Man on a leash - By Charles Williams Page 0,14
to be five A.M., the sixth?”
“Hmmmm—yes, that’s right.”
Just two hours, he thought, before he’d called Winegaard with that sell order. “Well, look, did he go in the bucket in Las Vegas? I mean, on the cuff, for really big money?”
She smiled. “God, no. I doubt he lost twenty dollars. Gambling—or that kind of gambling—bored him to death. He said anybody with any respect for mathematics would have to be insane to think he could beat a house percentage and a limit. He just liked the shows, and the fact that nobody ever goes to bed—to sleep, anyway.”
“Well, did he tell you he was going to San Francisco?”
“No.”
“That’s funny. No mention of it at all?”
“Not a word. If it’d been anybody else, it would have puzzled hell out of me. I mean, if he was planning to take off again just as soon as we got home, you’d think he’d have said something about it, just to make conversation if nothing else, but that’s the way he operated.”
“But nobody knows for sure when he did leave.”
“Oh, it was within a few hours. Don’t ask me how in hell he could do it, but he was gone again before noon.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s when I woke up. When I started to unpack my bags, I noticed the fall was missing, so I called to see if I’d put it in his by mistake. No answer. I tried again several times in the afternoon and gave up.”
“Well, did he say anything about a business deal?”
“Absolutely nothing. But then he wouldn’t have; he never did.”
“You know Brubaker’s theory? That he was mixed up in the drug traffic.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m glad you don’t believe it. But I guess we’re in the minority.”
“Darling, I have no illusions at all about your old man; I’ve known him longer than you think I have. He was arrogant, pigheaded, and intolerant, he had the sex drive and the fidelity of a stallion, and any woman who could stay married to him for fifteen years the way your mother did could qualify for instant sainthood; but he wasn’t a criminal.”
“You knew him before he moved here?”
“Umh-umh. He saved my life, a few years back.”
“How’s that?”
“It sounds a little kooky, out here in the sagebrush, but would you believe a rescue at sea?” She glanced at her watch and stood up. “But I’ve got to run. If you’ll stop by when you get through here, I’ll hammer together a couple of bloody Marys and a bite of lunch and tell you about it.”
“I’d love to. Thank you.”
He went out with her and down the walk. As she started to get into the Continental, there was a sudden wild clatter of the pipes in the cattle guard beyond them, and a dusty green Porsche came snarling up the drive. It pulled off and stopped on the other side of her. When the driver emerged and slammed the door, there was more an impression he had simply removed the car like an article of clothing and tossed it aside rather than got out of it, and Romstead thought of the old joke about one of the Rams’ linemen: When he couldn’t find a place to park his VW, he just carried it around with him.
While he wasn’t quite that big, he would have made an ominous hunk of linebacker staring hungrily across the big butts at a quarterback. He was pushing forty now, Romstead thought, and a little gone to belly, but not too much, and the pale eyes were mean as he padded around the rear of the Continental. Something was riding him.
“I tried to call you,” he said to Paulette Carmody. “Carmelita said you were down here. Figures.”
“Lew,” she began the introduction, “this is Eric—”
He cut her off. “I know who he is.” The eyes flicked contemptuously across Romstead and dismissed him along with the rest of the scenery. “Have you seen Jeri?”
“Mr. Bonner.” The tone was sweetly dangerous. “May I present—” She broke off herself then. “Jeri? You mean she’s here in town?”
“She came in last Tuesday. But when I woke up awhile ago, she was gone. No note or anything.”
“I’ll see you up at the house,” Paulette said.
“Right.” Before he turned away, Bonner swept Romstead with that flat stare again. “Going to take over the family business?”
“Shut up, Lew!” Paulette snapped. Romstead stared thoughtfully after him but said nothing. The Porsche shot back down the drive.
“I’m sorry,” Paulette said. “Usually he has at least as much social grace as a goat,