Twilight at Mac's Place (18 page)

Granville Haynes, propped up in bed on pillows and wearing only Jockey shorts,
looked up from a
New York Times
feature about Hollywood agents to watch a nude Erika McCorkle stroll out of the bathroom, cross to the wheeled room-service table and pop a cold French-fried potato into her mouth. From there she went to the closet to slip on a long white terry-cloth robe that the Willard Hotel gently warned guests they would be billed for if they stole it.

While tying the robe’s belt, she said, “That was the best seventeen-dollar-plus-tip cheeseburger I ever ate.”

A mildly bawdy response occurred to Haynes but before he could utter it the phone rang. He picked it up, said hello and heard a pleasant baritone voice ask, “Mr. Haynes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m replacing Gilbert Undean.”

“Not in the morgue, I trust.”

There was a hesitation, not quite long enough to be considered a pause, before the baritone said, “Then you’ve heard?”

“I’ve heard.”

“On the radio?”

“I haven’t listened to a radio recently.”

“Perhaps from Mr. Padillo then? Or even from Mr. Mott, who, I understand, is now representing Tinker Burns.”

“Since you’re dropping names, why not drop yours?”

“Not over the phone,” the baritone said. “I was hoping you’d come down to the lobby and join me for a drink.”

“We can drink up here.”

“You’re asking me up?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Ace. But if we talk, we talk up here in front of a witness.”

“Out of the question.”

“Too bad,” Haynes said and hung up.

Erika McCorkle said, “Who the hell was that?”

Haynes shook his head and held up a warning hand. The telephone rang a moment later. He answered it with, “Well?”

“Who’s your witness?” the baritone asked.

“Think of her as my fiancée,” Haynes said, causing Erika McCorkle to chuckle.

“Her name?”

“Introductions aren’t necessary. You know who I am but I don’t know who you are. That gives you the advantage.”

“A very slight one.”

“Take what you can get.”

There was another hesitation that this time lasted long enough to qualify as a pause. “Five minutes?”

“Make it ten,” Haynes said and broke the connection.

Erika McCorkle returned to the room-service table, picked up another French fry, bit off half of it, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and asked, “Who were you on the phone just then?”

“Hardcase Haynes of Homicide.”

“A bit overdone, wasn’t it?”

Haynes smiled. “Think so?”

She frowned. “Unless that wasn’t acting.”

A silence grew as she waited for his response. When he made none she untied the robe’s belt and said, “I’ll get dressed.”

“Don’t,” Haynes said as he rose from the bed, picked up his shirt and began putting it on.

Erika McCorkle slowly retied the robe’s belt as she watched him button the shirt and pull on his pants. When he sat down and reached for a sock, she said, “You’re setting the scene, right? The remains of a room-service meal. The half-drunk drinks. The rumpled bed. And the unmistakable reek of sex on a Sunday afternoon.”

“I want an edge,” Haynes said.

“And where do you want me—recumbent on the bed, showing a little thigh, a glimpse of tit?”

Haynes now had one sock on, changed his mind, stripped it off and stuck both bare feet into his loafers. “I want you on the bed, well wrapped in the robe and doing the
Times
Sunday crossword puzzle. With a ballpoint.”

Her grim expression vanished, replaced by her sunshine smile. “Blasé and bored, right?”

“Exactly,” Haynes said, rose, found the crossword puzzle and handed it to her along with a ballpoint pen. She rearranged the pillows, settled cross-legged onto the bed, tucked the robe carefully around her, glanced at the puzzle, then looked up at Haynes and asked, “What does whoever he is want?”

“He wants to offer me a lot of money.”

“For Steady’s memoirs?”

Haynes nodded.

“Will you take it?”

“I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“Maybe tomorrow—or the next day.”

She gave him a sudden smile that Haynes thought was full of childlike anticipation—her can’t-wait smile.

“God, this is interesting,” said Erika McCorkle.

Exactly ten minutes after Haynes had hung up the telephone, there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it to admit the courtly Hamilton Keyes, carrying a gabardine topcoat and still wearing his old tweed jacket, corduroy pants, pink shirt and ancient loafers.

Once inside, Keyes’s glance flickered past Erika McCorkle to inventory the room itself, noting the wheeled table, the female clothing draped carelessly over a wingback chair, the bucket of melting ice, the half-full glasses and the two empty miniature bottles of vodka and Scotch. Done with his survey, he turned to Haynes and said, “I’m Hamilton Keyes. I knew your father.”

After a nod from Haynes that was mere acknowledgment and nothing more, Keyes turned to Erika McCorkle, who still sat cross-legged on the bed, obviously engrossed in her puzzle. “I also know your father slightly, Miss McCorkle.”

“How nice,” she said without looking up.

“Have a chair,” Haynes said, wondering how Hamilton Keyes had managed to identify Erika so quickly.

The courtly man chose the chair draped with female clothing. He picked it up, a piece at a time, placed it on top of the mini-refrigerator, sat down, topcoat in his lap, and said, “As I mentioned, I also know Michael Padillo.”

Haynes was now leaning his rear against the sill of the window that overlooked Fourteenth Street. “Who else?”

“Quite a few people across the street in the National Press Building—many of whom, I’m afraid, keep binoculars in their desk drawers.”

Realizing he had just been given a polite, if oblique, reply to his unasked question about how Erika McCorkle had been so quickly identified, Haynes abandoned the windowsill, drew the curtains, crossed to the writing desk and leaned against that.

“Tell me,” he said. “Are you the guy who can say yes or no?”

“I am, providing you’re the guy who has something to sell.”

“Steady left his memoirs to me in his will. The copyright to them anyhow.”

“Have you read the manuscript?”

“Some of it.”

“And do you still think it might make a motion picture?”

“All-American boy—Steady, of course—turns badass mercenary agent. That’s one film they won’t have to clutter up with a lot of boring cold-war spy crap.”

“But surely not yet another dreary motion picture with no hero?”

“There’ll be a hero: Steady’s kid, the overeducated, ex-L.A. homicide cop who backtracks Steady’s life while hunting down whoever killed his old man’s two best friends. And if Steady and Undean weren’t really all that friendly, well, we can fudge it a little.”

“I presume you’d play both Steady and yourself?”

“My catapult to stardom.”

“Well, I must say you do resemble him—in more than one respect.” Keyes looked away and rested his eyes on Erika McCorkle. He was still looking at her when he said, “How much?”

“The same price I quoted Undean,” said Haynes. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

“A very respectable sum,” Keyes said, now looking at Haynes.

“For a very hot property. It’s so hot that Steady wasn’t three hours in his grave before somebody was offering me a hundred thousand for it.”

“Which you rejected?”

“Yes.”

“And demanded how much instead?”

“Half a million.”

“And what was the reaction to your counterproposal?”

“They said they’d get back to me tomorrow.”

“They?”

“They.”

“And if
they
do offer you five hundred thousand?”

“I’ll tell them I’ve since been offered seven hundred and fifty thousand,” said Haynes with the charming smile that made him so resemble his dead father. “I have been offered seven fifty, haven’t I, Mr. Keyes?”

“Yes. Providing I have last refusal.”

“The right to top any bid, whatever it is?”

Keyes nodded.

“Okay,” Haynes said. “You have it.”

“What precisely am I buying?” Keyes asked. “And please be specific.”

“World rights to everything. No exclusions. Full copyright. Which means nobody can legally use a word of it without your permission.”

“How many Xerox copies are floating around?”

“No idea.”

“Who’ll conduct the bidding?”

“Howard Mott, Steady’s lawyer and now mine.”

“How?”

“By phone, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Keyes said, sounding less than pleased.

“You want everybody in the same room?”

“I’d have no objection.”

“They might.”

“Very well, by phone then,” Keyes said. “What about payment?”

“What d’you suggest?”

“It can be deposited in any currency you choose in virtually any bank in the world.”

“The IRS wouldn’t like that, so make it a certified U.S. dollars check.”

“Then you intend to pay taxes on it,” Keyes said.

“Disappointed?”

“Not in the least. It means we’ll be getting some of it back.” Keyes rose and handed Haynes a card. “Please ask Mr. Mott to call me at my home number once the bidding arrangements are completed.”

“Okay.”

Keyes went to the door, turned back and, nodding farewell to each in turn, said, “Mr. Haynes. Miss McCorkle.”

Erika McCorkle looked up from her crossword puzzle. “What’s a five-letter word for blackguard that begins with a
k
?”

“I tried ‘knave’ this morning,” said Hamilton Keyes. “And it worked quite nicely.” He opened the door and left, closing it softly behind him.

Rumor insisted that it all began on a gloomy Bay of Pigs Sunday afternoon in
1961 when two depressed mid-level CIA careerists left the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House and, desperate for drink, wandered by chance into a dingy bar-cafe hard by the now demolished Roger Smith Hotel at Eighteenth and Pennsylvania.

Once inside, the careerists were pleasantly surprised to discover they could buy coffee cups of Scotch whisky in direct violation of the District of Columbia’s since-repealed Sunday prohibition law. It was shortly after this discovery that members of the capital’s intelligence and freebooter community made the scofflaw bar their unofficial rendezvous. They continued to drink, if not eat, there for nearly fourteen years until that day in 1975 when the last helicopter lifted off the roof of the U.S. embassy in Saigon.

The next day, as if compelled by some migratory instinct, they abandoned the bar back of the Roger Smith and trekked a few blocks farther west out Pennsylvania Avenue to another gin mill not quite opposite the now vanished Circle Theatre. And it was here, in what was always called “the new joint,” that five years later they held their notorious eighteen-hour-long postmortem on the botched U.S. hostage rescue mission that had ended with death and, some claimed, dishonor in a Persian desert.

It turned out to be less of a postmortem than a verbal brawl that began around noon and was still raging at 5:57 the next morning when Metropolitan Police, summoned by shouts, yells, oaths and the sound of breaking glass, arrived, closed the new joint down and sent everyone home in taxis.

A week after the disastrous postmortem session, they migrated yet again, this time far, far out Wisconsin Avenue, almost to the Maryland state line, where scouts had discovered a nearly bankrupt Thai restaurant called Pong’s Palace that was located in a strip mall and offered the four prime requisites: a valid liquor license, few customers, bad food and ample parking. Two weeks later, by silent acclamation, Pong’s Palace was elected to serve as the third unofficial sub-rosa watering hole.

The dark green seventeen-year-old Mercedes 280 SL turned into a parking space three doors up from Pong’s and came to a stop in front of Naughty Marietta’s XXX Video Shoppe. After the car’s engine was cut and its lights switched off, the driver’s door opened and Michael Padillo got out. McCorkle emerged from the passenger side a moment later. When they reached the entrance to Pong’s Palace, Padillo went in first.

When he opened the Palace in 1978, Pong had devoted most of its interior to a dining area, leaving only enough space for a small bar with a few stools where customers could have a drink while waiting for their tables.

But there had never been any waiting because there had never been any customers except for a few neighborhood ancients who didn’t much care what they ate as long as it was cheap and filling. Pong was seriously considering bankruptcy when the first of the scouts arrived.

The scouts were a clutch of white-haired OSS relics from the Second World War and the cold one that was its substitute. They were quickly followed by the assessors. These were prosperous-looking, gray-haired ex-Kennedy operatives, who still seemed to come in only two models, hearty or smooth.

After the assessors made their favorable report, the others descended on Pong’s. The largest contingent was composed of ex-CIA types (most of them dumped by Jimmy Carter) who, if pressed, admitted they still might be willing to do a little of this or a little of that. Right behind them came the new bunch—survivors of the longest war—whose thousand-yard stares had then been reduced by a third or even by half, and who kept asking everyone whether the jungles of Central America could really be all that fucking different from those of Southeast Asia.

Two months after what Pong and his wife always referred to as the invasion of
les anciens espions,
the Palace’s books were in the black. Pong quickly transformed the large dining area into a large drinking area; installed a much longer bar and fired his chef, replacing him with a microwave oven and a steady supply of almost edible frozen pizzas. He also hired his wife’s three pretty cousins to serve as barmaids. The cousins spoke little English but it didn’t seem to matter because many of
les anciens espions
spoke a semblance of French and a few even knew some Thai.

McCorkle and Padillo didn’t have to wait for their eyes to adjust inside Pong’s Palace, where the dominant colors were firecracker red and grass green and where it was always afternoon bright. As usual, most of the customers were intelligence types, past and present. There were also some mercenary hangers-on, hustling their suspect services. Unacknowledged accomplices were represented by an assortment of co-opted reporters and ambitious congressional committee staff members.

At the rear of the Palace two tables had been pushed together to accommodate seven men who sat, three to a side, with the seventh man at the far end, his back to the wall. The seventh man was a fortyish big-shouldered redhead whose bright pink skin and green eyes almost allowed him to blend in with Pong’s color scheme. The redhead now looked up, saw McCorkle and Padillo, and invited them over with a grin and a beckoning wave.

The noise in Pong’s was that of a cocktail party that had lasted ninety minutes too long. Padillo raised his voice to make himself heard. “We might as well start with Warnock.”

McCorkle agreed with a nod and a near shout. “I’ll pay the courtesy call.” He crossed to the bar and smiled at the small man who presided behind the cash register near the entrance. “How’s business, Billy?”

“It sucks. And yours?”

“Also.”

Billy Pong’s grin was gleeful. “We both a couple of fancy-pantsy liars, huh, Mac?”

Matching Pong’s grin, McCorkle said, “Still following Padillo’s advice—all cash, no plastic or checks?”

“What’s a check?” said Pong.

After McCorkle rejoined Padillo, they made their way past serious and even devout drinkers, some of them occasional customers at Mac’s Place. A few looked up to shoot quick baleful glances at Padillo.

McCorkle had seen these same baleful glares on other occasions although Padillo apparently hadn’t noticed—or pretended he hadn’t. The glares came from men in their late fifties and early sixties who had known Padillo in the old days and now glared at him with envy, malice and even outrage.

McCorkle interpreted the glares as accusations that charged Padillo with having stolen the secret of eternal middle age—if not of youth itself—and since he obviously wasn’t going to share his secret with anyone, the glares said he should be arrested, tried, convicted and maybe even hanged. McCorkle always thought of them as the Dorian Gray glares and noticed with some regret that none ever came his way.

When they reached the pushed-together tables, Harry Warnock, the redheaded man, stood up with yet another grin and a few happy nods of welcome. He then scowled at the six still seated men and said, “Move down, you lot, and give the new lads a place to sit.”

The six men, each of them either big or enormous, and all of them in their thirties or early forties, made the move without complaint. Padillo took the chair on Harry Warnock’s right; McCorkle on his left. One of the pretty cousins hurried over to take the order. Padillo stirred the air with a forefinger, signaling another round for all, and then whispered something in French that made the cousin laugh.

After she left, Warnock said with an Irish lilt that came and went like the tide. “What’d you say to the lass, Michael? I could use a giggle myself.”

“I told her that because I had to drive my father here home, I’d like some chilled Evian water in a martini glass.”

Warnock stared at McCorkle. “Has he gone teetotal on us, Mac?”

“No, but he has been getting notional.”

“Well, since it’s himself who’s buying, I’d best make introductions. Okay, lads, the generous one’s Mike and the other’s Mac. Now, starting on my left and going clockwise is Mr. Stroh, Mr. Ranier, Mr. Jax, Mr. Pabst, Mr. Schlitz and, lemme think now, Mr. Coors.”

“Why didn’t you just number them, Harry?” McCorkle said.

“Because I’m not at all sure they can count to six.”

The six big men grinned and elbowed each other in appreciation of their leader’s wit. A couple of them were still grinning when the pretty cousin returned and served the new round of drinks. Padillo gave her three $20 bills and waved away the change.

When she was gone, Warnock picked up Padillo’s glass, sniffed its contents and announced, “Pure gin.”

Padillo picked up the drink Warnock had put down, tasted it and said, “She must’ve made a mistake. Either that or I lied.”

McCorkle smiled reassuringly at Warnock. “As I said, Harry, he’s getting a little notional.”

“I’ll not be playing any of your mind-fucking games this night. Michael Padillo. So let’s get to what really brings the pair of you out to the far edge of town on this cold and miserable Sunday.”

“My wife’s in Frankfurt,” McCorkle said.

“Ah, well, then, had I known she was there and you were here, I’d’ve been there.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” McCorkle said.

Padillo sipped a little more of his gin and said, “How’s business, Harry? Are the terrorists taking Sunday nights off these days?”

Warnock sighed. “Business isn’t what it was, Michael, and that’s a fact. I blame some of the fall-off on the drop in oil prices which made a lot of my Arab clients cut back on security. But I blame most of it on Gorbachev himself and all that sweetness-and-light preaching of his. Jesus, it was but three, four years ago we had Libyan hit squads, sneaking across the borders up in Canada or down in Mexico, heading for the White House itself. My business shot up forty-two percent in that month alone.” He sighed again. “We’ll not be seeing the likes of those good times again.”

“The cold war’s over then?” McCorkle asked.

“Course it is. It’s just that the old dears who’d counted on apprenticing their sons and grandsons to the military-industrial trade are too stubborn to admit it—and who can blame ’em, say I?”

“Heard about Steady Haynes?” Padillo asked.

“I hear he died broke and the government had to bury him.”

“He left a little something,” Padillo said.

“Debts?”

“His memoirs.”

Warnock yawned. “I’ll wait for the paperback.”

“Remember Isabelle Gelinet?” Padillo said. “I sent her to you when she was still with AF-P and researching a story on old Bill Casey. She said you were helpful.”

“What about Isabelle?”

“She helped Steady write his memoirs.”

“She’s also dead,” Warnock said. “Somebody drowned her in her bath and before you ask me how I know what wasn’t in the papers, I’ll tell you it was Tinker Burns who found her and ’twas him who told me.”

“Tinker in the market for some protection?” Padillo asked.

“Old Tinker and I go back a few miles, we do,” Warnock said. “He made a nice bit of money off me, as well you know.”

“Off the IRA,” Padillo said.

“ ’Twas one and the same.”

“Then.”

Warnock shrugged. “That’s right. Then.”

McCorkle said, “After you defected from the IRA—”

“I never defected,” Warnock said. “I deserted.”

“Right. After you deserted and went into business, I seem to remember you sent out a rather fancy announcement.”

“All it said was that Warnock and Associates were a new security consultant firm, specializing in antiterrorism.”

“Wasn’t there a line at the bottom in italics about ‘Twenty Years Experience with the IRA’?”

“The best fucking credentials I could have,” Warnock said.

“What I’ve always been curious about,” McCorkle said, “is who were the associates in Warnock and Associates back then? One day, Harry, you’re a room-and-a-half office on the wrong side of Fourteenth Street and three weeks later you’re half a floor at Nineteenth and M. Who furnished the clout? Bill Casey? The National Security Council. The Saudis?”

“If you’re looking to hire me, Mr. McCorkle, sir, I’ve got many a fine reference you’ll be able to examine once a fee is agreed upon.”

“We
are
in the market for some security stuff,” McCorkle said.

“Is it your place you want swept then?”

“We’re concerned about Steady’s kid,” Padillo said. “Except he’s no kid. Thirty-two or -three. Around in there. Steady left him the copyright to the memoirs. And the kid, Granville, has decided to sell them to a private collector instead of trying to get them published. He’s asked us to sort of look after him until the memoirs are sold.”

Warnock gave his six associates a warning stare. “You’re not hearing a word of this, are you?”

Mr. Coors said, “No, sir. Not a word.”

Looking first at McCorkle, then at Padillo, Warnock said, “The kid wants you to baby-sit him?”

“To mind how he goes,” Padillo said.

“A bit of money involved, is there?”

“Three quarters of a million,” McCorkle said. “At least. Maybe more.”

The surprise that raced across Warnock’s wide pink face quickly changed into shock and then into anger. “What the fuck did Steady know that’s worth that?” he demanded. “He was never in on the real shit. He was always farting about in Africa or the Middle East or Central America—or out there in Southeast Slopeland doing his truth-juggling act. So what shocking revelations does old Steady have to tell? The CIA ran drugs, did it? Well, who the fuck cares? That they did in the Congo’s Lumumba, or had him done, along with maybe three or four dozen others over the years? So what? That they’ve kept a prime minister, a premier, a king or two and God knows how many other despots and satraps on their payroll? Who gives a shit? Christ, this country of yours lets some half-baked light-colonel run its so-called foreign policy out of the White House annex and when he’s caught, you turn him into a fucking hero. So why’d anyone give a good goddamn about the memoirs of a nobody called Steady Haynes? And what could old Steady possibly invent half as dirty as what’s really happened? And who the fuck’ll pay three quarters of a million for it?”