“What’s on your mind, Dick?” I asked him.
“No need to be so abrupt, old boy. After all, I’m simply a reporter doing a job in the public interest, and if you’ve been following the papers, all this activity certainly is in the public interest. We have a reactivated Barrin Industries, a motion picture being made on the premises, a new spirit coming alive in a town supposedly dead, and for those close to the scene, a specter of doom hovering over the new enterprise in the form of Mr. Cross McMillan. The splash, when it comes, will certainly be newsworthy.”
“Only in the local papers, Dick.”
“Ah, but we have you, Dog. The great unknown. That is, until now.”
Sharon twisted in her seat, her face gone tight. “What does he mean, Dog?”
I shrugged.
Lagen said, “Shall I tell her, Mr. Kelly?”
“Why not? Just make sure you can document the answers.” I turned and looked at him and whatever he saw on my face tightened him up like a bowstring. His tongue licked across lips suddenly gone dry, but he had pushed it thus far and he had to go the rest of the way. His eyes flicked toward the burly chauffeur standing under the umbrella fifty feet away talking to one of the local cops and the reassurance came back into his face with subtle relief.
“You may even be vain enough to document them yourself, Dog.”
“I’ve been known to do that,” I said.
“Dog...”
“At ease, baby, let the man talk.”
“Thank you,” Lagen said. I caught the tone. He thought he had the heavy bat and was up against a weak pitcher. He was rolling the bones with the odds all on his side and savoring the moment for all it was worth. “I mentioned before I was making inquiries about you, Mr. Kelly.”
“Don’t be so damn formal, Dick. Keep it Dog.”
“Very well.” He paused and handed me another cigarette. “Perhaps you wouldn’t like the young lady to hear all this.”
“If it’s public information, why not?”
“Sharon?”
The worry was plain in her eyes, but I shrugged. “Go ahead,” I said.
“May I refer to my notes?”
“By all means.”
Lagen took out a small notebook, flipped open the cover and glanced at it. The whole damn thing was an act, but I couldn’t care less. He said, “In 1946 you took your discharge in England, preferring to stay there rather than return to the States.”
“True.” I dragged on the butt and it tasted good. Sharon was watching me, her eyes shielded.
“You had a friend who was a mathematical, and a financial, genius.”
“Quite true. Rollie had a flair for business.”
“But no money.”
“He was destitute at the time, to be precise.”
“However,” Lagen continued without interruption, “Roland Holland accepted a gratuity from
“Legitimately,” I said.
“Indubitably. However, he observed his obligations of unwritten partnership and transferred funds to his benefactor, who, in turn, used this wealth to go into business activities that were ... shall we say, not quite legitimate.”
“Why don’t we lay it on the line and say it was crooked?” I said.
“Good. Crooked. His partner engaged in black market operations that gained him a gigantic independent fortune, but at the same time involved him with the most nefarious group of criminals Europe ever produced.” Lagen looked at me, saw me sitting there blowing smoke rings at the cream-colored roof and sat back, satisfied that the play was all in his hands.
“There’s an evolution to this,” he continued. “Crime begets crime. Black marketing of medicines begets black marketing of cigarettes, then it’s gun running and finally into the ultimate of all criminal activities, trafficking in drugs.”
“You missed the ultimate,” I said.
“Murder?”
“Call it killing and that’s the ultimate,” I told him.
“Ah.”
“Don’t be so smug. Off the record, do you deny these things?”
“On the record. No.”
“Have you killed?”
I blew another smoke ring. “Why sure.”
“You’re awfully complacent.”
It was too bad he couldn’t read me at all. So I let him go on.
“The head of the biggest European criminal operation,” he said. “And you came home. Death and destruction have followed in your wake.”
“Shit, man,” I said, “Stop waxing poetic. You’re writing a column, remember?”
“No, it is yet to be written. I am simply gathering my facts together. Incidentally, how am I doing?”
“Beautifully,” I said.
“There were incidents in New York, there were incidents here.... All checked with the police,” Lagen said. “The handiwork of an expert.”
“How about that?”
“Foresighted and clever,” he mused. “But there is more to come. I am waiting for the final kill.”
“Then you pounce?”
“With gusto,” Lagen told me.
“Who does the killing?”
“They who are waiting for all those millions of dollars in a heroin shipment that you have, er ... pirated?”
“You’re off your rocker, columnist.”
“Any rebuttal, Mr. Kelly?”
I finished the cigarette, wound the window down again and tossed the butt outside. The cop and his chauffeur looked back a second, then resumed their conversation.
“No rebuttal,” I said. “I just want to hear your tag line.”
Lagen smiled, a small enigmatic smile, looked at Sharon, then back to me and said, “Somehow she’s a catalytic agent. When you’re spoiled, I want to see you soured completely.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I may.”
“What, for me to be killed?”
“Exactly. I know other things too.”
“And you don’t want me forewarned, therefore fore-armed?”
“Naturally not.”
“Spoken like a good reporter,” I said. “Anything for a story.”
“Do you blame me?”
I gave him another terrible smile and watched him draw up inside himself. I opened the door, got out and opened the door for Sharon. She grabbed her folder, snaked out into the rain and got behind me while I looked inside the big, black Cadillac and let him see all my teeth again.
“Naturally not,” I said.
We waited there until he waved his chauffeur back in and drove away, the rain slashing down at us, then Sharon took my hand, drew me off toward the barricade where the spectators were still waiting and stood there beside me without saying anything at all.
