Pigs Get Fat (Trace 4) (5 page)

When Trace got back to the hotel, the door connecting his room with Chico’s was open but her room was empty. He found a note in an envelope pasted to his dresser mirror.

It read: “Wanna tlick? Wait around at 3 o’crock. Honorable mother will be otherwise engaged.”

It was already two-thirty, so Trace showered quickly. When he came out, he carefully put his tape recorder away in the back of a drawer on top of the copy of Thomas Collins’ insurance policy that Mabley had given him. He would have no more use for the frog microphone on this trip.

Case closed. A sappy woman with a sappy husband. He was so dumb he wandered away without telling anybody; she was so dumb she wouldn’t call the police for fear of embarrassing him. And Trace was brought into the thing by Michael Mabley, who was so dumb that he was a friend of Walter Marks.

No thank you, no thank you, no thank you. He was off the case.

Trace wrapped a towel around himself and found the ice-cube machine down the hall. Then he poured himself a glass of Finlandia. It gave Trace a deep sense of satisfaction to note that even after several generous servings the bottle was still almost full. To a weary worker little things, like a stocked bar, meant a lot. He sat at the small table in the room and flicked on the television.

When Chico came in at ten after three, Trace was watching
The Dating Game
.

“Pick bachelor number one,” he shouted.

“Why?” Chico said.

Trace turned, surprised to see her. He hadn’t heard her come into the room.

“You’ve been here only a day and already you’re becoming stealthy,” he said. “Is it three o’clock already?”

“Ten after. Why should she pick bachelor number one? He looks like an ax murderer.”

“Exactly. This show is bound to end in a disaster someplace. I just want to be sure I’m tuned in when the inevitable happens. ‘We’ll fly the two of you first class to Montezuma’s Revenge Hotel in sunny Acapulco. But only one of you will return.’” Trace did his best
Revenge of the Fangman
laugh. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to be a contestant.”

“Nobody’d ever pick you,” Chico said.

“Who cares? I just want to answer the questions. ‘What are your hobbies, Bachelor Number One?’ Necrophilia and needlepoint and raising pit dogs. ‘Very nice, Bachelor Number One. Will you bay at the moon for me?’ Only if you’re as big a dog as I think you are.”

Chico flicked off the television set. “It must have been some day if you’re sitting here taking out your frustration on game-show contestants.”

“It was an awful day. Where’s the mother?”

“She’s gone to this terribly dismal lecture on productivity in automobile plants in a changing world,” Chico said.

“Why? Your mother’s a painter, for God’s sakes.”

“It’s inherent in our souls,” Chico said. “All Japanese want to become more efficient. I’m sure Mother thinks if she can find out how to put a fender on a car in twenty-seven seconds flat, somehow it’s going to make her turn out a painting in four days instead of seven.”

“Why don’t you take your clothes off while we discuss this mania? I think it reflects a deep sexual need on your part,” Trace said.

“Your place or mine?” Chico said.

“Well, as long as we’re here.”

They got into the bed, but then Chico bounded over and opened the window. Fresh air swirled through the room.

“I’ll get pneumonia,” Trace said.

“Breathe deep. It’s good for you.”

“Shouldn’t we close that door between the rooms?”

“Mother won’t be back.”

“Suppose the lecture’s dull?” Trace said. “Even for her.”

“She still wouldn’t leave,” Chico said. “It is considered very insulting to walk out before the lecture is done.”

“Very logical, but close the door anyway. I have this vision of not just your mother coming back but everybody in the convention with her. She’ll be leading them like a Japanese tour through a casino. She’ll have a yellow balloon on a stick and she’ll be holding it over her head so everyone can follow it without getting lost and they’ll all come marching through the room taking pictures and smiling at us. Why do Japanese always smile?”

“Because they know you roundeyes are inherently funny,” Chico said. She locked the door and returned to bed.

Trace said, “By the way, what’s black and goes
crick-crick
in the forest?”

“I don’t know. I give up.”

“You have no fighting heart,” he said. “A Japanese camera left over from
Mr. Moto Takes a Photo
.”

“You need a new writer,” Chico said. “Why was your day awful?”

“I was doing Walter Marks a favor,” Trace said.

“Hell,
that’d
ruin Mother Theresa’s day.”

“So I went to talk to a wife whose husband is missing but she won’t call the cops ’cause she’s afraid that when he turns up he’ll turn up mad.”

“What’d you do?”

“I told her to call the cops,” Trace said.

“What’d she say?”

“She wanted me to investigate.”

“What’d you say?” Chico asked, rubbing his bare stomach.

“Make bigger circles,” Trace said. “I said no. I said that I was busy at this very interesting convention with the two women I love best in the world.”

“Your mother and ex-wife will be interested in hearing that,” Chico said.

“If you keep your little Oriental mouth closed, they’ll never know.”

“You really want me to keep my mouth closed?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Trace rolled over toward her, but Chico was bounding out of bed. She started dressing.

“What…” Trace started, but she raised a finger for silence.

“Listen. The mother is back,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

Trace rolled over and turned his back to her. “What is this?” Trace asked. “A lesson in ‘Effective Contraception in a Changing World?’”

Seating at the convention’s opening night dinner had been arranged by chance; people just happened to sit at tables where there was enough room for their party. That was the end of chance, Trace realized. From now on the Japanese regarded the seating arrangements as sacred, so Trace again found himself next to the man from Bataan, Mr. Nishimoto.

He smiled a lot at Trace except when he was paying attention to the speeches, which were all in Japanese and all interminable. Everybody in the audience sat in rapt attention and nodded politely at what Trace guessed was the end of each sentence.

Trace looked to Chico for salvation. “What are they talking about?”

“Corporate responsibility in an irresponsible changing world.”

“Why do all the speeches sound alike?” Trace said.

“They
are
all alike,” Chico said. “Japan has only one speechwriter for hire. He writes speeches like insurance policies, the same language over and over again.”

Then Trace felt an all-too-familiar heavy hand on his arm. Mr. Nishimoto leaned toward him, smiling sincerely. He said, “Bataan. Sorry I missed you.” Trace excused himself to the refuge of the men’s room. When he came back, he found the elderly Japanese in Trace’s chair talking to Chico. He vacated for Trace with an obliging grin.

“What’s he always talking to you about anyway?” Trace asked Chico.

“He tells me how much he likes you,” Chico said. “And my mother.”

“Oh.” Trace drained his sake cup. “I like him, too.”

“And what about me?” Chico countered. “Or is that a roll of quarters in your pocket?”

“Mercury dimes. Sorry. But we can divvy up in my room.”

When the telephone rang, Trace rolled over. Before the sheets could settle, it britzed again, sounding off in that particularly vicious way that hotel telephones have of ringing. Trace put his pillow on his head. Once more into the britz and he growled to Chico, “For crying out loud, answer the phone.”

When it rang again, he prodded the tangle of blankets next to him but it didn’t respond. Then he remembered that Chico had come upstairs with him last night, but then gone next door to sleep in her mother’s room.

“This better be good,” he mumbled, throwing one arm toward the sound. Despite the shuffling and clunking of the flotsam that cluttered the bedside table, Trace resolutely refused to open his eyes. He knew that eyes, once opened, would not close again in peaceful rest until a day had passed. And the self-imposed handicap often provided enough of a delay to cause any caller to hang up in frustration. But not this time.

“Trace,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“What is this, bed check? Who are you?”

“This is Mike Mabley.”

“I bet you’ve been up for hours,” Trace said.

“I heard from Judith Collins.”

Trace screwed his eyes shut tighter and said nothing.

Mabley continued, “I think you should talk to her today.”

“Why?” Trace mumbled. It was all too clear to him now; he wasn’t going to be allowed to go back to sleep. He cracked one eye open.

“She thinks she knows something about her husband,” Mabley said.

“If she doesn’t, who does?”

“About his disappearance.”

“If she’s got anything, she ought to go to the cops. I told her that.”

“She won’t do that,” Mabley said. “Please, Trace. Talk to her. Maybe you can talk her into it. She was very impressed with you yesterday.”

No use. Trace was awake now, for good. He got up and flicked on the television. “Wait a minute,” he coughed into the phone and straggled into the bathroom to use mouthwash. He thought Paul Newman should invent industrial-strength mouthwash for mornings after like this.

Bolstered by the chemical rinse, Trace was now ready to refuse Mabley. He glanced at the television. The in-house channel was presenting, in glorious green-tinged color, the fabulous events going on in the hotel that day.

The featured event seemed to be the Japanese-American convention, its essence condensed on videotape to a panoramic view of conventioneers happily chewing their octopus. The camera then fired on Trace’s dinner partner, Mr. Nishimoto, who stared directly into its lens smiling. Bataan’s champion then began looking around as if something were missing.

He’s looking for me, Trace thought. I’m not even out of bed yet and he’s looking for me.

Still glued to the screen, he picked up the phone again and said, “Tell her I’ll be there when I can get there.”

“Thanks, Trace,” Mabley said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“The day at the farm was super. In case you were looking for it, I found this in my bag when you brought me back. When do we play hot tub again? Mandy.”

The note was written on a sheet of pulpy white note paper. The envelope was the common kind bought in drugstores and there was no return address. The note had been printed in black ballpoint ink.

Trace handed the note back. “What came with this?” he asked Judith Collins.

She handed him a square silver cuff link with the initials T.C. on it.

“Your husband’s?” Trace said.

“Yes.”

“And it was in the envelope?”

She nodded.

“When did you get this letter?”

“I got it at the post office. I was looking in Thomas’ desk for, well, maybe an appointment listing or an airline reservation or something, and I found a key for the postal box in town. I went down there and found this letter in the box.”

“Did you know he had this box?” Trace asked.

“No. This was the first I knew of it,” she said. Trace looked at the post-box key. It was one of the big heavy ones that the postal service used. The top of it, above the small keychain hole, was scratched.

“Who’s Mandy?” Trace asked as he put the key down on the coffee table between them.

“I don’t know. I never heard her name before.”

“The envelope is postmarked San Francisco too,” Trace said. “You never heard him mention any Mandy in San Francisco? Maybe somebody he worked with or was doing business with?”

“You mean hot-tub business?” she said sharply. The woman paused to regain control of herself. “I never heard of her.”

“Still no word from your husband?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did you find the other cuff link?” Trace asked.

Her green eyes opened wide as she looked at Trace, surprised at something she hadn’t thought of. “I’ll look now.”

When she left the living room, Trace looked at the note again. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be anything significant about it. He always wished that he could solve a mystery someday by seeing something that the poor dumb plodding police had overlooked. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but Lady Watercloset couldn’t have written that letter. You see, it accuses her husband of not being honorable. But honor is spelled without a ‘u.’ Lady Watercloset wouldn’t have done that. Inspector, this letter is a fake, written by an American to throw you off the track.” “My God, Mister Trace, I never thought of that. And the only American who could have written it was…” “Exactly. Dina Davenport. I think if you check, Inspector, you’ll see that…”

Judith Collins reappeared beside the tacky sofa. “It isn’t there,” she said. “Thomas keeps his cuff links in a special box on the dresser, but it’s not there.” She saw Trace nod and said, “Is it important?”

“I don’t know. I just thought that if it was there, then he might have lost this cuff link weeks ago. But if it wasn’t, maybe he lost it since he left home last Wednesday. I don’t know.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Collins, does your husband cheat on you?”

The woman settled into a chair, looked down at her chest, and started to cry softly.

“I’m sorry,” Trace said.

She wiped her eyes. “And I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know. The letter certainly makes it look like he cheated on me, doesn’t it?”

“You never had reason to suspect him before?” Trace said. “I remember you telling me he’s out of town on business a lot.”

“But I could reach him. I knew where he was and I never would have thought twice about calling his room, wherever he was staying.” She put her handkerchief away and lifted her teacup. “A wife usually knows, Mr. Tracy, when her husband cheats. I don’t think Thomas was cheating on me. Until this note. Now I don’t know.”

“He might be?” Trace said.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she answered.

“Where’s the farm?” Trace asked.

For a moment, she looked confused and Trace lifted the note signed Mandy “This farm,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t own a farm?” Trace asked.

“No.”

“A friend, then? Maybe your husband and this Mandy were together at somebody else’s farm. Do you have any friends who have a farm?”

“No. I can’t think of any,” she said.

“I think you ought to go to the police now,” Trace said.

“I just can’t. Certainly not after getting this note. Thomas would go crazy.”

“Why’d you have Mabley call me?”

The woman shrugged with her whole body. “I don’t know. But you are the only two people in the world who know that Thomas is gone.”

“The neighbors haven’t asked questions?” Trace asked.

“I’m not close to any of them. And they’re used to Thomas being out of town. Mr. Tracy, I’d like to hire you for one day. See if you can find out anything. I promise you, if you don’t find out where Thomas is, then I’ll call the police.”

“He’s been gone a week. You should have called them a long time ago.”

“Just give me one day,” she said.

Trace shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You seem to think that I’m some kind of real detective who can found out things like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Then what are you?” she asked.

“I’m a bumbler. I fumble around. I never figure anything out. I just annoy people. I never catch anybody. I’m not a detective, I’m an annoyance clerk. I should work in a department store.”

Mrs. Collins stared at Trace for a long time. Then her shoulders shuddered as if from an explosion deep within her body, and she dropped her head toward her chest and began to sob uncontrollably. “Please, Mr. Tracy. Please.”

Trace sighed. He could never resist good manners.