TWENTY-FIVE

Gus Mekashnik had the aura of a bad-tempered construction foreman, a breed I’d come across frequently in my former work. He was large, meaty and looked permanently irascible, as if the entire world was there solely to get under his skin and cause him acute disappointment. He also seemed to like shouting. His sandy hair was cut in a military-style crew-cut and his eyebrows ran in a thick and unbroken line. It gave him a fierce appearance which went well with the gun he was clutching like a child’s toy in one big, muscular fist. I guessed his age at fifty-plus, but it was hard to tell.

He merely nodded when I finally managed to untangle my bowels at the sight of the rifle and say hi. I guessed his lack of warmth implied that as I was merely a hired help I shouldn’t get any ideas of us becoming friends. It was reinforced by the beady look he switched between Lilly-Mae and me as we approached across the lawn, as if we’d been caught getting up to something naughty in the woodshed. I should be so lucky.

As I made to follow him inside the house he stared down at my feet. In the confusion of meeting Lilly-Mae, I’d forgotten to put my shoes back on.

‘You some kinda nature freak?’ he muttered, then turned and went inside before I could answer. In the background the wrestler twins stared at me as if I’d passed wind at a funeral, their dull expressions making me wonder if they were the results of local in-breeding. I scrabbled for my shoes and socks and followed their boss inside.

The house was cool and dark, every trace of sunshine kept out by the drawn drapes. Mekashnik jerked his head at Lilly-Mae, who went round opening them, flooding the room with light. It revealed a large, modern rectangle with a scattering of armchairs, ditto coffee tables, a couple of settees and, in one corner, a huge desk bearing a leather blotter, a telephone, a small lamp and a laptop. The floor was deeply-polished hardwood block on which sat three Persian rugs. The overall effect was relaxed, expensive and stylish, but more like a hotel foyer than a home. It certainly wasn’t the corporate office environment I’d been expecting.

Mekashnik looked at Lilly-Mae and jerked his head towards the door. ‘You got some things you gotta be doing, Lilly-Mae?’

It wasn’t a question. But Lilly-Mae didn’t seem to mind. She shrugged off the less than courteous dismissal and drifted towards the door, pausing only to look back at me. ‘Say, Mr Foreman,’ she drawled in that low, husky voice. ‘You have a nice trip back, y’hear?’ Then she winked at me in a meaningful manner and said, ‘It was real nice seein’ ya.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and felt my face burn. I eyed Mekashnik to see his reaction, but he’d already turned away and appeared not to have heard. As the door closed behind her, he put the rifle down by the desk, then switched on the laptop. As it started up, he held out his hand. Taking it as my signal to leave, I handed him the envelope and made for the door.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ His voice brought me up short.

‘Package delivered,’ I said. ‘I’m booked on a flight from Charlotte.’

‘Take a seat.’ He pointed at a chair across from the desk, the finger brooking no argument. Plainly he was a man accustomed to being obeyed, and I remembered Clayton’s joke about what had happened to people who upset him. Joke or not, I’d met quite a few people who gave off the same kind of vibe as Mekashnik was right now, and they were people I’d always been very careful not to upset. Something told me that Clayton had either been telling fibs about this man or he didn’t know Mekashnik as well as he thought he did.

‘Pardon?’ I felt the hairs stir on the back of my neck, and wondered what he wanted. Suppose the contents of the package didn’t match his expectations? Was this my chance to find out what was meant by the words ‘don’t shoot the messenger’?

‘Relax,’ he growled, and sat down himself. ‘I may have a job for you – a delivery. It’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But I’m working for Mr Clayton.’ And Clayton had told me quite clearly to get in, drop the package and leave.

‘Yeah, I know who you’re working for. I already checked with him, and he said it was okay to ask you. Now, you want to earn some extra money or just go back to London with what you’ve got?’

It was an interesting question. I was in no tearing hurry to get back, since it would mean simply sitting around until Clayton called, then picking up another package and jetting off somewhere else. That or facing more flak from Susan or her solicitors. On the other hand, I had no idea what Mekashnik would be asking me to transport for him. Why didn’t he use his own people, of which there were at least three kicking their heels around the house? Maybe they couldn’t read road signs.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But no drugs.’

He gave me a hard look not unlike the one Clayton had given me. ‘What is it with you Brits? You think every American’s a dealer in crack cocaine?’ He reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a slim envelope which he tossed across the desk at me. ‘There’s your fee. It’s for an envelope to go to Palm Springs. It’ll be ready for you to collect in the morning, which should give you time to arrange a flight from Charlotte. It’ll likely be a connection with a stop-over so don’t expect it to be quick. This is a big country. Any questions?’

‘Only one. Is there a hotel near here?’

He nodded. ‘Ask Frank on the way out. Be back here in the morning so I know you’re ready to take the envelope when it gets here. And next time try keeping your shoes on.’

I stepped out through the French windows on to the patio, then walked round the side of the house and found Frank waiting for me, idly clipping dead heads off a shrub. He gave me directions to the only local hotel before I’d even asked him, which made me wonder if he’d been listening. Then he stood and watched as I reversed the car and drove back down the drive.

As I looked back, I noticed a movement on the front balcony above the entrance. Lilly-Mae was standing with her hand on the wooden railing, watching me go.

For some reason it was a disturbing image to leave with.

By ten the following morning I was back at the Mekashnik mansion, after a good night’s sleep, waiting for someone to answer the gate. The hotel had been a few miles away, nestling on the tip of a lake, along a winding road which hugged the water. Set in breathtaking scenery which demanded to be admired, it was surrounded by trees marching across the hills like a conquering army. It probably looked a riot in autumn, or fall, as the locals called it, and I wondered if I’d ever be back this way to see it. The day was threatening warm and I could have done with staying a little longer and letting go of all the tension, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.

The inside of the hotel had been like stepping back to the Thirties, with heavy, brooding décor, dark corridors and staff outnumbering guests. If there was any entertainment on offer they were keeping it hidden, but it was clean, cool and spacious and, after a meal in a local fish restaurant recommended by the receptionist, I’d hit the hay to reverse the effects of jet lag. Before sleeping I’d tried calling Clayton, just to let him know I had reservations about Mekashnik, the allegedly normal businessman, but the call went to voicemail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

I thumbed the entry-phone button again, leaning a little harder, as if it would make a difference. Maybe Frank was too busy killing off a few more flowers to attend to his door-keeping duties.

While I waited, I stepped over to the gun-shot mailbox for a closer look. The flap was hanging open like a drunk’s mouth and the box was empty. I poked my forefinger through the hole and felt the sharp edges on the inside. On the other side of the box the thin metal was curved outward in the same manner, where the bullet had passed straight through. I didn’t know much about shell calibres but it seemed pretty big for chasing squirrels. Maybe they bred them big around there to match the trees.

I went back and pressed the button again. Still nothing. Then I noticed the iron gates were slightly open, as if they hadn’t quite caught the latch.

I eased them back far enough to get the car through and drove up the access road, wondering how Gus Mekashnik could be doing the kind of work he did while retaining such a laid-back lifestyle – if a palatial house and property could be called laid-back. Presumably he paid people to do all the running around for him.

I dropped the scroll door-knocker and heard the echoes inside. Maybe they’d had a late-night barbecue after I left and were having trouble surfacing. I guessed if I lived there, I’d have the same problem.

The thought prompted ideas about the pool out back, so I walked around the side of the house towards the sound of running water, expecting to find Frank killing off a few more plants before their time.

I found Frank all right. But he wasn’t doing any gardening.

He was floating in the shallow end of the pool, head down as if he was searching for something on the bottom. Trailing away from him was a widening ribbon of blood leaking from a hole in the middle of his back.