Life Among Giants (40 page)

I
WAS ABOUT
to cycle back through my maelstrom of thoughts when Sylphide reappeared. She'd put on one of her husband's sports jackets over the silk shirt—against the offense of my gaze I realized, chagrined. She dumped a pair of large envelopes down in front of me, also a magnifying glass. I picked it up surly while she pulled all the legal papers for my executor status out of the thicker envelope, fanned them for me, proof that all Daniel's talk was no ruse.
Th
e gift and responsibility of the High Side, oversight of her foundations, the provision to wed, all of it was real—there it was in neat type, her initials on every paragraph, Tancredi's too, several witnesses as well, a notary's seal.

Clearly she was hurt that I'd called her a liar, hurt and unhappy, never angry.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm very confused.”

“Not for any longer,” said Sylphide. She slipped a giant color enlargement out of the second envelope, handled it by its edges, lay it gingerly on the table in front of me. “I was having it blown up, but still you will need the glass. Is the only image I can find.”

I leaned over it, just one of a million-and-one shots of Dabney and his protean entourage, thirty or forty people, the rock star foreground with his equally famous organist just behind him, our Georges. And there was Nixie Kumar, their long-time drummer, and Ted Pounce, the wild-man guitarist (and second in the band to die after Dabney, years later in a drunken brawl), all their arms around one another, lots of hilarity, famous faces, the bunch of them out in front of the High Side, some kind of publicity shot, the photographer's viewpoint lofty, perhaps from one of the High Side's enormous stepladders. Where was Pete Pounce, Ted's brother, the band's bassist, who would go on to such fame as a comic actor? Ah, over here, his back to the camera, butt sticking out—big joke—no doubt the source of all the frozen laughter. Around the core of the band, half-a-dozen dazzling young women, bangs and pigtails, microminiskirts, legs, legs, legs. I studied each face with the glass. What was it I was supposed to find?

Desmond, looking stressed. Just in front of him, Linsey, grinning broadly. And beside Linsey,
Kate,
the actual girl next door! I lingered over her image—she was just a kid, no more than sixteen, gangly, thin, her hair bright blond and falling off her shoulders in thick waves, head thrown back in laughter but responsible eyes on Linsey, all her attention on Linsey, a particular shirt I recalled, heavy blue stripes, athletic shoulders, tiniest possible blue-jean skirt (contraband at our house, so she must have put it on High Side), legs up to here, bare feet.

Impatient, Sylphide put her finger on the other corner of the print, a couple more laughing faces, but wait: the one with a fist in the air was my dad—whoa—a big screaming grin on his face, his arm around another man, who was slimmer, grimmer: Kaiser
.

I must have gasped, because Sylphide nodded emphatically,
Ja, ja, ja,
tapped the photo. I looked closer, closer yet, lifted the glass higher, dropped it lower. It was Kaiser all right, nice-looking young man, unmistakable strong chin.

Sylphide said, “You recognize him, even cleaned up.”

I felt a surge of violence. “Of course I know him,” I said.

“Brady Rattner,” she said. “
Th
e only photo of him like that I ever seen.”

“No, no,” I said. “It's not Brady, Tenke, it's Kaiser. Kaiser the killer.”

“It's Brady,” she said again. “Dabney's little stinking brother.”

“You sent him to my restaurant!”

“But he is Brady, too. Don't you understand?”

“Kaiser is
Brady
?”

“We has just proven it, Lizano
.
Ja, ja.
We got him.”

“And you understand, right? You get that this is Kaiser, the guy who shot my folks?
Th
at you're saying he's Brady Rattner? He's Dabney's brother?” I looked closely again at the photo, used the glass. It was Kaiser all right, and wearing the sweater, the awful yellow cable sweater Kate had secured from Turkle's evidence vault. Slowly I said, “Tenke. I'm sorry I doubted you.”

“
Ja!
Well, until now I wasn't being sure. Too scary when they turn up here! Brady Rattner?” I'd never seen her so exercised. She said, “Oh, he is being all
so
sorry
and saying he is
changed
and how the years go by and he was an addict and, oh! Almost like a
confession.
But he doesn't confess anything. Not what we know now! Just, Oh, dear Sylphide, my manners was so bad!”

“But why would he kill?”

“For money, Lizano. For Dabney's money, don't you see? And now they are back for mine.”

“But why my folks?”

“He is doing what
Th
ierry says.”

“But why is he called Kaiser?”

“Dabney and Pete Pounce, they are always calling him Brother Kaiser after a pervert priest of their childhood.
Th
ey found this a scream. Brother Kaiser!”

“He killed my folks!”

“He killed his own brother, too.”

Suddenly, I heard what she'd been saying. “He killed
Dabney
?”

“Now you are getting it. For the money. For the jealous. Your poppa, he didn't know how bad Brady really is. But there is a plan and in the end Dabney is dying from the plan. But Brady did not have the brains. Only the brutal nature. Your father, I am sorry, he was spineless, a stumblebum.
Th
ey use your father to get close.”

“
Who
used him?”

“You're not getting it? Your Mr. Perdhomme and Brady Rattner, that's who. Dabney put up with your father because of Kate, let him get close for no other reason! So there is a plan. Who is being the boss? Who is giving the orders? Not your poppa, too weak, I'm sorry. It is
Th
ierry Perdhomme, that's who.”

“So my father brought Perdhomme to the High Side?”

“He did. And
Th
ierry, he stay after your father was
bant.
After Dabney's murder, I mean. I trusted
Th
ierry. Because he made it all right when your father made it wrong with Dabney's money, first time.
Th
en after Dabney is dead, he helps me again.
Th
ierry, he is well-mannered, very sharp, very sweet, very generous, very shy. He rescues my finances. He is becoming my financial manager, my accountant, oversight of everything. He is being unjustly accused in your father's case, I am thinking, and then he is cleared by the courts. And so I am trusting him.
Fahn! Fie Fahn!
”

I looked at the photo another minute—that very small representation of my father, the very small image of the man who killed him and killed my mother, too, and then ran out of bullets for me. “Tenke,” I said, more tears, “I was with my father the afternoon Dabney died. We were working on the roof of the garage. He kept going up and down the ladder to take phone calls. He was wearing his own boots.”

“Boots?”

“Oh. It's complicated. I think Kaiser. I mean I think Brady. I mean the killer, that's what I mean, that he tried to frame my father.” But I didn't want to talk about my father anymore, couldn't defend him if he was in with all these people.

We stared a while, each trying to absorb and sort the information we were getting.

Sylphide said, “
Th
at man who ruined my shoulder? He is hired. Brady, I think, is behind it. I am sure it is Brady. Because Brady is hating me more than he hates even Dabney. Freddy tracked that man.
Th
e shoulder man. He try to tell me. Loyal, loyal Frederick. He went out to Arizona to find him and instead he was kilt.”

“Freddy was killed?”

“In the desert, his head cut off.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“
Ja,
hikers find him. And now they got to finish up. Brady and
Th
ierry. Get my money, finally. Be rid of you.
Th
at's what my husband think. He thinks
Th
ierry cannot fund his schemes anymore—all the shells are empty, all the pyramids is fallen down. Daniel's accounting group, they study all my papers—Desmond recorded everything, everything down to a penny. And fussy William, too. And then they study every Dolus transaction, and every thing
Th
ierry is ever doing, ever. And Daniel's people discover a ‘siphon,' they call it, a paperwork thing that is drain my accounts for ten years and even more through medical billing for Linsey, later for Daniel, undetectable without these forensic methods. We could take down
Th
ierry Perdhomme and his bloody Dolus on that business all alone. But now I see it is more. Dabney, kilt, your lovely mother, kilt, your Daddy, kilt, Freddy, too. Now that we know,
ja?
Now that we know without a doubt.”

“You still haven't explained. I mean, Tenke, you sent them to my restaurant.”

“I did.
Th
ey asked whatever became of you. I want to show no suspicion. I want you to see them. So we would be sure. Our common enemy. I am thinking, Firfisle and Tenke can take them down together.”

I felt my spirit sag—I'd been through all this futile stuff so often with Kate. “And what is it you propose?”

“
Th
ierry is coming to me with Mr. Bournonville first, and then with Brady and a business proposition. Blood Banks for India, it's called. Vast returns, untapped markets, they say. Brady is saying, Oh, Sylphide, you are like my sister and I want to make it up to you, all my foolishness! But large sums of money are required. Something they are cooking up to appeal to an old bleeding heart, mine.
Th
ierry has checked every word of the contracts, he is saying. He is saying, ‘As your financial manager, I am giving this my highest rating.'
Th
e Dolus legal team, he calls it—they've checked every document. If not for my little Bournonville I might have been fooled again. I would have been. India? Public health? Medicine?
Th
ose are things they know I already support through the foundations. Why not invest further? And if not for Daniel, who is knowing not to trust anyone, ever.” She tapped the table, got my eyes back on hers. “But trust
me
, Lizard, darling Lizard, and listen. You was wanting to know.
Th
is is why they are staying at the High Side last month: I invite them. I am very good actress. I am letting let them talk about our big trip to India to inspect blood banks, how we should all travel there together. About all the papers I must sign immediately, about how my funds must be released soon as possible. People losing their life over there. Hurry! Poof-poof. We would all go to India and I would be dying there, Brady break my neck in an alley.
Th
ose papers?
Th
ree hunnert pages? Daniel's people look them over. And it all is good and straightforward except one thing: if I were to die. And then—very tricky documents—if I die, then I am giving over my entire estate to Blood Banks of India, which is the same as give it over to Dolus Investments, which is same as giving it to
Th
ierry, which is same as giving it to Brady.
Th
ey are boyfriends, Lizard.
Th
at's the other thing I realize, the other secret of their success. Brady making use of
Th
ierry, of course, nosing out his secret life. More important thing is they are
killers.
I invite them to High Side those weeks ago because you and I must keep them very, very close. We must make a plan. And our plan must go off before theirs. Because their plan is the end of us.”

I took that in, said, “But, Sylphide. Honestly. Why would they even begin to think that that estate clause wouldn't be noticed, that your lawyers wouldn't strike it?”

“Because, Lizard, like I am saying already—I am always trusting
Th
ierry. I am never question
Th
ierry. It's
Th
ierry who reads my contracts, always.
Th
ierry who okays them. Vast accounting department behind him. Head of Dolus! Always the most special attention for me! My money person, my financial manager. Why would I not be trusting him?”

“Yes, why,” I said.

Th
e new houseman entered silently, carrying a tray. He placed a small glass of water and a single sky-blue capsule at the dancer's hand. He rolled up the sleeve of her little jacket, took her pulse. He put a hand to her forehead. Had she gone hypochondriac? I put the magnifying glass back in its case, pushed the photograph aside. Out the tall windows I tracked the lights of a helicopter, watched it come closer, closer yet, watched it veer off at the last second, as if my gaze were a gale that blew it off course.