Short Stories, Volume 1

Favor and the Princess

Thursday, finally, something happened.

Favor had been tailing David Carson for two days, and they had each been equally dull days. Back when he was a city detective, there were two jobs Favor hated most: telling parents that their child had been killed, and tailing people. Favor’s ass always went to sleep.

For two days, Carson, a slender and handsome man, went to work, played squash, stopped by his country club for two quick drinks, and then drove on home to the wife and kids. Home being a walled estate complete with large gurgling fountain on the front lawn, and a pair of jags in the three-stall garage.

Thursday, Carson was nice enough to do something different.

As CEO of the electronics firm he had recently inherited from his father-in-law, Carson didn’t have any problem sneaking off in the middle of the afternoon. He stopped first at a branch of the Federal National Savings bank. Favor figured this was going to be another nowhere tail. But Carson parked and went inside, and stayed inside for nearly half an hour. When he came out, he carried a manila envelope.

From the bank, he drove straight to the bluffs out in Haversham State Park. On a weekday May afternoon, the birds and the butterflies frolicking in the warm air, the park was empty. Carson angled his shiny black Lincoln Towncar into a spot near the log-cabin restrooms, and got out carrying the manila envelope. There was another car already parked there, a sporty little red Mustang convertible with the top up. He then took off walking toward a path that led straight to an overlook above the river.

Favor gave him a couple of minutes and then went after him, shoving his small notebook back in the pocket of his blue blazer. He’d written down the number of the Mustang.

All Favor could think of, as he wound his way down the forest path, the damp leaves and loam playing hell with his sinuses, was that he didn’t have a cap on and was therefore susceptible to Lyme disease.

Favor was a good-looking guy of forty-five who seemed competent and confident in every way. His darkest secret was his hypochondria. Being in a room where somebody sneezed pissed him off for an hour and he could feel the jack-booted cold germs invading his body and seizing control of it. Sometimes he was so upset he wanted to take out his trusty old Police .38 Special and waste the offender. If he ever got to be President of the United States, which, he had to admit, wasn’t real likely, he would make public sneezing a felony.

For a few minutes, as the path wended and wound its way through the deepest part of the forest, and possums and rabbits and raccoons lined up to look at him, he was a seven-year-old again, imagining he was Tarzan, and this wasn’t a forest at all but a jungle, and it wasn’t in Iowa, it was in Africa, and it wasn’t the real Africa, which was actually kind of boring, it was Tarzan’s Africa, which was about the coolest place on the whole planet. Favor had been a stone Tarzan freak until he was fifteen years old, when he discovered a) girls b) marijuana and c) Neil Young records. Neil couldn’t sing for shit but he did stuff to a guitar that never failed to give Favor chills. But now, for a brief time at least, he was Tarzan again and seven years old again and if he wasn’t careful he just might get himself attacked by an alligator...

The overlook was actually a kind of stone verandah set on the highest point of a woodsy bluff. It was the kind of aerie the Indians had no doubt used for spying on intruders. Beyond, across the wide rushing river, were other bluffs, gleaming with the skins of white birch trees that struggled all the way up hill to the point where some old narrow-gauge railroad track could still be found. Jesse James had once robbed one of the short-haul trains that had used these very same tracks.

The man with David Carson was short, stumpy and bald. He wore a buff blue polo shirt, khaki pants, argyle socks and penny loafers. He put his hand out and Carson set the manila envelope on it.

Favor couldn’t hear what they were saying. A couple of motor boats were showing off below and drowning out the words.

Then Carson was angrily jamming his finger into the smaller man’s chest.

The man backed up but Carson pursued him, continuing to jab at his chest, continuing to spit angry words into the man’s face.

Favor could see that Carson was starting to glance back up the trail. He was probably going to leave soon.

Favor decided this would be a good time to leave.

He hurried back along the path, got in his car, and drove up near the exit where he parked on the shoulder of the road and took out his trusty newspaper. The paper was ten years old. He used it for every surveillance job. Someday he’d have to get a new paper.

A few minutes later, Carson came shooting up the asphalt. The posted speed limit was 15. He was doing at least 60. When he reached the stop sign at the exit, he jammed on his brakes, fishtailing a bit. Then he peeled out, laying down rubber. He was sure pissed off about something.

Favor followed him back to the manse, then drove down to the police station, where he had an old buddy of his run a check on the Mustang’s plates.

“You know anybody who drives a red Mustang?” Favor said three hours later.

“I didn’t know they still made Mustangs.”

“Yeah, they do. This one is red.”

Jane Carson shook her wondrously lovely head.

Jane Dalworth Carson had come from one of the old-money families in the city. Favor had first met her when he was ten, helping his dad in the yardwork business. He got goopy over Jane. No matter what girl he met he always compared her to Jane and found her coming up short. Jane was not only blonde and beautiful and rich and fun to be around, she knew how to make you feel like the most special guy in the known universe. None of Favor’s first three wives had been able to do that.

Jane had called him three nights ago. She said her husband was acting weird. Would Favor kind of, you know, follow him around a little and see what was going on? She suspected he might have a woman. “Nobody married to you would ever have a woman on the side,” Favor said. “Oh, you haven’t seen me lately. I’m looking middle-aged, Favor. I really am.”

Today was the first time he’d actually seen her in eleven years, here in this fern-infested restaurant with the waiters who all wore bouncy little ponytails and nose-rings.

Favor made a point of it to be modern. It didn’t always work. As for Jane, she looked great to him. Maybe a teensy-tiny bit older. But nothing to take seriously.

Jane said “Do you know anything about this guy?”

“He’s a male nurse. Sam Evans.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I was kind’ve of surprised, too.”

“Why would he be meeting a male nurse?”

“I don’t know. He handed him a manila envelope.”

“An envelope?”

“I think it had money in it. He went into the bank without it, and then came out with it. There’s only one thing I know you can get in a bank.”

“A male nurse and an envelope with money in it.”

Favor said, “Guy’s shaking him down.”

“Blackmail?”

“Uh-huh.”

She looked stunned by a thought she’d obviously just had. “I saw an Oprah once where this woman didn’t know her husband was gay till she found him in bed with another guy. I mean, a male nurse—”

For some reason, Favor was disappointed she watched Oprah. Princesses should have better things to do with their time. “I don’t think he’s gay.”

“How can you tell?”

Favor shrugged. “I just don’t.”

“Then what do you think it is?”

“He drink a lot?”

“Not really.”

“Take drugs?”

She laughed. “David? God, he’s the most conservative man I know.” Her laugh made him mushy inside. He knew that even if there happened to be a fourth Mrs. Favor, his last thought on planet earth would be about Princess Jane. She was drinking wine and he was drinking Diet Pepsi because he was afraid he might blurt out something embarrassing if he had any booze in him. Many, many drunken nights he’d come this close to picking up the phone and calling her and telling her something embarrassing.

“I guess I wouldn’t blame him if he did have a woman on the side.”

“I told you. That’s crazy. Nobody married to you should even look at anybody else.”

She smiled. “Maybe I should’ve married you, Favor.”

“Yeah, right. What a prize I am.”

He wanted her to go on a little more, you know, kind of extol the hell out of all his virtues, but she didn’t. “I haven’t been much company since Dad died.”

“I was sorry to hear about it. I would’ve been there but I was working in Chicago.”

“That’s all right. We just had a small family funeral. Dad wanted to be cremated. He hated big funerals.” Her blue blue eyes were damp. “Things were kind of rough for him the last couple of years. All the foreign competition. Profits were way down. He didn’t blame David. My two brothers, did, of course. They’ve always thought that they should be in charge of the company. He got so sick, the cancer and everything, he had to turn it all over to David. Actually, after the chemo didn’t do any good, I expected he’d die right away. But he hung on for almost a year.”

“He was a good man.”

“He always liked you and your father very much. He never forgot where he came from. The west side, I mean.”

Her lower lip began to tremble. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, comfort her, make her forever grateful for his remarkable powers of succoring. “How’s the business doing now?” he said, trying to forestall her tears.

“Much better.”

“Oh?”

She sipped wine, then nodded with that gorgeous head of hers.

“We were way overextended,” she said. “The bank was even calling in some of our biggest notes. Then, thank God, right after Dad died, David met Mr. Vasquez.”

“Who’s he?”

“A very rich Argentinian. David’s broker knew him. And he brought them together.”

“Vasquez bought in?”

She shrugged. “You know me. I don’t know much about business. And really have no interest in it. I’m really more artistic than anything.”

“Right. Your painting.”

“It’s still the center of my life.”

She was a terrible painter. Fortunately, she chose the representational mode to paint in. If she did abstract art, Favor wouldn’t have been able to tell if she was any good or not. If he found a bunch of paintings by Picasso in his garage, he’d be inclined to throw them away.

“So the company’s doing well again?”

“Yes. As I said, I just wish Dad were alive to see it. He spent his whole life building that company. And at the end—” Her eyes were moist again. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem. I cry sometimes myself.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine that. You crying, I mean.”

Favor wasn’t sure how to take that. Was she saying that he lacked the sensitivity to cry? Or was she saying that he was too macho to cry? Either way, he wasn’t sure she’d paid him a compliment.

“The only time I ever saw David cry,” she said, “when my father got on him one night and blamed him for the business going downhill.”

“I thought you said your father didn’t blame him.”

“Just that one time.”

“Oh.”

“It really got to David.”

“I imagine.”

“Took away all his pride. So he went into the den and I knocked but he wouldn’t let me in. And then I heard him crying. It was a terrible sound.” More wine. “I just don’t know what any of this has to do with that man in the red Mustang.”

“Neither do I. But I’m going to try and find out.”

She reached over and put her hand on his. He felt as if he were going into cardiac arrest.

“I really appreciate this, Favor. And I want to pay you for it.”

“No way.”

She gave his hand a cute little squeeze. “Maybe I really should have married you, Favor.” And for one brief moment he had this wonderful thought: what if he really got something on her husband, and she really did decide to take up with Favor? What if...

Sitting in a car and doing surveillance allowed you certain liberties. You could pick your nose, scratch your butt, belch, pass gas, and dig the green stuff out of the corners of your eyes. While his thoughts of Princess Jane were mostly ethereal, every once in awhile thoughts of her got him right in the old libido. He kept seeing the swell of her small but perfect breasts, and smelling the erotic scent of her perfume.

This was five hours after leaving her at the restaurant. He’d started following Sam Evans right after dinner. While he waited, Favor picked up his cell phone and called a private number at the credit bureau.

“Hey, Favor.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“We got one of those deals?”

“Oh, that identifies the caller?”

“Yeah.”

“I should get one of those. So what’d you find out about Sam Evans.”

Paulie Daye worked at the local credit bureau. At night, from his apartment, he hacked into the bureau’s computers and sold information to a variety of people.

“Well, he paid off all his bills. Had about ten different creditors really on his ass. Had a whole bunch of stuff — stereo, shit like that — repossessed in fact.”

“Any idea where the money came from?”

“Huh-uh.”

“When did it start showing up?”

“Eight, nine months ago. Paid everything up to date in two days.”

“Cash or checks?”

“What’m I, a mind-reader?”

“He buy a lot of new stuff?”

“A lot. Bought himself a condo, for one thing, and a new Mustang and about five thousand dollars worth of clothes.”

“Man, what a waste.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he ain’t exactly a male model.”

“And he took two vacations.”

“To where?”

“San Juan and Paris.”

“Wow. Sounds like Mr. Evans is doing all right for himself.”

“He shaking somebody down?”

“Probably.”

“Figures. No male nurse makes this kind’ve change.”

“I need to see his checks for the past ten months. That possible?”

“You looking for anything special?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Cost you five big ones.”

“Done.”

“Take me till about this time tomorrow. I got a friend at his bank can help me, but not till right after work.”

Just then, Sam Evans came out of Cock A Doodle Do Night Club and got into his red Mustang.

“Gotta go,” Favor said.

Turned out Sam Evans was a real XXX-freak.

He hit, in the next two hours, Club Syn, Lap-Dance-A-Looza, Your Place Or Mine, and The Slit Skirt. He stayed about the same time in each one, forty, forty-five minutes, and then jumped back in his red Mustang and hauled ass down the road. At the last one, he emerged about midnight with a bottle blonde with balloon boobs and a giggle that could shatter glass. He shagged on back to the condo. And ten minutes after crossing the threshold, killed the lights.

Through the open window on the second floor, the blonde’s giggle floated down. A waste of a whole night. Didn’t learn one damned useful thing about Sam Evans.

“I got the print-outs,” Paulie said nineteen hours later. “You want me to fax them?”

“Yeah,” Favor said.

“Sounds like a pretty boring evening to me. Going through all these check print-outs.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be naked while I’m doing it.”

“Careful, you can get arrested for stuff like that, Favor.”

“Don’t remind me. I used to work vice.”

Couple hours later, Favor was seriously thinking about getting naked. Anything to break the monotony of poring over and over the print-outs of where Sam Evans had written the checks, and in what amount. There was a Cubs game on. Every time the crowd groaned, he looked up to see a Cub player looking embarrassed. Cub fans didn’t cheer, they sighed.

He went through the lists six times before he saw that there was only one really interesting name on the whole print-out: nine months ago, Sam Evans had spent $61.00 at Zenith Pharmacy. Favor wondered why a male nurse who worked for a hospital that had its own pharmacy would spend money at another pharmacy. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that the hospital pharmacy didn’t stock certain things. Maybe. The Cubs lost a close one, 14-3, and then Favor went to bed.

“Good morning.”

“Accounting please.”

“Thank you.”

This was the next morning in Favor’s combination apartment office. Favor was gagging down a cup of instant coffee while Mr. Coffee took his good sweet time about making the first real cup of the day, the sonofabitch.

“Hello. This is Ruth.”

“Hi, Ruth. My name’s Bob Powell and I’m a tax accountant. I’ve got a client named Sam Evans and we’re filing a late return this year. But Sam isn’t exactly great at keeping receipts. He’s got a canceled check here written to Zenith and I wondered if you could tell me what he bought that day.”

“I can help you if he’s got an account here. Sam Evans?”

“Right.”

“Thank you.”

She went away and then she came back. “The check paid the balance of his old account.”

“I see. Do you have a list of what the check paid for?”

“The specific items?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see here. Two hypodermic needles. Looks like the large ones with very fine points. And a bottle of insulin.”

The accountant Bob Powell wrote down everything she said. “Well, that’s about all I need, I guess.”

“He in trouble?”

“Trouble?”

“You know, the IRS.”

“Oh. No, not really. Just a late file. A lot of people do that.”

“We got audited once, my husband and I, I mean, and it was terrible.”

“I bet. Well, listen Ruth, thanks a lot.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not sure there was an autopsy,” Jane Carson said on the phone half an hour later.

“He died of what?”

“A heart attack.”

“Did he have a history of heart problems?”

“No.”

“Did he see a doctor within two weeks of his death for heart problems?”

“No.”

“Then there was an autopsy. Had to be. Legally.”

“God, how’d you ever learn all this stuff, Favor?”

“I just picked it up.”

“I keep wanting to ask him about that male nurse.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“No, I won’t. But it’s tempting.” Then: “Why did you want to know about an autopsy?”

Princess Jane had one of those circuitous conversational styles. You never knew when she was going to circle back to the original topic.

“Because a week before your father died, Sam Evans bought some insulin at a medical supply house.”

“Insulin? You mean for diabetes?”

He didn’t want to share his suspicions with her just yet. “I’m not sure why he bought it,” Favor said. “It may not have anything to do with this at all.”

“How will you find out?”

“Talk to the medical examiner.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“More or less.”

She laughed. “You don’t sound real thrilled about him.”

“He borrowed fifty bucks from me two Christmases ago and never paid me back.”

“Why don’t you ask him for it?”

“Because if I asked him, he might get mad, and if he got mad then he wouldn’t help me any more.”

“Maybe he was drunk and forgot about it.”

“Maybe.”

“Then just figure out some subtle way to ask him, if it really bothers you, I mean.”

“We’ll see. I’ll check in with you after I talk to him.”

“I just can’t figure out,” Princess Jane said, “why David’d pay off a male nurse.”

“I think,” Favor said, “we’re about to find out.”

Bryce Lenihan, MD, it said. He was fat, bald with a little cherub Irish face. The shoulders of his dark suit coats were invariably snowy with dandruff and his teeth were invariably clogged with bits of his most recent meal. He had been medical examiner for twelve years, as long as Mayor O’Toole had been mayor. O’Toole was his uncle. You figure it out.

Favor decided now was the time to give Lenihan the Big Hint.

“You like my tie, Lenihan?”

“Your tie?”

“Yeah. This one.” He waggled the tie at him the way a big dog waggles his tongue at you.

“Yeah, I mean it’s nice and all.”

“Guy owed me fifty bucks for so long, I figured he’d forgotten about it. And when I open my mail box the other day, and there’s a nice new fifty in an envelope. Guy said he was just walking down the street and remembered it all of a sudden, after all these years. You ever do that, Lenihan, forget you owe somebody money I mean?”

“Not that I remember.”

As if on cue, so he wouldn’t have to pursue the subject any more, Lenihan’s phone rang and he got into this five-minute discussion about spots on a dead guy’s liver, and what the spots did or didn’t signify. Favor didn’t see how anybody could be a doctor.

After Lenihan hung up, he said, “I gotta go down to the morgue. That’s why I don’t think chicks should be doctors. Dizzy bitch can’t ever figure things out for herself, my assistant I mean. So what can I do for you, Favor, and make it fast.”

Favor knew he could forget all about his fifty bucks. Probably forever.

“I got three things I’m trying to put together here,” he said. “First I got a guy who had a heart attack with no history of heart attacks.”

“Which doesn’t mean diddly. Lots of guys with no history of heart trouble die from heart attacks.”

“Two, I’ve got a male nurse who may or may not be involved in this whole thing. And three—”

The phone rang again.

“Yeah?” Lenihan said, after snapping up the receiver. Then: “Then let him do his own fucking autopsy, he’s so goddamned smart. I say the guy suffocated and if he doesn’t like it, tell him to put it up his ass.”

Lenihan slammed the phone. “Lawyers.”

He glanced at his watch. Would Favor be able to finish his question?

“I gotta haul ass, Favor,” Lenihan said, standing up. He did what he usually did when he stood up, whisked dandruff off his shoulders with his fingers.

“Number three is, four days before this guy has a heart attack, the male nurse buys two large syringes with fine points—”

“—probably 60 ccs—”

“And some insulin—” That’s when the first knock came.

“And I’d like to find out,” Favor said, “if there’s a connection between these things.”

Lenihan looked as if he were about to say something to Favor when the second knock came. “Yeah?” Lenihan shouted.

The woman who came through the door literally cowered when she saw Dr. Lenihan. She looked as if he might turn on her and throw her into the wall or something.

“What the hell is it, Martha?”

A trembling hand held out a single piece of paper.

“The lab report you wanted on the Henderson case.”

He snatched it from her. “Tell them they can kiss my ass. I wanted this early this morning.”

The woman cowered again, and then quickly left.

Lenihan probably wasn’t going to win any Boss of the Year awards. He was scanning the lab report when Favor said, “So what do you think? Those three things I told you about fit together?”

When Lenihan looked up, his eyes were glassy. Whatever information the lab report held, it must be damned engrossing. “Huh?” he said.

“The male nurse and the syringe and the insulin.”

“God,” Dr. Bruce Lenihan, MD, said, shooting his cuff and glaring at his wristwatch. “I’m so fucking late I can’t believe it.” Then he said, “I figure a smarty-pants like you woulda been able to figure it out all by your lonesome, Favor.”

“Figure what out?”

“The insulin bit. Very old trick. Thing is, it still works eight out of ten times. Last convention I went to, that was one of the big topics on the docket. It’s still a problem. I mean, it doesn’t happen that often, but it’s still a bitch to spot.”

On the way down in the elevator, Lenihan gave the lowdown on how exactly you killed a guy the way the male nurse had. Lenihan’s last words, just as Favor was saying goodbye, “But a really good medical examiner would be able to spot it.” He smiled. “A good one like me.”

Lenihan had done the autopsy in question, of course, and he hadn’t spotted it at all.

Favor had kept some of the old burglary pics he’d taken from various thieves back during his city detective days. He got into Sam Evans’ condo with no problem. He went out into the kitchen and found some Jack Daniels black label and fixed himself a drink. Then he went into the living room and parked himself in the recliner. He used the channel zapper and found the Cubs game. During a long commercial break, Favor picked up the phone and called Princess Jane.

“I think I figured it out. What your husband was up to.”

“Oh, God, Favor, I’m almost afraid to hear.”

He told her and she started crying almost immediately.

All the time she cried, he thought, the cops’re going to nail David’s ass, and she’s going to be free. Maybe seventh-grade dreams really do come true You just have to wait a while. Say twenty or thirty years.

She kept on sobbing. “I’m sorry, Favor. I’d better go.”

“Don’t mention any of this to your husband. I’ve got a little plan in mind.”

He could imagine how she’d feel in his arms right now, the tender slender body against his, the warmth of the tears on her cheeks.

“Just remember,” Favor said, “you need anything, any time night or day, you’ve got my number.”

“Oh, Favor, I just feel so terrible right now.”

“You lie down and try to nap. That’s the best thing.”

He could feel the gratitude coming from the other end of the phone. It was almost tangible.

Four innings later — the Cubs losing another close one, 9–0 — Favor heard somebody in the hall. Evans.

Favor took out his .38 — he saw no reason to carry one of the monsters cops seemed to favor these days — and then just sat there with his drink in one hand and his .38 in the other.

When Evans came through the door, the .38 was pointing directly at his chest. He was all flashy sports clothes — yellow summer sweater, white ducks, $150 white Reeboks, and enough Raw Vanilla cologne to peel off wallpaper. Being bald and dumpy and squint-eyed kind of spoiled the effect, though.

“Hey,” he said, “what the hell’s going on?”

“Close the door and sit down and shut up.”

“That my booze you’re drinking?”

Guy’s holding a gun on him and all Evans worries about is his booze.

“You heard what I said.”

“You’re obviously not the cops.”

“No shit.”

Then Evans finally went over and sat down on the couch. What he didn’t do was shut up.

“You’re in deep shit, my friend,” he said.

“First of all,” Favor said. “You’re the one in deep shit. And second of all, I ain’t your friend.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I want you to get David Carson over here.”

“I don’t know any David Carson.”

“Yeah, right. Now pick up that phone and call him and tell him he needs to get over here right away, that somebody’s figured out what you two did.”

“You’re crazy, you know that? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Pick up the phone.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Damn right, no. This is my condo, not yours.”

Favor got up and went over to where Evans was perched anxiously on the edge of the couch. He brought the barrel of his gun down hard across the side of Evans’ head.

“You sonofabitch,” Evans said, and then kind of rolled around on the couch, holding the right side of his head, and wrinkling his pretty yellow sweater. After the pain had subsided somewhat, Evans said, “I still don’t know any David Carson.”

“Pick up the phone.”

Evans started to protest again. This time, all Favor did was give him a good swift kick in the shin. An old playground technique.

“Ow! Aw shit! Ow!” This hurt a lot more, surprisingly, than the gun barrel along the side of the head. Evans bitched and cursed for four, five minutes and then Favor handed him the receiver.

“You sonofabitch,” Evans said. He dialed the number, asked for Carson. “You need to get over to my place right away,” he said as soon as Carson came on the line. “We got a problem. A big one.” He looked up at Favor. “Right away.” He hung up.

Favor sat down in the recliner again. “How much he pay you?”

“None of your business.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough, was it? You’ve still been shaking him down.”

“Yeah? Is that right?”

“One thing about people you blackmail. They wake up one day and decide they’re really sick of living under your thumb. And then they get violent.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re gonna get life, you know that, don’t you?” Evans didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window at the spring blue sky. “Unless, of course, you turn state’s evidence against him. His idea, you say. He came to me with the whole plan. The County Attorney’ll cut you some slack if you go that route.”

Evans said, “I wouldn’t get life?”

“Not if you cooperate.”

“Carson’s a lot bigger fish to fry. Socially, I mean.”

“He sure is. The County Attorney’d rather have his scalp than yours any day.”

Evans put his face in his hands. When he took them away, his eyes were moist. “God, I don’t know why I ever agreed to do this.”

“How’d you meet Carson?”

“He had an employee, this guy named Mandlebaum, and he had cancer and I took care of him the last couple weeks of his life. At home, I mean. So then Carson looked me up about ten, eleven months ago.”

“So he offered you the deal?”

“He kept hinting at it, talking about how the only thing that could save the business was the old man’s insurance policy. They had one of those key-man deals, where if one of the partners dies the business gets a lot of money. Almost three million, in this case. Enough to pay off some of the bills and keep things going.”

“How much he pay you?”

“Hundred grand.”

“How much more you been getting out of him?”

“Not that much.”

“How much?” Favor said.

“Thirty, around there. I’m not sure exactly.”

“You think it’d last forever?”

“Yeah, I guess I kinda started thinking that way. Kinda dumb, huh?”

Favor nodded. “Someday he’d either run out of money or run out of patience.”

“God, does my head hurt.”

“Sorry.”

“And my shin.”

“Sorry about that, too.”

“You really get off on slapping people around?”

“Sometimes.”

“That seems weird to me, hurting people I mean. I’m always trying to help people, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, like you helped Carson’s father-in-law.”

“That was the only time I ever did anything like that.” He sounded as if Favor had deeply hurt him by reminding him of the incident.

Footsteps in the hallway. Coming this way.

“You going to hide?” Evans whispered.

“Huh-uh,” Favor whispered back. “Just go open the door.”

The footsteps came closer. Evans looked scared. Favor waved him to the door with the .38. “When he knocks, open the door and then step back and let him walk inside.”

When the knock came, Evans looked back at Favor. Favor nodded. David Carson was framed in the doorway. He was a lanky, impressive middle-aged man. He looked very unhappy.

“What the hell is this, Evans?”

Evans stepped aside so Carson could get a look at Favor.

“C’mon in, Carson,” Favor said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Just get your ass in here.” Favor liked pushing people like Carson around. For once, it was Carson’s turn to be the pushee.

“He knows,” Evans said.

“Oh, isn’t that just fucking ducky?” Carson said. He walked into the living room. “How’d he find out?” Carson said to Evans.

“I told him.”

“Figures. You dumb bastard.” Carson looked at Favor. “You’re not getting jack shit from me. You’d better understand that right up front. No more for Evans, and none at all for you.”

Favor decided now was probably a good time to get out of the recliner.

“You killed your father-in-law,” Favor said.

“What I did is my own business.” Carson’s tone made it clear that he never explained himself to peons.

“You ever think how your wife might feel about that?”

“Say,” Carson said, snapping his fingers. “Favor. Now I know who you are. Your father used to be the old man’s groundskeeper or something like that.”

“I liked the old man,” Favor said, “a lot more than you did, apparently.”

Carson looked at him and smiled. “When’s the last time you talked to her? To Jane.”

“A while ago. Why?”

“Go down and get her,” Carson said to Evans. Evans looked baffled. “My wife,” Carson said. “In my car.”

“What the hell’re you trying to pull here, anyway?” Favor said.

“Go get her, Evans,” Carson said. “I picked her up on the way over here.”

Evans looked at Favor for approval. Favor nodded. “Right back,” Evans said.

“You gullible bastard,” Carson said after Evans was gone.

“You’re one of these guys who has a life-time crush on my wife, aren’t you? She told me how you used to write her letters sometimes.”

Favor felt his face redden.

“She may not be what you think,” Carson said. He was smiling again. Smirking, actually. “You’re some kind of investigator, right?” Carson said. “What’d she do, hire you to follow me around or something? That how you got into this? Stupid bitch.”

The name-calling stunned him. How dare anybody call Princess Jane a name. My God, this guy must be insane. Favor was about to say something when Jane came through the door. She wore a camel-colored suede car coat, a starched white shirt, black slacks and a pair of black flats. She was, as always, gorgeous.

“I’m sorry for all this, Favor,” she said.

Favor looked at Carson. “She knows what you did. To her father.”

Favor expected a big scene. All that happened was Jane looked at Carson. “I need to talk with Favor alone,” she said.

“Why the hell’d you have him following me around?” Carson said. If Carson had called her a name, Favor was prepared to slug him.

“Because I didn’t know what was going on,” she said. “You were acting so strange. I thought maybe you had a woman on the side.”

“So you hire this creep?” Carson said.

“He isn’t a creep, and I want to talk to him alone. Why don’t you and Mr. Evans go outside for a while?”

Carson glared at him, then nodded for Evans to follow him out. Carson slammed the door behind him good and hard.

Jane said, “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Favor. And I do want to pay you.”

“You know better than that.” Then: “I know some good divorce lawyers.”

Jane smiled sadly. “I love him, Favor. We have two children together.”

“He murdered your father.”

“We talked about that, on the way over here. I told him what I knew and we talked about it.” She reached out and took his hand. “This isn’t a very pretty thing to say about myself, Favor, but it’s true. I’m used to living a very lavish lifestyle. That’s the first thing David said to me after I told him that I knew what he and Evans had done to my father. He said, ‘I did it for the sake of our family. If I hadn’t, we’d be broke today. He was dying anyway, he didn’t have long to go. The company needed that key-man insurance payoff.’ That’s what he said, and you know, he’s right.”

“Oh, shit,” Favor said. “You mean you don’t mind he killed your father?”

She leaned forward on her tip-toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I knew you’d be disappointed in me.”

“He killed your father. In cold blood.”

“He saved our family. Me. The girls. Himself. He didn’t have any choice. Daddy was dying anyway, don’t forget.” Done kissing him, she leaned back and said, “My father would have done the same thing in David’s circumstances. They’re the same kind of man, really. I’m sure that, sub-consciously, I knew. That’s why I married him.”

“I should go the police.”

“You’d destroy my life, Favor. Do you really want to do that?”

He looked at her. She was a stranger suddenly. “I guess not.”

“I knew you’d say that. I said that to David on the way over here. I said Favor’s an honorable man. He wouldn’t let me be hurt that way.”

This time, she kissed him on the lips, quickly but with real tenderness. “We just come from different backgrounds, Favor,” she said. “I guess I can’t expect you to understand me sometimes.” She looked back at the closed door.

“Now I’d better go.”

“Yeah. I guess you’d better.”

“I know you’re disappointed, Favor. And I’m sorry.”

“Sure.”

“Goodbye, Favor.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll always remember you. Really.”

And then she was gone.

Princess Jane was gone. Forever, Favor knew.

Forever.

When Sam Evans came through the door, Favor was in the kitchen helping himself to more Jack Daniels.

“Hey, man,” Evans said, sounding pissed. “That’s my booze.”

“This is for you,” Favor said, and slapped a ten spot down on the counter. Favor knew he should be heading out but right now he didn’t want to go anywhere. He just wanted to stay right here and get wasted.

“She’s a looker.”

“She sure is that,” Favor said. “She sure is.”

“But her tits aren’t big enough.”

“Don’t talk about her that way. And I mean it.”

Evans was smart enough to look scared. Favor had suddenly turned dangerous again.

“She’s a princess,” Favor said. “A princess.” He felt like crying.

“Hey, man, I just like bigger tits is all. Sorry if I offended you. Now do you mind if I get in there and have a drink from my own bottle?”

“She’s a princess,” Favor said.

“Yeah, man, you said that already.”

“A princess,” Favor said, getting out of the way so Evans could get in there and get a drink from his own bottle. “A regular goddamned princess and don’t you forget it.”