“Goddamn, did I! The robbery I could take, but what they did to the apartment! And the car!” Matlock headed toward the Hogshead Tavern with Jeff Kramer. “That’s why I’m in town. Got the Triumph in a garage here. That’s my problem, as a matter of fact.”
The hunted not only had antennae which served to warn the host of its enemies, but also the uncanny—if temporary—ability to turn disadvantage into advantage. Conceivable liabilities into positive assets.
Matlock sipped his bourbon and water while Kramer went through half his Scotch in several swallows. “The idea of a bus down to Scarsdale, with changes at New Haven and Bridgeport, defeats me.”
“Rent a car, for Christ’s sake.”
“Just tried two places. The first can’t let me have one until tonight, the second not until tomorrow. Some kind of convention, I guess.”
“So wait until tonight.”
“Can’t do it. Family business. My father called his council of economic advisers. For dinner—and if you think I’m going to Scarsdale without my own wheels, you’re out of it!” Matlock laughed and ordered another round of drinks. He reached into his pocket and put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar. The bill had to attract the attention of Jeff Kramer, who had such an expensive wife.
“Never thought you could balance a checkbook, say nothing of being an economic adviser.”
“Ah, but I’m the prince royal. Can’t forget that, can we?”
“Lucky bastard, that’s what I can’t forget. Lucky bastard.”
“Hey! I’ve got one hell of an idea. Your car in town?”
“Hey, wait a minute, good buddy.…”
“No, listen.” Matlock took out his bills. “The old man’ll pay for it.… Rent me your car. Four or five days.… Here. I’ll give you two, three hundred.”
“You’re nuts!”
“No, I’m not He wants me down. He’ll pay!”
Matlock could sense Kramer’s mind working. He was estimating the cost of a low-priced rent-a-car for a week. Seventy-nine fifty and ten cents a mile with an average daily mileage of, perhaps, fifteen or twenty. Tops, $105, and maybe $110, for the week.
Kramer had that expensive wife and those two very expensive kids in extremely expensive prep schools.
“I wouldn’t want to take you like that.”
“Not me! Christ, no. Him!”
“Well …”
“Here, let me write out a bill. I’ll give it to him the minute I get there.” Matlock grabbed a cocktail napkin and turned it over to the unprinted side. He took out his ballpoint pen and began writing. “Simple contract.… I, James B. Matlock, agree to pay Jeffrey Kramer three hundred’… what the hell, it’s his money … ‘four hundred dollars for the rental of his …’—what’s the make?”
“Ford wagon. A white Squire. Last year’s.” Kramer’s eyes alternately looked at the napkin and the roll of bills Matlock carelessly left next to Kramer’s elbow on the bar.
“ ‘Ford Wagon, for a period of’ … let’s say one week, O.K.?”
“Fine.” Kramer drank the remainder of his second Scotch.
“ ‘One week.… Signed, James B. Matlock!’ There you are, friend. Countersign. And here’s four hundred. Courtesy of Jonathan Munro. Where’s the car?”
The hunted’s instincts were infallible, thought Matlock, as Kramer pocketed the bills and wiped his chin, which had begun to perspire. Kramer removed the two car keys and the parking lot ticket from his pocket. True to Matlock’s anticipation. Jeff Kramer wanted to part company. With his four hundred dollars.
Matlock said he would phone Kramer in less than a week and return the automobile. Kramer insisted on paying for the drinks and rapidly left the Hogshead Tavern. Matlock, alone, finished his drink and thought out his next move.
The hunted and the hunter were now one.
24
He sped out Route 72 toward Mount Holly in Kramer’s white station wagon. He knew that within the hour he would find another pay telephone and insert another coin and make another call. This time to one Howard Stockton, owner of the Carmount Country Club. He looked at his watch; it was nearly eight thirty. Samuel Sharpe, attorney at law, should have reached Stockton several hours ago.
He wondered how Stockton had reacted. He wondered about Howard Stockton.
The station wagon’s headlights caught the reflection of the road sign.
MOUNT HOLLY. INCORPORATED 1896
And just beyond it, a second reflection.
MOUNT HOLLY ROTARY
HARPER’S REST
TUESDAY NOON
ONE MILE
Why not? thought Matlock. There was nothing to lose. And possibly something to gain, even learn.
The hunter.
The white stucco front and the red Narragansett neons in the windows said all there was to say about Harper’s cuisine. Matlock parked next to a pickup truck, got out, and locked the car. His newly acquired suitcase with the newly acquired clothes lay on the back seat. He had spent several hundred dollars in Hartford; he wasn’t about to take a chance.
He walked across the cheap, large gravel and entered the bar area of Harper’s Restaurant.
“I’m on my way to Carmount,” said Matlock, paying for his drink with a twenty-dollar bill. “Would you mind telling me where the hell it is?”
“About two and a half miles west. Take the right fork down the road. You got anything smaller than a twenty? I only got two fives and singles. I need my singles.”
“Give me the fives and we’ll flip for the rest. Heads you keep it, tails I have one more and you still keep it.” Matlock took a coin from his pocket and threw it on the formica bar, covering it with his hand. He lifted his palm and picked up the coin without showing it to the bartender. “It’s your unlucky night. You owe me a drink—the ten’s yours.”
His conversation did not go unheeded by the other customers—three men drinking draft beer. That was fine, thought Matlock, as he looked around for a telephone.
“Men’s room’s in the rear around the corner,” said a rustic-looking drinker in a chino jacket, wearing a baseball cap.
“Thanks. Telephone around?”
“Next to the men’s room.”
“Thanks again.” Matlock took out a piece of paper on which he had written: Howard Stockton, Carmount C.C., #203-421-1100. He gestured for the bartender, who came toward him like a shot. “I’m supposed to phone this guy,” said Matlock quietly. “I think I got the name wrong. I’m not sure whether it’s Stackton or Stockton. Do you know him?”
The bartender looked at the paper and Matlock saw the instant reflex of recognition. “Sure. You got it right. It’s Stockton. Mr. Stockton. He’s vice-president of the Rotary. Last term he was president. Right, boys?” The bartender addressed this last to his other customers.
“Sure.”
“That’s it. Stockton.”
“Nice fella.”
The man in the chino jacket and baseball cap felt the necessity of elaborating. “He runs the country club. That’s a real nice place. Real nice.”
“Country club?” Matlock implied the question with a trace of humor.
“That’s right. Swimming pool, golf course, dancing on the weekends. Very nice.” It was the bartender who elaborated now.
“I’ll say this, he’s highly recommended. This Stockton, I mean.” Matlock drained his glass and looked toward the rear of the bar. “Telephone back there, you say?”
“That’s right, Mister. Around the corner.”
Matlock reached into his pocket for some change and walked to the narrow corridor where the rest rooms and telephone were located. The instant he rounded the corner, he stopped and pressed himself against the wall. He listened for the conversation he knew would be forthcoming.
“Big spender, huh?” The bartender spoke.
“They all are. Did I tell you? My kid caddied there a couple of weeks ago—some guy got a birdie and give the kid a fifty-dollar bill. Che-ryst! Fifty dollars!”
“My old wom
an says all them fancy dames there are whoores. Real whoores. She works a few parties there, my old woman does. Real whoores.…”
“I’d like to get my hands on some of them. Jee-sus! I swear to Christ most of ’em got no brazzieres!”
“Real whoores.…”
“Who gives a shit? That Stockton’s O.K. He’s O.K. in my book. Know what he did? The Kings. You know, Artie King who had a heart attack—dropped dead doin’ the lawns up there. Old Stockton not only give the family a lotta dough—he set up a regular charge account for ’em at the A&P. No shit. He’s O.K.”
“Real whoores. They lay for money.…”
“Stockton put most of the cash up for the grammar school extension, don’t forget that. You’re fuckin’ right, he’s O.K. I got two kids in that school!”
“Not only—y’know what? He give a pocketful to the Memorial Day picnic.”
“Real, honest-to-Christ whoores.…”
Matlock silently sidestepped his way against the wall to the telephone booth. He closed the door slowly with a minimum of noise. The men at the bar were getting louder in their appreciation of Howard Stockton, proprietor of the Carmount Country Club. He was not concerned that they might hear his delayed entrance into the booth.
What concerned him in an odd way was himself. If the hunted had instincts—protective in nature—the hunter had them also—aggressive by involvement. He understood now the necessity of tracking the scent, following the spoor, building a fabric of comprehensive habit. It meant that the hunter had abstract tools to complement his weapons. Tools which could build a base of entrapment, a pit in which the hunted might fall.
He ticked them off in his mind.
Howard Stockton: former president, current vice-president of the Mount Holly Rotary; a charitable man, a compassionate man. A man who took care of the family of a deceased employee named Artie King; who financed the extension of a grammar school. The proprietor of a luxurious country club in which men gave fifty-dollar tips to caddies and girls were available for members in good standing. Also a good American who made it possible for the town of Mount Holly to have a fine Memorial Day picnic.
It was enough to start with. Enough to shake up Howard Stockton if—as Sammy Sharpe had put it—“it came to that.” Howard Stockton was not the formless man he was fifteen minutes ago. Matlock still didn’t know the man’s features, but other aspects, other factors were defined for him. Howard Stockton had become a thing in Mount Holly, Connecticut.
Matlock inserted the dime and dialed the number of the Carmount Country Club.
“It suhtainly is a pleasure, Mr. Matlock!” exclaimed Howard Stockton, greeting Matlock on the marble steps of the Carmount Country Club. “The boy’ll take your car. Heah! Boy! Don’t wrap it up, now!”
A Negro parking attendant laughed at his southern gentleman’s command. Stockton flipped a half-dollar in the air and the black caught it with a grin.
“Thank you, suh!”
“Treat ’em good, they’ll treat you good. That right, boy? Do I treat you good?!”
“Real good, Mister Howard!”
Matlock thought for a moment that he was part of an odious television commercial until he saw that Howard Stockton was the real item. Right up to his grayish blond hair, which topped a sun-tanned face, which, in turn, set off his white moustache and deep blue eyes surrounded by crow’s nests of wrinkles belonging to a man who lived well.
“Welcome to Carmount, Mr. Matlock. It’s not Richmond, but on the other hand, it ain’t the Okefenokee.”
“Thank you. And the name is Jim.”
“Jim? Like that name. It’s got a good, honest ring to it! My friends call me Howard. You call me Howard.”
The Carmount Country Club, what he could see of it, reminded Matlock of all those pictures of antebellum architecture. And why not, considering the owner? It was rife with potted palms and delicate chandeliers and light blue toile wallpaper depicting rococo scenes in which cavorted prettified figures in powdered wigs. Howard Stockton was a proselytizer of a way of life which had collapsed in 1865, but he wasn’t going to admit it. Even the servants, mostly black, were in liveries—honest-to-god liveries, knickers and all. Soft, live music came from a large dining room, at the end of which was a string orchestra of perhaps eight instruments gracefully playing in a fashion long since abandoned. There was a slowly winding staircase in the center of the main hall which would have done honor to Jefferson Davis—or David O. Selznick. Attractive women were wandering around, linked with not-so-attractive men.
The effect was incredible, thought Matlock, as he walked by his host’s side toward what his host modestly claimed was his private library.
The southerner closed the thick paneled door and strode to a well-stocked mahogany bar. He poured without asking a preference.
“Sam Sharpe says you drink sour mash. You’re a man of taste, I tell you that. That’s my drink.” He carried two glasses to Matlock. “Take your pick. A Virginian has to disarm a northerner with his complete lack of bias these days.”
“Thank you,” said Matlock, taking a glass and sitting in the armchair indicated by Stockton.
“This Virginian,” continued Howard Stockton, sitting opposite Matlock, “also has an unsouthern habit of getting to the point.… I don’t even know if it’s wise for you to be in my place. I’ll be honest. That’s why I ushered you right in here.”
“I don’t understand. You could have told me on the phone not to come. Why the game?”
“Maybe you can answer that better than I can. Sammy says you’re a real big man. You’re what they call … international. That’s just dandy by me. I like a bright young fella who goes up the ladder of success. Very commendable, that’s a fact.… But I pay my bills. I pay every month on the line. I got the best combined operation north of Atlanta. I don’t want trouble.”
“You won’t get it from me. I’m a tired businessman making the rounds, that’s all I am.”
“What happened at Sharpe’s? The papers are full of it! I don’t want nothin’ like that!”
Matlock watched the southerner. The capillaries in the suntanned face were bloodred, which was probably why the man courted a year-round sunburn. It covered a multitude of blemishes.
“I don’t think you understand.” Matlock measured his words as he lifted the glass to his lips. I’ve come a long way because I have to be here. I don’t want to be here. Personal reasons got me into the area early, so I’m doing some sightseeing. But it’s only that. I’m just looking around.… Until my appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“An appointment in Carlyle, Connecticut.”
Stockton squinted his eyes and pulled at his perfectly groomed white moustache. “You’ve got to be in Carlyle?”
“Yes. It’s confidential, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
“You haven’t told me anything.” Stockton kept watching Matlock’s face, and Matlock knew the southerner was looking for a false note, a wrong word, a hesitant glance which might contradict his information.
“Good.… By any chance, do you have an appointment in Carlyle, too? In about a week and a half?”
Stockton sipped his drink, smacking his lips and putting the glass on a side table as though it were some precious objet d’art. “I’m just a southern cracker tryin’ to make a dollar. Livin’ the good life and makin’ a dollar. That’s all. I don’t know about any appointments in Carlyle.”
“Sorry I brought it up. It’s a … major mistake on my part. For both our sakes, I hope you won’t mention it. Or me.”
“That’s the last thing I’d do. Far as I’m concerned, you’re a friend of Sammy’s lookin’ for a little action … and a little hospitality.” Suddenly Stockton leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded. He looked like an earnest minister questioning a parishioner’s sins. “What in tarnation happened at Windsor Shoals? What in hell was it?”
“As far as I can see, it was a local vendetta. Bart
olozzi had enemies. Some said he talked too goddamn much. Aiello, too, I suppose. They were show-offs.… Frank was just there, I think.”
“Goddamn Eyetalians! Mess up everything! That level, of course, you know what I mean?”
There it was again. The dangling interrogative—but in this southerner’s version, it wasn’t really a question. It was a statement.
“I know what you mean,” said Matlock wearily.
“I’m afraid I got a little bad news for you, Jim. I closed the tables for a few days. Just plum scared as a jackrabbit after what happened at the Shoals.”
“That’s not bad news for me. Not the way my streak’s been going.”
“I heard. Sammy told me. But we got a couple of other diversions. You won’t find Carmount lacking in hospitality, I promise you that.”
The two men finished their drinks, and Stockton, relieved, escorted his guest into the crowded, elegant Carmount dining room. The food was extraordinary, served in a manner befitting the finest and wealthiest plantation of the antebellum South.
Although pleasant—even relaxing, in a way—the dinner was pointless to Matlock. Howard Stockton would not discuss his “operation” except in the vaguest terms and with the constant reminder that he catered to the “best class of Yankee.” His speech was peppered with descriptive anachronisms, he was a walking contradiction in time. Halfway through the meal, Stockton excused himself to say good-bye to an important member.
It was the first opportunity Matlock had to look at Stockton’s “best class of Yankee” clientele.
The term applied, thought Matlock, if the word class was interchangeable with money, which he wasn’t willing to concede. Money screamed from every table. The first sign was the proliferation of suntans in the beginning of a Connecticut May. These were people who jetted to the sun-drenchedislands at will. Another was the easy, deep-throated laughter echoing throughout the room; also the glittering reflection of jewelry. And the clothes—softly elegant suits, raw silk jackets, Dior ties. And the bottles of sparkling vintage wines, standing majestically in sterling silver stands upheld by cherrywood tripods.