Twilight at Mac’s Place

Forty

By 5:32 P.M. that Monday they had checked into the Bellevue Motel in Bethesda, Maryland, as Mr. and Mrs. Jeff T. Clarkson. The room was $58 a night and the motel owner demanded a $100 deposit after Haynes announced he would pay cash. The owner wasn’t in the least interested in either the make of Haynes’s car or its license number. Nor did he ask to see a driver’s license or other identification.

The pink and teal Bellevue Motel was built in the shape of a two-story U. The view it offered was that of the McDonald’s across the street. Haynes’s room was at the bottom of the U and as he nosed the Cadillac into the vacant parking space, he felt, then heard, the right front wheel run over and crush a glass bottle. He and Erika got out to inspect what damage, if any, a broken 750-milliliter Smirnoff vodka bottle had done to the tire. Apparently none, they decided.

Erika went into the room first after Haynes unlocked the door. He followed, carrying her canvas overnight bag that looked like something a stonemason might carry his tools in. After dumping the bag onto one of the twin beds, Haynes sat down on the other one, picked up the telephone and made a call to Sheriff Jenkins Shipp in Berryville, Virginia.

“That you, Granville?” the sheriff said, once a deputy had transferred the call to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“What can I do you for?”

“I’m calling about that car my father left me.”

“Steady’s big old Cadillac?”

“Right. Did the man who came to pick it up check with you first?”

“That fella Dark? He like to talk my arm off.” Sheriff Shipp paused to let a small measure of concern creep into his tone. “He was supposed to pick it up, wasn’t he? Least, that’s what Mr. Mott called and told me.”

“That’s right, he was,” Haynes said. “But I’m wondering whether anyone ever said anything about wanting to buy it?”

“You fixin’ to sell it?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, Granville, a fella did drop by last week and say he was interested in buying it. Wasn’t more’n a day or two after Dark came and got it. I told him to call Mr. Mott or go talk to Dark. Even gave him the address of Dark’s garage in Falls Church. Tell the truth, I think this fella was more’n just interested. I think he was in love with that car.”

“He give you his name?”

“If he did, I forgot it.”

“Was his name Purchase by any chance?”

There was a long silence until the sheriff said, “Granville?”

“Yes.”

“Just what the fuck’re you up to? We may be way out here in the boonies but when somebody with the name of Purchase gets himself killed during a shoot-out in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, the name sort of sticks in the mind — know what I mean?”

“Probably a different Purchase,” Haynes said.

“I’m afraid I lied to you, Granville. The man who wanted to buy Steady’s car — his name was Horace Purchase. The man who got killed in the Willard — his name was also Horace Purchase, or so CNN claims. Soon as I heard his name mentioned on the TV I got on the phone and called Washington homicide. They put me onto a real smart colored fella — Detective-Sergeant Pouncy — and him and me got to talking and it turns out he’s just dying to have a word with you.”

“I’ll call him,” Haynes said.

“Might be a good idea because soon as we hang up I’m gonna call and tell him I just talked to you.” Shipp paused yet again. “Or I could have him call you if you’ll gimme the number you’re calling from.”

Haynes made up a number. Shipp repeated it, sounding dubious, and said, “Just a couple of more things, Granville. First of all, I’m sorry I had to lie to you about not remembering that fella Purchase’s name. And second, they came out early yesterday and got old Zip and I expect he’s doggie dinner by now.”

“Thanks very much, Sheriff,” Haynes said, ended the call and turned to look up at Erika, who was standing between the two beds. “You get most of that?”

“Your lies anyway.”

“Here’s the rest: Purchase found out the car was at Dark’s from the sheriff. The sheriff found out who Purchase was from CNN. He then talked to Sergeant Pouncy, who wants to talk to me more than ever.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“When I have something to say, I will,” Haynes said, rose and started toward the door, patting the right pocket of his topcoat as if to make certain McCorkle’s pistol was still there.

Erika picked up her coat from the bed and asked, ”Where’re we going?”

“To stash the car someplace. Maybe at Howard Mott’s.”

“Why there?”

“So I can take it apart.”

“Steady wouldn’t have hidden the manuscript in his car.”

“You might think that. And I might think that. But Horace Purchase sure as hell didn’t. And I’m fairly sure that whoever hired Purchase has by now talked to Ledell Dark, Prop. And Mr. Dark has probably told him all about my interest in Purchase and even what your overnight bag looks like. And I’d also bet that right now somebody is checking motel registers by phone and in person, asking about an attractive young couple in an old black Cadillac convertible — not exactly the world’s most anonymous car.”

“The manuscript could be in a safety-deposit box — or buried on Steady’s farm eight paces north of the sour apple tree.”

Haynes stared at her. “You’re convinced there is no manuscript, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Pretend there is. Just pretend. If you pretend that, then you know where the manuscript isn’t. You know it’s not in Steady’s farmhouse and wasn’t in the hotel room where he died. You know it wasn’t in Isabelle’s apartment and that Undean didn’t have it and neither did Tinker Burns.”

“Explain why I know all that.”

“Because the CIA and Mr. Anonymous, whoever he is, are still anxious to buy it.”

“What about all those fake manuscripts?” she said. “What the hell were they for if not to pull some kind of rip-off?”

“How should I know?” Haynes said. “Sure. It could’ve been a dodge of some sort — a con. Even a false trail. Or maybe Steady’d decided he wasn’t going to split fifty-fifty with Isabelle after all. You’ve got to remember that Steady wasn’t expecting to die. And that manuscript, if there is one — or even if there isn’t — was to be his annuity. His fuck-you money. And he could’ve decided it would fetch just enough for one but not nearly enough for two. So he hid the real manuscript where nobody would look and then salted the obvious hiding places with fake ones.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be looking for a manuscript after all,” she said. “Maybe we should be looking for a hotel claim check clipped to the sun visor. Or microfilm that was tossed into the glove compartment. Or maybe—”

“You going to put that coat on or not?”

She looked down at the polo coat she was still holding, slipped into it quickly and said, “Let’s go.”

Haynes went out the motel room door first, stopped, stared and said, “Well, shit.”

The exterior light above the room’s door shined directly down onto the Cadillac’s flat front tire. The left one. Erika glanced at it and said, “No big problem.”

“Not if there’s a spare.”

They hurried to the rear of the car, where Haynes unlocked the trunk lid. There was a spare. He also found the jack and the lug wrench. He handed the wrench to Erika and said, “You can start on the lugs while I get the spare out.”

She nodded and went back to the flat tire. Haynes watched as she knelt, used the chisel end of the lug wrench to pop the hubcap off with one deft blow and started loosening the wheel nuts.

Haynes unscrewed the big butterfly nut that anchored the spare. With the aid of the trunk’s interior light, he noticed that the spare’s tread apparently had never touched the ground. After wrestling the heavy wheel out of its well, he stopped, balancing it on the lip of the trunk, and stared down into the wheel well at the thick, slightly curved manila envelope that the never-used spare tire had been resting on.

When Erika McCorkle returned from her mission to McDonald’s, bearing two Big Macs, two large fries and two large coffees, she found Granville Haynes still sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds, still wearing his topcoat and still staring at the unopened manila envelope that lay on the opposite bed. The .38 Chief’s Special in his right hand was still pointed at nothing in particular.

“I thought you’d be starting Chapter Three by now,” she said, placing the food on the desk.

“I didn’t open it.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted a witness.”

“Now that you have one, what do we do first — eat or open it?”

“Let’s open it,” he said, put the revolver back in his topcoat pocket and reached for the twelve-by-fourteen-inch envelope. After weighing the envelope and its contents by hefting it in the palm of his right hand, Haynes said, “Around three hundred and seventy-five pages.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because it weighs about three times as much as a screenplay for a feature and they usually run one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty pages.”

“Open it, for God’s sake.”

Haynes used a forefinger to rip the envelope’s flap. He removed a 2½-inch-thick manuscript, quickly flipped through it and looked up at Erika, “No blank pages,” he said.

“I noticed.”

He turned to the last page. “Three hundred and seventy-four.”

“You were close.”

“So I was.”

“How d’you want to work it?” she asked.

“Work what?”

“Do we eat first, read first or do both at the same time?”

“Let’s eat first,” he said. “Then I’ll start reading and hand you each page when I’m done.”

“You read fast?”

“Very.”

“Good,” she said. “So do I.”