Slow Squeeze (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 17

  He raised his lip again. “We’re just laying out some plans so she has something to talk to these people about. There’s no money involved.” He took his hand from the wall and twisted the skin where his ring used to be.

  “Where’s your class ring?” Iris asked.

  “I must have lost it when we were playing football.”

  “That’s weird. Why would it just come off like that?”

  “Maybe Barbie stole it from me.” He laughed sarcastically and continued walking up the stairs. The smoker had already gone inside.

  Iris remained standing on the landing.

  Art opened the door and looked down at her. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing. Hey, that’s okay. Soon people are going to be standing in line to kiss my ass. You’ll see.” He went inside.

  “I hope so, Arturo.”

  She walked up the stairs and back to her office. Her phone rang. The display said: A. AMBROSE CALLING.

  “Hi,” Amber said. “Ready to go to the power lunch?”

  “Yeah. Just give me five minutes.”

  Iris slid the ad for Hal’s in front of her and punched in the number for Minnie’s Porch. “Jane…” Iris looked around her desk. “Pad, paddle…book, booker. Jane Booker.”

  “Jack Goins, please.” In the background there was the tinkling sound of silverware and china in use and a low hum of voices peppered with laughter.

  “Hello, Mr. Goins. I’m Jane Booker from Better Mortgages out in Los Angeles. I’m assisting my client, Barbie Stringfellow, in obtaining financing for a residence she’d like to purchase. Do you know Mrs. Stringfellow?”

  His voice was robust. “Of course I know Barbie. She used to own this place with her husband, Hal. Then old Hal passed on and Barbie sold it.”

  “I see. How long did Barbie own the restaurant?”

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly. Happy to find that out for you.”

  “I’m just doing a preliminary report. Can I call you if I need more information?”

  “Be my pleasure.”

  Iris ended the call. “Maybe I am spinning out.” She put the fax and the ad in her desk drawer. “Or maybe Barbie’s smoother than I thought.”

  She got her purse and started to leave to meet Amber. She turned back, got the fax and the ad, folded them in half, and dropped them on Art’s desk on her way out.

  “It’s your baby,” she told him.

  He looked at her and smiled as he balled up the papers and threw them in his wastebasket.

  “Good afternoon,” Barbie sang into the phone.

  “It’s Jack Goins.”

  “Hello, Jack,” Barbie said icily. “Don’t tell me you’re running short again.”

  “Lucky for you, your last payment arrived on time. I just hung up with someone checking on Barbie Stringfellow. You remember Barbie, Hal’s widow?”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman. Said she was Jane Booker with Better Mortgages. You must be doing pretty well if you’re buying a house in L.A.”

  “That woman was lyin’.”

  “It takes one to know one.”

  “How do you keep findin’ out where I am?”

  “You’ve never learned the fine art of discretion. Any private investigator worth his salt could find you. You should be more careful. Whoever else you did dirty to may not be happy with just being repaid, like me. Remember, a cat’s only got nine lives.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Jack. I figure we’re square now. I’ve paid you more than the fifty thousand I borrowed from you.”

  “Borrowed? Is that what you call it?”

  “Of course it was borrowed. I paid you back.”

  “You paid me back, all right, only after I almost wrung your neck. Sorry, my dear, but you still me owe plenty for pain and suffering, especially if you want me to cover your lies for you.”

  “I no longer have any use for your services. Our business relationship is over.”

  “Remember, dear, you can run but you can’t hide.”

  “Good-bye, Jack. And best of luck to you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Iris and Amber walked into the lobby of the Edward Club, whose unceremonious entrance was located off the garage where members once arrived by horse-drawn carriage.

  Amber said, “I’m impressed they sent Garland Hughes out. Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Think he’s in the Dexter mold?”

  “Probably. I think all the wheels in the New York office are cloned.”

  “I heard he just got divorced.”

  “Great. That can only improve his objectivity toward us.”

  The Edward Club’s high-ceilinged lobby was crisscrossed with carved wood beams, each squared-off section decorated with red, green, and gold fleur-de-lis on a midnight blue background. The gray-veined, white marble floor was strewn with floral-patterned Oriental rugs. A tremendous ceramic vase with a tall and wide arrangement of flowers, ferns, and twigs stood on a round table in the middle of the lobby.

  Iris and Amber were spotted by a dark-suited Latino as soon as they entered the lobby.

  Amber spoke under her breath to Iris. “Didn’t they used to have a policy about no women, Jews, blacks, no…you know…as members?”

  “They claim it wasn’t a formal policy. It’s just that no one who wasn’t white-bread male with the appropriate background was ever nominated for membership. The outside world has encroached on the membership a bit.”

  The man energetically walked toward them. “I presume you’re Herbert Dexter’s guests for lunch? Please follow me.”

  They entered an old wood-paneled elevator with brass fixtures that slowly cranked to the second floor. The elevator doors opened onto a corridor illuminated by a brass chandelier with electric candles that had replaced gas jets after it appeared that electricity was going to be more than a passing fad. To the left was a room furnished with brown leather chairs and deep couches, each with its own table and green-shaded lamp. To the right was a room with a long, mahogany bar against one wall. Behind the bar was a beveled-glass mirror with a carved mahogany frame. Small cocktail tables and damask-upholstered sofas and chairs were arranged around the room. A bartender wearing a dark suit was polishing the bar’s gleaming surface.

  Straight ahead were tall double doors opening onto a large, high-ceilinged room with floor-to-ceiling windows dressed with burgundy velour drapes pulled back with gold-tasseled stays. The floor was of intricately patterned inset wood. Round tables appointed with crisp white linen and complete silver, china and crystal place settings were positioned at discreet distances from one another. The diners, mostly men, spoke in subdued tones which lent an aura of conspiracy to the conversations, as if takeovers of corporations or small Third World countries were being planned.

  Their guide walked ahead of them into the room. Iris angled a comment to Amber. “They’re probably into their second martinis. Heard these guys from New York like to drink their lunch.”

  “What do you think we’re going to get from this?” Amber asked.

  “Probably lunch.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  Herbert Dexter was sitting at a table by a window and stood when he spotted them. The other man at the table also stood.

  Dexter made the introductions. “Garland Hughes, this is Amber Ambrose and Iris Thorne.”

  Hughes was of medium height and build, but he looked short standing next to the tall and lanky Dexter. He was fiftyish, trim and energetic. He had a pleasant face that was rubbery and animated. His eyes were round and blue and took in everything. He extended his hand to shake the two women’s. He had a confident, firm, dry grip.

  They sat and a waiter took their drink order. Both women ordered iced tea, which was what Dexter had in front of him. A tall green bottle of mineral water and a glass with ice was in front of Hughes.

  Iris glanced at a basket of rolls and flatbread on the table. The look didn’t go past Garland Hughes
who lifted the basket toward her. She took a whole-grain roll and met his eyes. He held the contact for a beat longer than necessary, a beat that was practically undetectable, so small that Iris thought that maybe she had imagined it, but she blushed slightly anyway as she quickly thanked him and placed the roll on her bread plate.

  Hughes offered the basket to Amber, then casually sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I hate to ruin a nice lunch talking about business, so let’s get our discussion topic out of the way before we enjoy the Edward Club’s fine cuisine.”

  Herbert Dexter leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs as well, and rested one hand on his lap and the other on the table. Amber didn’t make an attempt to disguise her edginess but sat erect in her chair, her ankles crossed, her back washboard straight, her fingers laced tightly in her lap. Iris adopted Dexter’s casual pose, but one leg underneath the tablecloth was in furious motion.

  Hughes continued, “I want you both to know that I don’t consider your allegations regarding our colleague, Bill Drye, to be spurious. I wouldn’t have given it my personal attention otherwise.” He opened his blue eyes wide, looked from Amber to Iris, and allowed the import of his message to sink in.

  “Amber and I appreciate the time you’ve invested,” Iris said.

  “And I appreciate the professional manner in which both of you have approached this issue. Your documentation is very thorough. You’ve presented it through the proper channels and have maintained confidentiality. Your well-being is, of course, our primary consideration. However, the firm’s image is a close second, and I’m pleased to see this demonstration of not only your personal integrity but also your loyalty toward the firm.” He paused and again looked from Amber to Iris. Herb Dexter nodded his concurrence.

  Amber guilelessly asked the question on both her and Iris’s mind. “Are you going to fire him?”

  Hughes pursed his lips thoughtfully and leaned forward onto the table. A few seconds passed before he looked up at Amber. “Over the next few days, Herb and I are going to discuss the best resolution. We hope to come to a decision by next week. Primary among our goals is to reduce the level of trauma to all parties concerned. After a decision is made, you and Iris will be the first to know.”

  He clapped his hands together as if he were breaking a spell. “Enough talk.” He picked up a menu that was lying across his plate. Everyone else followed his lead. The menu was tall, in proportion to the room. “Now the last time I was here, I had the most marvelous John Dory.”

  They ordered. Iris selected a fish fillet, avoiding the linguine special, the Cornish game hens, and anything else that was difficult to maneuver. They talked about current events, movies, books, and business, everyone holding a view but not pressing it too strongly. Iris noticed Hughes casting an occasional glance in her direction, which made her wonder whether, in spite of her best efforts, she was wolfing her food.

  After coffee and dessert, which Iris was going to skip but indulged in anyway, she and Amber thanked the two men and stood to leave. Dexter and Hughes stood too and everyone shook hands. Hughes again held eye contact with Iris for what seemed to be a beat too long, but it was so subtle that she decided she was reading too much into it. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

  When the elevator doors closed and the women were alone, Amber asked, “That’s it?”

  Iris shrugged. “It was lunch.”

  “Aren’t they going to fire Drye?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But they have to.”

  “They don’t have to.”

  “What if they don’t do anything? Do we handle it outside the firm? File charges?”

  “That’s always an option. But we’d have to seriously consider how much our careers are worth to us.”

  “Think so?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Amber was silent.

  “What did you think of Garland Hughes?” Iris asked.

  “He’s not at all what I expected.”

  “Me neither.”

  They walked out of the Edward Club, whose plain facade belied the opulence within, and back into the real world.

  “You mind walking back by yourself?” Iris asked. “I have an errand to run.”

  The Great California Bank was a few blocks away. Iris walked slowly, feeling weighted down by the rich lunch. The bank was in a stately older building. A street man roamed the granite steps that led to the bank’s large doors, his dirty slacks slung obscenely low on his hips. He shook a paper cup at Iris, rattling the few coins at the bottom. Iris found some change in her jacket pocket and dropped it into his cup. He blessed her.

  It was well past the lunch hour and there were few customers in the bank. Iris walked past the teller windows and went to a side counter where nonmoney bank business was transacted.

  Howard spotted Iris as soon as she came in. He was waiting on a customer at the teller window when he looked up and saw her, shooting past her eyes to a point over her shoulder. He made a gesture with his hand to indicate he’d be with her soon.

  Iris smiled and said “Great” through clenched teeth.

  Howard had boyishly disheveled, sandy brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a receding chin that dropped straight from his mouth to his neck, where the field of skin was peppered with old acne scars. His soft, round waistline and pale coloring suggested nights in front of the television with many snacks.

  Iris leaned her back against the counter as she waited and looked out the glass doors at the clouds moving across the sky. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Howard staring at her in that way that made her feel as if he wanted to crawl inside her skin, consume her, put her in a box to be his forever. Quiet, polite Howard gave her the willies. She halfheartedly pasted a pleasant expression onto her face.

  Howard finished with his customer, put a wooden NEXT WINDOW PLEASE sign in his window, and walked over to her.

  She was still leaning against the counter with her back to him, daydreaming. She felt something warm and moist on her hand. Instinctively, she snapped it back. Howard had touched her.

  “Hi, Iris.” He said her name as if it were delicious.

  “Hi, Howard,” she said brightly. She tilted her head in the direction of the street. “Looks like we’re going to get more rain.”

  “Yes.” He was staring at a point to the left of her ear.

  “They say the drought’s finally over. We’ll be able to flush the toilet whenever we want.”

  He nodded and watched her.

  She cleared her throat. “I’d like to get into my safe-deposit box.”

  “Certainly.” He buzzed her into a high-walled cubicle to her right and entered his side from a door behind the counter.

  Iris unzipped her purse, dug her hand inside its bowels, and finally located her key ring with the brass fob. She sorted through the keys.

  “You sure have a lot of keys.”

  “I shouldn’t carry them all. I think it gives me a false sense of security to know I can unlock so many doors.” She chuckled.

  Howard smiled after a delay, not getting it.

  She found the small key embossed with the number 106, separated it from the pack, and handed the key ring to Howard.

  He took it and returned with a long, steel box, which he set heavily on the counter.

  “Thank you.”

  He gave her a final glance from underneath his eyebrows and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Howard?”

  He turned back with a hopeful look in his eyes.

  “How hard would it be for someone other than me to get into this box?”

  “Impossible. If we didn’t know them, we’d verify their signature with the other signatories on the box.”

  “What if they had the key?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said indignantly. “There are important bank procedures that have to be followed.”

  “Just checking. Thanks.”

  He turned and left her alone.

  She
looked at the steel box. Its appearance was unremarkable in relation to the large space it had held in her mind during the past year. She flipped opened the lid.

  “At least I was neat,” she muttered to herself.

  The four hundred thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars were organized by denomination and bound with rubber bands. The neatness made sense. Whenever her life was in shambles, Iris organized the inanimate things around her, the things she could control. She took out a bundle and rifled it with her thumb. The bills were old, wrinkled, and dirty. She unzipped her purse, and shoved in a bundle, then took out two more bundles and shoved them in.

  “Gonna burn this crap,” she said under her breath.

  She stopped, holding a bundle in midair, and shook her head angrily. She took the bundles from her purse and jammed them back into the box.

  “Being paranoid. It’s locked up. She can’t get it.”

  She looked down at the money. “Oh, hell!” she said out loud. She crammed a few bundles back into her purse.

  Whispering again, she said, “Get the rest later. I don’t want it but she’s not getting it either. “

  She stopped and grabbed her hair with both hands. “Chill out,” she exclaimed quietly.

  She took all the bundles from her purse, put them back in the box, and closed the hinged lid.

  “She doesn’t know where I bank. Even if she did, she can’t get into this box. I am going nuts.”

  She peeked her head over the cubicle wall. Howard was counting out cash at a teller window, laying it on the counter in the shape of a fan. The customer was a twentyish woman in a conservative dress who’d probably come down from one of the office buildings. Howard finished counting out her cash, looked up through his eyebrows, and smiled too crookedly and too long at her shoulder. The woman returned a tense smile, clutched her purse to her body, and left quickly.

  Howard brushed perspiration from his upper lip and noticed Iris.

  She waved him over.

  Procedures, huh? Like to see Barbie try a procedure on you.

  Howard entered his side of the cubicle, and she pushed the safe-deposit box across the counter toward him.