“An idée fixe?” I suggested.
“Is that what it is?” the FBI agent said. “Well, I got it. I want to see Gorton put down so bad I can taste it. So when I heard Palm Beach was asking questions about this shark, I drove up here hoping to find out something I can use. But Rogoff says it’s not official business and not something he can tell me. He claims it’s your baby and if you want to give me what you’ve got, it’s okay with him, but he can’t without your say-so. How about it?”
I was grateful for Al’s discretion. He had acted honorably, knowing what his uncooperative attitude might cost him.
My first reaction was to refuse to reveal anything about the Whitcomb affair to the FBI. But then I realized those shipments of coffins across state lines might possibly have shattered federal laws. In addition, it would do no harm to have a colleague in the Miami area, Gorton’s home territory.
I was silent for such a long time the Special Agent became impatient.
“Do you know exactly what Gorton is doing in this neck of the woods?” he demanded.
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I’d wager it’s something illegal.”
“You’d
wager?”
Kling said, blinking.
“That’s the way Archy talks,” Rogoff advised him. “You’ll get used to it.”
“How about a quid pro quo?” I asked the FBI man. “I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll promise to keep Sergeant Rogoff and me promptly informed of any developments resulting from my information.”
He rose to his feet and extended a hand to shake mine once more. “Done,” he said and sat down again.
I told him what I had previously related to the sergeant: the unexplained increase in Whitcomb’s income, those puzzling out-of-state shipments to the same consignee in New York, Boston, and Chicago: the Cleo Hauling Service. I also mentioned Ernest Gorton’s close relationship with Oliver Whitcomb, CEO of the funeral homes.
As before, I said nothing of the equivocal roles being played by Sunny Fogarty, Horace, and Sarah Whitcomb. But I still had the feeling the drama being enacted there had a peripheral but perhaps meaningful connection to the criminal activities at the mortuaries.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Griffin Kling said when I finished my recital.
He had taken no notes but, staring into his stony eyes (an easy trick if you concentrate your gaze on the bridge of the nose between the eyes), I knew he had missed nothing and would forget nothing.
“It’s all I have,” I assured him.
He nodded—but I was certain he didn’t believe me. He was a hard man and wouldn’t testify the sun would rise tomorrow until he saw it.
“All right,” he said. “There are a few things I can do immediately. I’ll contact our offices in New York, Boston, and Chicago and request they trace ownership of the Cleo Hauling Service. And if they can spare the manpower—excuse me, the personpower—I’ll ask them to tail the Cleo trucks when they pick up coffins at the airports.”
“I’m betting those trucks aren’t delivering to funeral homes or cemeteries,” Rogoff put in.
“I’m betting the same thing,” Kling agreed. “But all that out-of-town stuff is going to take time. Meanwhile there’s something I can do. Gorton’s front is a legit import-export company. Mostly he brings in wood furniture from South America. The business seems to be clean. It better be; we’ve persuaded the IRS to do an audit every year. Anyway, Gorton has a warehouse out near the airport where he keeps his furniture inventory until it’s sold and trucked out. I think I’ll request twenty-four-hour surveillance on that place, either by a stakeout or concealed TV cameras. How does that sound?”
“Makes sense,” Al said.
“Has the warehouse ever been searched?” I asked.
The agent’s smile was as cold as his eyes. “Twice,” he said. “By me. I thought he might be bringing in drugs in hollowed-out parts of the furniture. I struck out; the furniture was just that; nothing hidden in holes, panels, or anywhere else. Now I figure the vermin isn’t a smuggler; he’s buying his stuff directly from the cartels, cash on delivery in Miami.”
“Are drugs his main source of income?” I said.
“Only a part of it. I’m convinced he’s into guns, brand-name ripoffs, money laundering, and maybe even counterfeiting. Lately there’s been a flood of the queer in South Florida: I tell you this Gorton is a world-class nasty and he’s going to take a fall if I have to chill him myself.”
There was no mistaking the triple-distilled venom in his voice. Rogoff and I traded a quick glance. We both knew how unpredictable and potentially dangerous a lawman can be when obsessed by a private vendetta.
Special Agent Griffin Kling apparently realized he had said too much. He rose abruptly and donned his black sunglasses. “I’ll be in touch,” he said crisply. “I’ll keep you up to speed on what’s happening in Miami, and I hope you’ll let me know of any developments up here.”
“Of course,” I said.
There was another round of hand-shaking and the two men departed. I reclaimed my swivel chair and stared down at my desk blotter where, I saw, Kling’s nervous fingers had ripped every match from a book and then had shredded the cover into jagged strips. Obviously a stressed man and I wondered if I had made an error of judgment in welcoming his assistance.
Doesn’t W.S. say something about having a long spoon when you eat with the devil? I must look it up.
W
HAT A DELIGHTFUL FRIDAY
evening that was! Because nothing happened to roil the McNally equanimity. Father stirred up a pitcher of excellent gin martinis at the family cocktail hour and Ursi Olson served
cervelli con uova
for dinner. That’s calves’ brains with eggs, and if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it.
I went up to my hidey-hole, played a cassette of Sinatra’s “Duets,” smoked an English Oval, sipped a very small marc, worked on my journals in a desultory fashion, and suddenly realized I was happy. That always comes as something of a shock, does it not? I mean, you have problems, troubles, frustrations, and then you realize how gossamer they are and you’re content to be breathing. Of course it may have been the calves’ brains, Sinatra, or the brandy that brought on my euphoria, but whatever the cause I welcomed it.
Connie Garcia phoned around nine o’clock to tell me her cousin’s condition had stabilized and doctors were hoping for a complete recovery. Good news. My belle amour said she’d probably remain in Miami for three or four days, and when she returned she definitely expected an orgy à deux, both gustatory and physically frolicsome. I gave her a verbal contract.
And so to bed. Not forgetting to spread my arms wide to the ceiling and murmur, “Thank you, God.” That’s as serviceable a form of prayer as any, innit?
Saturday turned out to be an equine of a different complexion, and I was rudely wrenched back to the demands and insecurities of reality. I slept late and awoke with vague hopes of a lazy, laid-back weekend. Maybe some tennis, a round of golf, a game of poker, perhaps a gimlet or two or three. Look, Mr. Holmes had his cocaine and I have my Sterling vodka. Which of us is to be more severely censured?
I bounced downstairs to a deserted kitchen. Father, I reckoned, was on his way to his club for 18 holes with a foursome that had been playing together for so many years I swear they now communicated solely with grunts. Mother and Ursi were probably out shopping for provisions.
I had a jolt of Clamato, toasted a muffin I slathered with peach preserve, and boiled up a pot of instant black. I was on my second dose of caffeine when Jamie Olson came wandering in and planted himself down across the table from me. He was smoking his pungent old briar and in self-defense I lighted my first cigarette of the day.
“Got a raccoon,” he reported glumly. “Pried the lid off the trash can. Made a nice mess.”
“I thought the new can we bought was supposed to be raccoon-proof.”
“Supposed to be,” he said. “Wasn’t. Them animals are smart buggers. Could work a combination lock, I have no doubt. Any coffee left?”
“Maybe a cup,” I said. “Help yourself.”
We sat awhile in silence, sipping and smoking.
“Jason,” he said finally. “The Whitcombs’ man. We hoisted a few together yesterday afternoon.”
“Good,” I said. “Learn anything?”
“Some. Like I told you, Jase is no blabbermouth when it comes to his family. But he admitted things are rough these days between father and son.”
“Did he give any reason for their
casus belli?”
“Their what?”
“Conflict. The reason for their dissension.”
“I think it’s money.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “Both Horace and Oliver are loaded.”
“Uh-huh,” Jamie said. He was quiet a long time and I waited patiently. There was no point in trying to hurry our houseman; he had his own pace, more an amble than a stride.
“Want me to guess?” he asked finally.
“By all means.”
“It’s Mrs. Whitcomb. From what Jason said, she’s fading. He doesn’t think she’s going to make it. Mebbe—I’m guessing now—she’s got more cash than husband or son. And that’s what the squabble’s about. Who inherits.”
I looked at him, astonished. “Jamie,” I said, “you’re a genius.”
“Just guessing,” he said. “Told you that.”
We said no more on the subject. We cleaned up the kitchen and then I raced upstairs to flip through my professional diary, wanting to verify a vague memory. I found it: Father had told me that for tax reasons, Horace had transferred a majority of shares to his wife.
Jamie had been almost right. Sarah didn’t have more cash than husband or son, but she held controlling interest in the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. That was the cause of the antagonism: Who would end up a lion and who a lamb?
You may think it inexcusably crass and unfeeling for husband and son to be concerned with inheritance while wife and mother is expiring in a motel-like hospital suite. If you feel that way, you have had little exposure to the basic motivations of human behavior. They are not depraved, y’know; they are simply
human.
I phoned Sunny Fogarty, hoping to find her at home on a gorgeous Saturday morning.
“Archy!” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And I, you. Sunny, I’d like to see you briefly as soon as possible. I have a few questions.”
Short silence. “But not on the phone?” she said. No dummy she.
“Correct. And not at your home or mine. You know Mizner Park in Boca?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a bookstore. Liberties. Do you think you could be browsing at noon?”
Pause again. “Is it important?”
“It is.”
“Then I’ll manage,” she said. “Archy, you’re being very mysterious.”
“I’m being very paranoid,” I told her. “I’ll explain when I see you. I’d love to ask you to lunch, but I don’t think it would be wise. We’ll chat a few moments and then go our separate ways.”
Third pause. “All right, Archy,” she said. “I trust you.”
That was comforting. And somewhat daunting,
I had pulled on casual and rather raddled duds that morning, but now, preparing for a clandestine rendezvous at a smart bookstore, I decided something spiffier was called for. If you think me inordinately vain, you’re quite right. I donned an aqua polo shirt of Sea Island cotton, slacks of go-to-hell fuchsia, and a jacket of properly faded madras. No socks. The loafers were cordovans with floppy tassels—which drive mein papa right up the wall.
It really was a splendiferous day and all during that exhilarating drive south to Boca I lustily sang “Enjoy Yourself—It’s Later Than You Think,” which pretty well sums up my basic philosophy.
I found Sunny Fogarty standing before the cookbook section at Liberties. She was leafing through a volume on soufflés. I joined her and selected a treatise entitled
Wild Game Stews.
That tells you something about us, does it not?
We stood shoulder to shoulder and conversed in hushed tones.
“What’s this all about, Archy?” she said tensely.
Speaking rapidly, I gave her a succinct account of Ernest Gorton’s apparent involvement in illicit activities at Whitcomb Funeral Homes and what I interpreted as his attempted bribery to convince me to end or soft-pedal my investigation.
“He’s aware of my inquiries,” I told Sunny. “No doubt about it. And I think his information originated from within your office.”
She nodded. “I’ve suspected someone has been listening in on my calls. I know positively my personal files have been searched. And our computer records have been tampered with.”
“The villains are probably aware of your suspicions and investigation. What concerns me is that I fear they also know you have requested assistance from McNally and Son. They may even have observed my visits to your home. I don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but you may be under surveillance and perhaps your apartment has been bugged.”
Her face grew increasingly grim. “Yes,” she said, “that’s possible.”
“I think it best you use a pay phone whenever you wish to contact me,” I went on. “I really shouldn’t have called you at home this morning, but I had no choice. That’s why I selected a public place for our meeting and suggested we forgo luncheon just in case you might have been followed.”
She accepted these dire warnings with admirable stoicism, and I saw again what a strong woman she was. I didn’t want to add to her strain by relating what I had learned from FBI Special Agent Griffin Kling about the nasty proclivities of Ernest Gorton. After all, Sunny, had no need to know; she had quite enough on her plate at the moment.
“Archy,” she said in a toneless voice, “you said on the phone you had questions.”
“I do. Two of them. First, have you heard anything recently about the condition of Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb?”
“Not good,” she said, her face suddenly frozen. “Mr. Horace told me the doctors give him no hope. First they talked about years, then it was months, then weeks; it spread so swiftly. Now I’m afraid it’s days.”
“Dreadful,” I said. “A lovely woman.”
“Yes,” she said. “She’s been good to me, so understanding when my own mother became ill. I’ll never forget her kindness.”
“How is Mr. Horace taking it?”
“He’s trying to cope. But he’s hurting.”