He stood, too. “I have a business partner I’ll need to discuss this with.”
“Understood.”
“Jack, if we do business… I don’t want to know any more than what you’ve just told me. I don’t know anything about you and/or your business. As far as I know, you’re a reputable auto parts dealer from Milwaukee.”
“Sure, Lonny. Far as we’re both concerned, a chop shop is a Chinese restaurant.”
He liked that. He laughed. Sincerely.
We shook hands and I left him in his cubbyhole office with his opinions about wholesale theft and the criminal justice system.
I had, I knew, in one stroke established myself with a cover story that was both believable and shady enough to serve my purpose, over these next few days. I had also learned plenty about Lonny Best.
Outside, Angela was waiting with my Sunbird and my keys. I arranged with her to have the car delivered to the Blackhawk Hotel; I had my rental to return. She was helpful and, the sale made, more relaxed, more real.
The sun bathed us, despite the chilly air; her congeniality seemed genuine, and so did her interest in me. My interest in her was pretty abstract. She was a beautiful woman, and I found her attractive and pleasant, but right now I had no plans for my dick except taking the occasional leak.
“I hope to see you again,” she said, warmly, touching my hand.
The little flags flapped overhead.
I glanced around this lot where that dark-blue Buick had sat, just a few days before, the vehicle that had brought death back into my life.
“You will,” I said, and got in the rental.
8
It was only ten minutes from Best Buy Buick to Paul Revere Square; I turned off Kimberly Road onto Jersey Ridge, a funeral home off to my right, and pulled in at the left, between the brick pillars, the wrought-iron gates standing open, as if welcoming me to a private estate.
Paul Revere Square was an ersatz slice of New England plopped along the frontage of Kimberly Road, a sprawling commercial strip on the western edge of the Cities, connecting Davenport and Moline. Mostly Kimberly was middle-class mini-malls, and franchise restaurants with “Mister” in their names; but Paul Revere Square seemed to cry out, “The wealthy are coming.”
I parked my rental job in the side lot and walked toward the courtyard square where wooden signs extended from buildings on wrought iron, swinging in the gentle chilly breeze, and lampposts lit up the overcast afternoon with yellow electric lights that pretended to be gas. Despite the efforts to look old, these brick buildings were new, the mortar barely dry, and a good many of the storefronts had yet to be filled. Saturday afternoon or not, there weren’t many people wandering the courtyard of shops, though those who were were well-dressed.
Several handsome fortyish women in mink jackets over slacks outfits wandered into a shop where, a glance in the window informed me, fancy dresses were displayed on the walls like museum pieces.
Two- and three-story brick buildings-an anomaly on this commercial stretch where low-slung and cheaply built was the standard-loomed on the periphery, making me feel more like I was in a fortress than a mall. Of course, this wasn’t just a mall; various medical specialists kept offices here, and Butterworth Tours, E.F. Hutton, several insurance firms, a massive bank. Building A, for instance, numbered among its occupants the Obstetrics and Gynecology Group, and Slices and Scoops. The latter had nothing to do with either obstetrics or gynecology: it was a deli restaurant with “home-made” pie. I ate lunch there. So did several pregnant women.
Just after one o’clock, I wandered into Ridge Real Estate World, on a lower level around the corner from the courtyard shops. I found myself in a waiting room where cream carpet and cream walls set a soothing tone, and a large elaborately framed picture of George Ridge, the company founder, was the dominant wall decoration. The wall was otherwise covered with plaques various civic and mercantile groups had awarded to Ridge and/or his company. A good number seemed to have to do with public speaking; several were from the Toastmasters, for instance.
I stood and stared at the picture of Ridge for a good long time, and finally I heard a pleasant voice say, “Could I be of help?”
She was brunette and she was petite and she was attractive; she wasn’t as attractive as Angela back at Best Buy, but this woman, too, had most likely been a cheerleader and/or a beauty queen, only somewhat more recently than Angela. She had money-green eyes and too much make-up and a forced, sparkling white smile. She also wore a blazer: a blue one with a RIDGE crest over a white frilly blouse.
This, apparently, was my day to encounter attractive women-in-blazers.
I put on a smile and walked over to the desk. “I had an appointment with Mr. Ridge,” I said.
I thought that would send her scurrying to a desk drawer for her appointment book, but she only smiled and shook her head. “You must be mistaken,” she said.
I took off the smile, put on a concerned, confused look. “I don’t think that’s possible. My secretary called…”
“Mr. Ridge is out of the country. I’m sorry if there’s been a mix-up.”
“I see. Where is Mr. Ridge, exactly?”
Her smile tightened. “He’s in Canada. Giving a seminar. He will be back Tuesday, however.”
“And available?”
“Yes. I can probably make an appointment for you, for then.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I dug for my billfold in my inside suitcoat pocket, removed a business card. “My name is Ryan, and I’m president of the company. I’m sorry for the confusion I’ve caused.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Ryan,” she said, coldly pleasant. “And might I ask the nature of your business with Mr. Ridge?”
“I’d like to invest some money,” I said.
Her smile disappeared; she didn’t frown, but she definitely was not smiling.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.
Why?
“Well,” I said, “I really would prefer to discuss it with Mr. Ridge.”
Her eyes narrowed and she kept them narrowed as she examined the business card. Then she stood and twitched her cold pleasant smile and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Certainly,” I said.
She left the reception area and I glanced around some more, wondering why anyone in a real estate office would be confused that I wanted to invest. But then this was the damnedest real estate office I’d ever seen. It was more like a doctor’s reception area, or a lawyer’s. Where were the prominently posted photos of houses with their detailed listings? Where were the eager-beaver agents, in their fucking blue blazers, scurrying after my (after anybody’s) business?
Nothing here but this big fat gilt-framed photo of George Ridge, and an attractive, icy receptionist. I walked over to look toward where she’d gone; down to the left was a hallway off of which were a few offices. The place smelled new, smelled of money, yet it was small for a real estate operation, particularly one that had (as the late Mr. Werner had told me) made George Ridge a millionaire.
Finally she came back, a small woman with a nice body under that blazer and skirt, not that I cared. She gave me the phony smile and a hard appraising look from the money-green eyes.
“Mr. Janes will see you,” she said.
I gave her a phony smile back. “And who is Mr. Janes?”
“He’s a vice president with the company. He’ll be able to help you.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Ridge.”
“He’s out of the country.”
“Who’s on first?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Janes. Point me to him.”
