She smiled her indulgent smile.
Did she like a compliment, like the rest of us? Or did she put it in a box, with the rest of my neuroses, neatly labeled? ‘Rick Redman’s compulsive aggrandizement of therapist: overcompensation for lack of parental objects of veneration in anal stage,’ blah, blah.
Who knew? Who cared? Hey, it made me feel better.
Surely that was enough.
48.
I called Butch.
I asked him if he knew about the twins.
Sure, he said. Job one is track down the family. You know that.
Of course. It’s just that their existence seems to be something of a secret. In certain circles, anyway.
Could be. I don’t know about that. But we tracked them down pretty quick.
Okay. You interviewed them, then?
Somebody did.
I meant the institutional you.
Right. Not much there. I heard they and the kid didn’t get along too good. But that’s just hearsay.
Anybody ask where they were that night?
Sure. You always ask.
You do?
We do.
One does.
Right. They were at some club. Some exclusive kind of place.
You know the name of the club?
The White Swallow.
Don’t think I know that one.
I’d be surprised if you did. A little upscale for you, I’d think. Besides, you’re way too old.
Really? I guess you’d be in a position to make that kind of judgment.
Butch laughed. I laughed.
He gave me the address of the club, the name of the owner.
The place wasn’t far away. I grabbed Dorita. We walked over.
When we got to the address, I figured I had written it down wrong. There was no sign proclaiming the existence of a club. The street number was crudely painted on a metal door.
Dorita pointed out that this was exactly what you’d expect to find at an exclusive, known-only-to-the- plugged-in-few dance and debauchery joint.
If you say so, I said.
We knocked.
No answer.
I stepped back from the door. From that vantage, I realized that the crudeness was feigned. The numbers were shaped to resemble a bird in flight. A white bird.
Yep, I said. This is the place.
We knocked again.
The door opened a crack. A small thin man with a pencil mustache peered out. Can I help you? he asked. He had a heavy eastern European accent.
Is Anfernee here? I asked. We have a business proposition for him.
The thin man looked suspicious.
Wait here, he said.
It must have been ten minutes before he returned. Time enough for a smoke, anyway. When he finally came back he opened the door wide.
Come in, he said. Mr. Wallender will see you now.
I wanted to ask him where he’d left his hunchback, but thought better of it. Dorita looked like she wanted to say something similar. Or, knowing her, worse. I jabbed her in the elbow, gave her a stern look. She got the message. Reluctantly.
Igor led us through a maze of black-painted corridors, into a large octagonal room in which a dozen or so heavily sweating workers were variously hammering, sawing, humming and wallpapering under the direction of an elegantly high-strung Cole Porter look-alike. If Cole Porter had had a North African mother. The smoothest milk chocolate skin I had ever seen. An elegant slightly curved nose. A fabulously expensive silk shirt. And an air of absolute entitlement that made his warm, sympathetic brown eyes seem strangely out of place.
Anfernee Wallender thrust out a limp hand, as if to indicate that ring-kissing would not be out of place. I was tempted to crush it with a Manly Squeeze, but refrained, remembering that we wanted information from the guy.
Rick Redman, I said. And this is my colleague, Dorita Reed.
Most pleased to meet you, said Wallender. I understand you have some kind of business proposition for me?
Not exactly. Actually, I just used that to get by your assistant here.
I looked around for Igor, but he seemed to have vanished into the darkness.
Igor. Yes. He’s very protective.
You’re kidding, right?
Kidding?
His name isn’t really Igor, is it?
Sure. It’s like ‘John’ in Russia. Very common.
Wow.
Wallender looked puzzled.
Never mind, I said.
Dorita suppressed a giggle.
I must let you know, said Wallender. As you can see, I’m very preoccupied here. We have to get this room ready for the VIP opening tonight. And there’s a great deal left to be done. If you don’t really have any business to discuss…
He said this in a sincere, apologetic tone. He looked frankly into my eyes. I could feel the pull of the professional facilitator. He aimed to please. You wanted to like him. You wanted to accommodate his needs.
Yes, I said. Sorry about the little ruse. We won’t take much of your time. We’re investigating an incident. We just have a few questions we’d like to ask you.
An incident? he said, raising his eyebrows.
A murder. A homicide.
Good Lord. What could such a thing have to do with me?
Nothing to do with you, I assured him. But maybe something to do with some people you know.
Lucious. I knew I never should have brought him back. What’s he done now?
I don’t know who Lucious is, I said, but I don’t think he’s the person we’re interested in. Do you know Ramon and Raul – I paused involuntarily at the incongruity of the last name – FitzGibbon?
The Fitz brothers! Wallender exclaimed. Of course. They have something to do with this?
His mouth hung open in a convincing show of incredulity.
How is it that you know them? Dorita asked.
I could feel her itching to take over the conversation.
Um, perhaps I should know who you are, Wallender said. Are you with the police?
No, Dorita said. We’re just lawyers.
Oh. Are you representing the Fitzes?
