“What makes you so sure about the mayor and the chief?”
“Dixie figures she can buy ’em both for maybe a million or two.” Contraire frowned. “How’d you find out about Dixie anyway?”
“It was Vines who first suspected her-thanks to Soldier Sloan.”
“I kept telling her if she didn’t quit messing around with that old fart, I’d have to do something about him and I did.”
“Did you also have to do something about my son?”
“Now there was one smart cookie. You know he almost had the whole thing figured by the time he got down to Tijuana there. I sometimes think fags are smarter’n people.”
After looking at his watch again, Contraire said, “Doesn’t look like Vines is coming back after all.” He flicked the M-16 to full automatic and aimed it at Adair’s chest.
“One last drink?” Adair asked with an obviously forced smile.
Contraire smiled back, apparently enjoying himself. “Make it a quick one.”
Adair twisted the handle of the cane again. But this time he twisted it to the left rather than the right. He also coughed just loudly enough to prevent Contraire from hearing the cane’s faint click. After the click, Adair shook his head sadly, looked up and said, “I guess I don’t want that last drink after all.”
“Tummy a little upset?” Contraire said, chuckled, but suddenly stopped chuckling when another thought occurred to him.
“That was just bullshit, wasn’t it-about you knowing something that was worth a million dollars? You just cooked that up and fed it to B. D. and Sid after Dixie got Soldier to steer you up here.”
“But who was the steersman and who the steered?” Adair said.
“Maybe it was about fifty-fifty. But you didn’t know squat. Nothing worth a million anyhow. So what was really in it for you and Vines-me? Getting even?”
“You killed my son. Helped destroy my daughter’s mind. Managed to land me in a Federal penitentiary for fifteen months. So, yes, I must’ve had revenge in mind. As for Kelly, well, he’ll have to speak for himself.”
It was Vines’s cue. He shoved the rubberized green shower curtain all the way to the left. Its plastic rings created a racket that made Contraire start and spin toward the stall. As Contraire turned, Adair jerked the handle from the cane and with it came a seven-inch-long stiletto that resembled an ice pick. Now on his feet, but in a crouch, his pants and shorts still down around his ankles, Adair plunged the thin blade into Contraire’s right buttock.
Contraire yelled, shifted the M-16 to his left hand and used his right one to grasp his wounded buttock. Vines burst out of the shower stall and grabbed the M-16, shoving its barrel toward the ceiling. Contraire-or his reflexes- fired a burst into the air. Vines kicked at Contraire, aiming for the short man’s kneecap and hitting his crotch instead. Contraire snorted and Vines, using both hands, tore the M-16 from his grasp.
The short heavy man with the remarkably ugly face sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold and doubled over. He stayed that way for at least twenty seconds, his left hand cradling his balls, his right hand still pressed against the wound in his right buttock. Vines thought it was an extremely awkward posture, which, for some reason, reminded him of a pretzel.
When Contraire finally straightened, all evidence of pain was gone, concealed by a mask of indifference. He looked down at the bloody stiletto in Adair’s right hand.
“How’s that fucker work?” he asked with what seemed to be professional curiosity.
“You turn the handle to the left instead of the right until you hear a click,” Adair said. “The click means a tongue-in-groove catch has fastened on the blade.”
Contraire nodded, as if in appreciation, and looked at the M-16 Vines was aiming at him, much as he might aim at a not-quite-dead snake.
“You gotta pull the trigger to make it work, dickhead,” Contraire said.
Vines nodded, as if in thanks for the reminder, wrapped a forefinger around the trigger, aimed the M-16 more carefully at Contraire, glanced briefly at Jack Adair and said, “Well?”
There was a long pause before Adair said, “No.”
“Why not?” Vines said, his eyes on Contraire.
Adair sighed. “Because, Kelly, it’s against the law.”
Chapter 44
Contraire, his hands now locked behind his neck, came out of the bathroom first, followed by Vines with the M-16 and Adair with the black cane, its curved handle back in place, its stiletto sheathed.
They were moving silently toward the poker room’s steel door when the telephone chirped. Adair answered it with a hello. Contraire, hands still locked behind his neck, turned to look at Adair, who was again massaging closed eyes with thumb and middle finger as he listened, the corners of his mouth curved down into twin hooks. Kelly Vines kept his eyes and the M-16 on Contraire.
After listening for almost thirty seconds, Adair asked his first question. “When did it happen?” After nodding to his unseen caller, he asked, “And you’re sure she’s all right?”
There was another listening pause before Adair said, “I don’t quite know what to say except that I’m very, very sorry. Does Chief Fork know?”
The answer made Adair frown and say, “I see.” After abruptly hanging up the phone he turned slowly to Theodore Contraire and said, “Dixie Mansur’s dead. She was killed in an auto accident while driving Dannie back to the sanitarium.”
Contraire had to digest the news. But Vines said, “How’s Dannie?”
“She’s all right. A little shaken and bruised but all right. They have her under sedation at the sanitarium.”
Instead of digesting the news of Dixie Mansur’s death, Contraire rejected it with a small knowing smile and a headshake. “What’re you guys trying to pull?”
“That was the mayor on the phone,” Adair said, his voice patient. “The Highway Patrol just called her after they couldn’t locate Parvis. They have Dixie’s driver’s license. Her credit cards. They say she was wearing a wig. She’s dead.”
Contraire swallowed, looked away and managed to get the word out, “Dead?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Adair said. “Probably not.”
Contraire slowly brought his hands down from behind his neck and used them to rip open the top of his camouflage battle fatigues, exposing his bare chest that was matted with thick graying hair. “Do me a big favor, Vines, and pull the fucking trigger.”
Vines shook his head and, still looking at Contraire, said to Adair, “What do we do with him, Jack?”
“We let him go.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the wisest thing to do.”
“I’m not feeling very compassionate.”
“I didn’t say compassionate. I said wise.”
“Which door do we use-front or back?”
“The front.”
“Let’s go, Teddy,” Vines said, “with your hands back up behind your neck.”
The three of them went down the long hall, past Merriman Dorr’s office with its large Chubb safe that still contained the body of Parvis Mansur, and on past the private dining room that had no windows. Contraire was in the lead, hands still behind his neck and limping slightly, favoring his right leg-the only sign of physical pain he had displayed since they left the bathroom.
Behind Contraire came Vines with the M-16. And behind Vines was Jack Adair, following slowly, swinging his black cane in time with his steps, an expression of unresolved doubt on his face.
When they reached Cousin Mary’s front door, Contraire stopped and said, “Can I take my hands down before I
