“Why?”
“Because she probably feels just the way I do when I wake up each morning. But I’ve learned to shovel out the bullshit and by ten, noon at the latest, I’m more or less functional.”
“Think she could kill her father?”
“Sure,” she said, “if sufficiently provoked. But she’d think about it for a long, long time. The pleasure’d be in the planning.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because that’s how I’d do it.”
Partain removed the Kevlar vest before trying on a topcoat at the men’s store just north of the Mayflower Hotel. He chose an eggshell-white single-breasted coat with a plaid zip-out lining, ignoring the recommendation from Jessica Carver and Vernon Winfield that the belted double-breasted model offered more swagger.
“When I need swagger, I’ll buy a stick,” Partain said.
“A scarf would be nice,” the General suggested. “I strongly recommend a scarf.”
“The only thing easier to lose than a scarf is an umbrella,” Partain said.
At another men’s store on Connecticut, purchases were made just as quickly. Partain chose two suits, one a plain dark blue, the other gray with a faint stripe. Shirts were next. Partain picked out six identical white ones, specifying no button-down collars or French cuffs. While choosing the shirts, he asked Jessica Carver to choose two ties. When she showed him her choices, he said, “They need a box.”
She then insisted he buy a jacket and they agreed on a lightweight brown herringbone. They also agreed on two pairs of slacks, one chocolate gabardine, the other tan whipcord. A dozen pairs of Jockey shorts with 32-inch waistbands completed the shopping and everything was billed to General Winfield’s gold American Express card.
Three minutes later the clerk who had sold Partain the clothing returned, wearing an embarrassed somber face. After reaching General Winfield, he said, “I’m awfully sorry, General, but your Amex card’s been canceled.”
The General was stunned. “That’s impossible,” he said. “I used it no more than thirty minutes ago.”
“It could be an inadvertent cancellation,” the salesman said. “I’m terribly sorry but—”
Jessica Carver didn’t let him finish. She whipped out her VISA card and thrust it at the salesman. “Put it all on this.”
The salesman accepted the VISA card, checked its expiration date, returned the Amex card to the General, made more apologetic sounds and hurried away.
“I don’t understand it,” the General said. “And I’m terribly embarrassed.”
“Maybe you just forgot to pay your bill,” she said.
“I never forget.”
Jessica Carver turned to Partain. “What about shoes? Millie wanted you to buy some new shoes.”
“I’ll buy my own shoes,” Partain said.
After the trio broke up, Partain stopped at the first shoe store he came to and bought a pair of plain cordovan oxfords and a pair of brown Weejuns. For another $10 the clerk promised to drop them off himself at the Mayflower’s front desk.
Partain then asked to use the store’s telephone book. The clerk led him into the rear storeroom and left him alone. Partain looked under “Attorneys” in the Yellow Pages until he came to one whose display advertisement read:
The attorney’s office was in a building on the northwest corner of 14th and K and Partain decided to walk. Twenty minutes later he was seated in front of the gray metal desk of Ransom Leeds, who seemed to be two parts bonhomie and one part bile.
“You want me to run a credit check on this guy, right?”
Partain nodded.
“Why not have your company do it?”
“Because I don’t have a company,” Partain said. “Yet.”
“You say he’s a retired Army brigadier general. How long was he in?”
“Twenty years.”
“What do they retire on — half pay?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“Let’s be cautious and say half.” Leeds reached into a desk drawer, brought out a well-thumbed copy of The World Almanac and turned to page 702. “Okay. It says here a brigadier general with twenty years drags down $6,052.50 a month. Half of that’d be three thousand and change. A little over thirty-six thousand a year and not bad, considering all the perks those guys get.” He studied Partain for a moment before asking, “What is it you don’t like about this deal — whatever the deal is?”
“That he can’t carry his end.”
“How old is he?”
“Sixty-seven, I think.”
“Address?”
Partain recited the address on Kalorama Circle and Leeds whistled. “He may be busted now, but he sure was flush once.”
“A wife left it to him. The house.”
“How much is involved in your deal — roughly?”
“One-point-two million.”
“Half and half?”
Partain nodded.
“It’ll cost you five hundred bucks — cash.”
Partain removed five $100 bills from his wallet, placed them on the desk and covered them with his palm. “First, the report.”
Leeds shrugged, picked up his phone, punched one button and, after it was immediately answered, said, “Betsy. Gimme the once-over-lightly on a retired Army brigadier general, Vernon NMI Winfield who lives on Kalorama Circle with the rest of the unhappy rich.”
While waiting for Betsy’s computer to reveal General Winfield’s financial situation, Leeds whistled “Mi chiamano Mimi” and was a third of the way through it when Betsy came back on the line.
“Shoot,” Leeds said, picked up a ballpoint pen and poised it over a yellow legal pad.
He listened and made notes for several minutes in a kind of private shorthand. Partain tried to read the shorthand upside down but quickly gave up. A few minutes later, Leeds thanked Betsy, hung up and stared at Partain. “You don’t want to do a deal with this guy,” he said.
“Why?”
“His sole income’s his pension, as far as I can tell. His VISA card’s filthy, so’s his MasterCard, and Amex just cut him off completely. His checking account at Riggs is one thousand and change. His BMw’s leased and he’s two months behind on his payments. And two months ago he re-fied that Kalorama Circle house of his to the max.”
“How much?” Partain said.
“Did he borrow? One-point-two million. That means his equity’s now about two or three hundred K.”
“What’d he do with the one-point-two million?” Partain said.
“Better ask him,” Leeds said, “because there’s no record of his depositing the check in Washington, Virginia or Maryland. Maybe he’s using it as a bookmark. Maybe it’s on hold in Vegas or Atlantic City. Maybe he drank it up.”
“Drinking’s not his problem,” Partain said, removed his hand from the five $100 bills, rose, nodded good-bye and left.
Chapter 35
At dusk that same day, General Walker Hudson stood at a sixth-floor window of the Marriott Hotel just across Key Bridge from Georgetown. He stood, cigar in one hand, a drink in the other, staring across the Potomac as Washington’s lights came on in what was to him their usual illogical pattern.
The General now wore a dark gray tweed suit, white shirt and a tie striped with crimson and yellow. In his left hand was a drink of Wild Turkey, chilled and diluted by a single ice cube. In his right hand was a cigar that boasted three-quarters of an inch of firm ash.