Once a Mutt (Trace 5) (2 page)

When Trace got back to his condominium apartment on the Las Vegas Strip, he noticed the number seventeen in the little window on his telephone-answering machine.

Either a lot of people had called him today or else he hadn’t looked at the machine for a long time. He poured a glass of wine from a jug in the refrigerator and sat down to ponder which was the more likely event.

Seventeen messages? All in one day? It seemed highly unlikely because he didn’t know seventeen people. He finished the wine and poured another glass. He looked at the sunset behind the hills in the distance. It would have been beautiful if he hadn’t realized that behind those hills, California lurked.

Seventeen people? Let’s see. There was his mother and his father, but his father didn’t call and his mother only called at hours when Trace would normally be in bed so she would be sure to reach him and be sure to disturb his sleep. Jaws, his ex-wife, never called, and their two kids, What’s-his-name and the girl, never called either, which was exactly as he wanted it. Bob Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company, might call, but usually only if he was in a jam. That was about it.

Chico, Trace’s roommate, might call, but it wasn’t likely because she knew that Trace was untrustworthy and was rarely in the apartment.

Therefore, Q.E.D. The seventeen calls must have come over a period of time. Days, weeks, maybe even months. He didn’t remember when was the last time he looked at the machine. He didn’t even know what his telephone tape message sounded like.

Maybe he had tried to reach himself? Would he call seventeen times, thinking he could find himself in? Not even if he were really drunk would he do that. And since he had cut down on his drinking, he rarely got really drunk anymore. He just kept enough of a buzz on to protect himself against nuclear radiation. He had convinced himself that this was very important, living in Las Vegas, where the sun shone all the time and the air was very thin.

He wondered what his message sounded like. He reached over to the tape machine and pressed some of the unfamiliar buttons and heard tape whirring and clicks and he didn’t know what any of it meant. Then he pressed another button and was rewarded by the sound of his own voice reciting his recorded message.

“The number you have reached is not in service. Please do not call again. Thank you for your consideration.”

He pressed another button that he thought would rewind the message so the machine was ready to operate again. It wouldn’t do for the telephone to ring and for him to have to answer it while he was busy drinking wine. He hated to be disturbed when doing something important. When the restaurant started to pay off, he would probably take the phone out, he thought. Anybody who wanted to reach him would have to show up on his doorstep like a supplicant and he would leave orders for the concierge downstairs to throw everybody out. Refuse admittance to anyone who didn’t have an appointment. And he would make no appointments before their time.

He was holding down the button that he thought would rewind the tape, but it didn’t work. He released the button and heard another voice on the machine.

“Trace. This is Eddie. I’ve got to talk to you about the restaurant.”

Eddie. Eddie was his main partner in the restaurant at the New Jersey shore. Maybe he had some money already for Trace. That would teach Walter Marks. If Trace were rich before Marks even left Las Vegas, that would show him, with his spread-gloom attitude.

Trace fumbled around in the little drawer of the telephone table looking for a cocktail napkin with Eddie’s phone number on it. When he found it, he called the number in New Jersey.

“This is Trace.”

“I’m glad you called back,” Eddie said. “Did you hear what happened?”

“No. Where’s my share of the profits?” Trace said.

“We’re not even open yet. What profits?”

“Then there’s nothing good that’s going to come of this phone call, is there?” Trace said.

“Afraid not. You didn’t hear what happened?”

“No.”

“Last night we had a storm.”

“We didn’t,” Trace said. “It was nice here. Sunny all day, evening temperature in the high sixties. It was beautiful.”

“I wish it was that way here. We had a storm like you never saw.”

“Why are you giving me a weather report?”

“It’s important.”

Trace knew something was wrong because he was starting to feel sober. “Go ahead,” he said. “What happened?”

“The goddamn ocean came up and overflowed the place. We’ve got a lot of storm damage.”

“Spread newspapers. Blot it up,” Trace suggested.

“Can’t do that. We’ve got real damage. I had a contractor in today to look at it.”

“How much?”

“It looks like it’s going to cost fifty, sixty thousand dollars to fix.”

“You’re not asking me for money, are you?” Trace said.

“Of course I am. All the partners have to kick in some money. That’s the only way we can fix this place up and open up on time.”

“How much?”

“You’re a twenty-percent partner. I need ten, twelve thousand dollars from you.”

“I don’t have it,” Trace said.

“Get it. We need it to do the repairs.”

“What do you think, I’m made of money?”

“So we’ve got to pinch a little. We all do. When we get this restaurant rolling, the money’s going to come pouring in.”

“The only thing pouring in right now is the freaking ocean,” Trace said.

“Well, that’s the way it goes.”

“When do you get the insurance money?” Trace asked.

“What insurance money?”

“For the damages.”

“No insurance. It’s an act of God.”

“Bullshit,” Trace said. “It’s an act of water.”

“The insurance company won’t pay. They don’t do that down here.”

“I hate insurance companies,” Trace said.

“
You
work for one, not me. Why do you do that anyway?”

“Because I’ve been trying to change them from within,” Trace said. “It just hasn’t worked yet.”

“If it had, we wouldn’t have to put up this extra dough,” Eddie said. “When do I get your check?”

“A check I can send you right away. Ten thousand dollars I don’t have.”

“I want a good check,” the other man said.

“I hate you,” Trace said. “When the hell is this restaurant going to open?”

“We’ve been delayed a little bit by the storm damage.”

“How little’s a little bit?”

“A month or so.”

“Are we going to miss the summer season down there?” Trace demanded.

“Not if you send me the twelve thousand,” Eddie said.

“Ten thousand,” Trace said.

“With room to grow. Send it right away,” the other man said, and hung up before Trace could say anything more.

In order, Trace hung up the telephone, removed the modular plug from the answering machine, threw the machine in the kitchen garbage can, refilled his glass with wine, and sat down to try to figure out where to get ten thousand dollars with room to grow.

When Michiko Mangini unlocked the door to the apartment and entered, two unaccustomed sounds assailed her ears.

Trace was singing and something was sizzling in the kitchen.

She looked down the length of the long living room toward the small kitchen at the rear of the apartment. Trace stood with his back to her, at the stove, singing an operatic aria at the top of his voice. As usual, he remembered only one line of the aria, so he sounded like a stuck record as he sang it over and over again.

“
Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pi-i-i-ra. Di quella pira. Di quella pira
.”

“Is that fire for dinner? What are you doing?” the young woman asked. She was twenty-six years old, small and shapely, with blue-black hair and soft dark Oriental eyes that looked bottomless in the shiny taupe of her healthy young face.

“
Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira. Di quella pira
.”

She shouted. “What are you doing?”

Trace turned with a big smile. He put down a pot he was holding.

“Hello, Chico. What I am doing is cooking dinner for my honey. Did I ever tell you I love you?”

“I’m not lending you any money,” Chico said and went into the bedroom to change.

Later, as they sat at the small kitchen table and drank coffee, Trace explained, “It’s not like I’m trying to borrow money from you.”

Chico had thrown out Trace’s halting attempt at dinner, something he called a sardine soufflé, and had instead cooked them steaks and asparagus and green salad. Trace had little appetite and only picked at his food, but Chico didn’t mind because she ate both his and hers.

“It’s not like I’m trying to borrow money from you,” he said again. “Dammit,
respondezmoi
.”

“Oh? Then, what is it?” she asked sweetly. She took a piece of cake from a small plate in front of Trace and bit off a large wedge.

“I hate the way you eat,” he said. “What is it is that I’m giving you an opportunity to get in on the ground floor…”

“Along with the ocean,” Chico said.

“Will you listen? Levity is not called for here,” Trace said. “This is a big financial deal we’re talking about. I’m going to make you rich.”

“Hah,” she said. Crumbs sprayed from her mouth. She picked them up from the table and ate them.

“Moving right along,” he said. “I’m allowing you to buy into a New Jersey restaurant. One of the hottest places on the shore.”

“It’s not even open yet. How the hell hot is that?” she asked.

“It will be. And for fifteen thousand dollars, a mere fifteen thousand dollars, you can have half my share.”

“For which you paid forty thousand dollars,” she said.

“That’s right. Every cent I had in the world. I paid forty thou and now I’m willing to give you half for just fifteen thou. This is a real good deal. This restaurant’s going to make a fortune.”

“If it’s such a sure shot, why are you selling it off in pieces?” she asked.

“Because this is a way for you to get financial security, for all your days. And it’s only going to cost you fifteen thousand.”

Chico shook her head, caught a dislodged crumb in midair, and nibbled it from her fingers.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t trust the restaurant business. Did you know that seventy-five percent of all new restaurants go foldo?”

“Yes, I knew that. That’s why I investigated this one so thoroughly before I invested in it.”

“Investigate? Thoroughly? That lunatic friend of yours called, and before you were off the phone you were sending him all your life savings. You’ve never even seen the place.”

“I know the town. Oceanbright is beautiful. The restaurant can’t miss.”

“It’ll miss, Trace. You’re in on it, it’ll miss.”

“Come on. Half my share for only fifteen K. You could sell it on the open market for more than that.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Trace said.

“Then, why don’t you just take your half-share and sell it on the open market? You can do better than the fifteen you want from me.”

“Because I want to do something for you. Because you are the light of my life and I can’t bear the thought of you working while I live a life of leisure. Don’t you see, I’m doing it for you?”

“You want to do something for me, take the garbage out to the incinerator. Your wine jugs make it too heavy for me to lift.”

“Let me be sure I understand this,” Trace said. “You’re going to pass up this opportunity?”

“You understand it very well,” Chico said. “I pass.”

“How about lending me some money, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not good for it,” she said.

“I’m going to have to raise your rent here,” Trace said. “I never thought it would come to this.”

“What’s my new rent going to be?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars a month,” Trace said. “Payable one month in advance.”

“I’ll move. Then, where will you be?”

“The whole world’s against me,” Trace said.

Chico retrieved the telephone-answering machine from the garbage can, plugged it back in, and rewound it to zero. All the other messages had been for her.

She dressed in a russet cocktail dress and told Trace she had some business, which meant she was doing a favor for the casino and “entertaining” some out-of-town high roller. As she left, he pointedly said nothing, but merely turned up the volume on the stereo.

After a couple of drinks, he called Robert Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity Insurance Company. It sounded as if Swenson was having a party because there was a lot of screaming and shouting in the background, almost enough to drown out Swenson’s big avuncular voice.

“Hello, Trace. How’s Chico?”

“Mean, avaricious, and deceitful, as usual. Why don’t you ask how I am?”

“Because you’re fine. You’re always fine,” Swenson said.

“What the hell is all that racket?”

“Let me close the door. Oka y, what’s on your mind?” Swenson said.

“Did you talk to Walter Marks today?” Trace asked.

“Yes. He told me you were quitting.”

“I never said that,” Trace said. “What’d you say?”

“I said good riddance to bad rubbish,” Swenson said.

“Thanks a lot, pal,” Trace said.

“You don’t want to quit?”

“I never said I was going to quit. I was just turning down one assignment and Groucho made it into a big deal, like he was taking me off retainer and didn’t need me anymore and like that. Do you think I’d quit and leave you?” Trace asked.

“Yes,” Swenson said. “As soon as you got two nickels to rub together.”

“Well, it’s not like that at all,” Trace said. “I’ll tell you this. I want to do that job in Westport.”

“What’s their names? Paddington? The guy who died in the plane crash?”

“That’s right. I want to do that job. For you, Bob. And for the company.”

“That’s the worst bullshit I ever heard in my life,” Swenson said. “What’s the matter? Broke again?”

“That’s not important. I just want to do that job for you,” Trace said.