Twilight at Mac’s Place

Forty-five

McCorkle shifted his position again, trying to accommodate his long legs to Padillo’s 280 SL. After failing to cross them for the third time, he said, “You ever think of buying something a little more sedate and comfortable — maybe a Volvo station wagon?”

Padillo ignored the question and said, “He should’ve left by now.”

“It’s only a little after nine and the meeting’s not till ten.”

“Keyes isn’t one to arrive last at any meeting,” Padillo said. “Especially this one.”

They were parked on California Street two houses east of the Georgian one that belonged to Hamilton and Muriel Keyes. They assumed that when Keyes left he would probably head west — away from them — then south. Otherwise, he would have to cope with California Street when it suddenly turned one-way.

“He’s in there, sipping his second cup of coffee out of a gold-rimmed Haviland cup,” McCorkle said. “And we’re trapped in this clapped-out roadster with a slit top that lets in wind with a chill factor of fifteen degrees. And what have we got to drink? Cold Roy Rogers coffee in plastic cups.”

“Howard Johnson coffee,” Padillo said.

“I haven’t had a cup of Ho-Jo coffee in twenty years and, by my troth, it hasn’t improved any.”

“I’d almost forgotten,” Padillo said.

“What?”

“What a sunbeam you are in the morning.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Open the window.”

“It’s thirty-three degrees.”

“And life is a series of hard choices.”

“I’ll chew instead,” McCorkle said and produced a packet of Nicorette gum.

“Here he comes.”

“So he does,” McCorkle said, putting away the Nicorette.

The automatic overhead door of the Keyeses’ three-car garage was nearly all the way up. A moment later a dark blue Buick sedan, with Keyes at the wheel, backed out onto the turnaround slab. Keyes then drove down the driveway and turned west, away from Padillo’s coupe.

“Which car does she drive?” McCorkle asked as the garage door came back down.

“The Mercedes sedan.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.”

“When — the night you forgot to tell me who she was?”

“I didn’t forget,” Padillo said, started the engine and drove less than seventy-five yards before turning into the Keyes driveway. He stopped his car a foot away from the overhead door, blocking it nicely. He and McCorkle got out, walked to the front door and pushed a bell that rang some chimes. A moment later the door was opened by the Salvadoran maid.

Padillo snapped out a sentence in rapid Spanish that was much too fast for McCorkle. The only words he got were “la Señora” and “los Señores Padillo y McCorkle.” But the maid understood perfectly, especially the imperious tone, which caused her to duck her head, open the door wider and invite them inside to wait while she informed la Señora.

“The help must’ve loved you back at the old hacienda, mi jefe,” McCorkle said.

“It was a verbal shortcut.”

“Which scared the hell out of her.”

“She heard worse in El Salvador.”

“How do you know where she’s from?”

Before Padillo could reply, the maid returned, still scurrying and bobbing a little, to announce that la Señora would join them presently in the room of reception.

Padillo gave her his most charming smile, thanked her graciously and inquired if her longing for San Salvador remained acute. She replied that it had lessened a little in recent months. Padillo said he hoped she would soon be able to return for a visit in safety. She thanked him and said he was very kind.

By then they were in the living room that was filled with antiques. The maid left and Padillo and McCorkle sat on what seemed to be the two sturdiest chairs. A few minutes later Muriel Keyes entered, wearing fawn slacks, sandals, a silk blouse the color of bitter chocolate and a nervous smile.

Padillo rose quickly, McCorkle more slowly. Muriel Keyes chose to ignore McCorkle, except for a brief glance, and smiled at Padillo. “Michael, how nice.”

“Muriel.”

After she offered him her cheek to brush with his lips, he said, “I think you met my partner, Mr. McCorkle, when you were playing Reba Skelton, noted calligraphier.”

“Fast! Accurate! Prompt!” McCorkle said.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked Padillo.

“Not really.”

She turned to McCorkle and said, “I apologize, Mr. McCorkle. It was very stupid of me.”

“You were really very good,” he said.

“But obviously not good enough.” She looked at Padillo. “What gave it away?”

“You shuffled in but loped out. That Lamphier lope, once seen, is hard to forget.”

“I was so damned frightened.”

“Not as much as I was,” McCorkle said.

“Please sit down,” she said. “Could I offer you some coffee? It’s probably still too early for a drink.”

“Coffee’ll be fine, Muriel,” Padillo said as he sat down. “Especially since we’re going to be here a while.”

“Oh?” she said, going to the near wall to press an ivory button.

“There’s something we’d like you to read,” McCorkle said as he resumed his seat.

“Read? Read what?”

Before either of them could reply, the maid, who must’ve been hovering just outside the living room door, entered to find out what she would be asked to fetch or carry. Muriel Keyes, using serviceable, if halting, Spanish, asked for coffee and rolls.

When the maid left, Muriel Keyes turned back to McCorkle and said, “You said you wanted me to read something?”

Padillo said, “A memo from the late Gilbert Undean.” He paused. “You did know him, didn’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

“Seen him recently?”

“Yes. He came to see my husband last — Friday, I think. Rather late.”

McCorkle and Padillo said nothing. After the silence had gone on for thirty seconds, she said, “Why would Mr. Undean send you a memorandum, Michael?”

“He didn’t send it to me.”

“Then who did?”

“Tinker Burns sent it — indirectly. Tinker’s the one your lawyer hired in Paris to do some work for you here.”

“What kind of work was that?”

“Find out whether Steady Haynes had mentioned you in his memoirs. You’re still interested in the memoirs, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as I was. I think that particular — what should I call it — problem?—”

“Problem’s good,” McCorkle said.

“I think that particular problem’s been resolved”

“Sorry, Muriel,” Padillo said. “It’s just beginning.”

Granville Haynes, driving the old Cadillac, was nearing McCorkle’s Connecticut Avenue apartment building at 9:45 A.M. when Erika said, “I’ll be your slave for a year if you can work me into that meeting.”

Haynes smiled. “I would if I could.”

“But I’ll get a full play-by-play later?”

“Everything.”

“God, that’ll be interesting,” she said and leaned over to kiss him good-bye just as he stopped in front of the old gray’building’s no-standing zone. The car behind honked immediately.

“Stick by the phone,” he said as she got out and turned to give the honker the finger, which produced yet another honk. Just as she closed the door, Haynes raised his voice to say, “And keep your doors locked.” She nodded that she understood and hurried toward the building.

Haynes continued down Connecticut, went around Dupont Circle and found a parking place in front of 1633 Connecticut next door to where the razed Junkanoo nightclub had once stood.

He dropped some coins into the meter, looked at his watch and saw that he had five minutes. He pulled the collar of his new topcoat up around his chin, stuck his hands down into its pockets and rediscovered McCorkle’s pistol. It felt cold to the touch and he saw no need to wrap his right hand around its butt.

Although he was exactly on time, Haynes was the last to arrive at the 10 A.M. meeting in the former senator’s office. Haynes thought the place had the leathery smell of a shoe store — or the way shoe stores smelled before they started selling so many athletic shoes.

Haynes shook hands with Hamilton Keyes first because it seemed to be part of some business ritual. He even shook hands with Howard Mott, who introduced him to the former senator. The senator had retained his professional politician’s quick-release handshake.

Haynes sat down in one of the three leather armchairs in front of the ornate desk. He sat next to Mott, who separated him from Hamilton Keyes. The senator, presiding from behind the desk, smiled a brief smile of commerce and said, “Well, gentlemen, I think we can begin.”

When no one objected, he continued. “We will entertain offers this morning for the copyright to a written work by the late Steadfast Haynes, entitled Mercenary Calling, said copyright being the property of Mr, Haynes’s son, Granville, who is the sole owner.”

He looked around for confirmation and received a nod from Howard Mott. “Papers for the consummation of the sale have been drawn up by Mr. Mott, who is Mr. Haynes’s attorney. I have examined them and find them to be in order. Any questions?”

There weren’t any. The senator nodded again and said, “There are two parties who plan to tender offers for the copyright. One is Mr. Keyes, representing Write-Away, Incorporated, of Miami, Florida. The other is a client of mine who wishes to remain anonymous.”

Haynes decided to nod. So did Hamilton Keyes.

“Very well. Since Mr. Keyes is present he is entitled to make the first offer.”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” Keyes said.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the senator said. “I will now telephone the only other bidder to see whether Mr. Keyes’s bid will be topped.”

The senator pushed a single button on his telephone console. He listened just long enough for a phone to ring once somewhere before he said, “Seven hundred and fifty.” There had been no faint click of a phone call being answered, nor of a voice saying hello. The senator listened for a moment to what seemed to be a silent voice, looked up at Keyes and said, “Eight hundred thousand dollars is bid.”

Haynes smiled. Hamilton Keyes cleared his throat and said, “One million.”

The senator spoke into the phone. “One million has been bid.” He listened for a few seconds, nodded to the unseen caller and said, “I under stand. Thank you.”

The senator slowly put the phone down, looked at Keyes and said, “Yours is the high bid, Mr. Keyes. Congratulations.”

Keyes nodded and Haynes said, “Where do I sign?”

Howard Mott produced five bound photocopied legal documents from his briefcase, placed them on the desk, offered Haynes a ballpoint pen and said, “Sign each document at the blue X on each last page.”

Haynes quickly signed his name five times and said, “When do I get my money?”

Hamilton Keyes withdrew a plain white No. 10 envelope from the breast pocket of his dark blue double-breasted suit and handed the unsealed envelope to the senator. The senator opened it and took out five checks, three of them gray, two of them green.

“I have here five cashier’s checks for two hundred thousand dollars apiece. Two of the checks are drawn on the Riggs National Bank and three on American Security.”

He put the checks back in the envelope and handed it to Howard Mott, who looked at each check briefly, then passed them on to Haynes. Using the pen Mott had lent him, Haynes endorsed the checks and handed them back to Mott.

“Here you go, Howard. I’ll tell you what to do with them later.” Haynes rose and shook his head a little regretfully. “Well, gentlemen, it would’ve made a hell of a picture.”

He smiled at the senator, winked at Keyes, turned and left the room.

There was a long silence until the senator said, “I think that boy might’ve at least said, ‘Much obliged,’ or ‘Kiss my ass.’ ”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Howard Mott.