Read Online Angel Eyes by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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suppose I’ll have to throw them the truth.”
“That works sometimes. What sort of heirs?”
He had been brooding. “What? I’m sorry.”
“You mentioned that Judge DeLancey’s heirs were maneuvering to have him declared legally dead. What sort of heirs?”
“His wife Leola. A fourteen-carat bitch. One stepson, Jack. Hers from another marriage; I don’t remember his last name. He’s your age, or maybe a little older. They were living together last I heard. I’ll have Bill get you the number. What will you do now?”
“If I can, find Ann Maringer, or Janet Whiting, or whoever. I’ve only used up one day of my three-day retainer. Which reminds me.” I picked up the box containing the ring, replaced the lid and the rubber band, and dropped it back into my coat pocket. I hesitated. “It’s none of my business. Was the assault charge really trumped-up?”
The lines around his mouth tightened. “Thirty years ago, even twenty, it would never have come to trial. Back then a bust in the nose was something between men. That was before everyone got so concerned with stamping out violence. Television programming is too brutal. War isn’t worth fighting. We’re breeding a nation of innocents who have forgotten how to make fists. Meanwhile, that tiny percentage that feels no compunction about using violence watches. And waits.”
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I had eight long months to do it in,” he said.
“Some of your supporters seem to hold the same opinion. That was some tussle out in the parking lot this morning.”
He sneered. “Dissidents, they call them. I call them a royal pain in the ass. I’m busy trying to settle our differences with the steel mills reasonably and they’re out busting heads. You know what they’re so worked up about? Voluntary overtime. Cost of living increases. Money, for chrissake! Forty years ago we fought for survival. This bunch would kill for another coffee break.”
“You went to prison over a money dispute,” I reminded him.
“That punk I decked was stealing from the union. No one does that while I’m in charge. Not one Goddamn pencil. What’s your fee?”
I picked up his drift finally and told him. He considered.
“I’ll pay double to have Janet back in one piece. And to have the man who murdered my friend and bodyguard.”
“No thanks, Mr. Montana.” I buttoned my coat. “In this business, a man has to have certain rules. The first is one case, one client. Thanks for the drink.” I paused at the door and went back. He looked up at me, gray eyes unblinking. “Do you know anything about a blond guy in a checked coat who’s been shadowing me?”
“No. Is there any reason I should?”
“None I can think of. Except that he wasn’t following me until after I spoke with your secretary over the telephone.”
“I’ll have the phones checked out,” he said.
“There’s that.”
Bill Clendenan was sitting at his desk when I came out. His intercom buzzed and Montana told him to give me the surviving DeLanceys’ number. He found it in his Rolodex, wrote it out on a three-by-five card, and handed it to me without looking at me or speaking. I thanked him graciously. He said you’re welcome and kindly go to hell. The speaker was playing “Give My Regards to Broadway.”
The thunderhead was still an ominous mass over the river when I hit the lobby. Despite the filters the air was hot and heavy, like a hand reaching from the darkness to grasp and smother. My ears wanted to pop.
As I rode down in the elevator, I decided that I couldn’t blame them.
8
A T GROUND LEVEL I used a public telephone to call the number Montana’s secretary had given me. When no one answered after eleven rings I hung up. Outside, the pressure had stopped building, to hang on the edge of something like a drop on a faucet, quivering but lacking the impetus to plunge. In the country, birds would be flying crazy and ants would be busy erecting dikes
“That works sometimes. What sort of heirs?”
He had been brooding. “What? I’m sorry.”
“You mentioned that Judge DeLancey’s heirs were maneuvering to have him declared legally dead. What sort of heirs?”
“His wife Leola. A fourteen-carat bitch. One stepson, Jack. Hers from another marriage; I don’t remember his last name. He’s your age, or maybe a little older. They were living together last I heard. I’ll have Bill get you the number. What will you do now?”
“If I can, find Ann Maringer, or Janet Whiting, or whoever. I’ve only used up one day of my three-day retainer. Which reminds me.” I picked up the box containing the ring, replaced the lid and the rubber band, and dropped it back into my coat pocket. I hesitated. “It’s none of my business. Was the assault charge really trumped-up?”
The lines around his mouth tightened. “Thirty years ago, even twenty, it would never have come to trial. Back then a bust in the nose was something between men. That was before everyone got so concerned with stamping out violence. Television programming is too brutal. War isn’t worth fighting. We’re breeding a nation of innocents who have forgotten how to make fists. Meanwhile, that tiny percentage that feels no compunction about using violence watches. And waits.”
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I had eight long months to do it in,” he said.
“Some of your supporters seem to hold the same opinion. That was some tussle out in the parking lot this morning.”
He sneered. “Dissidents, they call them. I call them a royal pain in the ass. I’m busy trying to settle our differences with the steel mills reasonably and they’re out busting heads. You know what they’re so worked up about? Voluntary overtime. Cost of living increases. Money, for chrissake! Forty years ago we fought for survival. This bunch would kill for another coffee break.”
“You went to prison over a money dispute,” I reminded him.
“That punk I decked was stealing from the union. No one does that while I’m in charge. Not one Goddamn pencil. What’s your fee?”
I picked up his drift finally and told him. He considered.
“I’ll pay double to have Janet back in one piece. And to have the man who murdered my friend and bodyguard.”
“No thanks, Mr. Montana.” I buttoned my coat. “In this business, a man has to have certain rules. The first is one case, one client. Thanks for the drink.” I paused at the door and went back. He looked up at me, gray eyes unblinking. “Do you know anything about a blond guy in a checked coat who’s been shadowing me?”
“No. Is there any reason I should?”
“None I can think of. Except that he wasn’t following me until after I spoke with your secretary over the telephone.”
“I’ll have the phones checked out,” he said.
“There’s that.”
Bill Clendenan was sitting at his desk when I came out. His intercom buzzed and Montana told him to give me the surviving DeLanceys’ number. He found it in his Rolodex, wrote it out on a three-by-five card, and handed it to me without looking at me or speaking. I thanked him graciously. He said you’re welcome and kindly go to hell. The speaker was playing “Give My Regards to Broadway.”
The thunderhead was still an ominous mass over the river when I hit the lobby. Despite the filters the air was hot and heavy, like a hand reaching from the darkness to grasp and smother. My ears wanted to pop.
As I rode down in the elevator, I decided that I couldn’t blame them.
8
A T GROUND LEVEL I used a public telephone to call the number Montana’s secretary had given me. When no one answered after eleven rings I hung up. Outside, the pressure had stopped building, to hang on the edge of something like a drop on a faucet, quivering but lacking the impetus to plunge. In the country, birds would be flying crazy and ants would be busy erecting dikes
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