The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (10 page)

“Don't be silly. Now then, about our mutual friend,” said Helen, pouring the Chablis.

“How well do you know Maxwell Turner?”

“Max Turner? I'm afraid Mr. Turner is currently at the top of my shit list. Pardon my French.”

“I know things about Max that would even lower your opinion of him. He's done some pretty rotten things to me. I wouldn't be offended by anything you could say about Max.”

“Now I recognize you! You're related to the woman I met on Max Turner's yacht.”

“She's my sister, Ashlyn. She is—or rather was—married to Turner's son, Arthur. Do you remember that terrorist attack in Uganda? I'm talking about the one where eight tourists were killed.”

“Of course I remember. I live in Africa.”

“My sister survived that attack. Her husband, Arthur, was reported killed, although his body was never recovered.”

“Let me get this straight. Was your brother-in-law killed or not? I apologize for my insensitivity.”

“The Ugandan military says he's dead. So does the American ambassador to Uganda. I'm not so sure.”Lynn lowered her eyes. “Helen, Arthur's nothing like his father. My sister was devoted to him. I know your next question. What does my sister have to say about this? Unfortunately, I haven't been allowed to talk to my sister. Max has brain-washed her. I mean, about me. I'm at my wits' end.”

“You just lost me. Why would Max stop you from seeing your sister? Did I miss something?”

Lynn finished her wine. When Helen tried to refill her glass, she placed her hand on top of the glass. Instead of answering Helen, she asked her own question. “What happened between your husband and Max in Mozambique?”

“Max hired my husband, Rigby to take him hunting. There was an accident. A man was killed. Rigby believes Max was responsible for that man's death.” Neither woman spoke. Helen chose her words and began, “When I saw your sister in the Bahamas, she acted normal. That is, she acted like she was there of her own free will. I don't know how to say this. Our captain said some of Turner's employees told him they believe Turner's living with your sister.”

“Do you mean…?” Her expression showed she knew what Helen was implying.

“I'm afraid I do.”

Lynn got up and walked over to the salon window. She bit her lower lip and shook her head in disbelief. “It's not true, I know my sister. Max might push it, but Ashlyn, no way. My God, this is a new low, even for Max.”

“Maybe it was disgruntled gossip,” said Helen.

“Nobody knows Max Turner better than I do. I ought to, I was married to him. I know what you're thinking: Two sisters married to a father and son is weird. Of course, you're right. I was Max's fifth wife. I'm afraid his four other wives didn't fare too well. The first ended up in a mental hospital. His third wife fell off of Max's yacht on a trip back from the Bahamas. Her death was ruled an accidental drowning. Arthur was her son and Max's only child.”

Helen maintained a passive facial expression to show she had no such thoughts, but the idea of being married to Max made her skin crawl. I can't wait to talk to Rigby, she thought.

“Helen, my family was poorer than church mice. We ran away from home when we were teenagers—when I say we, I mean my sister and me. We ran away because, well, let's just say we had a damn good reason. We needed a roof over our heads and Max provided it. Looking back, Max may have had his motives, but we were desperate. I see I've shocked you. I apologize. I'm afraid I'm babbling. I've taken enough of your time. I should be leaving.”

Helen shrugged indicating she wasn't shocked, but, in fact, she was so shocked she had trouble swallowing a mouthful of wine. Lynn's honesty turned Helen's revulsion into empathy. She reached forward and touched Lynn to reassure her. “Lynn, why don't you stay for dinner? I warn you, it won't be fancy.”

“You've been very gracious. I know I must sound like one of those dreadful people on the Jerry Springer show. Some crazy divorced woman ranting and raving about her ex-husband. I can assure you, I'm neither. If I had my way, I'd never see Max Turner again. I've always taken care of my sister. To cut me off like this is not like her.”

Lynn's eyes welled up with tears at the thought of her sister. Her face turned angry as she began to speak again. “Don't believe for a second that running into Max in the Bahamas was an accident. I'm convinced the hunting safari was a smokescreen. Max's real purpose was to hire your husband to help him find out about his son. This is the first I've heard about the hunting accident. It must have prevented him from carrying out his plan. I can assure you he'll try again. He needs certain assurances, or he's—.” She stopped, as if conflicted by her thoughts.

“What were you going to say?” Helen asked.

“It's nothing. If I told you what I'm thinking, you'd think I'm crazy. You probably already think I'm nuts. Being around Max tends to do that to a person.”

“Is there something you're not telling me?”

“I shouldn't have told you this much. The people around Max have a habit of getting hurt. The hunting accident, the accidental drowning of his third wife—there's much more, you know. I'm convinced there's a good chance Arthur may still be alive. I think my sister believes he's alive. That's the only reason she's staying close to Max. Now I hear he's trying to—God, I hope it isn't true. Max will pull out all the stops to get to his son. I know what you're thinking—this sounds like a distraught father and a vindictive ex-wife.”

“I have to admit, it did cross my mind,” Helen confessed. “Why is Max obsessed with hiring my husband?”

“Max has heard rumors about his son being alive. The last information he received was that Arthur was being held in the Congo. I'm told that getting into the Congo is easy. Finding Arthur is the problem. For some reason, Max is convinced your husband's the only man in Africa that can give him what he wants.”

***

Lynn Allison left Helen Croxford around midnight. She decided to take the coastal highway to her seaside condo in Boca Raton. She lowered the window, hoping the sea breeze would clear her mind. The salty smell triggered memories of growing up in Louisiana. She flashbacked to her mother's funeral: The embalmer had done his best to re-sculpture her mother's facial bones. Her mother's boyfriend had broken her nose so many times it no longer looked like it belonged on a human face. A beautician had puffed her hair into a fuzzy pompadour. Her wrinkles were packed with makeup to hide the harsh reality of a life gone wrong. What was left in that yellow-pine coffin was pitiful. Lynn was conflicted by her mother's death. She remembered telling her mother about the live-in boyfriend's molesting her, but her mother ignored her. Most of the time she could fend off the recollections, but when she was tired, she lacked the willpower to stop them. The irritating chimes of a cell-phone snapped her back to the moment. When she saw the incoming number was her ex-husband's, she felt sick.

“My dear, how did it go?” Max asked.

“I feel like a scumbag lying to that woman.”

“Lynn, don't give me that shit.”

“Helen Croxford told me about the hunting incident. Something you failed to mention.”

“That, my dear, was unfortunate. What did she say when you told her I wanted to hire her husband?”

“It won't be easy. She didn't have anything nice to say about you. I went away feeling her husband hates you more than I do. Why don't you find someone else?”

“I'm afraid Rigby Croxford is like all of us, even you. We all have our price. Some people can be bought cheaper than others, but there's always a price.”

“Speaking of money, when do I get the hundred thousand?” Lynn asked.

“I'm having it hand delivered.”

“Did you make the wire transfer to the bank in Uganda?”

“Of course I did. That's seven million. Even I can't continue paying at this rate. There's a limit.” Max swirled the cabernet, letting the wine coat the inside of his glass. He stuck his nose in and inhaled. Picking at his ex-wife's vulnerabilities made him smile.

“Is there a price on how much you love Arthur?” she asked, trying to get even. “I could ask you the same question. My generosity seems to get me nothing but ingratitude. I keep wondering if you're skimming for yourself.”

“For God's sake, he's your only son.”

“At this point, I'm not sure my son's alive. My money might be going to his murderer.” “Is that a chance you're willing to take? Answer my question. Why haven't you hired someone to find Arthur?”

“I've tried and I got ripped off. The Congo is run by crooks. You're never sure if you're bribing the right person. If Arthur's alive, I'm not about to take any chances with his rescue. I believe Croxford is the man to get me some answers. But then again, you don't give a shit about Arthur, do you?”

“It seems odd to hear you call someone a crook. What you said about me not caring about Arthur isn't fair. Hard to believe he's your own flesh and blood. I would do anything for him and you know it.”

“I believe the Lord sent Croxford to me.”

“Oh, please. Remember, I know you. When do I get to see my sister?”

“You haven't finished your assignment. Why don't you stop by on your way home?” He paused, but she didn't respond.

The thought of Max touching her was nauseating. She collected herself and asked the same question a different way. “You promised to let me see my sister. Why do you take such delight in torturing me?”

“Believe it or not, this isn't about you. Your job is to convince Croxford to help me. Offer him a half a million dollars. Hiring Croxford is a done deal. I'll bet everything I own on it. As you know, I own a lot.” Max looked in an antique mirror and examined his toupee from different angles. Satisfied, he turned back to face the speakerphone. “I was kidding when I asked you to stop by. Anyway, I found a woman who appreciates me. I can't tell you her name, at least not yet. Lynn, you and I were conjoined by animal lust, nothing more. Goodnight, love. Pleasant dreams.”

J
esse Spooner's first week at Turner and Turner was overwhelming. He clung to Savanna Williams like she was his interpreter in a foreign country. The countless meetings with the senior law partners were a blur. There were incomplete memos and abbreviated emails. The secretaries spoke in legal shorthand. He had never felt more helpless in his life.

It was Friday, and Savanna was not in her office. Getting fired before he could do his job was unacceptable. The telephone on his desk rang. “Mr. Spooner, this is Dan Gillespie. I work for the investigative side of the firm. Mr. Turner thought it would be a good idea if we got together for lunch. I was thinking Brinkley's, say, around noon?”

“Noon works for me. How will I know you?”

“Don't worry. Something tells me I won't have trouble finding you.”

***

Jesse looked over the top of his menu at the red-faced man walking towards him. The man squinted to fend off a wisp of smoke from the cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth. He stopped to speak to a barmaid. Jesse couldn't hear him, but he guessed what he said was off color by the girl's reaction. It was apparent Gillespie was one of her regulars. He gave her a playful spank and waved to Jesse. “Mr. Spooner, I presume?”

“Mr. Gillespie, it's nice to meet you.”

“Please, call me Dan. You're the attorney. I'm just part of the hired help. Say, it's Friday, which means I'm gonna have a martini. Care to join me?”

“It's a little early for me. For God's sake, don't call me mister.”

“C'mon Spooner, don't be a pussy. I'm not gonna tell old Maxy boy. Besides, he's in the Bahamas on his fuckin' mega-yacht.”

“I'll have a white wine,” Jesse said, throwing up his hands.

“White wine, now there's a man's drink.” Gillespie smoothed out the puffiness around his eyes and sighed.

“Rough night?” Jesse asked.

“No more than any other. So, how'd your first week go?”

“I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. If it wasn't for Savanna Williams,I'd be completely lost.”

“Savanna Williams is a ten with a capital T,” he said, staring at a woman's ass who walked by their table. Williams has got too much class to work for Turner. He caught the same woman's attention and waved. She frowned and looked the other way. “Let's forget I said that. I've only had this job for two months—no sense getting fired before I get caught up on my alimony.”

Jesse attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. “You said Max thought it would be a good idea if you filled me in on what you do for the firm?”

“Turner doesn't know that I exist. I saw you play in the Sugar Bowl. Shit, you were good enough to play in the NFL. Hard to believe you gave up a career in professional football for chasing ambulances. But what the hell do I know?”

Jesse sniffed the wine and grimaced. “Even I know this wine stinks. I'm curious. How did you get the job working for Max?”

“I had a small detective agency in West Palm. By small, I mean like one person. I worked the divorce scene. Turner has every detective in south Florida on the take, except me. They funnel him information, like leads on possible cases and dirt on his competitors. You're in a dirty business, my friend. Or should I say, you've thrown your hat in the ring with a guy who likes to win and he doesn't give a crap how he does it.” Gillespie took a sip of his martini and continued. “Turner's exwife approached me about doing some work for her. The next thing I know, some baldheaded goon shows up with an offer from Turner. Having absolutely no scruples, and about to do jail time for back alimony, I took it. End of story. This woman, I mean Turner's ex is some piece of ass. She'd give your friend Savanna a run for her money.”

Both men turned their heads as their waitress sauntered up. The band of white skin on her wedding ring finger means she's on the make, Jesse guessed. She placed one hand on her hip and used a menu to fan her breasts. They were her best feature, and she knew it. “Danny, what's it gonna be?”

“Sweet Pea, a weekend in the Bahamas with you would be like winning the lottery.”

“Danny, you're so full of shit. If I said yes, would you really take me?”

“Hey, would I lie to you?” He grinned. She smirked. After they ordered, she strutted away.

“I see you're wearing a wedding band,” Jesse commented.

“Broads figure if I was dumb enough to get married once, hell, I might do it again.” Jesse stared at him, not sure what to say next. Gillespie used the hesitation to ask a question. “What about you, Spooner? Why Turner and Turner? You look like a guy who should be running his own firm. You don't even sound like a black man. Not that there's anything wrong with talking like a rapper.”

Spooner smirked at Gillespie. “Truth is—I wasn't much of a scholar. I spent four years shagging footballs for the Gators. Law school was hard for me. I failed the state bar exam twice before I passed it. Turner was my only offer. You know, going it alone isn't as easy as you think.”

“No kidding. I'm sure it'll all work out. Unfortunately, I don't plan on staying around long enough to find out. No sir, soon as I get caught up on my alimony payments to the world's biggest bitch, I'm outta here. I live on a fortytwo foot tub at the City Marina. She may look nasty, but she's paid for, and she purrs like a kitten.” Gillespie finished his martini in one gulp, and then continued. “I got tired of giving houses to women I hated. I've been married three times. All of my marriages ended the same way. After we sobered up, we realized now much we despised each other. But fuck, she'd end up with the house and I'd end up with jackshit. That's when I decided to live on a boat. Women love to spend a weekend on the water. The nice part is they don't see a boat as something permanent. Since my divorce from the latest dragon lady, I've spent my summers cruising in the Bahamas. You should stop by for a drink sometime. Meet some of my crazy boating neighbors.”

“Is that a serious offer?”

“There's no law against having fun. My neighbors are about as colorful as you can get. They're derelict guitarplaying boozers. I'm not musically inclined, but I certainly pass the litmus test on drinking.” Both men laughed. Spooner looked at his watch. Gillespie read his mind. “You need to get back to the office. I think I'll call it a day. It's party time, right sweetie?” Gillespie said, winking at the waitress.

***

Helen Croxford's two weeks in the States extended into three. Lynn Allison visited Helen almost everyday. Practicing medicine in rural Africa meant Helen had few female friends. She looked forward to seeing Lynn. They forged a friendship. The experience was also cathartic for Lynn. It was never a question if Lynn would visit Helen in Africa; it was only a question of when.

The live-aboard boaters at the City Marina organized a farewell cocktail party for Helen. Lynn wasn't prepared to meet the last person in the world she wanted to see. Helen helped her down onto the back deck of the yacht. She looked over the top of her sunglasses at the man with his back to her. “What's he doing here? Or should I say what foul tide did he float in on?” Lynn asked.

Dan Gillespie was so surprised to see her; he spilled his tropical drink down the front of his flowered shirt. “Miss. Allison, I live here. Well, not exactly here. I live on the next dock over.” Lynn's expression showed her exasperation.

“I'm sorry about what happened. I'd like a chance to explain.” He brushed off his shirt.

“I can assure you that won't be necessary.”

“I can't believe you two know each other,” Helen said, trying to soften the atmosphere.

“I know him to be a spineless coward who would do anything for money. And he's a Yankee.” Lynn expelled the words as if they were poisonous. She tucked her skirt between her legs as she prepared to climb up on the dock. At the last second, she turned and faced Helen. “What time does your flight leave?” She refused to look at Gillespie. “I won't spend another second with that man.”

“Miss Allison, I'll go so that you can stay,” he said. “Helen, I'm asking you again. What time do you want me here in the morning?” she demanded, as if she hadn't heard Gillespie's offer. “What can I do to make you stay? What if I shoot Mr. Gillespie?” she said, trying to defuse the tension. “He's not worth the bullet.”

“Look, Miss Allison, I promise I'll leave, but not before you give me the opportunity to explain. Please, all I'm asking for is thirty lousy seconds. I should warn you, the Gillespie family has a long history of mental illness. I think it goes back to being persecuted by the British. If you don't hear my confession, my untimely death would be on your hands.” Helen gave Lynn a nudge in his direction and left to mingle with the other guests.

“Untimely for whom, Mr. Gillespie?” continued Lynn.

“Touché. What about it? Will you step into my office?”

He opened the door. Lynn stepped into the salon. She stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. She looked over the top of her tortoiseshell shades. “Mr. Gillespie, this better be good.”

“Miss Allison, could you please sit down? You look like you're about to slug me.” She sat down on the corner of the sofa. Gillespie spoke right to the point. “Now, the reason I went to work for your exhusband was simple enough—I found out my exwife convinced some judge to issue a warrant to have me arrested. Knowing her, she was probably shacked up with the judge. She sued me once for a bumper sticker I had made up for my car that read, ‘Honk your horn if you haven't slept with my wife.' Anyway, I needed to get caught up on my alimony or I'd be wearing prison blues. Remember, I did return your retainer.”

“Did you really get sued over that bumper sticker?”

“Would I lie to you? Forget I said that. I can accept most of what you said about me. I have been known to take liberties with the truth, on rare occasions. I have to admit I was born and bred in Brooklyn, but that coward tag is a little hard to swallow. Miss Allison, I'm a lot of things, but a coward's not one of them.”

“Very well, Mr. Gillespie, I accept your apology. Just do me a favor. Never mention my exhusband's name in my presence. I'm afraid you're going to have to learn about Max the hard way. Just remember that I warned you. How about getting me the same kind of a drink you're wearing on your shirt?”

“Your ex won't get a chance to screw me. My plan is to resign after I get my next paycheck. What I will do is find out as much as I can about your sister. Consider the information a peace offering.”

***

Two weeks later, Dan Gillespie sat next to Jesse Spooner in Max Turner's office foyer. At first, he thought he'd been summoned to be fired, but when he saw Jesse, he guessed Max had something else on his mind. “Mr. Turner will see you,” the receptionist said. “Why do receptionists who work for wealthy men always act like they're doing you a favor?” Gillespie whispered to Jesse.

Neither of them had seen Turner's office. The parts of the wall not occupied by framed college degrees and complimentary newspaper articles about Turner and Turner were covered in a collage of paintings. Beneath a bay window there was a Bombay chest with models of his yacht and private jet on display. The side walls of the office were encased with reddishmahogany shelves stuffed with goldleafed law books.

Max stared at Jesse and Dan. “Men, it's time you paid a little of the rent around here.” He pushed two manila folders across his desk. Max grabbed a cigar from the humidor on his desk. He circumcised the tip and rolled it between his lips as he lit it. He swiveled in his chair, stood up and walked over to the bay window.

Gillespie noticed a set of keys on the desk. He used the folder to hide his hand and brushed the keys off. The keys hit silently on the carpeted floor. Having gotten no reaction, he started to read the report.

The law firm of Turner and Turner arbitrated an outofcourt settlement in favor of our client, Willie Jamal Rolle. Golden Leaf Tobacco paid Mr. Rolle the sum of sixteen million dollars. Mr. Rolle, a mentally retarded man, died approximately one year after receiving the lump sum settlement. Since he had no known relatives, and in accordance with Mr. Rolle's wishes, the remainder of his estate was left to a charity. (Please review Exhibit Two: The last will and testament of Willie Jamal Rolle.)

It has come to the attention of certain contracted individuals working outside the confines of Turner and Turner that a Tampa law firm is preparing to file a case in which Turner and Turner will be named as the defendant in the alleged improper handling of the estate of the late Mr. Rolle. The plaintiff, Sally Mae Rolle, purports to be Mr. Rolle's half sister.

Outside legal council has reviewed all relevant legal documents pertaining to this case. The firm of Turner and Turner has done nothing wrong. Everything was done in accordance with the applicable Florida statues.