Vixen

13

JAKE RUNYON

Frank Chaleen’s factory was on Basin Street, on the southeastern side of the city near the Islais Creek Channel. Basin ran at an angle off Evans: four blocks long and lined with small factories and warehousing companies, an auto-body shop, an outfit that made statuary for gardens and cemeteries, and midway along the last block, a pair of buildings crowded behind a chain-link fence topped by strands of barbed wire. Signs on the fence and on the largest of the two buildings identified the place as Chaleen Manufacturing, Inc.

The main structure was an L-shaped hunk of rust-spotted corrugated iron; a much smaller building, a squat trailer-like affair that sat behind and to one side like a broken-off piece of the factory, figured to be the office. Both buildings had a neglected look, not quite rundown yet but getting to that point. There were two double gates in the fence-truck-wide and standing open-that gave access to a trio of bays in the facing factory wall, one of the bays filled by a semi being loaded or unloaded. The asphalt yard needed resurfacing: cracked, pitted, buckled in a couple of places.

Another set of gates, farther along and smaller, provided direct access to the trailer-like structure. Runyon pulled up near these. They, too, were open; he walked on through and up to the office entrance. A promotional poster headed WE’RE ECO-FRIENDLY! was pinned to the door; words underneath proclaimed that Chaleen’s X-Cel Packing Peanuts were nontoxic, reusable, biodegradable in compost, and dissolvable in water. One of the poster’s corners had come loose, some time ago judging from the way it was curled up.

Runyon stepped inside. The interior appeared to have been cut into two more or less equal halves by a center wall. Four desks, only one of them occupied, were jammed into the near half. In the bisecting wall were two closed and unmarked doors, one of which would probably lead to private quarters in the rear half.

Runyon told the lone employee, a young dark-haired woman wearing a pair of red-rimmed glasses, that he was there to see Frank Chaleen. She said, “Mr. Chaleen is out in the factory. He should be back shortly. If you’d like to wait…”

“I’ll just wander over there, if there’s no rule against visitors.”

“Well, no, there isn’t, but-”

“He’s anxious to see me. Whereabouts in the factory?”

“The manufacturing section. One of our extrusion machines has broken down again. He went over there to look at it.”

Extrusion machine. Whatever that was.

Runyon thanked her, walked out and across the yard to a set of cracked concrete steps that led up onto the loading dock. A warehouseman driving a forklift was loading a pallet laden with cardboard drums into the maw of the semi parked in the nearest bay; he didn’t seem to be working too hard at it. He paid no attention as Runyon entered the warehouse, a cavernous, fluorescent-lighted space crowded with more of the drums, as well as stacks of cardboard cartons and bundled plastic bags.

Only one man was working in there, checking off items on a clipboard. He had no interest in Runyon, either. The clatter and hum of machinery coming from beyond the open inner end drew Runyon into the factory proper. The complicated maze of manufacturing equipment in there meant nothing to him; he focused on a group of men in front of a machine that wasn’t making any noise, two of them in overalls working on it with hand tools, the other two standing by watching. One of the watchers, wearing a shirt and tie but no jacket, was Frank Chaleen.

Chaleen didn’t see Runyon until he came right up next to him. First reaction: a frown. Then, on recognition: a small double take followed by a scowl and a slitty-eyed stare. Neither of them said anything for five or six beats. Then Chaleen turned to the foreman, saying, “I’ll be right back, Ed,” and moved away in hard strides, Runyon following.

Chaleen stopped abruptly at the warehouse entrance, turned, resumed the hard-eyed glare. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You wanted to talk to my boss; he’s not available. So you get me instead.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Not even if I know what he knows?”

The muscle quirk at the corner of Chaleen’s mouth twitched it open on that side, curling the upper lip and revealing a canine tooth-an expression like a dog’s silent snarl. As much a nervous reaction as one of either belligerence or anger.

“Knows about what?”

“What you wanted to talk to him about.”

“Don’t play games with me, man. I don’t like it.”

Runyon said, “Margaret Vorhees.”

“Well? What about her?”

“She told you about his visit to her yesterday.”

“So? What if she did? He gave her a load of crap about Cory Beckett and me being out to get her.”

“That’s not what he said. He didn’t make any accusations against either of you.”

“How do you know? You weren’t there.”

“He doesn’t operate that way. All he tried to do was make Mrs. Vorhees aware of a potentially volatile situation.”

“Volatile, my ass. I ought to sue the son of a bitch for slander.”

“Waste of time and money,” Runyon said. “We both know you don’t have grounds.”

Chaleen made a fist of one hand, but it wasn’t meant as a threat; he banged the fist against his thigh before allowing the fingers to relax. “Margaret doesn’t have anything to fear from me,” he said. “From that asshole she’s married to, maybe, but not from me.”

“Nothing to fear from Cory Beckett, either?”

“Hell, no. Why would Cory want to harm her?”

“The diamond necklace her brother allegedly stole. Mrs. Vorhees refuses to drop the charges.”

“I know that. So what? Cory says the kid didn’t steal it. Her lawyer’ll get him off.”

“The two of you seem to be pretty close.”

“Wrong. Casual acquaintances, that’s all.”

“You were with her when she picked up her brother at Belardi’s.”

“Don’t try to make anything out of that. I wasn’t the first person she called that day.”

Runyon didn’t say anything.

“Listen,” Chaleen said, “there’s nothing going on with Cory and me. I haven’t even seen or talked to her since.”

“Not even to tell her about my boss’s visit to Mrs. Vorhees?”

“Hell, no. Why should I bother her with his crap?”

Nothing to say to that, either.

“Crazy notion that the two us have it in for Margaret. Where’d your boss get it, anyway? You the one put a bug in his ear?”

“Where would I get a bug like that?”

“How the hell do I know?” Pause. Then the mouth corner twisted up again. “Unless somebody put a bug in yours.”

“Somebody like who?”

“Her screwed-up brother. Yeah, sure, that’s it. Kenny. You spent a lot of time with him up there at the river.”

Runyon didn’t like lying, but it was called for here. “We didn’t talk much. Nothing was said about you and his sister.”

“No? Maybe he got in touch with you later. Told you a pack of lies.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he doesn’t like me. Because he’s got a few screws loose. Cory says he makes up stories all the time.”

“I haven’t seen or talked to Kenneth Beckett since Belardi’s,” Runyon lied again. “I don’t know anything about his mental state. But you seem to know him pretty well.”

“Well enough to tell he’s a sick kid. Druggie, too. Addicted to amphetamines.”

“So his sister claims, but he wasn’t high when I found him. And I didn’t find any evidence of drugs in the shack or his van.”

“So maybe he used up his supply,” Chaleen said. “How would you know if he was stoned or not? You’re no damn doctor.”

Runyon let that go. “Have you ever seen him stoned?”

“Couple of times, yeah.”

“So then you must have spent a fair amount of time with him and his sister.”

“Goddamn it! I told you, Cory’s just a friend. Get that through your head. Nothing more than a casual friend.”

“Like Margaret Vorhees is a casual friend?”

“Now what the hell are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. Just going on what seems to be common knowledge.”

“About Margaret and me? Malicious gossip. There’s nothing between us, any more than there is between Cory and me.”

“Cory and Andrew Vorhees,” Runyon said. “Is that just malicious gossip, too?”

Push enough buttons and you’re bound to hit an unprotected sensitive spot. Chaleen’s face went dirty with a surge of anger. He took a half step forward, his hand lifting and fisting again. “I’ve had enough of you and your bullshit, man. I ought to break your face.”

Runyon hadn’t moved. “Welcome to try. But don’t forget what happened at Belardi’s.”

Chaleen hadn’t forgotten. He might have tried to get physical with somebody else, but when you can’t back a man down with threats, you’re vulnerable and already half beaten. He knew it, knew what the result would be if he forced the issue; it frustrated him, but it also made him afraid. As before, as always when he came up against a man like Runyon, he was the one who backed down.

His fingers relaxed again, his gaze slid away. Then, “You’re trespassing. Get out of here before I call the cops and have you arrested!” The last sentence came out loud enough so that the warehouseman with the clipboard turned to look at them.

Runyon said slowly, in a voice that didn’t carry, “And don’t forget this conversation, or the one my boss had yesterday with Mrs. Vorhees.”

Red-faced, Chaleen shouted again. “You people go around making any more veiled accusations against me, you’ll hear from my lawyer! You got that? All right, now get the hell out!”

Runyon went, taking his time, not looking back.

In the Ford, before he drove away from Chaleen Manufacturing, he reported in to Tamara.

“So you think you scared him off?” she asked.

“Hard to tell. Maybe, maybe not.”

“Man’d have to have his head up his butt to try anything now, knowing we’re onto him.”

“You’d think so,” Runyon said. “He claimed he didn’t tell Cory about Bill’s talk with Margaret Vorhees. That might be the truth.”

“Why wouldn’t he have told her?”

“Afraid of her reaction, maybe. He may have already had second thoughts about going through with their plan.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her to go ahead with or without him,” Tamara said, “if the plan’s good enough and the stakes big enough. Everything in her record says she’s an aggressive risk taker.”

“But not unless she figures it’s a sure thing. If she does go ahead, it won’t be alone.”

“Right. Not the type to do her own dirty work. So then she’ll need Chaleen.”

Runyon said, “And she’ll make every effort to get him to do what she wants. Whether or not she succeeds depends on how strong her hold on him is. And on what else is in it for him.”

“You mean money?”

“If there’s enough to be had. That factory of his isn’t doing too well. Skeletal crew, machinery breaking down, buildings and property in disrepair.”

“So he could be heavy in debt,” Tamara said. “I’ll run a financial check on him-should’ve thought to do that before.” Then, after a pause, “What do you think about having a talk with Cory, Jake? Would it do any good?”

Runyon said, “No. Kenneth’s on thin ice as it is. Chaleen picked up on the idea he’s the one who tipped us. I think I talked him out of it, but she’s smarter than he is.”

“Yeah. Well, what about trying to get Kenny alone for another talk?”

“Same objection. Too much chance of Cory catching wise. There’s nothing he can do to diffuse the situation. If he tries, he’s liable to make it worse.”

“So we’ve done all we can and we’re back to square one. Just wait and hope nothing happens.”

“I don’t see any other alternative,” Runyon said.