The compound? What’s that? Bob’s request placed me in a quandary. Buford liked to keep a low profile, and I wondered whether his name was known at Bob’s guard shack.
“Tell you what. I’ll call him myself,” I said.
Bob looked puzzled as if that had never happened. He was supposed to do the calling. I punched Buford’s number into my cell phone.
“Buford, it’s Stan.”
“You got progress to report?”
“Yes I do. I’m sitting here at the guard shack at your compound, and Barney Fife won’t let me in without authorization.”
“How did you learn where I live?”
“Rodney,” I said. “What about this rent-a-cop? I’d like to get in before it’s time for his nap.”
“Let me talk to him.”
I handed the phone to Bob. After a brief conversation, he gave my phone back to me, went into the shack, and did something after which the gate raised. It made him grumpy, and he didn’t wave. Denying access is control. Being ordered to allow access is subservience. Not the way to treat an armed minion of security.
I said into the phone, “Thanks, that did it.”
“You’ll need the address,” Buford said.
“Already got it. See you in about two minutes.”
I hung up before Buford could respond. I thought about peeling rubber just to piss off Bob even more, but the old heap wasn’t up to it and would probably have blown a tire and dropped the transmission in the roadway.
I drove in and to the left around a circular lane with well-manicured lawns and mansions set back from the outer side of the road and a park and country club in the center. When I got to Buford’s place I turned into his entranceway. Another gate and another guard shack. No one was in this one, and the gate swung open. I drove in around the circular driveway and parked at the front door.
Buford’s shack was impressive. A three story colonial with a full-length front portico and Corinthian columns the height of the house. Tall windows on either side of a huge double door, which swung open when I got out of my car. Buford came out to greet me. We shook hands and went inside.
What a place. The foyer opened onto a long wide hallway and a huge circular staircase. Paneling, paintings, and stained glass lined the walls. Statues in the hallways, chandeliers, and antique furniture along the walls completed the palatial picture. It looked like the lobby of a Victorian museum. We walked past the staircase and down the halls. A row of mahogany chairs lined one side of the wall.
“Anybody ever sit in them,” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” Buford said. “How did you find this place?”
“Let’s get settled somewhere, and I’ll explain. Maybe in the ballroom, the amphitheatre, or the rugby stadium.”
He pointed to a door that went out the back to an enclosed patio. “Go out there and find a seat. I’ll be out soon. Ramon will bring you a drink.”
He turned away, went into what looked like either a study or the British Museum library and pulled the paneled pocket doors closed.
I went into the patio area. Whenever a fictional detective goes into a mansion, there’s always a beautiful young woman wearing almost no clothes, lounging around, looking bored, and ready to jump the bones of the first man who comes along. Just like real life.
I was right. A woman was there. A young woman. But not scantily clothed and not beautiful. She wore a robe and those ugly fuzzy pink slippers that women like and that look like troll feet. She was sitting in a chaise lounge reading a tabloid magazine. Her hair was up in curlers, and she was smoking a cigarette. She looked up when I came in and returned to her magazine.
The glass-enclosed patio overlooked a large lake with clusters of trees all around it. It was late fall, and the trees were mostly bare except for the pine and fir trees. A golf course was off to one side and tennis courts to the other. The good life.
A young Latino man in a white uniform appeared out of nowhere.
“Would you like a drink, Señor?”
I looked at my watch. Mickey Mouse said eleven o’clock plus or minus a few minutes. I couldn’t be more precise than that. Mickey’s gloved finger was too chubby.
My resolve to quit drinking was weakening so I modified it. I said to myself, “I hereby resolve to not drink too much.” Then to the servant, “Bourbon, please. Neat.” I was sure Buford’s kerosene would be better than mine, and I looked forward to it. If I could hold it down.
“Are you Ramon?” I asked the servant.
“Si, Señor.” Then he turned to the young woman and said, “Does Missy care for a drink?”
The young woman nodded, and Ramon disappeared into the house.
The woman lowered her magazine and looked at me.
“It’s a bit early,” she said as if to explain that she didn’t usually imbibe at this hour, an explanation I didn’t believe.
“Not in Madagascar,” I answered.
“Where’s that?”
“Beats me. Are you Mrs. Overbee?” Buford had said he had a twenty-two year old wife. I expected something a little nicer than what was sprawled out lounging a few feet away, however. Her age was right, but this tomato had not taken care of herself.
“No, I’m Miss Curro.” She sounded annoyed. “Mrs. Overbee is my trophy stepmother. She’ll be along soon. She’s getting her massage.”
Miss Curro put out her cigarette and lit another one. I took a cue from her and lit one for myself. My last, I told myself.
“Is Missy your name?” I asked.
“It’ll do. It’s all that wetback greaser can remember. What’s yours?”
“Manuel Garcia,” I said just to piss her off. She sniffed and returned to reading her magazine.
Ramon returned with my drink and put it on a lace paper coaster on the round frosted glass table next to me. He handed Missy a shot glass full of a brown liquid, and she knocked it back and gave the glass back to Ramon, who vanished again.
“Isn’t it a bit early?” I asked.
“Not in Mada—wherever,” she said.
I took a small sip to see whether my demons from last night would return to churn my innards. An empty silver champagne bucket stood on its stand nearby. I kept it within reach in case the booze evicted the oatmeal and cantaloupe. The bright white porous patio deck looked like it would permanently stain from whatever came out of me.
To my surprise and delight, the bourbon was not only smooth, but it stayed down where it belonged and where it went immediately to work. Another swallow and I had that glow that comes only with the first drink. That’s when you love everything and everybody. Another couple drinks and the love evaporates as you get drunk and depressed. If they could come up with a drink that keeps that buzz going, I’d buy stock in the company. Maybe Buford could advise me.
I remembered my resolve. Don’t drink too much. I finished the drink, settled back, and Ramon was there again with a refill.
“What the hell,” I said. “I’ll quit some other time.”
Missy looked up. “Quit what?”
About that time Buford came out onto the patio. He sat next to me, and Ramon was there right away with what looked like a tall glass of tomato juice. Buford stirred it with the celery stalk that stood up in the glass.
“Am I drinking alone?” I asked.
“Stoli and V8. Great for a hangover.”
I made a mental note of that.
“Now,” Buford said, “How did Rodney find where I live?”
“Your cell phone lives here too. He tracked it with the GPS.”
“Holy shit. Technology. You can’t escape it.”
“Turn off the GPS when you don’t need it,” I said and showed him on my phone what Rodney had shown me.
“I take it you met Melissa.” Buford gestured toward the lump in the chaise lounge. “My daughter, my pride and joy.”
Melissa smiled at him, got up, and pulled her chaise lounge over next to Buford’s.
The door from the house opened, and a young woman came out. Now this was more like in the detective novels. She was tall and slim with blonde hair and wearing designer sunglasses, elevated sandals, and a white terrycloth robe that fell open in the front to reveal a tiny black bikini on a hard body.