Death by Diamonds

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

            Facing a loaded weapon is never easy.  You never get used to it.  Your body always flinches, your breathing quickens, your eyesight suddenly clears.  No matter how many times you’ve stared a cold bullet in the face, you’re scared.  Yet, the fear wasn’t bad.  If Nelson shot me, it would be a nervous twitch, nothing more.

            I glanced at Canada.  “Better mainline your partner.  He needs to mellow out.”

            “What diamonds?” Canada asked.

            “A million and a half of dry ice, finders keepers,” I told Canada.  “Supposed to be hidden in the mansion.  I'm surprised your partner didn't mention such a trivial item.”

            “Caine!”  Nelson jerked back the slide with an audible click.  A primed weapon almost begs to be used, like a samurai sword drawn from its scabbard.  Sometimes, guns fire themselves.

            No one spoke for a long moment.  Canada wanted to ask questions.  Nelson wanted to shoot.  I wanted to leave.

            “You two can settle this between yourselves,” I said and started for the door, expecting a bullet in the back.

            Neither man protested, and I escaped.  I hurried through the restaurant.  As I walked into the parking lot, a blue Porsche Carrera screamed around the corner and half skidded to the front door.  The blonde stranger from the night before jumped out of the Porsche and ran inside the restaurant.

            I didn't feel comfortable until my T-Bird was rolling south on Allisonville Road.  I knew Nelson had some explaining to do, and the blonde stranger needed a packet of dreams.  Canada George would want to know about Angel and the lost stones.  Nelson would talk.  Nelson had to talk.  Canada controlled the snow.  Outside my car the sun filtered prettily through the autumn foliage.  The day would be unseasonably warm.

            I was pleased with myself.  Veronica had left me pleased with myself.  I turned on the radio and hummed along with a tune from my college days, a damn fine tune.

            I’m picking up good vibrations...

*****

            That afternoon I sold a set of German kitchen knives to a middle-aged, Jewish woman who ran a small, delicious smelling delicatessen on the West side.  I ate a strawberry blintz while we talked, and the blintz was exquisite.  I usually bragged that my knives were fashioned from the finest Hun steel, but I softened my pitch for the Jewess.  Perhaps a few of her relatives had already become acquainted with the finest Hun steel.  I promised to deliver the knives personally.  She promised another blintz.

            A young woman was washing a brown Toyota in the apartment parking lot when I returned home.  Her too small, red jogging shorts rode up a perfectly rounded tush that jiggled slightly as she spread soapy water over the hood of the car.  I glanced over my shoulder to see if someone was shooting a movie.  Modern movies always flashed fetching tushes, and I understood why.  A firm tush promised a good ride.  Hollywood promised everything, one of the reasons people flocked to California, even those of us who never belonged.

            “Hi,” the girl said as I walked past.

            “Hi,” I answered.

            She possessed a toothy smile.  Her wet T-shirt said “Indy Mini-Marathon” and clung to a flat chest sporting raised n*****s.  She must have had an aversion to underwear.

            “I'm Nona,” she said.  “Just moved into two-D.”

            “Ryerson,” I answered.  “Two-B.”

            “Neighbors!”  She stepped forward and thrust out a soapy hand.  “Howdy, neighbor.”

            Her hair was the color of strong coffee and cut short with curls, an athlete's easy-care style.  She squeezed my hand with considerable strength; her body stayed where she put it; her muscles didn't melt like pudding.  Not many women worked their muscles hard.  Nona was an exception.

            “Is it safe to leave your door unlocked?” Nona asked.  “I jog a lot, and stuff.”

            “Not after midnight,” I answered.  I didn't ask about “stuff.”

            Nona laughed.  “You're cute.”  She squeezed my arm.  “Don't get lost.”  She slipped away, and I couldn't help but wonder how many out of shape men had clutched their chests and collapsed while keeping pace with Nona.  I stopped by my mailbox; the small steel box held an irritating Sears flyer.

            Upstairs, the message light blinked insistently.  I felt too successful to answer, but I was too weak to ignore the red light.

            “Mr. Caine,” the woman's drawl on the tape began.  “I'm Fran Pergot-Meyer.  I live at Fifty-two Twenty Chartraine Drive.  Please come see me about Angel Leshing.”

            I listened to the tape twice.  The woman didn't request my presence, she commanded it.  An urge to ignore Fran Pergot-Meyer surged through me, an urge to ignore Angel.  Why did I have to entertain the diamond hunters?  How many times would I have to recount Angel's final scene?  I didn’t want the stupid rocks.  Why me?  Because Angel died in my car and spoke last to me.  Because the diamonds had never been found.  How many people chased buried bullion?  Too many.

            I ate a can of tuna over the kitchen sink before I left.  I didn't bother with a plate; I didn't have any crackers.  I tried to wash down the tuna with beer and managed to create the most vile taste since cod liver oil.  I drank a second beer to kill the aftertaste of the first.  Mouthwash overwhelmed everything.

            Nona's Toyota sparkled in the sun as I pulled away.  Nona had disappeared, which saddened me a little.  Hollywood tushes are hard to find in Indiana.

            A single road provided access to a hidden housing addition.  Chartraine Drive snaked through a wooded section of three-story houses and quiet cul-de-sacs. Posted signs warned visitors that private patrols protected the area, that all vehicles were subject to search.  Everyone was a trespasser until proven otherwise.

            The Pergot-Meyer house pretended to English Tudor, a huge, dark, slate roofed, leaded window despot frowning beneath towering Walnut trees.  I had a feeling Agatha Christie style authors sipped scented tea in the garden and plotted symmetrical, clever mysteries, Chinese puzzles that defied unraveling until the proper clue was twisted, mysteries too clever by half.  The real world swirled all around but couldn’t touch the perfection on Chartraine Drive.

            A homely, blonde maid with a Scandinavian accent opened the front door and led me through a perfectly kept house to a reading room.  Paintings lined the walls on either side of a large fireplace; red leather chairs and green shaded lamps reminded me of the main lounge inside the Scottish Rite Cathedral downtown.  I half expected to discover a white-haired mason snoring off lunch.  I waited two minutes before Fran Pergot-Meyer entered.

            Fran Pergot-Meyer possessed the condescending air of a commoner recently transfused with blue blood.  Straight, thin, dyed silver hair parted and swept to one side, Fran had been pretty before beauty degenerated into hauteur.  She wore an expensive mauve house suit, the silk uniform of the modern housewife with nothing to do.  Beggars instinctively hated women like Fran; an auto mechanic would have loved to soil her with his greasy fingers.  Something about her begged to be sullied.

            “Thank you for coming, Mr. Caine,” Fran said and perched daintily on the edge of a chair.  She spoke with a charming southern accent, not deep south like Alabama or Georgia, mid-south, perhaps Kentucky or Tennessee.

            I should have said something.  A groveling greeting felt appropriate, but I hadn't come to make things easy.

            “Yes,” she continued.  “I suppose you've had a lot of calls from the friends of Angel Leshing.”

            “Including you.”

            Her mask broke for an instant, hardly long enough to glimpse her soul.  She studied me a moment, choosing a tack.  You could almost see her ask herself which lure to dangle in front of me.  Fran was not a stupid woman.

            “When I first married Claude, he would play golf every Saturday morning with his buddy, Fred Monday,” Fran began.  “Golf's such a frivolous game, don't you think?”  Fran didn't wait for my answer but continued.  “At first, I thought Claude and Fred discussed business; Fred owned a typesetting firm.  Then, I discovered they just played golf, no business, no contracts, five wasted hours every Saturday.”  Fran smiled.  “If golf wasn't a means to an end, where was the good?  Claude stopped wasting his Saturday mornings.”

            “Meaning?” I asked.

            “Did Angel tell you where to find the diamonds?” she asked directly.  Fran didn't play games.

            I shook my head.

            “Did she say anything about the night Claude died?”

            I had lied to Meryl and Cole because they feasted on the lie.  The nasty truth was meat enough for Fran.

            “Angel was half crazy with pain and incoherent,” I said.  “She babbled.  A sane person wouldn’t have recognized her.”

            Fran lit a long cigarette; her nails were painted a dark red, blood red.  Eight nails.  Fran had no little fingers, as if they had been chopped off.  She didn’t try to hide her hands like Veronica.  I wanted to ask how she lost her fingers, shaving accident?  But I didn't ask.  I was semi-polite.

            “I have no interest in the diamonds,” she said.  “As far as I'm concerned, they belong to the insurance company.”

            “Then again, you don't need the money.”

            A lesser willed woman might have risen to the bait, but Fran swam in deep, cold waters.

            “Claude's death was not adequately explained, Mr. Caine.  I, for one, was never satisfied with the official version.  I wondered if Angel said anything to clear the record.”

            “What's wrong with the official version?”

            “The diamonds for one thing.  Angel and that man didn't have the diamonds.”

            “Maybe they had already delivered the diamonds to a fence.”

            “Despite Claude's running around, I loved him very much.  I'd like to know what really happened.”

            I always gagged when the wronged wife donned her Melanie Wilkes cloak and forgave her husband's indiscretions.  God didn’t allow more than one saint on the planet at any one time, and I was certain Fran wasn’t employed in the Lord’s service.

            “Is Mr. Meyer beginning to look over his shoulder?” I asked.

            “Mr. Meyer died three years ago.”  Fran smiled, a tight, bitchy smile.  “You see, I simply want the truth.”

            Fran Pergot-Meyer wouldn't have recognized the truth if it sauntered up and bit her on the ass.  But I didn’t know exactly what she did want.

            “Where were you the night Claude died?” I asked.

            “Out with friends.”  Fran hesitated.  “The truth is, Claude and I were not getting along.  A spat, one of those phases couples go through.  I had moved into Carla's house, Carla Maroon.  She and I were close.  Carla understood how couples are.

            “We went to a concert that night.  I don't remember what the symphony played, but I know we were there.  Carla, her husband, and me.  By the time we got home, everything had happened.  The police came later and told me Claude was dead.”

            “What difference does it make what the symphony played?  You're right enough now, aren't you?”

            “I want to know if Angel said anything about that night,” Fran said through tight jaws.

            “What you want to know is whether Angel or some other bimbo blew away good old Claude.”  I stood.  “I don't care if you loved Claude or why you want to know about the night he died.  Angel Leshing danced at the end of the loony wire for ten years while you hit the big casino and experimented with the perfect sun tea.  Maybe Angel killed Claude.  Maybe she didn't.  The answer isn't going to turn your sixteen-year-old scotch into my two-week-old beer, or resurrect Angel from her cold grave.  Leave it at that.  Everyone will be better off.”

            Fran stood.  Only her bright blue eyes revealed the anger shooting through her veins.

            “I misjudged you, Mr. Caine.  I imagined you above the petty envy of lower social strata.  Obviously, I was wrong.”

            “Probably for the first time.”  I started for the door.  “I can find my way out.  No need to sic the gendarmes on me.  I promise not to loiter on the lawn.”

            I left Fran Pergot-Meyer.

            I drove downtown feeling ashamed.  Fran Pergot-Meyer had committed no sin except to look like aristocracy.  That's enough for some people, the envious who don't believe in hard work or long hours, the mediocre who think friendship means more than talent.  Fran looked better than the rest of us.  It wasn't a question of tailored clothes or sweet perfume or straight spine or perfectly parted hair.  Fran simply looked better.

            I hated the small part of my mind that suggested her looks were offense enough.

*****

            Hogan waited for me at Klancy's.  He perched on a stool with four pill vials and a cold beer on the bar in front of him.  I dropped next to Hogan as he washed down a fistful of multi-colored capsules.  He didn’t gag which was a bad sign.  He had been downing pills for a long time.  I didn't think Hogan would enjoy a lengthy retirement.

            “You went to Pergot's mansion last night,” Hogan began.

            Hogan wanted me to deny going or ask how he knew, but I didn’t cared about those things.  “I went to the Mystery Club,” I answered.  “To eat.”

            Hogan eyed me carefully.  “You're lying, Caine.”  He slipped the vials into his coat pocket.

            I had been called worse by better; Hogan searched for a reaction.

            “You know better,” I said quietly.  “Or you should.”

            “Angel told you where to find the rocks, and you went to check out the place.”

            “And won a free meal,” I added.

            Anger boiled up Hogan's neck and flexed his cheek muscles.  “I can make trouble,” he growled.

            I laughed, not a safe reaction, but I didn't want Hogan to think intimidation worked on me.

            “Know the best part?” I asked.  “You'll never know whether or not I can locate the stones.  But if I were going to fetch them, I sure wouldn't do it with you sitting on my shoulders.”

            Hogan stood.  Anger mottled his features.  He gasped.  Some men smell like death, a foulness seeping out their pores.  The walking dead leave the scent of mortality everywhere they go.  Hogan stank.  If I had been an undertaker, I would have handed Hogan my card and the number of my beeper.

            “Damn you!” Hogan gasped.

            “God already has.”

            He turned and lunged for the door, barely in control.  I watched, hoping I would move so well when I reached Hogan's age, if I reached Hogan's age.  Would Hogan let the air out of my tires, smash my headlamps?  He seemed capable of small mischief.

            Orly stopped.  “He's not well, is he?”

            “None of us are.”

            “Why's he riding you?”

            “Because I look like his son who never studied and slept late.”

            “Aw, Rye,” Orly began.

            “Save it.”  I stood.  I no longer liked Klancy's.  What had been safe haven from life's typhoons was now another whirlpool dragging me into the depths of human depravity.  The friends of Angel Leshing had ruined Klancy's.

            “I'm going home,” I said.  “Do me a favor and don't tell anyone.”

            I walked out into a fine, fall evening, the warm air golden and clear.  I felt like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, a man who's supposed to know a secret but doesn't.  The worst part was I didn't care that I didn't know.  A naive portion of my mind maintained not knowing didn't matter.  As soon as everyone realized how stupid I was, they'd abandon me to my Hun knives and Jap pots.  I would become Ryerson Caine, ex-cop, ex-detective, seller of kitchen solutions.

            Chem DeWitt, the dwarf owner of the Gran Fang Chinese Restaurant, sold me a cold six pack of Budweiser and eight egg rolls which I hauled back to my apartment.  I quickly drained two beers and wolfed down the egg rolls before my psyche began to coalesce.  Fran Pergot-Meyer still bothered me.  If I had had any money, I would have started a vacation right then.

            The knock on the door surprised me.  I hadn't had a visitor in a year.  The EPA classified my apartment as “hazardous.”

            “Hi,” Nona bubbled, holding a wine bottle in one hand and a sack in the other.  “I thought we could have a get-acquainted party.  Like wine and cheese?”

            “Beer and peanuts.”  I stepped back so she could pass.

            Nona wore short, blue, nylon running shorts and a white sweatshirt.  “That's OK.  I brought only one bottle.”  She handed me the bottle and headed for the kitchen.

            “Glasses in the corner,” I said.  “Knife and plates next to the refrigerator--unless you want clean ones.”

            “I hope you like Chardonay,” she called.

            I hadn't opened a bottle of wine since California, and I tried not to look at the label.  Some wineries bottle nightmares, the kind late night talk show hosts wished everyone enjoyed.  I heard Nona rinse glasses and plates.  I opened the wine.  The bouquet evoked a memory of a tan stucco house on a hillside overlooking a wide highway.  On clear days, you could see all the way to Westwood.  At night the stars hung over the hill.  That house smelled of wine.  I shoved that house out of my mind.  I wasn’t allowed to remember the house or its occupants, part of my penance.

            Nona returned with a plate of cheese, a plate of crackers, two water glasses, a knife, and a radio.  “I dreamt about you last night,” she said.

            “Oh?”

            “One of the hottest dreams I've ever had.  I woke up thoroughly exhausted.”

            “But you didn't know me last night.”  I pointed out the inconsistency.

            Nona grinned.  “That's what makes this so exciting, sort of like deja vu.”

            I might have been deja vu for Nona, but she was definitely not deja vu for me.  I never dreamed of young, athletic girls with tight muscles and white smiles.  I was lucky to find an aging matron with heavy makeup gracing my nightmares.

            “There's a concert on public radio,” Nona explained as she spread the plates across the newspapers littering my coffee table.  “Mozart, I think.”

            I poured the Chardonay.  The color was the same as the comforter in the spare bedroom of that stucco house I wasn’t allowed to recall.

            “I love classical music,” Nona continued.  “When you listen to the classics, you can take your time.  Rock is all rushed fever, don't you think?”

            “There's a time for fever,” I answered.

            “You have to approach music like a workout.  There's warm-up, sustained effort, and cool-down.  There's no reason why you can't max the enjoyment of all three.”

            “No reason at all.”

            “I work out a lot.”

            “I don't.”

            Nona didn't wear jewelry, just a black sport watch, but she looked good enough.  Some women don't need props.

            “I hate spending nights alone, don't you?” she asked.

            “You get used to it,” I answered.

            Nona laughed, a flirting laugh.  “I hope I never do.”  She held up her glass.  “May the other guy have all the lonely nights.”

            “I'm the other guy.”

            “Not tonight.”

            We toasted and sipped.  The taste bit me, and I heard sparkling laughter, teasing laughter from that forbidden house.

            “Not tonight,” I repeated.

*****

            Fridays were bad days in the sales business.  Too many people launched their weekends early.  If prospects were in, they were confirming plans or scaring up golf matches.  So Fridays were paperwork days, busy-work days, boring days.  I was never much at keeping accurate books.  The IRS liked to visit my detective agency whenever the Government needed a few bucks.  I was always good for a fine and penalty.  Since I never turned a profit, fines and penalties were the only collections the IRS could make.  Maybe I had the last laugh.

            My head ached from too much Chardonay and too little sleep.  A dull pain had settled between my shoulder blades; Nona's strength and athletic prowess had sown small nodes of pain throughout my body.  She possessed the stamina of a marathon runner, and although my body complained, my psyche waxed marvelous.  Nona could motivate a corpse.  I was halfway through my weekly ledger when the phone rang.

            “Mr. Caine, Meryl Benning.  This may not mean anything, but I just received a letter from Angel.  She must've written it before...  Well, I thought you might like to see it.”

            “I don't see why,” I said.

            “Would mean a lot if you'd drop by,” she said.  “Things ain't any easier out here.”

            “OK,” I said, regretting my acquiescence.  “An hour or two.”

            “We ain't goin' nowhere.”

            Meryl gave me directions before I cradled the receiver.

            I stared at my ledger and hated myself.  Angel's letter would be the same gibberish as her conversation--skill, craft, and 37.  No diamonds, anything but diamonds.  Meryl's wanting the diamonds wouldn't make any difference.  She clutched to her bosom schoolgirl fantasies that could never come true.

            When I was growing up, I sometimes wondered how my Dad always seemed to have “enough” money.  We never had extra money, and we certainly didn't live like the Haddens on Montcalm Avenue, but when I needed money for school or shoes or books or something important, Dad always managed to find the dollars.  At times I thought maybe Dad was secretly rich, that we lived simply because he preferred a plain life.  Sometimes, I imagined Dad hid great reservoirs of wealth he hoarded from me.  I could have worn the Levis and polo shirts I did without.  I could have ridden a 10-speed bicycle like Jack Hadden.  When Dad died, his savings account held $963.00, not even enough to bury him.  Meryl believed in the diamonds as I had believed in my father's riches.

            Dragging myself to the shower, I promised myself I'd crush Meryl's hopes once and for all.  I'd be cruel if I needed to be.  Living in a fantasy world kept her from achieving in the real one.

            The fences around the Benning farm needed mending, the barn and house repainting.  A glance at the equipment sprawled throughout the yard detailed the evolution of the farm, from grain to cattle to hogs to grain, full circle.  Farmers who switched crops often either lived like land barons or tenants.  The ten-year-old Ford pickup rusting by the side of the house told me Sy Benning hadn't turned large profits.  Dark gray clouds rolling across the sky didn't brighten the scene.  Under a cold rain the farm would look as appetizing as poison ivy.

            Meryl answered the door and ushered me into a scrupulously clean yet shabby living room.  The flowered couch featured worn spots, the tan carpet showed darkened paths, the lamp shades were dull with age.  The room was dying by degrees, like the farm.

            “Can I get you something?” she asked.

            The unwritten law states you never take a person's last cigarette.  Accepting a saltine from Meryl might have emptied the larder.  “Just the letter,” I answered.

            Meryl pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to me.  The plain, white envelope could have come from any discount store, no return address.  The letter itself was less then two pages, and the fluid handwriting didn't match the childish scrawl on the envelope.

                        Dear Meryl,

            I've asked a friend to mail this to you as things are getting worse.  He watches me day and night.  I'm supposed to be keeping a diary.  I know they're out to poison me, so if you can spring me, I'd appreciate it.  I'm 37, and I don't deserve to be stuck here.  If you come for me, I'm sure I could learn a valuable skill.  Crafts are my hobby.  I've tried portrait painting, but I don't have many subjects.  Mostly, I paint from memory, like the one I did of Pergot.  I tried to remember the flavor of a candy cane, and couldn't.  My memory's so weak.

            I keep dreaming of a mansion, a beautiful, stone mansion set beneath tall trees.  Do you remember, Meryl?  Did we go there together?

            I must stop.  They're beginning to suspect something.  Please come before they kill me.

            Love

            Angel

            I refolded the letter and handed it to Meryl.  “They're all there,” I said.  “All the buzz words Angel said in my car.”

            “Do you know what it means?”  Meryl sounded hopeful.

            “It means Angel was paranoid and unstable.  It means she concocted the diamond story out of the blue to give her life some importance.  It means you're searching for gold in a coal mine.”

            “Won't you help?”

            I shook my head.  “I was in that business once, and I got people killed--nice people.”

            Meryl stared at me as if I had abandoned a ten-year-old girl to a child molester.  Wanting to help wasn't a good enough reason to chase the Pergot diamonds.  Sure, Meryl could use the money.  Sure, she could read a new truck and perhaps a hog farm into Angel's letter.  And I wanted to help, I did.  I didn't want to snuff Meryl's dream, but I didn't have a choice.  There was no profit in this treasure hunt.  Sometimes, smashing fantasies early while a person has a shot at a productive life is the right thing to do.

            The boy, 11 or 12, burst into the room.  He hadn’t wiped his muddy boots which spoke of something dire.  He gasped from exertion, unable to speak.  Tears streamed down his grimy face.

            “What?” Meryl asked.

            “Dad!” the boy blurted out.