Yellow Dog Contract (7 page)

My uncle nodded, went through the dining room into the kitchen, and came back with a tray that bore a tall Pilsener glass, a bottle of imported Beck's beer, another glass, and a small silver shaker that I presumed contained his martini. He put the tray down, poured my beer, gave the shaker a couple of swirls, filled his glass, and carefully sipped his drink.

The final part of his ritual was a solemn, judicious nod and after he was through with that I said, “What do you care what happened to Arch Mix?”

“I like your moustache. Is it new?”

“It's two years old.”

“It makes you look faintly like Fredric March. A young Fredric March, of course.”

“Come on, Slick.”

He reached inside his blue blazer, brought out a silver cigarette case, politely offered me one, which I refused, took one for himself, lit it, and then smiled and said, “Audrey told you of my interest, of course.”

“That's right.”

“Well, you might say I have a professional interest in what happened to Arch Mix.”

“I thought you'd retired.”

“From the agency, dear boy, but not from life. I started up my own little consultancy about a year ago. Yes, I suppose you wouldn't know about that because we haven't seen each other in almost two years, isn't it?”

“About that.”

“I got your Christmas card. Did you get mine? Yours was really quite clever.”

“Ruth did it.”

“How is that charming woman?”

“Fine.”

“Remarkable woman.”

“Yes.”

“However does she stand the isolation?”

“She has me.”

“Yes, she does have you, doesn't she, and the goats, too, of course.” He made it sound as if the goats were her salvation.

“Let's get back to Mix,” I said.

“Well, dear boy, I suppose I really should ask why you would even care that I'm interested in what happened to Mr. Mix.”

“Roger Vullo is going to pay me a lot of money to tell him what I think happened.”

“Just for your thoughts on the matter?” He had picked up immediately on the think I had used, which was another good reason to call him Slick.

“Just for my thoughts,” I said.

“Little Roger,” Slick said in a musing, almost dreamy tone. “I knew his daddy quite well, you know.”

“I didn't.”

“Yes, we served in the OSS together. Little Roger wasn't born then, of course.”

“No.”

“I understand he has set up a foundation of sorts to look into all kinds of interesting things.”

“Conspiracy,” I said. “He sees it everywhere.”

“Well, they do seem to be burgeoning everywhere.”

“Conspiracies?”

“No, dear boy, organizations or foundations or committees or what have you that have been set up to poke about in them. Most of the time they seem to be dead set on casting my former masters as the villain in each piece.”

“The agency has always been blameless, of course.”

Slick smiled. “I prefer to think of us as having been a bit careless here and there.”

“Mix,” I said. “Let's get back to him.”

“Yes. Let's. Well, after I retired I was really at loose ends so I talked to some old friends who suggested that I might set up my little consultancy. Which I did.”

I looked around the living room. “Where?”

“Right here. I fixed up one of the spare bedrooms into quite a nice little office. In fact, I found a rolltop desk in Leesburg that was an absolute steal. My office has rather a charming 1904 air about it.”

I drank some of my beer and then took out my tin box and started rolling a cigarette. “Try not to spill any, dear boy,” Slick said. “I've just vacuumed.”

I didn't spill any. “What do you consult on, Slick?”

“Shall I be modest?”

“Don't even try.”

“Well, during my years of service I acquired a certain amount of expertise that a number of old friends seem to think most highly of. They recommend me to firms and organizations and even individuals who are having a spot of trouble.”

“Give me an example.”

“I'll give you two. They were both cases of industrial espionage. Some Germans were the culprits in one, which concerned pharmaceuticals. The Japanese were mixed up in the other. Electronics. Down in Dallas. It was really rather quite like old times.”

“Which pharmaceutical company was it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it was Vullo Pharmaceuticals. Something of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“Sure.”

“Young Roger, of course, has nothing to do with the company's operations.”

“So I understand.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, eyeing each other, waiting to see who would be the first to say something inane about the twists of fate. When neither of us did I said, “Who hired you to look into Arch Mix?”

“Well, I wasn't really hired. I was retained.”

“Sorry.”

“Actually, I've been retained by the union.”

I shook my head and I think I kept on shaking it as I said, “I don't believe it. I honestly don't believe it.”

“Well, there was never anything to tie me to that other dismal business back in 1964,” Slick said. “And besides, I was only on the periphery of it.”

“You were in up to your ass.”

“My involvement was marginal,” he said in his stiffest tone, “and it never became public.”

“So how did the union stumble over you?”

“They retain eminent legal counsel. After Mix vanished they felt they should do something so they turned to counsel for advice. Counsel suggested the Pinkertons, but when it was pointed out that the Pinkertons have rather a spotty labor record, my name came up.” He waved a hand. “Mutual friends, you know.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Four weeks ago.”

“Who's your contact at the union?”

“The vice-president. Warner B. Gallops. A black gentleman. Do you know him?”

“I know him.”

“I wonder what the B stands for?”

“Baxter.”

“Oh my. Well, he seems quite shrewd. Or perhaps I should say clever.”

“He's both.”

“How well do you know him?” Slick asked.

“At one time we were friends, but then he decided that he'd rather be friends with Mix than with me so we're not friends anymore.”

“There's more to it than that, of course.”

“He doublecrossed me a long time ago,” I said. “But if you asked him about it, he'd probably tell you that I doublecrossed him. It was internal politics. Anyway, it's one of the reasons that Gallops is vice-president of the union.”

“An opportunist?”

“Aren't we all.”

“I didn't ask, of course, but I obtained a copy of the union's constitution and it provides that the vice-president will serve as president should the incumbent die, be absent, or incapacitated.”

“I like the way your mind works, Slick.”

“One has to look for motive.”

“That's probably why you were hired. Sorry. Retained.”

“Oh, quite. Mr. Gallops made that most clear. I think I can remember his exact words. He said, ‘You got two jobs, buddy. First, you're gonna find out what happened to Arch and, second, you're gonna prove that I had fuck all to do with it.'” Slick was an excellent mimic.

“So what've you turned up?” I said.

“Virtually nothing.”

“And the cops?”

“Less.”

“What's the FBI doing?”

“Their usual.”

“You have lines into both places, I take it.”

“Well, yes, I've cultivated several sources, of course, and then I can always call on a few old friends, if need be.”

“Slick?”

“What?”

“Just how many old friends have you got? A rough guess.”

He thought about it for a moment, sipped his martini, and then said, “Well, I really don't quite know how to answer that. I send out around eight hundred Christmas cards each year and I receive approximately that many. But they're not all
close
friends, of course.”

“Eight hundred?”

“Why, yes. How many do you send?”

“Last year I think we sent around nine.”

“Nine hundred?” He was impressed.

“No, just nine cards. We got ten, so we're still ahead.”

“They
are
beautiful cards.”

“Ruth does each one individually.”

“That remarkable woman.”

“You said you turned up virtually nothing. What does virtually mean?”

“Well, first, of course, there was the possibility of a kidnapping. The union has scads of money now, you know. Not quite like the old days. But there's been no ransom demand. Then, of course, I totted up Mix's enemies and, I must say, they're absolutely legion. He seems to have a most acerbic personality.”

“Any particular enemies? As you say, he has a lot.”

My uncle shrugged and finished the last swallow of his martini. “Well, there're at least a dozen governors, fifteen or twenty mayors, and perhaps a couple of dozen city managers to whom he is simply anathema—not to mention a host of county officials. Then, too, there seem to be a couple of hundred dissidents within the union. I'm not talking about the rank and file members, but rather about local and regional officers of varying power and prestige who absolutely loathe him. I don't think loathe is too strong a word.”

“Probably not,” I said.

“And then, of course, there's Audrey, the woman scorned.”

“When did you find out about them?” I said. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“Dear boy, it was common gossip around town at least six months ago. Certain friends of mine even delighted in giving me regular reports about the affair's progress. It almost got into the papers, in fact, especially after Mix broke it off.”

“Well, Audrey isn't much of one to sneak around.”

“No, she isn't. I've often wondered how she ever met him.”

“I introduced them,” I said.

“You?”

It took a lot to surprise or startle Slick, but when I saw that I'd succeeded I smiled. “It was a cocktail party,” I said. “One of those fund-raising things that Audrey sometimes gets involved in until she gets bored. I don't even remember what it was for. Something chic and wholesome. Anyway, Ruth was in town to see her dentist and we called Audrey just to say hello and she insisted that we go to the thing.”

“Ruth and you at a cocktail party?” Slick shook his head in mild wonder. I was full of surprises that day.

“It was the first one we'd been to in three years. Maybe even more. Arch Mix was there and he came over to me, probably to trade insults, and I introduced him to Audrey who was on her best behavior. You know, all wit and sex and charm.”

Slick nodded. “The woman can be an absolutely fascinating voluptuary when she chooses.”

“Have you ever seen Mix's wife?”

He nodded again. “I've talked with her several times.”

“I suppose Audrey was on the prowl. She gets like that occasionally. Well, Mix didn't stand a chance. Not many men would. So that's how it started.”

“And lasted a year?”

“About that.”

“And how is Audrey?” he said. “I know I've already asked that, but what I mean is how does she look to you?”

I shrugged. “All right. Somebody seems to have her under surveillance of some kind.”

“What do you think it is, drugs or Mix?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I ran one of them off with a rube act that shouldn't have bothered anyone. He showed me a badge and some ID that said his name was Knaster. James Knaster—with a K. He's supposed to be a detective. About thirty.”

Slick stared at me for a moment. Then he picked up the phone, dialed, and asked for Clarence. I couldn't tell whether Clarence was the first name or the last, but when Clarence came on they chatted for a while like old friends and then Slick said, “I was just wondering if you could give me a bit of information about a young chap who works for you people. His name is Knaster—that's with a K. Detective James Knaster.” He waited, listened for a while, then thanked Clarence profusely, and hung up.

Slick looked at me and then held up his fingernails and gave them a close examination. While he was still admiring them he said, “They have no one named Knaster. They've never had anyone by that name.”

CHAPTER SIX

S
LICK AND I
speculated for a while about why anyone with a fake police ID would want to keep a watch on my sister's house. We ran through several ideas, all of them rather unimaginative, and we seemed to be running out of any ideas at all when the phone rang. Slick answered it, said, “Of course,” and then handed it to me. It was Max Quane.

“How'd you know where to find me?” I said.

“I called your wife and she said you might be at your sister's and your sister gave me this number. I told her it was important.”

“Well, is it?”

Something had crept into Quane's voice. It made him talk too fast and run some of his words together. “I've got to see you, Harvey,” he said.

“Why?”

“I've just got to, damn it!”

“All right. When?”

“Right away,” Quane said. “Now.”

“Well, I suppose I can get down there in fifteen minutes.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I'm not at the office. I've got a little apartment over on Mintwood Place. You know where Mintwood Place is?”

“Just give me the address,” I said.

He gave it to me and, as usual, I had nothing to write with so I repeated it. It sometimes helps, but not always. Then I said, “Max.”

“What?” he said and his voice was so low and indistinct that I had trouble hearing him.