The Fools in Town Are on Our Side (28 page)

“Well, I wouldn't say no to another cup, would you, Cal?” Lynch said.

Cal said he wouldn't say no either so I ordered coffee for four on the chance that somebody else might decide to turn neighborly. If they didn't, I'd drink it myself.

“You don't mind if I get dressed?” I said. I had no pajamas and for a robe I was using the topcoat furnished by Carmingler.

“Take your time,” Lynch said. “Cal and I'll just sit here and jaw a while.”

“Would you like a toothpick?” I said.

Lynch said, “Huh?” and I said, “Never mind,” and headed for the bathroom, taking some fresh clothes with me. I showered, shaved and dressed before the coffee arrived. The Sycamore prided itself on leisurely service. The room-service waiter served the coffee, slopping only a little of it into my saucer. Nor did he neglect the saucers of my two guests. Lynch poured the spilled coffee back into his cup; the chief of police ignored his, while I soaked mine up with a napkin.

“We like to be up and doing in Swankerton,” Lynch said after the waiter had gone.

“I noticed,” I said.

“I ran into the chief here at the coffee shop so we had breakfast together.”

“I've heard a lot of nice things about breakfast at dawn,” I said.

“I bet you were sneaking down the hall, carrying your shoes in your hand about dawn, weren't you, Mr. Dye?” the chief of police said, winking at me over the rim of his cup. I winked back and thought that he seemed to have all the makings of a dedicated voyeur. Or he could have been one of those who merely likes to talk about it.

“Well,” Lynch said, “since the chief's a bit interested in what your decision's going to be about that little proposition we made you yesterday, and since I'm damned interested, and since the chief already had a piece of business to do with you this morning, we figured we'd drop by together and maybe get everything settled with one visit.” Lynch leaned back in his chair and nodded his head in satisfaction over the way he had explained things. His chins bobbed up and down and I noticed that his shirt was too tight around the collar and that a roll of fat oozed down over it. He had on a different suit that morning, a wash and wear cord that fitted him like a tent. Perhaps he hoped to grow into it.

“What business?” I said to Loambaugh.

He put his cup down on the writing desk and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a concerned look on his face. I had the feeling that he practiced the look at night in the bathroom mirror with the door locked. “We got your friend down in the tank, Mr. Dye.”

“What friend?”

“Homer Necessary.”

“Have you charged him?”

Loambaugh shook his head. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I thought I'd better talk to you first.”

“Why'd they bring him in?”

Loambaugh shrugged. “He was drunk.”

“That all?”

“Disorderly.”

“What else?”

Loambaugh sighed and shook his head in what I interpreted as a regretful manner. “Well, it's pretty hard to ignore resisting arrest.”

“Where did all this happen?” I said.

“The Easy Alibi, across the street.”

“That belongs to Fred Merriweather,” I said. “Your pet city councilman.”

“That's right!” Lynch said, trying to work a little astonished recall into his tone, but not doing very well at it. “You met him yesterday.”

“What time did they pick Necessary up?” I said to Loambaugh.

He looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. “Midnight or thereabouts.”

“What's the leeway?”

“Quarter till, quarter after.”

I lit my first cigarette of the day. It tasted good, as only the first one did anymore. I'd be smoking my habit the rest of the day. “No buy,” I said.

Loambaugh smiled faintly. “Now why'd you say that, Mr. Dye?” He sounded humble, almost hurt.

“It was a roust.”

“We don't make it a habit of—”

“You don't roust drunks in this town. I know that. You take them
home and pat them on the head and tuck them into bed. You never throw them in the tank unless they're winos with no place else to sleep. When Necessary left me at eleven-fifty last night, he was sober. I've seen him drink and he could have gone on all night and into the morning. But you say he got drunk in twenty-five minutes and I say you're wrong. Chloral hydrate might have worked that fast, but then you couldn't have him on a resisting arrest charge, could you?”

“Well, chief, Mr. Dye seems to have come up with some pretty good points,” Lynch said, smiling and bobbing.

“He's been booked,” Loambaugh said. “He can post bond and get out or he can sit there and await trial. That might take a week or so. Maybe more.”

“How much is his bond?”

“Five hundred.”

“Has he got it?”

“He didn't have a dime on him,” Loambaugh said with a straight face.

“I want him out of there in fifteen minutes,” I said.

Despite his tan, a flush spread up the sides of Loambaugh's neck. It hit his face and raced to his ears, which turned a dark rosy shade. He had that tight, controlled tone back in his voice, the same tone that he'd used when I'd met him the day before. “Nobody,” he said, spacing his words, “nobody tells me how to run my—”

“Shut up and listen, Cal,” Lynch said, no longer the jolly fat man. He looked at me and there was nothing jolly in his eyes either. “I don't know what you're used to, Mr. Dye, but folks don't talk to the chief of police in this town like you just did unless they got a mighty good reason. Or some mighty good friends.”

“Like you?” I said.

He nodded. “Like me.”

“I was in this fine community of yours for less than eight hours before a couple of punks tried to jump me in this room. I thought you might have sent them.”

“No.”

“All right, you didn't. Somebody else did and Homer Necessary
was around to help keep me out of the hospital. I want him around so that he can keep an eye on me and, for that matter, so that I can keep an eye on him. I think you follow me.”

Lynch turned to the police chief. “Tell them to get him out of there.”

“He's already on the blotter,” Loambaugh said.

“Well, now, that's just too goddamned bad, ain't it, Cal? I don't reckon anything can be done if he's already on the blotter. I mean that's just like holy writ engraved in stone. But maybe if you just picked up the phone and told them to hunt around for that old bottle of ink eradicator they just may be able to make that blotter read the way it should rightfully read, and when they're done doing that they can just get one of those fancy, new air-conditioned Ford squad cars and carry Mr. Necessary back to his hotel with your apologies.” The phrasing was the phrasing of the South, but the accent was that of Newark. Or Jersey City.

“While they're hunting around for the ink eradicator,” I said, “tell them to look behind the rear seat in the squad car. That's probably where they'll find the money that fell out of Necessary's pocket.”

“Probably is,” Lynch said, nodding agreement. “Probably is at that.”

We sat there and listened to Loambaugh call in the new instructions. He did it crisply and no one on the other end of the phone seemed to give him any argument. When he hung up, he didn't look at either of us.

“So, Mr. Dye, that make you any happier?” Lynch said.

“Much,” I said.

“About that proposition we made you yesterday. You had enough time to study over it?”

“Quite enough.”

“What'd you decide?”

“I'll take it.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.”

“That sure is good news,” Lynch said, but without much conviction.

“I hoped you'd like it.”

“Well, now,” Lynch said again and reached into a coat pocket and brought out a cellophane-wrapped cigar. He examined it carefully, stripped off the cellophane, wadded it into a neat ball, and flipped it at the wastebasket. He missed. He sniffed the cigar and then licked it carefully with a gray-coated tongue. He bit off one end, rose, and walked into the bathroom. I heard him spit the end out into the toilet and then flush it. Back in his chair he searched through four pockets before he found a book of matches. He lit the cigar with one of them and blew out a heady plume of inhaled smoke. I didn't time it, but he must have taken three minutes to light his cigar. Time was cheap that morning.

“Well, now,” he said yet again. “You sure didn't take much time in deciding to take us up on our offer.”

“You said you were in a hurry.”

“I did say that, didn't I? But you know, Mr. Dye, a deal like this is something like courting a gal. You want her to spread her legs for you all right, but if she does it too quick, you start wondering who she spread ‘em for half an hour ago. Sort of takes the bloom off the romance, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he said, which could have meant yes or no or even maybe. “It merely ‘pears to me that you're awful anxious to say yes. If you was a gal and I was asking you to marry me and you said yes like that, why I'd maybe suspect you were pregnant and looking for a daddy for your child. You ain't pregnant, are you, Mr. Dye?”

“No,” I said.

“Not even a little bit?” he said and laughed his fat man's laugh, which caused him to choke and splutter a bit on some of his cigar smoke.

I smiled, but it was my old joke smile. “Not even a little bit,” I said.

Lynch turned to the police chief. “What do you think, Cal?”

“I didn't know I was supposed to. I thought you did all the thinking.”

“Why, Cal, you know I value your opinion most highly.”

“Shit.”

“What do you think?”

Loambaugh looked at me. He took in the black shoes and socks; the new dark green cavalry twill suit; the white shirt, and the terrible tie. He examined my face with its gentle hazel eyes, firm chin, and resolute mouth. He didn't like anything.

“You want to know what I think, huh?” he said to Lynch while still examining me.

“Most certainly do.”

“I think he's a fucking plant.”

Lynch shook his head and chins up and down several times, not so much in agreement, it seemed, as in appreciation for a frank opinion, succinctly delivered. “That's a real interesting observation, Cal. Real interesting. You care to comment on it, Mr. Dye?”

“Not at all,” I said. “He's right.”

Lynch threw his head back and whooped. Then he cackled for a while and finally he even slapped a knee. The right one. I wondered if he and his brother, Gerald Vicker, had really shared the same parents. The physical resemblance was apparent, if somewhat bloated, but their personalities had almost nothing in common, unless avarice and malevolent drive can be considered inherited traits.

Lynch stopped whooping and cackling, wiped his eyes for effect, if not for tears, and gave me another chance to inspect the scrambled egg remnants that were tucked away between his teeth. “So you're a plant and you come right out and admit it before God and everybody? That right, Mr. Dye?”

“I wouldn't be worth a damn to you unless I were.”

“Explain yourself, sir. Not so much for me, but for Chief Loambaugh here. I think I'm beginning to sort of get the drift of things.”

“It's simple,” I said. “Victor Orcutt knew I was going to meet with you yesterday. When I got back, I told him about your proposition. It took a while to convince him that I should take it, but he finally agreed,”

“Ain't that something, Cal?” Lynch said, again smiling hugely. “You ever hear of anything like that before? Mr. Dye here tells Orcutt about
our meeting and then tells
us
that he told him and that Orcutt says to go ahead and join up with us. So what you're really going to do is work for us while Orcutt thinks that you're really working for him.”

“That's right,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Lynch said. “Brother Gerald said you were a tricky one, Mr. Dye. Mighty tricky.”

“I learned a lot from him.”

“Bet you did at that. Of course, I never had all of Gerald's advantages. I was sort of the simple one in the family. But it does occur to me that you could really be working for Orcutt and just play like you're working for us.”

“That's what Orcutt said, only he thought it might be just the other way around.”

Lynch found that really funny. He chortled and snuffled deep down in his belly and nodded his head rhythmically in time with the fist that he pounded against his knee. This time the left one. When he was done he said, “How you expect us to make sure that you're really looking after our best interests, Mr. Dye? By the way, you mind if I call you Lucifer? We're not too much on formality down here.”

“Lucifer's fine,” I said. “You'll know your best interests are being looked after by what I produce. That'll be your only gauge. I'll provide information and suggestions and that's all. You can check the information out and decide for yourself whether to act on my suggestions. If you don't like what I suggest, you can ignore it.”

“What do you think about that, Cal?” Lynch said, turning to the chief of police, who still stared at me as if I were the newest brand of archfiend whose unspeakable speciality was yet to be codified.

“I think he's a fucking liar,” Loambaugh said.

“Course he is, Cal. Man has to be
that
in the business he's in. Question is, does he lie for or against us. That's the real nut-knocker, don't you agree, Lucifer?”

“That's it,” I said.

“And I suppose it's all based on price.”

“You're right again.”

“I offered you twenty-five percent more than Orcutt's offering you, didn't I?”