Flame

Chapter 14

The next morning, as he limped through the Holiday Inn lobby, Carver tried not to look at the envelope stuffed in the box beneath his room number. A lot of money, Ogden had said. And, to Ogden, a lot would indeed be a lot. There was no telling how much was in the bulging white envelope. Maybe even six figures. Possibilities endless and shining.

Better not think about that.

But his mind kept returning to the knowledge of the envelope the way the tip of a tongue keeps returning to an aching tooth. And finding decay.

He got the Ford from the hotel garage and drove through iridescent streets damp from a dawn rain to the Atlanta Public Library, only about six blocks away on the corner of Carnegie Way and Forsyth.

The library was a gray stone building with dark-tinted windows. There was a wide concrete area out front that seemed to be home to half a dozen street people. This was a teeming corner, with lots of traffic, both car and pedestrian. Busy Atlantans rushing here and there, conducting the business of the New South.

Inside, the library was cool and spacious, with beige carpet and cream-colored walls. Carver pushed through a turnstile, and a woman at an information desk told him newspaper back issues were kept on microfilm on the fourth floor, then with a darting glance at his cane directed him to an elevator.

Same beige carpet on the fourth floor. Same cream-colored walls. Microfilm records were stored in rows of multicolored file drawers, while current newspapers were kept in racks in their original form.

After removing the appropriately dated small cardboard boxes from one of many gray drawers, he sat at one of half a dozen blue-and-gray viewers and got busy.

He had to sift through several microfilm spools before he found what he wanted in a July 12, 1970, edition of the Constitution. The moving of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering’s corporate headquarters to Atlanta from New Orleans, along with plans to construct a vast operation south of the city, was front-page news in the financial section. There was a separate item on Wesley himself, recounting how he’d been born in New Orleans into one of the city’s oldest and most prestigious families. His father had been a local political kingmaker, his father a two-term congressman in the U.S. House of Representatives. Wesley had made a name for himself as a high-school halfback, but he hadn’t played college football because of a knee injury. He’d attended Washington and Lee University, graduating magna cum laude within three years. In a surprising move, he’d used family money to buy into Clark Rendering with a college friend, Keith Adkins. The two of them soon had corporate control. Within five years Adkins left the company, whose name was changed to Wesley Slaughter and Rendering. Under Wesley’s guidance, it soon became the largest operation of its kind in the South. Wesley was also a member of an organization called the Southern Christian Businessmen’s League, as well as several other civic groups.

Next to the news item was a photograph of Frank Wesley in his forties, dark hair worn long over the ears, drooping dark mustache, the sort of smile people associate with daredevil pilots and heartbreakers. Nice-looking guy in a suit and tie, posed with his arms crossed, a freshly slaughtered hog dangling upside-down on a meat hook in the background. Today’s carcass, tomorrow’s bacon.

It was a striking photograph for several reasons, but the reason it struck Carver was that he was sure the man in the 1970 newspaper photograph and the man who’d died in the car bombing in Florida were two different people.

He turned the knob that made the lens zoom in on the section of the newspaper page containing the Wesley story. Figured out the instructions printed on the side of the microfilm machine, fed a quarter into its plastic and metal guts, and in a slanted plastic tray received a copy of what was on the screen. Wesley’s photograph had reproduced beautifully.

Then he leaned back in his chair, holding the copy and the crook of his cane in the same hand, thinking.

The two gunmen in Wesley’s condo in Fort Lauderdale hadn’t seemed surprised when he’d walked in through the unlocked door. It was almost as if they’d been ahead of him in the game and were sitting there waiting for him. And if he was any judge, Ogden, Butcher, and Courtney had been genuinely surprised by his mention of the two in Florida. As if they actually had no connection with them. Maybe didn’t even know who they might be. Then he remembered Courtney’s sharp intake of breath at the mention of the Fort Lauderdale conversation. Wondered what, if anything, that might mean.

But the discussion of the two gunmen was the only even slight digression from their scare-Carver act. It was as if they’d talked over beforehand what might frighten him into leaving Atlanta, then gone through their routine in his room and sweetened fear with money. Powerful motivators, cold fear and cold cash.

Carver had been tempted, but he’d never considered asking the desk clerk for the envelope in his room slot. Not really. Not beyond toying with the idea. He knew better than to take the money. Knew what part of himself he’d be selling. Convinced himself of that, anyway.

But he couldn’t shake the fear.

Even if he did keep seeing Butcher’s tiny, intense eyes behind the thin-bladed boning knife, even if he did keep thinking about the photograph of a young Frank Wesley standing and smiling in front of a fresh-killed hog, Carver assured himself that he was leaving Atlanta because he had no more business here at the moment.

As he checked out of the hotel that afternoon, he saw that the envelope was no longer in his box. He asked the desk clerk, a tall, elderly man with gray hair and a crooked spine, if he knew what had happened to it.

“Gentleman that left it came by this morning and picked it up,” the man said, regarding Carver as if peering around a corner.

“Remember what time?”

“I’d guess about ten, sir.”

Carver felt a sinking, cool sensation. They hadn’t given him much time to claim the money. As if they didn’t really care how he played it and could handle him easily either way. Hadn’t been bluffing an iota. This wasn’t comforting.

“That’s okay, I hope.” The desk clerk’s gray eyebrows formed a sharp V of concern. “When he left the envelope, he said whoever was on the desk at the time was to give it to whichever of you two gentlemen asked for it.”

“It’s okay,” Carver told him. “I just wanted to make sure he got it.”

He put his room charges on his Visa card and said yes, he’d enjoyed his stay. Especially the guy with the knife.

Digging the cane hard into the lobby carpet, he refused to let a bellhop carry his suitcase as he limped toward the exit. Despised the man’s pitying and patronizing smile.

An hour later, he’d turned the rental Ford in to Hertz at the hectic Atlanta airport and was on a plane heading back to Florida.

The air was calm; the flight was smooth. He sat quietly sipping beer from a plastic cup, watching shredded cotton clouds glide past. Wondering what and how big was the thing he’d become involved in, and where it was taking him.

And how much had been in the envelope he hadn’t claimed.