Every Man a King

27

Loopy’s Mark VII was still parked in front of the manor. My daughter walked us out. When Oliya climbed into the passenger’s seat, Aja put a hand on my wrist.

“Can I come with, Daddy?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not quite yet, honey. Oliya and me got some serious chop to get through first.”

“What’s the thing with her?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s... I don’t know... different.”

“That she is. She’s kind of like the detective you keep on saying you want to be.”

“And she’s your girlfriend?”

“No. She owes me a debt and I’m in so deep I’m letting her pay it.”

“Okay,” she said warily. “Be careful.”

“Nice office,” Oliya said after I’d shown her around my rooms.

“Thanks. Me and Aja got a good rhythm in here.”

“Her space is so much bigger than yours.”

“She keeps the files and the office tools. The only thing I do is think.”

“Why all the paper files? You some kinda throwback or something?”

“Something.”

“Well, if you want to go think, I can do some work out here.”

My first call was to Henri Tourneau. Henri’s father was a friend of mine and I looked after the young man’s progress in the police department. He’d risen to the rank of detective first grade in good time. He called for advice now and then, and on rare occasions, I’d reach out to him for help.

“Tourneau,” he said, answering the call on the first ring.

“Hey, Henri.”

“Mr. Oliver.”

“Come on, man. When you gonna start calling me Joe?”

“When I bust my first international smuggling ring.”

“You close to that?”

“Hold up. Let me get outside.”

While the call was on mute I looked up the website for the Regency Oil Syndicate, based in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

I’d just found the name I was looking for when Henri said, “I’m back.”

“How’s your dad?” I asked, warming up to a request.

“He had what they call a ministroke two months back. Mom wants him to retire but he says that he likes being a pipefitter.”

“What’s a ministroke?”

“What it sounds like. A stroke that doesn’t do as much damage.”

“So he’s okay?”

“Only thing you can see is that the baby finger of his left hand doesn’t bend. He says he never used it all that much anyway.”

“Is he home?”

“No. He’s at work down on the Brooklyn docks.”

“Give him my best.”

“Will do.”

“Um, I wanted to ask you to do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Half a century ago a student named George Laurel was murdered while going to Yale. I’ve been trying to get information about what happened, but it’s too long ago. Does the force still have ties to the New Haven PD?”

“Organized crime has the most.”

“Can you dig up some information on the case?”

“Try my best.”

“Thanks, Henri. Give my love to your mother.”

My next call was an 800 number so there was no way even to guess at its geographic location.

“Regency Oil,” a pleasant woman’s voice said.

“Hi. My name is Lon Preston and I was hoping that you could help me.”

“Certainly. What can I do for you, Mr. Preston?”

“I’m looking to speak to John Sledge.”

“Oh.” There was a hint of hesitation in the young woman’s voice. “I don’t have a connection to Mr. Sledge’s line.”

“Might your supervisor know how to get in touch with him?”

“What is your business with Mr. Sledge?”

“A friend of his has had an accident and he wanted me to reach out.”

“Does this have to do with Regency?”

“If your mother broke her leg, would that have to do with Regency? I mean, could somebody call you at work to tell you that?”

My words sounded like a threat. They were and, then again, they were not.

“What is this friend’s name?”

“Yuri Fleganoff.”

“Hold on.”

It took five minutes for the second voice to come on the line.

“Regency Oil,” a very masculine-sounding man said.

“Hi. I’m looking for John Sledge.”

“And you are?”

“Lon Preston.”

“And what is your business with Mr. Sledge, Mr. Preston?”

“Private.”

“You said something about a friend of his,” the voice coaxed.

“Can you put me through?”

“I need more information before that can happen.”

“So, you can put me through, you’re just refusing to.”

“I need to know why you want him.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Connor.”

“Well, Mr. Connor, believe me when I tell you that Mr. Sledge does not want this message out on the street.”

“I’m the manager in charge of communications,” Connor asserted.

“If your salary is below eight figures you really don’t want to know what I have to say to your boss’s boss’s boss.”

“Hold on.”

This time there was music on the suspended line. Tina Turner singing “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” I like the song, love the songstress. I was moving my upper body to the rhythm when a knocking came on the door.

“Come on in.”

When Oliya walked into the room I had the familiar feeling one gets when seeing an old friend.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re on the phone.”

“On hold. What do you need?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something. It can wait.”

“This is Aaron McCaffrey,” Billy Goat Gruff snarled in my ear.

I pointed at the offended ear and my new/old friend backed out — closing the door.

“Hello, Mr. McCaffrey.”

“Who is this?”

“You can call me Lon.”

“Lon what?”

“Look, man, you’re the third person I’ve had to talk to and I’m getting a little fed up. My name is Lon and I’m calling John Sledge to pass on a message from Yuri Fleganoff.”

“I don’t like your tone, Lon.”

“Go home and kiss your kids. You’ll forget all about the sound of my voice.”

I could feel the upper-mid-management mandibles quivering on the other end of the line.

“Hold on!”

Most of human life is defined by waiting. Neanderthal hunters would wait in shadows to ambush prey. Foot soldiers wait for the signal to attack. Hopeful young men wait downstairs while their dates wonder which shoes to wear.

Yuri Fleganoff was waiting in a forest den, hoping against hope that he’d have future delays on foreign soil.

“Hello?” a mature woman said. “Mr. Preston?”

“Yes.”

“How can I help you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Delphine. Delphine du Champs.”

“Whoa. Now, that’s a name.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Preston?”

“I need to speak with Johnny Sledge.”

“John Sledge?”

I didn’t see any reason to answer.

“What is your business with Mr. Sledge?” du Champs asked.

“Private. It’s private business that he wouldn’t want you hearing about.”

“I know about all of Mr. Sledge’s affairs.”

I wondered if she intended the double entendre.

“Not this one,” I assured her.

“Give me your number. I’ll ask him to call you back.”

“Now or never, Delphine.”

“Hold on.”

While waiting, I did a little math, coming up with a number that was maybe the last digit of the combination to Roger’s secret. I was about to test that calculation when a silken-toned tenor got on the line.

“Lon Preston?”

“Mr. Sledge?”

“How can I help you?”

“I have a problem that coincides with an issue you’re having.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Oh? You mean the FBI, heating oil, and Tava Burkel’s real name aren’t things that make your dick soft?”

Blessed silence.

“Who is this?”

“Just a guy who wants parity. We meet, exchange a few words, and then all our problems will be solved.”

“How much do you want?”

“Not a dime.”

“So why are we talking?”

“Meet me and you’ll find out.”

“There’s nothing you’ve said that would make me want to meet with you.” He sounded very certain.

“No, Mr. Burkel? Really?”

More silence.

“Where?” Sledge asked.

“Dead center of the pedestrian passway on the Brooklyn Bridge. Tonight. Midnight.”

“You think I’m a fool?”

“Only if you don’t show.”

I hung up. I wasn’t worried about repercussions over using my office phone because I had the best protection software that blackmail could buy.

Feeling undeservedly good about myself, I went to the outer office.

Oliya was sitting in my daughter’s chair reading a Spanish novel titled She Opened the Box.

“So what did you want to talk about?” I asked, taking the visitor’s seat.

Oliya put down the myth made modern. “I called a friend at Int-Op. My mentor. The woman that brought me in.”

“Somebody you can trust?”

“Nothing’s for sure, but — I think so.”

“And what did she say?”

“Int-Op is a very old company. More than a hundred years. They started in the United States and then moved the base of operations to Europe in the 1950s. My division works mostly for big corporations dealing with everything from kidnapping to corporate espionage, but the majority of the staff now consists of hackers researching and protecting sensitive data.

“Still, the company has deep roots in the kind of work I do. That’s why I wouldn’t tell you about our relationship with Zyron. In a perfect world any association we have with them should not compromise what we’re doing for you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“But it seems that Zyron and maybe others have bought off certain key representatives. That’s what my friend says.”

“Do they know who these people are?”

“No.”

“But they know you.”

“Yes.”

“They trust you.”

“As far as I know.”

“You need to go take care of business?”

“Right now my job is to protect you.”

An hour later I was sitting in my office again looking out on Montague Street. There was nothing to do until late night. Oliya would cover the Manhattan entrance while Mel would guard the Brooklyn side. In the meantime I could watch the pedestrians making their way down a street they could no longer afford.

I was so into the sights that when the phone rang I was startled.

“Hello.”

“Joe?”

“Henri, my man.”

“I don’t know what you could be looking for here, but I got some of the story if you want it.”

“Hit me.”

“It happened nearly fifty years ago. A very popular junior at Yale, George Laurel, was killed in his New Haven apartment by another student named Sola Prendergast. Sola came from Argentina. He was poor but that year they were looking for bilingual students with fair grades.”

“Did he give any reason for the killing?”

“No. He just pled guilty and took a life sentence.”

“What prison he in?”

“He was in Bridgeport Correctional but got released in ’92. Upon release he was deported back to Argentina.”

I tried, in my mind, to connect this half-a-century-old seemingly senseless murder to Quiller. All I got was a mental cramp.

“You need anything else, Joe?” Henri asked.

“Yeah. A factory job putting cheap shoes in cardboard boxes.”

I looked up Alexander and Cassandra Ferris and their college educations. He went to Harvard and she to Princeton. He was a fuckup at school; his sister, on the other hand, attained the distinction of summa cum laude. Neither one had anything to do with Yale. Their father didn’t seem to spend much time there either.

George Laurel would have to wait.

I leaned back in the swivel chair and put both feet up on the desk.

I was at a country fair in the late day. It was different from most fairs in that they had a zoo but all the animals, from elephants to lions, were walking among the people come to gawk at them. There was a river with seals and sea lions lolling on the banks. The hot dog vendor didn’t charge and the lions yawned lazily. There was a tall, very tall and lanky man who wore a stovepipe top hat the crown of which must have stood a good yard above his brow. His green dress jacket had big yellow stars sewn on it. This ringmaster, this circus boss, had a perpetual grin plastered on his face. He was looking around the crowd, for something.

When he turned that gaze on me I experienced a thrill of fear.

He took a step in my direction.

I set off at a run. I was hoofing it but for some reason made little headway. The man in the top hat was walking and still catching up. His tooth-filled grin was feral. I ran harder but he was closing the gap. Then I slammed into an extinct cave bear. Falling to the ground I saw that the circus boss had caught up with me. He held out a helping hand but I knew that he wanted to capture me, to make me a part of his carnival.

I cringed, closing my eyes and praying for escape.

“Joe.”