The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (28 page)

Chapter 37

I walked back to the gun cabinet as Carr and LeCompte selected and opened a bottle of wine. I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost 6:30. I had been in Carr’s office for almost five and a half hours. It felt like days. My brain had been wrenched by memories, long put away.

Thinking back on my dealing days wasn’t the hardest part. It was how Margie and I were at that time. It was edge living and it kept us close. Not closer, we couldn’t have been any closer. It kept us in a constant state of intimacy and trust for the few years we were in the business.

Looking at the guns in the cabinet reminded me how she’d always trusted me not to get killed. How she liked to watch me shoot my guns and do some of the quick draw tricks with my western six-gun rig. I knew it made her feel secure. Like there was no way I could be shot in a gunfight. I didn’t share that feeling, but could never let her know that. And, by the frequency and the intensity when we made love, I wasn’t all that certain about her exact sentiments on the subject of my prolonged existence. It was fast times.

“It’s open,” Carr said. “Look at whatever you like.”

I opened the framed glass door and plucked an old Colt Peacemaker from where it was hanging on a wooden peg by the trigger guard. I thumbed back the hammer until it released the cylinder, opened the bale and slowly spun the cylinder to check for rounds. It was empty. Then I did something so natural to me, I didn’t even think about it. I gave it a half forward spin, then a full back spin until it settled in my palm, thumbed the hammer back and pulled the trigger. It was something I did to check the balance of a gun, how it fit in my hand and the sensitivity of the trigger.

LeCompte whistled softly and said, “Now,
that
was pretty.”

Like I said, I did it without thinking and when I turned my head towards LeCompte, he saw my confusion.

“What you just did, I’ve seen it done before, but not with such a natural, . . .  acquaintance.”

As George poured wine into generous crystal goblets, he said, “If you look in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, you’ll find a holster that goes with it. I wouldn’t mind if you tried them out, you know . . . quick draw.”

I heard it as ‘queeks draw’, like in Queeks Draw McGraw, from the old cartoon. I always did.

“Maybe some other time,” I said, returning the old Colt to its resting place.

“Come on Tucker,” LeCompte urged, “don’t go all shy on us.”

“You know what Confucius said?”

They both shook their heads.

I pretended to draw two guns from imaginary holsters hanging on my hips and pointed both finger guns at them, squinted my eyes and said in my best English/Oriental accent, “Showoff’s always shown up in showdown.”

Carr looked surprised.

“So, you read Confucius,” he said. “Again…you surprise me.”

“No, fortune cookies,” I said.

I could see them weighing this. I took advantage of the silence, walked over and picked up the glass Carr had set down on the desk, across from the chair I had occupied. I held it under my nose, smelled the wine, then swirled it in the glass, just like I had seen on TV, and took a sip. I didn’t aerate it like they did on TV. It makes an unseemly noise.

“This is great stuff,” I said, eloquently.

They both smiled.

“It’s a ’97 Cakebread, a Cab,” George said. “One of our favorites.”

No sooner had the ‘our’ come out of his mouth when the smile disappeared and again, we were reminded why we were there.

My eyeballs were rapidly starting to float around in their sockets.

I was still standing holding my wine glass when I said, “I need to find a bathroom.” It wasn’t as urgent as I made it sound, but I wanted to get out of the room for a few minutes.

“Right through that door,” George said, pointing to the wall to the right of the secret bookshelf, behind his desk.

I had to look hard to discern the knob.

“Do you have one a little further away? I’d like to walk around a little.”

“There’s at least a dozen in this place,” George said, unpretentiously. “After leaving the hallway to the office, turn right. As you head towards the windows in the back, there’s one on your right, just before the entrance to the kitchen.”

Ahh, the kitchen, my second objective. I took my wine with me.

Chapter 38

Carr watched the door to his office close after Tucker, then turned towards Frank LeCompte.

“I
know
those Canadian mother-fuckers are behind her death, Frank, I just know it. I can feel it here,” he said, holding his hand over his stomach.

LeCompte set his hardly touched glass of wine down on the desk, looked at his employer, and said, “That feeling has served you well in business over the years.”

George Carr stared back without comment.

What LeCompte saw were two black holes, where a moment before there had been clear blue eyes. Throughout his employment/friendship with Carr, he had never seen that look. Never that is, until recently.

He
had
seen that look before. On stone-cold killers or on men who had been
in
country
too long. Until recently, he thought he knew everything about this man, but, now he knew he didn’t know everything. This didn’t set well with his training.

Frank broke the glare, walked around Carr and over to the gun cabinet. He stood there for a moment, looking at the reflection of his boss in the glass, until he saw Carr turn towards him.

“Mr. Carr, is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked as he turned, hoping to use some of that training to distinguish any one of many telltale signs of lying.

The Mister standing out, and not missed by Carr. When they were alone the Mr. was dropped.

“About what?” Carr said, his eyes once again blue and clear.

“About anything.”

“Hell yes,” George Carr said. “What kind of question is that?”

Before Frank could reply, Carr followed it up with, “You want to be a little more explicit?”

‘So much for catching him in a lie,
’ Frank thought as he smiled to himself. Once again he was reminded why he was the employee and not the employer.

“About anything pertaining to this mission you are sending Tucker on?” he said, after choosing his words carefully.

Carr walked over to the window and looked out for a moment, thinking. The word
mission
reminding him he had hired the best fighting man he could find and that man was trained by the military. The very best. Over the years of their relationship, LeCompte had seemed to have become more civilianized, for lack of a better word. Now he grasped, that was surface clutter. LeCompte was confused as to why he couldn’t go to Houston and take care of it.

Carr turned slowly to face Frank and said emphatically, “No.”

“I still think you should let me go.”

“I don’t doubt you, my friend.”

“Then why . . . ?

“You don’t have his connections to the cops. Hell, he has connections he doesn’t even think about. And if there are bad cops in the loop, he’s much more equipped to deal with them than you are. Look at yourself, Frank, take a good look. You look just like what you are. A ramrod straight, tight-assed, squared away soldier. Who is going to talk to you? Manske didn’t even look like a retired cop, all sloppy and out of shape like he was.”

“He came highly recommended, and personally, I thought he was smart and tough,” Frank said, with just a trace of defensiveness.

“Frank, stop it. I don’t blame you about Manske. It was supposed to be a simple preliminary investigation that you would have taken over if anything turned up. It just so happened that what turned up was Manske’s disappearance. Let’s just let Tucker take it from here. If he turns anything up, you’ll be the man who takes care of it. If that’s what you want.”

“She was my friend,” LeCompte said quietly.

For the first time since his wife’s death, Carr heard the loss in his friend’s voice.

“I know, Frank, and that’s another reason I don’t want you to go.”

“That doesn’t make sense, George.”

“Sure it does, you were her friend, too, Frank. She loved you as such, and if I let anything happen to you because of her, she would come back and haunt me.”

LeCompte’s smile was slow in coming.

“She would, too,” he softly said.

“Besides, Tucker’s expendable and you’re not,” Carr continued.

“Well, thanks,” LeCompte said, astonished. “But, I thought you liked him.”

“I do. But it would take me forever to find someone to take your place. You know how much I hate breaking in new employees.”

After a small chuckle, LeCompte said, “For a second, I half-thought you were paying me a compliment, a personal one.”

“That’s what you get for half-thinking,” Carr said, taking a sip of his wine, through a trace of a smile.

Chapter 39

After christening the stellar facilities, I walked into the doorway of the kitchen. If that’s what you call a 600 square foot room, full of granite, Sub-Zero, and Vulcan stainless steel.

Across the vastness was a figure made small, not just by distance, but also by standing in front of the giant restaurant grade Vulcan stove. Her right elbow mimicking the circular motion I knew the utensil in her hand was making in the skillet. If she was making Crawfish Etouffe’e’ properly, it would be in an old cast iron skillet, preferably a Griswold.

She hadn’t yet detected my presence. I was standing on an oriental runner, holding my glass of wine. My next step would have my cowboy boots echoing on a stone floor.

“Hellooooow,” I said softly, through my unoccupied cupped hand, making my voice sound like it was a yell, coming from across a mountain.

I must have said it too softly.

“Helloooow,” I kicked it up a notch.

Her hand stopped moving, but she didn’t turn around. Her posture was one of listening. It was a big house,
house
, wrong word. Structure, yeah, it was a big structure. I’d bet she heard lots of distant sounds, and often had to stop and listen. The far-off holler skit was losing its spontaneity, and just as I was about to step onto the stone floor, she turned and saw me.

I raised my empty hand over my eyes, like a man shielding the rays of the sun in order to see something in the distance.

Her laugh came from her belly and was almost contagious. I was vaguely aware of a drifting thought.
Why did I  want to make her laugh?

“You get used to it,” she said.

Wow, she gets me.

From this distance, I couldn’t see the scars.

“How did you get away from those two?” she asked.

Not wanting to give her TMI, I said, “I just needed to stretch my legs, you know, take a hike. Once I was out and about, I just followed my nose.”

She laughed again.

I walked over towards her, around an island of granite that contained a stainless steel sink. When I was within a few feet, I said, “Now, that smells like you better not put that food on your head.”

After a moment of thought, she asked quizzically, “What’s that mean?”

In my best Cajun accent, I said, “ ‘Cause yo tongue gonna slap yo brains out tryin’ to get to it.”

She turned her head before laughing. I figured so I wouldn’t see her scars turn into what she’d considered hideous laugh lines.

Again, her laughter was almost communicable.

After a moment, she turned, looked up at me, and said, “You don’t smile much, do you?”

“I thought I was.”

After a few small breaths, she looked down at the floor and whispered, “No, I’m not sure what you are doing.”

Her soft words fell heavily to the floor.

“Well, you don’t seem used to smiling and your laughter sounds a little foreign,” I said, then wishing I would have bitten my tongue off instead.

She turned back towards the stove and continued whisking the Etouffe’e’, a little too briskly.

Finally, she said, “I have my reasons. What are yours?”

I took a small sip of wine and said, “We all have scars, Rachael.”

She stiffened and said, “I don’t like where this conversation is going.”

I walked to within a foot of her back. With my left hand, I reached around her and set the wine glass down on the edge of the stove. I never touched her, but, I could smell her. From the back, she looked just like any normal, extremely fit, statuesque, beautiful woman. I was suddenly overcome . . . with the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing, either.

I stepped back and said, “I apologize.”

I was leaning with my butt against the granite island, with my palms resting on the counter on either side of me. I was looking down at my boots, trying to determine my strange feelings towards this woman. It didn’t feel like pity. It felt more like attraction, but it had been so long, how would I know?

Rachael picked up my wine glass, turned, took a couple of steps closer to me, gave me a close-up look at the scars, and said, “Accepted.”

Instead of staring into her eyes, I looked at her face, all of it. Without the scars, she would be an incredibly beautiful woman. With them, I found her very attractive.

She said, “Earlier your eyes were green, now they are blue.”

“They do that,” I said.

“Mine too,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

She slowly raised my wine glass to her lips, and just before taking a sip, I saw there were no scars on her lips.

After what was more of a nervous gulp than a sip, she said, “This has to be Cakebread. I’m surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

“It was her favorite and I think this is the first bottle he’s opened since the accident.”

“So, you think it was an accident?”

“Yes.”

“So, you think this investigation is a waste of money.”

“Not necessarily.”

We were back to eye contact, and she evidently saw my confusion.

“George Carr is a very wealthy, powerful man, used to being in control. When his wife was killed, he wasn’t. I believe his guilt is now controlling him. Hiring you gets him back in control of something.”

“Of me?” I asked, maybe just a little too incredulously.

Still holding the glass close to her mouth, she looked over the rim at me and said, “I would think George knows better than that. No, just in control. Doing something about what he believes.”

Her voice came from the glass, in a sharp, high-end crystalline tone.

As she drank from the glass again, this time much more daintily, I said, “What about the disappearance of Manske?”

As she handed the wine glass back to me, she said, “I’m sure an ex-cop turned private-eye would have some enemies. And I believe he drank to excess. Who knows what happened, maybe he just took the advance and ran off someplace for a few months.”

Must’ve been a hell of an advance
.

I held the wine glass to my mouth, and just before taking a masculine sip, said, “So, you think it’s just a coincidence, the detective disappearing during an investigation?”

She shrugged her athletic shoulders, and said, “Who knows?”

I handed the glass back to her.

As she took it, I countered with, “I read somewhere that there are no coincidences.”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “In any case, George Carr has so much money, hiring you to make sure he had no part in her death is going to make about as much difference as taking a molecule of water out of the swimming pool in the back, and it’s a big pool.”

“I don’t think you can do that,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, just before her flawless lips touched the rim of the glass.

“A molecule of water?”

“You
are
a wiseacre, aren’t you?”

Wiseacre, wow, I would have to watch my language around this one.

“You could take out a drop of water, now, you could do that,” I said, nodding all knowingly.

She took another sip of wine, and I swear it looked like she was holding it in her mouth, with thoughts of spitting it on me. Then her eyes twinkled and I knew I was safe, for the moment.

She finally swallowed and said, “I’m sure you get the picture. So, thank you again, from me, for taking the job.”

‘The job,’ oh boy, I was employed again. I didn’t know how much I was going to be making yet. That made me feel somewhat detached from myself. Like I had been swept up into something that was going to be one of those pivotal thingies. It wasn’t an altogether pleasing sensation.

In fact, I was close to losing my appetite, again.

She tried to hand the now half-full wine glass back to me, which I refused with a shake of my head, and said, “I’ve had enough for today. I would really like some coffee. I’ll make it myself, if you’ll just show me the stuff.”

‘
The stuff
,’ so articulate of me. Why did she do this to me?

“You don’t like the wine?” she asked.

“No, I mean yes, I like the wine, it’s just that I have to talk to someone later tonight, and I, ah, don’t want to be dull for it.”

“Dull?” she said with a smile. “I’ll tell you what, if you’ll cook the rice, I’ll make you some French pressed.”

“Cook the rice?” I said, “Is this a test?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “I’ll find out if you’re still a Louisiana boy, or if you’ve been in Tennessee too long.”

She opened a cabinet next to the stove, pulled out a boiler, then pulled a canister across the countertop that contained rice.

“Now, what else do you need?” she asked.

“Just some salt and a measuring cup,” I replied, hitching up my pants, like I was getting ready to chop wood.

As she was getting what I’d asked for, I said, “Do you mind if I taste your Etouffe’e? I need to see how much salt to put in the rice.”

“Of course, help yourself,” she said, handing me the tasting spoon from the stovetop.

After tasting it, I said, “Definitely.”

“Definitely what?” she asked.

“Don’t put it on your head.”

Again, her face was at a scar-hiding angle.