He put out his hand and we shook. "Deal," he said. "But, uh, hey. You mind if I ask you something?"
"I guess not. Doesn't seem like it's possible to keep a lot of secrets in this town."
"Ain't that the truth?" he said. "What about you and the Berryhill kid? The other night. After I got myself shit-faced, the two of you dropped me at my place. You even put me to bed, right?"
I looked away, sensing what was coming. "That's right. Shirlene took your car back to her place."
"And what happened after that? Between you and Tee Berryhill? I mean, it's a damned fact that he's got the hots for you in a major way."
"What makes you think anything happened?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
Jimmy howled like a lovesick bassett hound. "I knew it. I'm passed out drunk in the bed and he snakes my girl right out from under me."
I gave Jimmy a playful punch on the arm. "Jimmy Maynard, you and I know that I am not your girl. You don't even really want me to be. I don't want to be mean about it, but you said it yourself. You're too old for me."
He laughed good-naturedly. "Well, hell, since you put it that way, I guess you're right. I reckon I'm just like the dog that chases cars because he can. He don't stop to consider what'd happen if he ever caught one."
"Well, maybe you need to consider chasing a car that's more vintage appropriate," I told him. "And speaking of which, Shirlene stopped by to see me the day after your, uh, accidental alcohol overdose," I said.
"Awww, hell," he said. "I bet she gave you chapter and verse about what a bad boy Jimmy Maynard is."
"Not at all. Of course, I didn't realize when we met at the club that you two had once been married."
He sighed. "Ancient history."
"Not that ancient. You know, I think she mostly came over here to check me out-to see just how involved I was with you."
"Oh yeah?" He looked at me sideways. "What'd you tell her?"
"The truth. That we were just pals. And that I intended to keep it that way."
"Gotcha," Jimmy said, trying to look sad. I was not convinced. "I bet she told you you were smart to steer clear of me."
"Not exactly. What she did say was that marrying Wayne Peppers was the biggest mistake of her life."
"She told you that?"
I crossed my heart with my forefinger, and just as I did, the bib of my overalls started to ring. I dug out the cell phone and looked at the readout screen. government caller, it said.
"Excuse me, Jimmy," I said, and I turned and went back inside the house.
"Miss Killebrew?" The caller was Camerin Allgood. Now they were tag-teaming me.
"Hello, Agent Allgood," I said coolly, walking rapidly back to the kitchen. "I understand you met my father."
"He told you that, did he?"
"Bringing my father into this was totally unnecessary," I said. "And I don't appreciate it. At all."
"Understood."
She was a cool customer, I'd give her that. Unflappable. I wished I could be unflappable.
"You're looking for a phone number for Alex Hodder?"
"Yes. Neither of the numbers I have is working. I thought you people could probably get me a number for him."
Silence. Nothing. I could hear the wheels turning under that blond hair of hers.
"We might be able to do that," she said finally. "What did you have in mind?"
"I have in mind to call Alex and set up a meeting so we can get the proof you people need to put him in jail and my life back together again. That's what I had in mind."
So much for unflappable. I was more like unglued. I walked over to the counter and poured another three fingers of Jack Daniel's over the half-melted ice cubes in my tumbler. I knocked back half of it in one big swig.
"Miss Killebrew? This is what we were afraid of. You seem like a very emotional young woman. The SAC and I would like to sit down with you before you contact Mr. Hodder. We can coach you, give you some scenarios that might work."
"Emotional?" I said. "You think? This is my life we're talking about here, Agent Allgood. In case Agent Harrell didn't fill you in on the conversation we had yesterday, I'll repeat the gist of it for you. I'm going to do what you want. I'm going to set up a meeting with Alex Hodder. At that point, you can feel free to coach me, or give me scenarios or a printed script."
I downed the rest of the icy whiskey. And down deep in my gut, I felt a warm calm wash upward and spill over into my frontal lobe. I was aware that it was only a temporary, alcohol-induced state, but I didn't care. I was suddenly, magically, in control.
"And, Agent Allgood?" I said sweetly. "You can get us on video or film or satellite dish for all I care. But this is a one-shot deal, as far as I'm concerned. My lawyer is going to draw up an agreement, and you people and the rest of your gang at the Justice Department had better get on board. I want an agreement that in return for my full cooperation, no charges will be pursued against me."
"That's not how it works," she sputtered. "The U.S. attorney may agree to draft something, but-"
"All or nothing," I said. "But I'm going to need that phone number so I can get the ball rolling on my end."
She sighed, and then she gave me the number.
"We'll want to set up the meeting in D.C.," she said urgently. "Someplace public, where we can get clear access with our equipment. We'll fly you up a few days early, go through some possible scenarios. You'll have to get Hodder to be very explicit in admitting his role in the public-corruption charges. We wouldn't expect you to get him to admit to the bribes, but we would like to tie in Licata's vote on the oil bills. And speaking of which, it would be good to get Congressman Licata-"
"Good-bye, Agent Allgood," I said. "I'll be in touch as soon as I know something. And one more thing. Stay the hell away from my family."
I clicked the phone shut. I picked up the Jack Daniel's bottle and kissed the black label with an exaggerated smack. "My hero."
Even though my buddy Jack Daniel had my back, I was still uneasy about making the phone call and setting my plan in action. So I stalled. I boiled some eggs, diced them, and mixed them up with some mayonnaise and sweet-pickle relish. Egg salad. This was about the extent of my culinary repertoire. I'd had a roommate in college who swore she couldn't study without an egg salad sandwich, so I'd learned to make them by default. I slathered more mayonnaise on two slices of mushy white bread, slapped the sandwich together, and then cut it into four neat squares, which I placed on a plate. I fished a can of Coke out of the fridge, and poured it over a glass of ice.
I put the meal on an aluminum tray painted with garish white and green magnolia blossoms, and added a paper napkin and the salt shaker. I was just about to head down the hall to Ella Kate's room when I heard a slow, deliberate thump coming from that direction.
Thump. Slide. Thump. Slide. I held my breath, waiting for her to make her way to the kitchen.
I busied myself with making a sandwich for myself, augmented with slices of bread-and-butter pickle. I popped a Diet Coke and sipped a little. I hoped I wouldn't lose my buzz.
She thumped and slid her walker into the kitchen. Her face was pale, with a thin sheen of perspiration. She was still wearing the green hospital scrubs, now accessorized with a pair of slip-on disposable surgical booties.
"I made you some lunch," I said, pointing to the tray. "I was going to bring it to your room."
"Never mind," Ella Kate said. She held on to the walker with one hand, and tried to lift the tray with the other, but it wobbled precariously, slopping Coke over onto the tray.
"Let me help," I said, picking up the tray. "Do you feel like eating here in the kitchen, or shall I take the tray back to your room?"
I could tell she hated taking anything from me, especially assistance. But she was nearly helpless, and we both knew it.
"I'll eat here," she said finally, bumping the walker over toward the table. She grasped the back of the high-backed oak chair and gritted her teeth in concentration while trying to slide it back and away from the table without losing her balance.
I wanted to help, but knew it was the last thing she wanted from me. She swayed a little, then managed to lower herself onto the seat of the chair. Wordlessly, I slid the tray in front of her.
"I'll come back when you're done," I said, and I fled upstairs, to my own room, and my own impossible task. I sat on the edge of my bed and willed myself to get on with it.
I'd written Alex's number on the back of my hand. I punched in the number and held my breath. He picked up after two rings.
"Christ!" he said. "Dempsey? How the hell did you get this number?"
I'd imagined all kinds of opening lines to and from him, but this was one I hadn't thought about. I decided to go with the truth.
"Alex? Are you all right? Look, I'm sorry, but I got your number from the FBI, because the last number you called me from was blocked."
"The FBI! Christ."
"I know. It's unbelievable. Look, Alex. We really need to talk."
"I can't go into that right now," he said, his voice lowered. "I'll have to call you back. I'm in a meeting here."
"That's what I need to talk to you about," I said, deliberately letting a note of panic creep into my voice. "We need to meet, Alex. It's really, really important. These FBI agents keep showing up down here. They won't leave me alone. They even went to see my dad, at his office in Miami."
"What do they want with you?"
"What do you think they want?" I said coyly.
"I can't go into it right now," he repeated. I could tell he probably really was in some kind of meeting, but I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily.
"Okay. I'll call you back. Will ten minutes give you enough time?"
"No!" he said sharply. "Let me have my secretary call you, and we'll slot a time to have that discussion."
His secretary? How damn dumb did he think I was? Oh. Yeah. That's right. In Alex Hodder's book I was the intellectual equal of a potted geranium. It made me so mad I could feel my toes curling in their slightly oversize Chuck Taylors. I gripped the cell phone so tightly my fingertips went white.
I wanted to tell him to have his alleged secretary slot him a time to go directly to hell.
From downstairs I heard the slow, methodical plunk, slide, of Ella Kate, making her agonizingly slow journey back to her room. I wanted to throw the phone down and run to her aid. Because she was helpless, right? But not so helpless she didn't have me twisted around her little finger again. Helpless was good. Helpless was effective.
I breathed in and then breathed out, and the Jack Daniel's fumes reminded me of my mission here. I uncurled my toes, and then I relaxed my hold on the cell phone.
"Dempsey? I'll have my secretary give you a call, all right?"
"No!" I cried. "Alex, I don't know what to do. My lawyer says I should just hand it over to the feds and be done with it, but I'm afraid. I don't trust them. But they're saying I could get fifteen years in prison. Prison! And I'd be disbarred. I wish I'd never shown that stupid golf scorecard to anybody. I should have just thrown it away."
"Dempsey," he said sternly. "What the hell are you talking about? What scorecard?"
"Alex, it's your golf scorecard. Remember, when we were down in the Bahamas, with Congressman Licata? You wanted me to arrange to have a massage for Tony, so you wrote the woman's phone number down on the back of your scorecard. And you gave it to me. Remember? I'd forgotten all about it, but then I found it again. That's what my lawyer wants me to hand over to the FBI."
"The scorecard...?" Alex's voice, always so strong and confident, cracked a little. It was starting to dawn on him.
"From Lyford Cay," I added. "You and Tony only played twelve holes because Tony said his back was hurting him. Let's see. You birdied the third and fifth holes. But, oh, wow, I don't know a lot about golf, but it looks to me like Tony sucks pretty bad. He shot a seven three holes in a row! Okay, Alex," I said. "I know you're super busy. Just ask your secretary to call me as soon as possible, please?"
I punched the disconnect button. I threw myself backward on my bed and kicked my legs and thrashed my arms up and down to get the blood flowing again. I was back in the game.
51.
According to my Piaget, exactly eleven minutes had passed when my cell phone rang again. I checked the caller ID and saw that Alex was calling me from a blocked number again. He was rattled, all right.
"Hello?" I said it tenuously. "Is that you, Alex?"
"Dempsey? I'm sorry to have been short with you before. I've been in meetings all morning with a new client, and I just really couldn't afford to blow them off at the drop of a hat."
"A new client? How nice," I said.
"My only client, at the moment," he said. "As you can imagine, this whole damned Hoddergate deal has had a disastrous effect on my business."
It hadn't exactly been great for my own life, I thought. At least Alex had a business. And a house, and a car, and a rich wife...
"I can only imagine," I said, struggling to sound sympathetic. "Reporters are pigs. That woman from the Washington Post, I could just wring her neck."
"That bitch," he ranted. "Shalani something. You can't tell me this isn't a race thing. In fact, this whole thing is just a liberal-media witch hunt. It's no accident that Tony Licata is a Republican, and the most senior member of the New Jersey delegation. If the Democrats can get him thrown out of office-"
"Alex?" I said meekly. "I'm really worried."
"Yeah," he said abruptly. "Look, Dempsey, that scorecard you mentioned. I don't know what you think it means, but I can assure you, you've got things all mixed up. Why would your lawyer want you to give it to the FBI?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about, Alex," I said. "I just don't really know where to turn. He's telling me one thing, and the FBI is telling me something else, and I can't sleep at night, worrying about it. And then I found the scorecard from Lyford Cay. It was in the pocket of my bathrobe, Alex. Remember, that night, you came up to my hotel room, and we were supposed to go to dinner together, but then you said Tony wanted a massage. I was really looking forward to that dinner," I said sadly. "I had a new dress and everything, you know? I still have it. It's hanging in the closet here in this dump where I'm living, and the price tag is still on it and everything."
"Dempsey!" Alex said. "I have no memory of any of this nonsense you're talking about at Lyford Cay. It's unfortunate that you took it upon yourself to hire those women, but it has nothing to do with me, and we both know it."
I sighed deeply. Dramatically even. "All right, Alex. I guess the weekend didn't mean as much to you as it did to me. But I was sure that golf game meant a lot to you. I mean, you even signed the scorecard! I guess you were pretty excited about the first nine holes, shooting a thirty-two and everything. The second half didn't go as well, but if I were you, I'd still want to save that scorecard. Especially because of that phone number you wrote on the back. You won't believe this, Alex, but after I found the scorecard, I called the number. Guess what? Tiki Finesse still has the same number and everything. I guess she's sort of a local celebrity down there now. Her hourly rates have gone way up."
I could hear shallow breathing from the other end of the line. "Alex? Are you still there?"
"I'm here," he said sourly. "What do you want?"
"I'm not even sure," I wailed. "I'm just really confused. I'm broke, and my father isn't even speaking to me because of this whole mess. I'm stuck down here in this hellhole of a town. I can't work-I mean, who'd hire me?"