Hugger Mugger (13 page)

“Notices you haven't,” I said.

Becker nodded, sipped some Coke.

“Not much to go on,” he said. “Plus the Clives have buttoned up tight.”

“I know. I went out there. Couldn't get in.”

“Well, I can get in, but it doesn't do me any good. Nobody says anything.”

“Dolly implied that you might be walking a little light around the Clives because they're connected.”

“Dolly's right. I'm appointed by the sheriff. But the
sheriff ain't appointed by anyone. He gets elected, and that takes money.”

“And the Clives have a lot of it.”

“You bet,” Becker said.

“You getting some pressure?”

“Un-huh.”

“Between you and me,” I said. “You got any thought who killed Clive?”

“You used to be a cop,” Becker said. “When a rich guy dies, who's first on the list?”

“His heirs,” I said.

“Un-huh.”

“Any more horses been killed?” I said.

“Nope.”

“You think there's a connection?”

“I wasn't getting pressure, might be something I could look into.”

“I'm not getting any pressure,” I said.

“Yet,” Becker said.

“What do you know about Security South?” I said.

“Just what I already told you.”

“Is what you told me something you know or something they told you?”

“Something they told me,” Becker said. “At the time, I had no reason to look into it.”

“And now?”

“Next year's an election year.”

“Not for me,” I said.

“Look,” Becker said. “I'm a pretty good cop, I do say so. But I got a wife never worked a day in her life, I got a few years left until I'm eligible for a pension, I
got a daughter in Memphis I send money to pretty regular. You bring me stuff that can't be ignored, I won't ignore it.”

He picked up his Coke, and drained the bottle and put it back down slowly on his desk.

“Can you say ‘stalking-horse'?” I said.

Becker almost smiled.

“Best I can do,” he said.

T
HE
B
ATH
H
OUSE
Bar and Grill was jumping. It was crowded with couples dancing, couples sitting at tables with their heads close together. The bar was packed two or three deep. Tedy Sapp was at his table, alone, drinking coffee. As I pushed through the crowd, people moved out of my way. Those who looked at me did so without affection.

“Back again,” Sapp said as I sat down across from him. “You're not a quitter.”

“New client,” I said.

A waiter came by and poured Sapp some coffee. He looked at me. I shook my head.

“Nothing to drink?”

“Long day,” I said. “It'll make me sleepy.”

Sapp glanced around the room.

“What do you think of the scene?” he said.

“Not my scene,” I said.

“It bother you?”

“Nope.”

Sapp looked at me for a time.

“Nothing much does,” he said, “does it?”

“Way the patrons acted when I came in, I figure I'm not their scene, either.”

Sapp grinned.

“You don't look like a gay guy,” Sapp said.

“Neither do you,” I said.

“I know. That's why I do the hair color. Trying to gay up a little.”

“You got a partner?”

“Yep.”

“What's he do?”

“Ophthalmologist.”

“So you're not looking to meet somebody.”

“No,” Sapp said.

“So what's the difference?”

“It's important if you're gay, to be gay. Especially me, who was straight so long, my, what would I call it, my, ah, constituency is more at ease if I'm identifiably gay.”

“And the blond hair does it?”

“It's pretty much all I can do. I still look like something from the World Wrestling Federation. But it's better than nothing.”

“Works for me, Blondie,” I said. “You know anything about the Clive family that you didn't know last time we talked?”

“They seem to be cleaning house,” Sapp said.

“How so?”

“Kicked old Cord out on his ass,” Sapp said.

“Stonie divorcing him?”

“Don't know.”

“Where's Cord now?”

“In town somewhere. I can find out.”

“Be obliged,” I said.

Sapp got up and began to work his way through the room, stopping occasionally to talk with someone. I watched the smoke gather up near the ceiling of the low room. It seemed to me on casual observation that gay men smoked more than straight men. But I was probably working with too small a sample. All I could really say was that a number of these gay men smoked more than I did. The ceiling fan turned slowly in the smoke, moving it about in small eddies, doing nothing to dispel it. The jukebox was very loud. I had a brief third-person vision of myself, sitting alone and alien in a gay bar, a thousand miles from home, with the smoke hanging above me, and music I didn't like pounding in my ears.

Sapp came back and sat down.

“Cord's bunking in with his brother-in-law,” Sapp said.

He handed me a matchbook.

“I wrote down the address for you.”

“Brother-in-law?” I said.

“Yeah, Pud. I guess he got the boot too.”

“Pud and Cord?” I said. “Getting the boot makes strange bedfellows.”

“I guess it do,” Sapp said. “Who's your client?”

I shook my head.

“Never get in trouble keeping your mouth shut,” Sapp said.

I nodded. Sapp sipped some of his coffee, holding the cup in both hands, looking over the rim, his gaze moving slowly back and forth across the room.

“You married?” Sapp said.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Separated?”

“Nope. I'm with somebody. But we're not married.”

“You love her?”

“More than the spoken word can tell,” I said.

“You live together?”

“No.”

“You love her, but you're not married and you don't live together. Why not?”

“Seems to work best for us this way.”

Sapp shrugged.

“You fool around?” he said.

“No. You?”

“No.”

“You think Pud and Cord are a couple,” I said, “or just orphans of the storm?”

“Far as I know, neither one of them could make a living on his own,” Sapp said. “Now that they don't have the Clive tit to nurse on, I figure they're splitting the rent.”

Sapp's slow surveillance of the room stopped and focused. I followed his glance. Three men stood inside the door. Two of them were large, the third was tall, high-shouldered, and skinny. The large ones looked fat but not soft. None of them looked like they had come in to dance. Without a word Sapp got up and moved softly toward them, his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders
bowed a little forward. One of the big guys had a red plastic mesh baseball cap on backwards, the little adjustable plastic strap across his forehead just above his eyebrows. The other man was fatter, wearing a white tank top, his fat arms red with sunburn. The three men stood close together at the door, looking around and giggling among themselves. They were drunk.

The tall skinny one with the high shoulders yelled into the room. “Any you sissy boys want to fight?”

Sapp stopped in front of the three men.

“ 'Fraid I'm going to have to ask you boys to leave,” he said gently.

“Who the fuck are you?” the skinny one said.

“My name's Tedy Sapp.”

As he spoke Sapp moved slightly closer so that the skinny one had to back up slightly or risk being bumped.

“Well, we got as much right as anybody else to come in here and have us a couple pops,” the guy in the baseball hat said.

“No. Just step back out, gentlemen, same door you came in, there'll be no trouble.”

“Trouble,” said the guy in the hat. “Who's going to give us trouble? You?”

“Yep,” Sapp said. “It'll be me.”

He brought his hands up slowly and rubbed them together thoughtfully in front of his chest, the fingertips touching his chin.

“I never met no fag could tell me what to do, pal. I want a drink.”

“Not here,” Sapp said.

“We getting us a fucking drink or we going to kick a lot of fag ass,” the guy in the hat said.

“Not here,” Sapp said.

The guy with the hat said, “Fuck you,” and tried to push by Sapp. Sapp hit him with the side of his left hand in the throat, and hit the skinny guy on the hinge of the jaw with the side of his clenched right hand. The guy in the tank top backed up a couple of steps. Sapp began punching, not like a fighter but like a martial arts guy, both fists from the shoulder, feet evenly spaced and balanced. He hit the guy in the hat maybe three times and swiveled a half-turn and hit the skinny guy two more. Both men went down. Tank Top looked at Sapp and then looked at me. I realized that I had moved up beside Sapp. Tank Top helped his companions to their still-shaky feet.

“No trouble,” he said.

“None at all,” Sapp said.

Tank Top guided his pals out in front of him and the door swung shut behind them. Sapp looked at me and grinned.

“Planning to jump in?” he said.

“No need,” I said. “You have learned well, grasshopper.”

I
WENT TO
see Rudolph Vallone, the lawyer for the Clive estate, who also represented Dolly Hartman. He had a suite of offices upstairs in a Civil War–era brick building next to the courthouse, right on the square in the middle of Lamarr, where he could look out his window at the pyramid of cannonballs and the statue of the Confederate soldier that grounded the town in the lost glory of its past.

Vallone sat in the biggest of the several offices, at a desk in front of a Palladian window with the best view of the cannonballs. He had on a gray seersucker suit and a very bright floral tie. His white hair was long and brushed back. His white Vandyke beard was neatly trimmed, and there was about his person the faint aura of bay rum and good cigars and satisfying fees.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Spenser. I recall you from the funeral.”

I'd met him very perfunctorily. One point for Rudy.

“I was wondering if you could tell me a little about Walter Clive's estate,” I said.

“Well, you're direct enough, aren't you.”

“You bet,” I said.

“In all honesty, Mr. Spenser, I'd need to know a little more about why you're asking, and a little more specifically what you want to know.”

“Of course you would,” I said. “What would be the point of law school if you didn't.”

He smiled.

“I'm representing Dolly Hartman,” I said. “I wish to know who benefits from Clive's will.”

“Why, for God's sake, man, I'm Dolly's attorney. She has only to ask me directly.”

“She asked me to ask you directly,” I said.

“I don't know that.”

“No, nor should you care a hell of a lot. We both know if I want to go to a little trouble I can find this out. It's a matter of public record.”

“So why come to me?”

“You're closer,” I said.

He smiled a wide smile, a good old Georgia boy, friendly as lemon cake.

“But not necessarily easier,” he said.

“And there are things I want to know that may not be a matter of public record,” I said.

“I don't see how I can help you,” he said.

“You represented Walter Clive?”

“Yes.”

“And now you represent the Clive estate.”

“I do.”

“You represent Dolly as well,” I said.

“I just told you I do.”

“Dolly feels that the estate is screwing her and her son.”

“She's never said that to me.”

“She claims she has.”

“Spenser, you better understand some things about Dolly,” Vallone said. “She is not one to miss anything she sees as the main chance.”

“So if this ends up in court, are you going to be attorney for both sides?”

“It won't end up in court.”

“It might, or I might boogie on up to Atlanta and talk with the Georgia Bar Association.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It makes people laugh when I mention it,” I said. “But the bar association has an ethics committee.”

“I'm perfectly aware,” he said, “of the bar association. My efforts in this case have been motivated solely by the best interests of everyone involved.”

“So who are Clive's heirs? The three daughters?”

Vallone dipped his head a little in some kind of acknowledgment.

“Yes,” he said.

“Solely.”

“Yes.”

“Was he planning to rewrite his will, or in the process of it, or any such thing?”

“No.”

“Never mentioned looking out for Dolly or her son?”

“Her son?” Vallone said. “I understand why he might
have taken care of Dolly, but the son rendered him no service.”

“Dolly says he was Clive's son as well.”

“Walter Clive's son? That's absurd. The boy is in his middle twenties. Walter was only with Dolly for, what, eight or ten years.”

“There's a story there, but it doesn't matter.”

“I'd be happy to listen.”

“In all honesty, Mr. Vallone, I'd need to know a little more about why you're asking, and a little more specifically what you want to know.”

Vallone let his chair lean forward. He opened a cigar humidor. He offered me one, and I shook my head. He selected one slightly smaller than a Little League bat and snipped it and lit it and leaned back and smoked it for a minute. Then he laughed.

“By God, sir,” he said. “Just, goddamned, by God.”