Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (23 page)

 
          
“Where
are you off to, Tony? Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

 
          
“Arcadia
wants me to stay with her. She put Torres in the clink for nonsupport. Now
she’s scared to be alone herself. She thinks maybe she’s getting
susto
, too.”

 
          
“What
is
susto
?”

 
          
“Bad sickness.
The doctor says it’s psychological, like. My
mother says it’s from an evil spirit.”

 
          
“Which
do you say?”

 
          
“I
dunno
. They taught in high school there was no such
thing as evil spirits. But I
dunno
.” His eyes were
like occulted lights.

 
          
He
moved away into the mouth of the alley. I drove back to my office on automatic
pilot. My thoughts remained with Tony and Arcadia, caught in the ambiguous
darkness between two towns, two
magics
.

 
          
MY
OWN NAME, WM. GUNNARSON, stenciled on the stucco wall at the head of my parking
slot, reminded me where I was and what I was doing. I turned off the engine and
used my key to the back door of the building. There was a light behind the
office door.

 
          
“I’ve
been trying to get in touch with you,” Mrs. Weinstein said. She looked tired,
and her smile was wan. “I believe I’ve located the place you’re looking for.
It’s a small city called Mountain Grove, inland from here about sixty miles, in
the Valley. More than half of the names check out, and I have their addresses
for you.”

 
          
She
handed me a carefully typed list. There were street and telephone numbers for
six of the names, including an Adelaide Haines who lived on Canal Street. I
felt a rush of satisfaction. I had
been needing
it.

 
          
“No
Dotery?” I said, and spelled it out.

 
          
“No.
It was an old telephone book, though, that they had at the answering service.
While I was there, incidentally, some man called for you. Colonel Ferguson. He
wants you to come out to his house, he said. He intimated that it was very
urgent.”

 
          
“How
long ago was this?”

 
          
“Twenty minutes or so.
I just got here.”

 
          
“You’re
a treasure, Belle.”

 
          
“I
know.
Buried treasure.
Do you want to tell me what
it’s all about?”

 
          
“Tomorrow, perhaps, when I get back from Mountain Grove.”

 
          
She
looked at me with concern. “You’re not leaving town without going home? Mrs. G.
has a stiff upper lip, but you don’t want to strain it.”

 
          
“You’ve
done me a big favor. Would you do me another?”

 
          
“I
know. Spend the night with Mrs. G. I could see that one coming a long way off.”

 
          
“Will
you?”

 
          
“I’ll
be glad to, Bill.” She seldom called me by my first name. “You take care of
yourself. I like working for you, in spite of all the alarms and excursions.”

 
          
The
floodlights were burning outside Ferguson’s house, throwing Chirico shadows
along the cliff and up the driveway. A dusty late-model Ford stood in the
turnaround. I thought I knew it, and looked in. It was a rented car, according
to the registration slip. A light hat with a sunburst band lay on the front
seat.

 
          
When
Ferguson opened the door, the short and passionate man from Miami was standing
close to his elbow. He said to Ferguson: “Who did you say this is?”

 
          
“Mr.
Gunnarson, my local attorney. This is Mr.
Salaman
,
Mr. Gunnarson.”

 
          
“I
know him.”

 
          
“That’s
right,”
Salaman
said. “At the Foothill Club, in the
parking lot. Why didn’t you tell me you were Ferguson’s lawyer? We could
of
got things settled there and then.” He smiled without
showing his teeth.

 
          
Ferguson
looked drained and miserable. “Let’s not stand around in doorways, gentlemen.”

 
          
We
followed him into the big room that overlooked the ocean.
Salaman
took up a position in the middle of the room, like a proprietor. The swelling
in his armpit was quite prominent in the light, radiating wrinkles across his
gabardine jacket.

 
          
“What
is this all about?” I said.

 
          
He
nodded peremptorily at Ferguson. “Tell him.”

 
          
Ferguson
said in a husky voice: “Mr.
Salaman
is a businessman
from Florida. He claims that my wife owes him a good deal of money.”

 
          
“Claims
is
not the word. She owes it and she’s going to pay
it.”

 
          
“But
my wife isn’t here. I told you I have no idea where she is.”

 
          
“Don’t
give me that.”
Salaman
wagged his head with sad
tolerance. “You know where she is, you’ll tell me. If you don’t,
well
run her down. We got an organization behind us. But
that would be doing it the hard way.”

 
          
“I
understood you were fond of the lady,” I said.

 
          
“Not
sixty-five grand worth. Anyway,” he added delicately, “we won’t go into the sex
angle in front of her old man here. I don’t
wanna
interfere with anybody’s legal marriage. All I want is my sixty-five thousand.”

 
          
“Sixty-five thousand for what?”

 
          
“Value
received. That’s what it says on the notes. Don’t think she didn’t sign notes.”

 
          
“Let
me see the notes.”

 
          
“I
don’t carry them with me. But get it through your head, it’s strictly legal. As
you will find out if you make me go into court. But you don’t want that.”

 
          
“No,”
Ferguson said, “we don’t want that.”

 
          
“What
did the money go for?”

 
          
Salaman
flipped his hand palm upward, pointing the thumb at
Ferguson. “Tell him.”

 
          
Ferguson
swallowed a bitter grin. It almost choked him. “Holly lost some money gambling
shortly before we were married. She didn’t have the cash to cover her losses.
She borrowed from a finance company which is run by a Miami gambling
corporation. Mr.
Salaman
is the major stockholder.
The amount was less than fifty thousand, originally, but apparently the
interest has mounted up.”

 
          
“Interest and service charges.
It’s more than six months
overdue. And it costs money to collect money. Now an op—a man in your position,
Colonel, I’d think you’d want to pay up.”

 
          
I
said: “Would this be blackmail, by any chance?”

 
          
Salaman
looked hurt. “I’m sorry you used that word, Mister.
If you’re smart, though, you’ll tell your boss to pay up. It wasn’t just the
tables the lady blew her money on.”

 
          
Ferguson
had turned to the window. He spoke with his face hidden, but I could see his
ghostly reflection forcing out the words. “Some of the money went for drugs,
Gunnarson. If we can believe this man, she started gambling to procure money
for drugs. She got in deeper and deeper.”

 
          
“What
drugs?”

 
          
Salaman
shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. I’m no
pusher.” He smiled his sealed smile. “All I know is what I read in the papers.
Like what it said in the columns about her and the lifeguard. This would make a
nice splash in the papers.”

 
          
Ferguson
turned back to the room. He was as pale as his reflection. “What is this?”

 
          
“It
sounds like blackmail to me,” I said.

 
          
Salaman
said: “The hell it is. Your boy here isn’t too
bright, pops. My advice to you is trade him in on another mouthpiece but fast.
You need a boy that’s
hep
to the public-relations
angles, that’s what makes and breaks. I got a right to protect my legitimate
interests.”

 
          
“I
understand that,” Ferguson said with a dismal look at me. “I don’t have the
money on hand.”

 
          
“Tomorrow
will do.
Tomorrow at the latest.
I can’t sit around in
this burg while you make up your mind. I got to get back to some action.
How about this time tomorrow?”

 
          
“What
if I don’t pay then?”

 
          
“Your
little doll won’t be making
no
more movies.
Maybe horror movies.”
Salaman
showed
his teeth. They were bad.

 
          
Ferguson
said in a thin and desperate voice: “You’re holding her somewhere, aren’t you?
I’ll gladly pay you if you give her back.”

 
          
“Are
you nuts?”
Salaman
swung around to face me. “Is this
a nuthouse? Is the old guy nuts?”

 
          
“You
haven’t answered his question.”

 
          
“Why
should I? It
don’t
make sense. If I had Holly, she’d
be here doing the asking.
On her knees.”

 
          
“You
implied you could put your hands on her.”

 
          
“Sooner or later, sure.
I can send out a private circular to
all the gambling spots, all the major bookies. Sooner or later she’ll turn up
at one of them. But the longer I have to wait, the more it costs. And it ain’t
only money I mean, bear it in mind.”

 
          
“My
client and I want to discuss this in private.”

 
          
“Sure
you do.”
Salaman
flung out his hand in a generous
arc. “Discuss it all night if you want. Just come up with the right answer by
tomorrow. And don’t try to get in touch with me. I’ll be in touch with you.” He
saluted us with two fingers and walked out. I heard the Ford go up the drive.

 
          
Ferguson
broke the silence. “What am I going to do?”

 
          
“What
do you want to do?”

 
          
“Pay
them, I suppose.”

 
          
“Do
you have the money?”

 
          
“I
can phone Montreal. It’s not the money I’m concerned about.” He added after
another silence: “I don’t know what sort of a woman I married.”

 
          
“You
didn’t marry a saint, that’s evident. Your wife is having her troubles. She was
having them before she became your wife. Have you considered cutting your
losses?”

 
          
“I
don’t follow, Gunnarson. I’m not feeling myself.”

 
          
He
sat down on a long chair, his head resting limply on the back, one leg dragging
on the floor.

 
          
“You’re
not responsible for her debts, unless you want to be.”

 
          
“I
can’t let her down,” he said weakly.

 
          
“She
let you down.”

 
          
“Perhaps.
But I still care for her. I don’t care about the
money. Why is everything always put to me in terms of money?”

 
          
There
was no answer to that question, except that he had money, and had used it to
marry a woman half his age. The question was addressed to the ceiling, anyway.
He announced to the ceiling: “Damn it, I hate to give in to their dirty
threats. But I’m going to pay them their dirty money.”

 
          
“That
may not be wise. It could lead to a long series of payments. It’s possible, in
fact, that you’ve paid them once already.”

 
          
He
sat up blinking.
“How?”