“I was just pissed off enough to wanta find out what you and McCorkle were up to.” Burns paused, drank more beer and said, “I finally figured out you were up to nothing.”
“Letty was awfully talkative,” Padillo said. “But she got even more so after I told her that Schlitz and Pabst were working for you.”
“Told you about that fake manuscript, did she?” Burns said.
Padillo answered with a nod. “But then she began telling me about that phone call you got in Paris just before Steady died. And that’s when I turned her over to Granville.”
“I didn’t believe her,” Haynes said. “At first.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“It was a crazy story, Tinker, all about an old friend of yours who’s now some big shot and wants a peek at Steady’s memoirs just to see whether he’s mentioned. Letty says that if you can swing that for him, this same very important somebody will provide you with access to an end-use certificate that’ll let you dump all that left-behind Vietnam ordnance you’ve got rusting away in those Marseilles warehouses.”
“Letty remembers pretty good,” Burns said. “Even when she’s deep in the sauce.”
“I believed some of what she told me,” Haynes said. “I believed the part about your getting a call in Paris before Steady died. But I don’t believe it was from anyone you knew.”
“I don’t give much of a shit what you believe, Granny.”
“I think the call was from somebody who wants to read Steady’s memoirs—maybe even buy them. I think you got the call because you’d known Steady forever and this same somebody thought you could arrange it somehow. I think you told this somebody you’d give it a try. But before you could, Steady died on you. I think this same somebody is still willing to pay you a lot of money for either the memoirs or just a peek at them. So you flew over here for the burial to see what could be salvaged. I also think that’s why you went to see Isabelle at her apartment.”
Haynes paused, as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “There’s something else I think, Tinker. No, I’m convinced of it. I’m convinced that if you hadn’t smelled money, there’d’ve only been three of us at Arlington: Isabelle, Undean and me.”
Burns rubbed his chin with a big hand as he studied Haynes. The palm of his hand made a slight rasping sound as it scraped across bone-white bristles.
“Know something, Granny?” Burns said. “I didn’t think anybody young as you could be so fucking sanctimonious. Steady was dead. D-e-a-d. You must know what dead is. Christ, you were in the trade. Steady never expected me to show up for his funeral any more’n I’d expect him to show up for mine. But I went anyhow and why I did’s none of your fucking business.”
“How much did he offer you, Tinker?” Padillo said. “This someday who called you in Paris?”
“Did somebody call me?” Burns said.
Haynes leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, both hands holding his barely tasted drink. His face suddenly seemed to acquire harsher planes and darker shadows. His stare grew bleak and his voice made each word sound like a slap.
“Butt out, Tinker,” Haynes said. “They’re my memoirs now. Steady left them to me in his will. I’m going to auction them off Wednesday. The bidding will start at three quarters of a million. But if you keep messing around, you’ll just fuck things up. So go back to Paris, Tinker. Go home and forget about the memoirs.”
Burns’s old tan couldn’t quite conceal the dark red flush that raced up his neck and spread to his cheeks and ears. “Who the hell’re you to tell me what to do? About anything? Especially Steady. I knew him better and liked him more’n you ever did. But you waltz in here at three in the morning like God’s last messenger, and who the fuck d’you bring with you? Why, it’s Senor Death himself, that’s who.” Burns jerked a thumb at Padillo. “What d’you really know about this guy, Granny?”
“A family friend,” Haynes said.
Burns grunted. “Some fucking family. Some fucking friend.”
“Tell him, Tinker,” Padillo said. “It might lower your blood pressure.”
Burns jumped to his feet and stretched one arm out full length to aim an accusatory finger at Padillo. Haynes thought Burns’s blazing eyes, quivering forefinger, bare feet and long white robe made him look rather biblical—like some ancient prophet with too much time in the wilderness.
“Know who they used to send when they needed somebody fixed?” Burns demanded. “They sent him. That’s who. Michael Padillo, the assassin’s assassin. How many did you fix over the years, Mike? Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred?”
Padillo smiled. “Counting the war?”
Burns opened his mouth to say or shout something. But before he could, Haynes said, “Just answer one question, Tinker. How well do you know the former Muriel Lamphier who’s now Mrs. Hamilton Keyes?”
It was then that Burns warned them to get the fuck out before he called the hotel security people.
In the elevator, Haynes asked, “What was all that assassin stuff?”
“History.”
“Real or invented?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Ask McCorkle.”
