styles.”
“Bannister was a great landscape artist of the nineteenth century. He was a black man. The first truly great landscape artist that this country ever had.”
I’m a well-read individual. It’s unusual that I meet a man or woman who has gone through more books than I have. I’ve met English teachers who didn’t know as much about literature. But for all my stores of knowledge I’d never heard of Bannister before that day.
Winifred Fine saw that knowledge and wealth impressed me.
“Bartholomew is my nephew by blood,” she said. “His father, Esau, was my sister’s husband.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Esau is a fool, and his son takes after him.”
“So why do you want to talk to him?”
“I think he’s in trouble.”
“Why?”
Oscar cleared his throat. Winifred turned her gaze to him.
“Make me a chocolate malted, Oscar.” It was the last thing in the world I expected to hear from her.
“Yes ma’am.”
The butler, or whatever he was, turned and left.
When he had gone from the study Winifred said, “Oscar is very protective of me.”
“That’s a good quality in an employee.”
Winifred smiled and said, “He doesn’t like you.”
“He tell you that?”
“I can see it in his eyes.”
“You were going to tell me something while he was gone,” I suggested.
“Esau Perry is a fool. He’s a gifted mechanic. Anything made from moving parts he can fix. He knows watches and steam engines, cotton gins and hydraulic lifts. But put a deck of cards in his hand, a woman on his lap, or a bottle anywhere within reach and he loses his mind.”
I was enjoying the way the tall old maid put together sentences. You could tell by her grasp of the language that she was formidable and in control.
“So what?” I asked.
Winifred’s stormy eyes washed over me. Then for a moment the squall subsided.
“Bartholomew is just like his father. Good under the hood but a mess out in the street. He’d be in jail today if I hadn’t helped out. Now I think it was a mistake. Maybe he would have done better in prison.”
“No ma’am,” I said.
Lance Wexler was dubbed with a demigod’s name, but Winifred Fine held herself like a real deity. Her high cheekbones and sleek face seemed to bring her eyes to the great heights of heaven. She considered me and then nodded; maybe I knew more about the pedestrian doings of the world.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Minton. All I know is that Bartholomew has done something that could be very embarrassing to this family. And I want to talk to him before the damage becomes irreversible.”
“What damage?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“It is if it’s illegal and I’m out there up to my neck in it.”
“Who said anything about illegal?” she asked.
“Nobody,” I said. “But you got all the elements there. Foolish men around wild women, gamblin’, liquor, and cars.”
Winifred smiled. It was a wonderful thing. Beautiful. She opened her mouth, showed two rows of almost perfect teeth (one on the bottom was missing), and said, “Go to the desk, Mr. Minton, and open the top right drawer. There’s a brown envelope there. Take it and go find Bartholomew for me.”
The desk was made from some knotty, light-hued wood. The shallow drawer slid open with ease. There were three items inside: an antique dagger with a seven-inch blade, a new Luger pistol, and a light caramel-colored and sealed envelope that was stuffed with some sort of paper.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A small sum,” she said. “For your services.”
“I didn’t come here looking for a job.”
“If you are working for Mr. Sweet I want you to remember who the real client is. If you find out anything, a personal report to me will earn you another such envelope.”
I shoved the fat letter into my front pocket.
“Uh-huh. One more question, Miss Fine.”
She sighed deeply and asked, “Yes?”
