I paid a visit to Stone Kiley of Seats Galore, the recliner king, the guy who had developed the Quality list Lou had borrowed or found or stolen. Stone Kiley reminded me of a pool sharp, slicked back hair, mustache, raspy voice, wise-guy slouch, not at all your basic Cincinnatian – and that name, Stone Kiley, and that death-hold handshake, and that room-full of hunting trophies, and that hustler friendliness. Some guy.
He offered me a tour of his boiler room but I declined. I knew what a boiler room looked like. He said he had 30 girls working for him pitching everything from recliners to insurance to siding. He was very proud of his operation. He had a very fancy office. His air conditioning worked. I asked him if he knew about Lou.
Yes he did and he was so sorry. “Lou used to be the best.”
He asked how Mona was. He knew Mona. Her mother-in-law worked for him.
“Some day I’ll steal her from you,” he joked about Mona.
“Did Lou steal those leads from you?” I caught him off guard.
“What’s the difference?” He shrugged. “Lou’s dead.”
I suggested murder.
“Oh?” He chuckled. “And who made you a cop?”
“Just nosy,” I said.
“Man ought to watch where he sticks his nose. Hey, I’m a busy man. What do you want?”
“I notice you’re on the board of directors of Northwood Development Corporation.”
“You NOTICE? How do you NOTICE?”
It was really quite simple. Even after Lou’s funeral I couldn’t bury him, in my mind. I knew he had been murdered…this business of giving him all those houses to measure…what was that? Maybe not in the strictest sense of the word, and maybe not in the eyes of the law, but it was murder. One phone call clinched it; routine request to the public relations office of Northwood Development Corporation for its annual report on the pretense that I was interested in buying a house and wanted to know more about the company. I knew I’d find the name there, and there it was all right, Stone Kiley.
“You have evidence?” he said.
“You were going to get even with Lou for stealing that list from you so you fixed it that he got that Northwood deal. You had a cripple on your hands. A stroke victim. So you were going to work him to death…give him all those homes to measure…ONE A DAY.”
“That’s evidence? I never touched the guy.”
“No, you had the manager of Northwood, that guy Cliff Roberts, make him the deal. But it was YOU.”
“Maybe it was. I was doing Lou a FAVOR. Maybe I LIKED Lou. I told you I liked Lou. So I was gonna do him a favor. Gave him all the business. A salesman’s DREAM. You gonna have the cops arrest me for giving a salesman TOO MUCH business? Tell that to a judge! Tell it to a jury!”
“But we both know that you killed him.”
“Suppose you’re right? Sue me. Take me to court. Now get the fuck out of here.”
He got up. I got up.
I clenched my fists.
“You can’t touch me,” he said.
“Maybe I can take you to court…”
“I said you can’t touch me – and you know what I’m talking about.”
No I didn’t, unless he knew about that other thing. Logically that was impossible. But you had to account for this mysterious business of people knowing things about you that they weren’t supposed to know. There were no secrets.
“Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”
I counted my choices and came up with zero.