woeful ignoramus he'd always been. He was still dumb enough to think I'd done him a favor when I sent him out to do my dirty work for me. The twist the murder had taken was something I could never have anticipated. But Charlie's pea-brain still thought in simplistic equations: Earl Sommers plus gun equals the good life for Charlie Bates. I was the accidental beneficiary of Charlie's “rebirth,” and I should have been relieved it had worked out that way. So why was I sitting there sweating?

It was Charlie's new self-confidence that was scaring me. No, it was more than just confidence: he was aggressive now, even arrogant, even in little things.
Cancel it
, he'd told me when I said I had an appointment. A man is still judged by the visual image he projects, and it may have been that arrogant quality that enabled him to come to terms with the mob. Ignorance and arrogance, the most dangerous combination there is.

I sat staring at the gaudy package in front of me on the table. Incriminating evidence Lieutenant D'Elia would give his eyeteeth to get hold of. I reached for the package; might as well see what Charlie Bates considered an appropriate souvenir of murder.

It was the Meissen Leda. Brown eyes and all.

CHAPTER 9

Thus began the winter of my discontent, said Shakespeare or Emily Dickinson or Art Buchwald. I didn't hear from Charlie again; he disappeared into that new world of money and murder he'd found for himself. But other things—my god, the other things.

First, Robin Coulter. Eventually she'd come around, but for the moment I wasn't getting anywhere. Before Amos Speer died, she'd been full of animosity—prickling at everything I said, looking for excuses to insult me. But once I became The Boss, she'd had to pull back, watch what she said. She even had to work at being friendly. I got a lot of laughs out of that. Oh yeah, I laughed
good
. I even encouraged her in her hesitant attempts at camaraderie. Every chance I got, I encouraged her. Once I had her in a horizontal position she wouldn't be so high and mighty.

But she was proving a hard case. In December one day I gave her bottom a friendly little squeeze. She whirled on me and said she couldn't think of a single reason why she should go on working for a man who thought he had the right to put his hands on her whenever he felt like it. Jeez. So I sent her off to Europe on a buying trip; it was the wrong time of year, but a bribe was clearly in order.

Next, Peg McAllister kept hammering at me that not only were we liable to the people Wightman had cheated, we'd better get a move on and settle up fast. She said the best thing to do would be pay off all those people quietly. “Then we can put the word out in the business, Earl, without going to court, without headlines. Let the other dealers know how much Wightman cost us. That'll cook his goose in the long run. Nobody'll deal with him because nobody'll trust him. And the customers will eventually catch on there's something not quite kosher about Leonard Wightman's gallery in San Francisco.”

Wightman had opened to a roll of drums and a blare of trumpets, California style. Right away he'd cut into the profits of our west coast branch, but part of it might be a novelty appeal that would wear off in time. But I sure as hell couldn't count on it. And it galled me to think I'd end up paying off Wightman's victims to protect the professional reputation of Speer Galleries. “Peg, I'm not convinced we ought to pay up meekly and hope some higher justice will catch up with Wightman in the future. Besides, we don't know the real value of that porcelain—why, it could cost us a fortune.” A wild guess: it might run to half a million. I didn't know. And I didn't want to find out.

“All right,” Peg said, “if you're determined to prosecute. But do it this way—pay off the people Wightman cheated
first
. Admit liability publicly.
Then
take the bastard to court. The courts will force him to repay whatever we paid out, and that'll put him out of business in a hurry. It might even have some favorable publicity value—show the world how honest and conscientious Speer's is. But no prosecution without first making things right with the folks Wightman rooked. Absolutely not. It would be suicidal.”

Which meant I'd still have to pay out the money and then gamble the courts would see things our way. “How certain are you we'd get a favorable judgment?”

Lawyer-like, she hedged. “Nothing's certain in any judicial process. I feel confident we'd win. I have to admit your detective—Valentine, is that his name?—he did a good job. We have the evidence. But it's time that's important, Earl. We have to negotiate with the victims and reach an equitable settlement, and that's going to take a while. You know damn well some of them are going to hire themselves smart lawyers and then the price will go up and up and up. They've got us over a barrel—we'll just have to pay. But Earl, we have a good chance of getting it all back. Better than good—excellent.”

An excellent chance. But still a chance, not a certainty. “Damn it, Peg, I don't like getting stuck with Wightman's bill. Even if we do get it back later, and we're not even sure of that.”

“Then the only alternative is to get Wightman to pay up himself.”

“And how do we do that? Give me a weapon, Peg, something I can beat him over the head with.”

“Just tell him what we're going to do. Give him a deadline. Tell him if full reparation isn't made by such and such a date,
we'll
step in and pay the bill. And then we'll take him for every cent he's got.”

“You think that'll do it?”

“It might.”

It might. Yes indeedy it just might. And if threats failed to make him assume the responsibility, we could still fall back on the lawsuit. “Okay, I'll give it a shot. Wightman might think we're bluffing, though—he doesn't think the way normal people do. I'll go show him our evidence. But in case he won't admit culpability, why don't you start drawing up some sort of legal form we can get his victims to sign? Something that says they have accepted fair and honest recompense from us, that Speer's is no longer liable, blah blah. You know what I mean.”

“I've already done that,” she sniffed.

I decided to put off my flying trip to San Francisco until January in spite of Peg's urging haste. I didn't want to abandon Nedda during the holidays. In fact I stuck to her like a leech, because—surprise, surprise—I had a little problem there. Nedda had taken a lover.

I hadn't confronted her about it; I wasn't ready for a showdown. I didn't know who he was or where they met for their illicit assignations or any of the other lurid details. I just knew he existed. Nedda no longer came prowling after me in that pantherlike way of hers; she
allowed
me to make love to her, the way a cat allows itself to be stroked. And she enjoyed it about the same way, as homage due her. But on nights I came home too tired to perform, she just rolled over carelessly and went to sleep. She didn't need me. She was getting it somewhere else.

So I made sure she didn't spend even one hour of the holidays with him, whoever he was. And in the meantime I looked at her check stubs. No large amounts made out to cash, at least. That was one indulgence I refused to tolerate. Nedda had spent plenty on me when she was still married to Speer.

Nedda was a beautiful woman. Not a very nice woman, but a beautiful one. And sexy as hell. She no more had to pay a lover than Cleopatra. She'd given me expensive gifts and even handed me cash on occasion because it amused her to do so. It was her none too subtle way of reminding me which of us held the upper hand. I'd let her get away with it; sure, why not? It had paid off. But Nedda liked playing games, and she'd just started a new one with a new player. I didn't know anything about this guy, and rule one was always know your enemy.

So I made one more call to Valentine.

San Francisco in January is nothing like the travel posters say. It's damp and chill, with that watery sun everywhere, smilin' through. At least on the east coast all that rotten weather tells you exactly what time of year it is.

A discreet plaque on the door said
Wightman Porcelains
. Not as much floorspace as our branch, but the pieces Wightman was displaying were good. He must have been planning this for years. I told his receptionist—Miss Centerfold of All Times—who I was and that I wanted to see her boss. I rested my attaché case on her desk while she used the phone.

“Ah, there you are, dear boy,” came the familiar whinny. “I just knew you wouldn't be able to keep yourself away—scouting out the competition, is that it? Do look around. Try not to turn too green.”

He'd come from somewhere in the back of the gallery; I gestured in that direction. “Is your office back there?”

“Yes, it is,” he said—pointedly not inviting me in.

“We need to talk, Wightman. Let's go to your office.”

“Dear me, I see you haven't learned a thing, Sommers. You don't invite yourself into someone else's office. You wait to
be
invited.” He said all this with such a rolling of the eyes and a twitching of the eyebrows that Miss Centerfold giggled.

I remembered all the times he'd pushed his way into my office but didn't remind him; it was exactly the kind of quibble Wightman loved. “We need to talk,” I repeated. “Now.”

I must have said it right because he abandoned his opening gambit. “Oh, very well,” he said petulantly. “Don't have a temper tantrum. If it's talk that makes you happy, by all means let us talk.” He turned and strode toward the back, leaving me to trail after him.

He closed the office door behind me and flapped a hand toward one wall. “I've been offered a hundred and fifty thousand for that. But of course it'll go for much more.”

He was referring to a shell-carved kneehole block-front desk against the wall. Good Newport workmanship, Townsend-Goddard school. Wightman was probably right; he'd be able to get more than a hundred fifty thousand for it. Those pieces always sold for more than they were worth. But the kneehole desk was strictly for show, to impress visitors. Wightman's working desk was a Walter Gropius design. It figured.

“You're dealing furniture too?” I asked. “The plaque out front says porcelains.”

“Just a sideline—nothing serious. It offers me a kind of rough-hewn relaxation, don't you know. Porcelain can be so demanding, I need a change of pace once in a while. You probably work out in a gym.”

Wightman must be losing his touch; I wasn't even tempted. I sat down without waiting for an invitation and opened the attaché case. I took out copies of the statements signed by the people Wightman had bilked and dropped them on his desk. “Better take a look.”

Wightman arched an eyebrow at me. “
Better
take a look?” he repeated. “Or what? Do you have some menacing threat to back that up?”

“Look, you horse's ass, I'm doing you a favor by coming here. You're in trouble, Wightman, and I can't say I'm sorry. How much trouble depends on what you do now. Look at the papers.”