Contract Null & Void

Chapter Thirty-three

On Saturday morning, O’B sent a rhymed fax to Kearny concerning a certain eighteen truck tires that he hoped would singe the Great White Father’s ears and maybe make the rest of his hair fall out. Then, because he planned to coast through the day, he had a Grand Slam at Denny’s. When Tony showed, he’d return John Little’s longbed to Cal-Cit’s storage lot. He drove leisurely to the Furniture Ranch to drop off John Little’s living room set.

That’s when his day went all to hell.

The ringing phone caught Bart Heslip in the shower. He was feeling a lot better about himself this morning, after a good night’s sleep, in his own bed, in his own house...

He’d eluded the trap they’d set for him in St. Francis Woods, hadn’t he? They’d made sure their target was home, then had reported the shooting before they did it, planning to set up Heslip for it. But he’d slipped the frame, leaving nothing to connect him with the murder. That’s when the phone rang.

A towel half-wrapped around him so he wouldn’t drip too badly on the floor, he went into the bedroom and picked up.

Maybelle Pernod’s voice said anxiously, “Bart?”

“Yes, Maybelle, I’m here. What—”

“Oh, thank the Lord!” Her rich contralto made it “Lawd” and made it hum with power. “I been tried you at the office, then thought to try there. Sleepy Ray called me an’ said to tell you don’t go anywhere near that hotel down to the ’Loin. The cops all over your room, he stood in the hall an’ axed dumb questions an’ got tole a big politician was murdered with a shotgun last night, an’ that they found a sawed-off twelve-bore scattergun hid under the mattress in your room.”

Heart plummeting, he said, “Who was it, Maybelle?”

“That Irishman in the Assembly — Rick Kiely.”

He sat down on the bed, and to hell with a wet spread. The heat over this killing would make the heat over the Petrock killing look like a match flame. Dumb? Dumber than dumb. Idiotic. After thanking Maybelle, he just sat there, slumped.

He’d thought he was the big smooth private eye, worming his way into the heart of whatever conspiracy had gotten Petrock killed. Meanwhile, the bad guys had thought he was a stupid thug willing to do anything for big enough bucks. So they’d set up this stupid thug for the Kiely kill, and the smooth private eye had reacted exactly as if he had been that stupid thug.

The lone, sole thing in his favor was that they wouldn’t have his prints on the shotgun. But they’d sure have them all over the room where the gun had been planted. Forensics would chemically match barrel residue with the type of shells used in the killing, and any jury would convict without leaving the box.

No way out.

He sat up straighter on the bed. To hell with that. There was always a way out, until you were dead.

He punched out a number on the phone, and when Ballard growled into it, said, “This’s Bart. Is Dan still there?”

Ballard’s voice was waking up. “No. He’s probably helping guard the boy wonder until all those papers are signed.”

Heslip told him all about last night and this morning and Ballard listened, stunned, as his preconceptions came crashing down around his ears. Rick Kiely hadn’t been the villain. He’d been another one of the good guys, along with Petrock and Danny.

Now Petrock and Kiely were dead... maybe Danny, too.

“What the hell are we going to do, Bart?”

“Make coffee.” said Heslip. and hung up.

Danny Marenne had been up before dawn, had made coffee and toast with some bread he’d found in the fridge, keeping an eye out all the while for the Chronicle delivery. No TV, no radio out here at Kiely’s weekend cabin. So when he finally saw. through the beach fog. the paper being tossed on the porch of a cabin fifty yards away, he gimped over and stole it.

The headline smeared across page 1 confirmed his fears:

There were the usual meaningless photos and a straightforward account of the shooting that was continued on page A-11. Most of that back page was given over to Kiely’s life and meteoric career, stuff that had obviously already been in the paper’s computer.

When he had read the account twice, Danny sat in the living room listening to the thud of the breakers on the sand and watching the few early walkers out on the beach.

With Kiely and Petrock gone, all of his clout was gone, too. He had to get out of here. Family, or estate lawyers, would soon be out to look around, assess value... And cops would check out the place — not urgently, because Kiely hadn’t been killed here.

But they’d come eventually. Let them find him? No. Sure as hell, some corrupt cop would drop dime and the guys who’d done Petrock and Kiely would find a way to do Danny, too. He had nothing concrete to give the cops, didn’t know who had done the murders, only believed he knew who had ordered them.

So, get out of here. But he had broken ribs, a concussion, and a twisted ankle that he could just barely walk on. No car. No bicycle, even.

Only one way out of here now. He called Larry Ballard. No answer. He’d keep trying. He’d have to keep trying.

O’B tried the front door. Unlocked. He pushed it open. The room beyond was totally devoid of furniture, not a stick, not a chair, no rug, nothing. Bare walls. He sighed and walked down the hallway past the bathroom to the open bedroom door.

From inside came the creak of springs as a heavy body shifted in a bed, then a pause, a long heartfelt “Ahhh,” and the clunk of thick glass against a hardwood floor. After a few more moments, a guitar was softly strummed. A voice sang:

O’B stepped into the room and leaned his back against the wall beside the door. He blended his mournful tenor with John Little’s deep sad bass on the next verse:

When they’d finished, the song hung on the air. John Little swung his bare feet around to the floor and sat looking at O’B with his hound-dog eyes.

“You took the living room set back to them people at the Furniture Ranch,” he said without making it a question.

“Yep,” said a sad O’B.

“An’ they told you I ain’t paid them on this...” His gesture took in the rug on the floor, the two bedside tables and lamps, the dressers against either sidewall, the ornate gilded bench at the foot of the bed, the bed itself.

“Yep,” said an even sadder O’B, “for a whole lotta months.”

“Well, shit, Hoss, I guess I better get up, then.”

The corporate entity known as Bascom, Buschman, Beaton and Block — the FourBees — had three floors of the Transamerica Tower at 600 Montgomery Street. A couple of years before, Transamerica had been absorbed without fanfare by an outfit in Battle Creek, Michigan, that called itself TIG Insurance, but the tall graceful tapering white pyramid was still the Transamerica Tower to most San Franciscans. The TIG Tower? Never.

FourBees represented Electrotec, which was buying all rights to Paul Rochemonts new computer chip for $500 million cash and options. Paul was represented by Mother’s law firm of Malloy, Monserrat, Morrison and Myron — the FourEms. Only the senior partner of each firm was present; also present was the CEO of Electrotec, which expected Paul’s microchip to triple its net worth within two years of production.

And of course Paul, Inga, and Bernardine, backed up by Dan Kearny, Giselle Marc, and Ken Warren.

In the center of the corporate boardroom was a gleaming oval walnut table that would seat twenty-five lawyers or, as the wags in the mailroom were wont to say, a like number of human beings. Clustered along its length were bottles of iced Perrier and crystal water glasses. In front of each hardwood chair was a yellow legal pad, two freshly sharpened pencils, and two new ballpoint pens.

Nobody was sitting in any of the chairs: the principals formed a knot at the head of the table with the DKA contingent standing, backs to the windows, behind its clients.

At exactly 9:00 A.M., Senior Partner Berty Bascom stepped forward. He was a tall, lean, weathered 79, dressed in a $3,000 suit and $700 shoes, his sharp blue eyes beneath beetling brows as warm as winter windchill.

With great ceremony, he spoke to Electrotec’s president, Gottward Greenleaf, 43 years old and wearing buckskin with fringe and big yellow teeth and contacts. An artfully calculated miniature calculator peeked out of the pocket of his rumpled bilious green shirt. Looking at him as representative of breed made Giselle realize how fond she’d somehow become of Paul.

“You may put out the contract,” said Berty Bascom.

Greenleaf slid a sheaf of papers out of a manila folder and squared it on the desk and opened it to the last, signature page.

FourEms’ William Malloy, surprisingly solid and bearlike in wool tweeds, at his youthful 53 still had all his finespun brown hair. Spurning contacts, he turned ice-chip blue eyes on Paul from behind his trademark horn-rims.

“You may sign the contract,” he said formally.

Paul stepped up and signed the contract, and stepped back.

Bascom to Greenleaf, “You may countersign the contract.”

Greenleaf did. Paul was half a billion bucks richer.

Giselle realized they all had been unconsciously holding their breath. Everyone was shaking hands, slapping backs; Bernardine embraced her son, who then embraced his wife. Bernardine embraced Ken, putting some bosom and maybe some thigh into it before moving back to her own kind.

Kearny said with a straight face, “It’s an unhealthy relationship, Ken. But since we haven’t been paid yet, you’d better relate to her until we are.”

“Hnsgrew nyoo.” Ken made a rude gesture as the principals began moving toward the door.

Giselle asked, “What’s our next move in the investigation?”

“What investigation?” asked Kearny. “The case is closed. Nobody is after Paul anymore.”

“You don’t believe that, and neither do I. If Paul should die now, Inga would inherit everything, and she and Frank Nugent could go off together rich and happy.” Just to bug him, she added, “What if Nugent should poison the food at the dinner tonight? A hundred people dead because you did nothing.”

He surprised her by seeming to take the suggestion seriously. “Hmm,” he said in apparent thought, “clumsy but effective.”

“So you’ll do something?”

“Sure,” said Dan Kearny, “I won’t eat anything.”