Alan Lockem habitually made his presence known to the local authorities whenever he did business in a city outside his own immediate playground where he was already known. Sometimes right away, other times after a few days whenever it appeared to be advantageous. Sometimes, he admitted privately, he misjudged the situation. This was the couple’s third morning in Grand Lac.
“I think I’ll take a walk over to City Hall and see if the mayor is in.” Lockem was lying on his back in the hotel room bed, coming down from a rather energetic romp with his companion. They were both still naked and Alan had been pleasantly reminded that part of Marjorie’s stage act had involved some degrees of contortionism. Is that a word?
“You wish company?” Marjorie’s voice was muted by the towel over her face that shut down the sunlight streaming through the window. “Y’ know, I have the distinct impression the sun is hotter and brighter here than it is at home.”
“Well, we’re a thousand feet closer and maybe the air is clearer. No, you go shopping or something. I’ll see if the Man is inclined to be a plus or a minus.” They’d stayed up late talking about the apparent break-in and what to do about it, if anything, reaching no conclusions.
Lockem rolled off the edge of the mattress and came to his feet. A few minutes of some stretching and calisthenics moved him to the shower. Then he dressed quickly in what’s called business casual, meaning slacks and a good shirt with no tie and a light tan sport jacket. He made sure he had a supply of business cards and a thin business case,
City Hall this morning turned out to be an interesting scene. Lockem was in the outer office of the mayor by ten. At eleven he was informed by the dulcet-voiced receptionist with the keen expression that his honor was expected momentarily and, because he, Mr. Lockem, was from out of town, she was sure he’d be happy to see him immediately. Lockem indicated he appreciated the special handling since he’d already been waiting an hour. But inwardly he supposed it might have been because his business card could give one the idea he was somebody important, or at least wealthy. Mayors and other elected officials, during these rather hard times, are always on the lookout for potential new investors in their communities.
A light on the receptionist’s telephone lit up and she stood, clearing her throat and giving Lockem a look at a surprising amount of well-toned thigh. “Mayor McCracken will see you now,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said and followed her through the large fine-looking door to a roomy inner office.
The man standing behind the over-sized desk was the same man he’d seen the previous day on the street arguing with an individual who was probably Henry Meadows, another potential player in the Sam Black murder drama.
McCracken had his hand out. He leaned forward across the desk, big toothy smile on his seamed face. Lockem followed the tight behind of his receptionist as she led him to one side of the desk. Their arms weren’t long enough to touch across the full width of McCracken’s desk.
“Mayor McCracken, this here’s Mr. Alan Lockem, from Minnesota.”
McCracken’s handshake was firm but not brutal. A politician’s handshake. He was careful not to demonstrate too much power, but he didn’t let Lockem get a full grip. He gestured Alan to the side chair and the woman departed. Lockem noted McCracken’s eyes followed her to the door. He caught Lockem looking at him, and smiled, shaking his head. I got the impression he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.
“Well, Mr. Lockem, how may we be of service?”
“I represent a number of wealthy speculators. We are involved a wide variety of businesses. In spite of the present state of the economy, many of my clients are looking for some additional investment opportunities. These are individuals who prefer something a little more substantial than stocks and bonds.”
“Land, property, tangibles,” said the mayor, nodding and smiling.
“Along with the always present possibility of hard goods development and manufacturing.” It was all perfectly true. Lockem did have several clients whose loose partnership invested in commercial property of one kind or other. From time to time he ran across attractive investment opportunities which he passed on to friends. But he didn’t represent those interests. In return for maintaining his cover when necessary, Lockem had occasionally performed certain more personal services. An errant daughter required assistance in shedding an obnoxious former boyfriend, or a wife—the actual client—needed to have her husband discreetly escorted home or to a hotel after one of his infrequent late-night poker games with the boys. Like that.