Twilight at Mac’s Place

Thirty-nine

The private room on the third floor of Sibley Hospital in far northwest Washington was guarded by Mr. Pabst and Mr. Schlitz. When Pabst noticed Padillo and McCorkle coming out of an elevator, he nudged Schlitz, and the two big men rose from folding metal chairs to plant themselves in front of the room’s door.

“No visitors,” Pabst warned when McCorkle and Padillo were close enough to hear him.

The would-be visitors came to a stop. Padillo stared at Pabst for several seconds, then said, “Tell him we’re here.”

“I just told you. No visitors.”

“Tell him,” said Padillo, somehow managing to turn the two softly spoken words into pure menace.

Pabst studied the fire extinguisher to Padillo’s right. “If he don’t wanta see you, you don’t go in.”

Padillo, still staring at Pabst, said nothing. McCorkle gave Schlitz a friendly grin and a nod, which weren’t returned. Pabst shot a furtive glance at Padillo, then darted into the hospital room and came out less than fifteen seconds later to announce: “Harry says it’s okay.”

Inside the room, McCorkle and Padillo found Harry Warnock lying in bed on his back. An intravenous drip solution had been inserted into a vein in his left arm.

McCorkle said,” You look like hell.”

“But far better than Horse Purchase” Warnock said. “The fucker nicked my liver and the quacks say I best lay off the booze for a few months. And ’tis this sad news that’s causing me to look so dismal.”

“Sad news indeed,” McCorkle said.

Warnock turned his head to look at Padillo, who had moved around to the other side of the bed. “You should’ve seen him, Michael.”

“Who?”

“McCorkle.”

“I heard.”

“One had to be there. Especially when he took his high hop to the right. I thought he’d never come down. A regular fucking Nureyev, he was.” Warnock paused, looked back at McCorkle and said, “How’s the client?”

“Fine.”

“All safe and sound?”

McCorkle nodded.

“I fucked up,” Warnock said. “I didn’t figure on the likes of Purchase and when he came through those elevator doors, he surprised the shit out of me. I thought he might be working a twofer — you and the client. All I could do was make him notice me first.” He paused, took a deep breath, winced, let it out slowly and said, “If I’d even suspected it was Purchase who’d be coming, I’d’ve been up in the room with two helpers and the client locked in the bath.” He looked at Padillo again. “Did Horse make a move on him?”

Padillo said he had.

“What made him miss?”

“The client,” Padillo said. “He’s something of a mimic.”

Warnock grinned. “Voices, right? Two voices talking behind the hotel room door. By God, I like that.”

“Tell us about Purchase, Harry,” Padillo said.

“You never heard of him?”

“Never.”

“I’d call that passing strange, Michael, except you’ve been out of it for years — or so they say.”

“They’re right.”

“Well, young Horse Purchase joined the Army at eighteen in nineteen sixty-three and after they measured his IQ, which was way up there, and noticed his fine eyesight, reflexes and coordination, they shipped him off to Special Forces — poor Mr. Kennedy’s pet outfit. Horse did six years, most of it in Vietnam, and enjoyed his work. He enjoyed it so much the Army thought it’d best get rid of him. And that it did in ’sixty-nine. Horse never married. Never drank. Never did dope. But he had his trade and his trade was his life so be decided to hire himself out.”

“Who to, Harry?” Padillo asked.

“Well, he sure as shit didn’t run any ad in Soldier of Fortune, did he? But the word got around as it always does and he was choosy. Horse’d only work for those who could come up with twenty-five thousand cash.”

“I heard fifty,” McCorkle said.

“That was later. Twenty years ago when Horse was just starting out, twenty-five thousand was worth what seventy-five is today.”

“You can hire a semi-pro in this town or Baltimore for two thousand,” Padillo said. “If it’s toward the end of the month and the rent’s due, the price drops to seventeen fifty. New York’s about the same, although I heard it’s slightly higher west of the Rockies.”

“And for those prices it’s careless work you’ll be getting, too,” Warnock said. “Horse was a pro, a dedicated craftsman, and ’tis very, very lucky I am to be alive today.”

McCorkle looked concerned. “Does it hurt much when your Irish starts hemorrhaging like that, Harry?”

Warnock grinned up at him, then looked at Padillo. “So it’s who hired Horse that you want to know, is it? Well, you should be asking yourself this, Michael: Who can lay out fifty or seventy-five thousand cash for the services the late Horse Purchase was so willing and even anxious to provide?”

“Major dope dealers,” Padillo said.

“To be sure. But who else?”

“The rich — private or corporate.”

“And three?”

“Governments.”

“Ah!”

“How’d you know Purchase, Harry?” McCorkle said.

“We met but once — late in my former life.”

“Your IRA days,” Padillo said.

Warnock ignored him and went on talking to McCorkle. “He and I once held some exploratory talks that went nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because Horse felt the risk too great and the reward too small. But we parted amicably.”

“You mentioned governments, Harry,” Padillo said.

“You mentioned them, Michael. Not I.”

“Which governments?”

“How would I be knowing a wicked thing like that?”

“It’s your stock-in-trade.”

“Well, far be it from me to spread rumors — even about the likes of such a shit as Horse Purchase, God rest his soul. But I have heard a whisper or two about how he once did bits of piecework for the lads out at Langley.” Warnock paused to paint a coat of piety across his face. “But I don’t believe that for a minute, do you, Michael?”

“Not even for a second,” Padillo said.

Dark’s Garage in Falls Church, Virginia, had a sign inside that read: “Foreign 8c Domestic, The Older the Better. Ledell Dark, Prop.” Erika McCorkle read the sign aloud with obvious approval. As she read, Granville Haynes looked around the long narrow garage and noticed a Packard from the 1940s, an Avanti, a 1948 Buick Roadmaster, an ancient Citroen sedan (the getaway model), a Humber Super Snipe and a TR-3 that looked almost new.

The Cadillac that Steadfast Haynes had bequeathed to his son was being driven from the rear of the garage at a stately 2 mph by Ledell Dark, Prop. It was a 1976 Eldorado convertible, the last one made, with a glossy black finish, a black canvas top that looked new, black leather seats and what Haynes guessed to be a thousand pounds of glittering chrome. It also looked a block long.

It came to a slow stop the way a large boat might. Ledell Dark got out and removed the 6-foot-long, 2½-foot-wide strip of reddish paper, ripped from a butcher’s roll, that had protected the driver’s seat. After discarding the paper, Dark stripped off his immaculate white cotton gardening gloves and stuffed them into a pocket.

A contented-looking man in his forties, Dark wore a studious, almost pedantic air and a pair of white coveralls with “The Older the Better” stitched across the back in red letters. He had the build of the average man in his forties who shuns exercise. There was a slight stoop. A bit of a paunch. And a face that Haynes classified as American-mild — except for the blazing green eyes that could only belong to a fanatic.

The green eyes were now half closed and the head was slightly tilted as Dark listened to the idling Cadillac engine. He smiled and nodded approvingly, then walked over to Erika and Haynes. “Know what I’d do if she was mine?” he asked. “I’d buy her a set of gangster whites.”

When Erika looked puzzled, Dark explained, “Big wide white sidewall tires like they had in the thirties and forties — but mostly the thirties.”

“You’re saying it needs new tires?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a matter of need,” Dark said, “although those four’ve got a few too many miles on ’em. It’s more a case of, well, you know—”

“Esthetics,” Haynes suggested as he opened the Cadillac passenger door for Erika.

“Yeah, right,” Dark said. “Esthetics.”

Once Erika was inside. Haynes closed the door and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Mott.”

“You also oughta tell him that some guy wandered in here late last Saturday, took one look and offered me twenty thousand cash for the Caddie. That means he’ll go twenty-five. You can always tell how high they’ll go by how much they slobber. I call it the drool factor.” Dark paused. “I got his name and number if you want it.”

“Okay,” Haynes agreed.

“Said his name was Horace Purchase.”

Haynes turned quickly toward the TR-3 to hide the surprise that he suspected was rearranging his face. Still staring at the old Triumph roadster, he said, “Purchase wants to purchase it, huh?”

Dark grinned, obviously amused. “Know something? That’s exactly how I remembered his name. Purchase wants to purchase it.”

Haynes turned back and said, “These old cars must be worth a lot of money.”

“That Packard behind you?” Dark said.

Haynes again turned to look.

“That’s a nineteen forty convertible with a Darrin body and a frame-off restoration. Probably fetch a hundred, maybe even a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Then you must have one hell of a security problem.”

“But I also got me a state-of-the-art security system,” Dark said with a proud smile that a frown suddenly erased. “When that Purchase fella was here, he wanted that old Caddie so bad I thought he might bang me over the head and drive off in it. So I sort of discouraged him.”

“How?” Haynes asked.

Dark stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Haynes heard them coming a second or two later, their claws clicking on the concrete floor, their growls punctuated by angry barks. He turned to find three rottweilers racing toward him, fangs bared and eyes blazing. Haynes also found there was no time to run or hide and just barely enough to wonder how much it would hurt.

Dark whistled again. The dogs stopped abruptly, skidding a little, then sat down on their haunches. One of them yawned and scratched his right ear with a hind foot. The other two seemed to grin at Haynes.

“Three of them,” he said.

“They fight over who’s boss. Keeps ’em mean. With two, you get buddies. With three, rivals.”

“What did Purchase do when you whistled them up?”

“He sort of froze just like you did. Just like everybody does. Still want his phone number?”

“I don’t,” Haynes said. “But Mr. Mott might.”