“One of Karen’s dirty little secrets,” Neal explained as he took a blueberry muffin, “is that she reads People magazine. Is it all true?”
“Polly Paget says it is,” Graham said as he rubbed his shoulder.
Neal munched on the muffin. Graham’s answer meant that he didn’t know whether or not to believe what Polly Paget was saying about Jackson Landis.
2
Polly Paget had been a typist in the secretarial pool of Jack Landis’s New York office and, according to Polly, Jack Landis had done a few laps in her end of the pool.
On its own, Neal knew this was not particularly earthshaking. Polly Paget certainly wouldn’t be the first secretary who had typed twenty words an hour and had the job security of a federal employee, and she wouldn’t be the last secretary who did more work on her desk than at it. What started to make Polly Paget exceptional was the fact that she claimed she had been raped.
None of which would have even made the paper, except that the alleged rapist was none other than Jackson Landis himself, the founder, president, and majority owner of the Family Cable Network. Jack was also the devoted husband of Candy Landis, with whom he cohosted the top-rated cable show in the country, “The Jack and Candy Family Hour,” a program so wholesome it made “The Lawrence Welk Show” look like a Tijuana animal act.
Neal didn’t know whether he believed Polly himself.
She fits the part, Neal thought.
“Disiz a cute lihul place yoo got heah,” Polly said as Karen set her suitcase down in the kitchen. “Gawd, izit faw enough away from evryting, or what. Oi mean, we drove an drove an drove an drove and Oi dint see anyting, nevuh moind a mall. An joo have a batroom Oi could use? Oi have really gadda pee.”
Polly Paget was a walking, talking-especially talking-stereotype. Her auburn hair was big-teased, blow-dried, and sprayed into a huge red halo that looked like a sunset over an oil refinery. She had a handsome, long face with a wide slash of mouth and two long incisors that looked just a little like fangs and gave her a slightly predatory look. Her long, thin nose had a slight Roman curve. Neal had to admit to himself that her eyes were sexy. Framed by wide red eyebrows, her green cat eyes sparkled behind the layers of mascara, eyeliner, and fake lashes. Everything about Polly screamed bimbo.
And Polly Paget was tall-a good five ten, with long legs, small breasts, and wide shoulders. She looked a hell of a lot more like the wolf than the lamb.
And the clothes: Today she was dressed entirely in brand-new denim that made it look as if she’d gone shopping for her trip to the West. Lots of silver and turquoise jewelry, and bright red fingernails that were so long, she couldn’t possibly type even if she wanted to.
“You got any losh?” she asked as she came out of the bathroom. “So my hands don’t dry? I’ve got the worst problem with dry hands. They crack if I don’t use enough losh. I have some in one of the other bags, but it’s out in the car.”
Neal winced. Polly didn’t say the or they; she said de and dey, and she seemed to have a little ventriloquist hidden in her throat that made her words sound as if they were coming out of her nose. And she didn’t say car; she said caw.
Karen said, “I think I have some lotion in the bedroom. I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll go get it with you,” Neal said.
In the bedroom, Karen found a plastic bottle of lotion while Neal rummaged through the chest of drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Karen asked.
“A revolver,” answered Neal. “One bullet or two?”
Karen smiled and grabbed Neal’s shoulders.
“Her hair is so big!” she whispered. “I’ve always wanted to meet a woman with big hair like that.”
“But do you want her staying here for a month or more?”
Karen looked at him sharply.
“Neal, the woman was raped!”
“The woman says she was raped.”
Karen’s blue eyes got serious as she tightened her grip on his shoulders.
“Neal Carey,” she said, “if a woman says she was raped, then she was raped.”
Not necessarily, Neal thought.
It was a little early for a beer, but it was also a little early to be taking on a new case, so Neal popped the cap with only a trace of guilt. Brezhnev, an enormous black dog of indeterminate breed, raised his head an inch off the floor and growled until Neal left a dollar on the counter. Brogan, the owner and namesake of the grubby saloon, snored away behind the bar in the old BarcaLounger he had rescued from the county dump. Neal hadn’t seen Brogan get out of that chair except to go to the john, and there were people in Austin prepared to swear, based on olfactory evidence, that he didn’t always get up for that.
Brogan started snoring. His head was tilted back and something kind of yellow dribbled from the edge of his mouth.
“Is he asleep or faking it?” Graham asked.
Neal looked over at Brezhnev, who kept one narrow eye on him.
“He’s asleep. They take turns when someone is in the bar. The dog won’t go to sleep unless Brogan is awake.”
“He can’t fake out the dog?”
“Nobody can fake out that dog.”
Neal opened a second bottle, hopped back over the bar, and sat down at a table next to Graham, who was busily wiping the greasy tabletop with a handkerchief.
“Isn’t there a clean place in this town?” Graham complained.
“It doesn’t open until dinner,” Neal answered. “So what does the bank have to do with Polly Paget?”
Karen had thrown them out of the house for a while so she could “get Polly settled.” Which, Neal figured, meant putting away her underwear, finding a place for her cosmetics, and pumping her for information.
“Can I have a glass?” Graham asked.
“Brogan probably has one somewhere, but I don’t think you want to see it,” Neal answered. You could pull fifteen years of fingerprints off one of Brogan’s beer glasses.
Graham took a fresh handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the mouth of the beer bottle. He took a tentative sip and said, “Jack Landis is the majority owner of the FCN network. The bank’s client, Peter Hathaway, is the largest minority owner. The minority owner wants to be the majority owner. Hathaway is pissed off because he thinks that Jack is overextending. And then there’s Candyland.”
“Candyland.” Neal chuckled. He’d heard about Candyland on “The Jack and Candy Family Hour.”
Candyland was going to be an enormous “family vacation resort” on the outskirts of San Antonio-as soon as it was finished, of course. They were still several million dollars short, so Jack and Candy were selling shares to their faithful viewers. Just send in five hundred bucks for your time-share condo. Jack and Candy made this offer about every twelve seconds. They were like vice cops in a strip joint when it came to hitting you up for Candyland money.
“It’s a disaster,” Graham said. “They’re way over budget in every category and they’re running out of cash.”
“Are they really going to build it?”
Graham shrugged.
“Let me guess,” Neal said. “The bank has a loan on it.”
“But of course,” Graham answered. “And the minority owner wants to work with the bank and get it straightened out. But how do you fire the most popular couple in America?”
“Tough one,” Neal answered. “Maybe if he raped his secretary…”
“Bingo,” Graham said.
