us as Carl. He asked, “May I take your coats?”
We said we’d keep them, and then he addressed Kate. “May I put your briefcase in the coatroom?”
“I’ll carry it.”
He said to her, “For security reasons, I’ll need to look in your briefcase.”
“Forget it.”
This seemed to put him off, and he asked us, “What is the nature of your business with Mr. Madox?”
I said, “Look, Carl, we’re Federal agents, and we don’t submit to searches, and we’re not checking anything, including our guns, and we don’t answer questions, we ask them. You can either take us to see Bain Madox now or we’ll be back with a search warrant, ten more Federal agents, and the state police. How do you want to do this?”
Carl seemed unsure, so he said, “Let me find out.” He left.
Kate whispered in my ear, “Ten bucks says we get in to see the wizard.”
“No, you’re not getting your money back after I bullied him into one choice.”
I took my cell phone out of my pocket, unhooked the beeper from my belt, and turned them both off. I said to Kate, “These things sometimes spook a suspect, or break up an interview at a critical moment.” I informed her, “This is one of the times we’re allowed to kill the beeper.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but…” Reluctantly, she turned off her phone and beeper.
I noticed a large oil painting on the far wall. It was a scene of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, General George Armstrong Custer and his men, surrounded by painted Indians on horseback, and it looked like the Indians were still winning.
I said to Kate, “Did you ever see that painting of Custer’s Last Stand in the Museum of Modern Art?”
“No, did you?”
“I did. It’s sort of abstract, and reminds me of Magritte or Dali.”
She didn’t reply, wondering, I’m sure, how I knew Magritte or Dali, or when I was ever in a museum.
I continued, “The painting shows this fish with a big eye and a halo, floating in air, and underneath the fish are all these Native Americans having sex.”
“What? What does that have to do with Custer’s Last Stand?”
“Well, the painting is titled, Holy Mackerel, Look at All Those Fucking Indians.”
No response.
“Get it? Fish, big eye, halo, holy mackerel, look at-”
“That is the
Carl reappeared and said to us, “Please follow me.”
We followed him down a hallway into what looked like a library, then continued down a few steps into a huge, cathedral-ceilinged room.
At the far end of the room was a big stone fireplace, logs blazing away, and a big moose head over the mantel. I said to Kate, “Hey, there’s your moose head. How did you know?”
Anyway, sitting in a winged chair near the fire was a man. He stood and crossed the big room, and I saw he was wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and a green plaid shirt.
We met halfway, and he extended his hand to Kate, who took it. He said, “I’m Bain Madox, president and owner of this club, and you must be Ms. Mayfield. Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to me, extended his hand, and said, “And you are Mr. Corey.” We shook, and he asked me, “So, how can I help you?”
I remembered my politeness class, and replied, “First, I’d like to thank you for seeing us without an appointment.”
He smiled tightly. “What were my choices?”
“Pretty limited, actually.”
I took stock of Mr. Bain Madox. He was maybe mid-fifties, tall, fit, and not bad-looking. He sported long gray hair swept back from a smooth forehead, and he had a prominent hooked nose and steely gray eyes that hardly blinked. He sort of reminded me of a hawk, or an eagle, and in fact his head jerked now and then like a bird’s.
He also had a cultured voice, as you’d expect, and beyond the outward appearances, I sensed a very cool and confident man.
We looked at each other, trying, I’m sure, to determine who was the real alpha male with the biggest dick.
I said to him, “We need about ten minutes of your time.” Maybe a bit more, but you always say ten. I nodded toward the chairs by the fire.
He hesitated, then said, “Well, you must have had a long journey. Come, have a seat.”
We followed him back across the room, and Carl tagged along.
I could see lots of dead-animal heads on the walls and stuffed birds, which is not politically correct these days, but I was sure that Bain Madox didn’t give a shit. I half expected to see a stuffed Democrat on the wall.
I also noticed a big wooden gun cabinet with glass doors, through which I could see about a dozen rifles and shotguns.
Madox motioned us to two leather wing-back chairs facing him across a coffee table, and we all sat.
Bain Madox, now feeling compelled to be a good host, asked us, “Can I have Carl bring you something? Coffee? Tea?” He motioned toward a glass of amber liquid on the table. “Something stronger?”
Kate, following the procedure for keeping someone sitting longer than they may have wanted to sit and chat, said, “Coffee, please.”
I wanted a scotch, and I could actually smell Madox’s scotch in his glass, which he was drinking straight up; so maybe there really was a problem with the ice maker.
“Mr. Corey?”
“You know, I’m really dying for a latte. Can you do that?”
“Uh…” He looked at Carl and said, “Ask in the kitchen if we can get a latte.”
“Or a cappuccino,” I said. “Even an Americano will do. Maybe a mocha freezie.”
I don’t drink this shit, of course, but we needed some time with Mr. Madox.
Carl left, and I now noticed a dog lying on its side between Madox’s chair and the hearth, sleeping or dead.
Madox informed me, “That’s Kaiser Wilhelm.”
“Looks like a dog.”
He smiled. “It’s a Doberman. Very smart, loyal, strong, and fast.”
“Hard to believe.” I mean, the stupid dog was just lying there, slobbering on the rug, snoring and farting.
Kate said, “He’s a beautiful animal.”
Oh, and it had a boner. I wondered what he was dreaming about. Also, Ms. Mayfield doesn’t think
“So,” asked Mr. Madox, “what can I do for you?”
Normally, Kate and I would have already discussed who was going to lead, and what we were after. However, what we were after-Harry Muller-would tip off Mr. Madox that he was under surveillance, so this limited our questions to the weather and the World Series. On the other hand, maybe Madox already knew he was under surveillance.
“Mr. Corey? Ms. Mayfield?”
I made the decision to follow the example of General Custer and charge ahead, hopefully with better results. I told him, “We’re acting on information that a Federal agent by the name of Harry Muller disappeared in the vicinity of this club, and we believe he may be lost on your property or hurt.” I searched his face for a reaction, but his only expression seemed to be one of concern.
“Here? On this property?”
“Possibly.”
He seemed truly surprised, or he was a good actor. He said to me, “But… as you saw, it’s not easy to get onto this property.”
“He was on foot.”
“Oh? But this property is posted, and surrounded by a security fence.”
