Giselle and Frank Nugent were still tied up back-to-back on the Basic Pascal’s polished hardwood floor. Both of them were panting from their unsuccessful efforts to get free.
“We’re... going to die here, aren’t... we?” puffed Nugent.
“Of course we aren’t,” said Giselle, thinking, Don’t go to pieces on me now, kid. “We’re going to get out of here. I have an idea. Maybe. First thing we have to do is stand up.”
They started trying to do so, grunting, pushing, drawing their bound feet under them a bit at a time. Giselle caught herself on the edge of hysteria, but at least her giggles at their gyrations were taking away some of Nugent’s tension.
Chapter Thirty-seven
A car turned in at the driveway. Headlights swept across the room, ended up shining out between the trees flanking the cabin toward the waves breaking on the beach. When the lights and engine were cut, the thudding of the surf was very clear.
The cabin door was jerked open and in strode Griffin Paris as if he owned the place. He would always own wherever he was, thought Bart Heslip. Why hadn’t he realized it was Paris right away? King of the Tenderloin. He would have heard about Local 3’s plans to put up a new building funded from the sort of public and private monies it is always easy to dig into, would have started picking out corruptibles in the union. And quickly would have found Morris Brett and Burnett Sebastian.
“You made good time, Mr. Paris,” said Sebastian.
“The Ace Corporation,” said Ballard, belatedly getting it.
Sure! He’d seen Griffin Paris at Mood Indigo Tuesday evening, and again later that same night just disappearing into the counting room at Ace in the Hole. Bart had told him all about Griffin Paris later that same night, but Larry, not knowing who he was, had made no connection with the tall, all-in-black man with the piercing eyes of a riverboat gambler.
A car went by in the road. Paris closed the blinds, then hooked a hip over the edge of the table under the front window.
“We should have figured, huh?” said Bart, turning to look at Larry. “Man owns Ace in the Hole, Mood Indigo — hell, half the Tenderloin.” He looked back at Paris. “Bet you sort of felt out Petrock and Kiely as the smartest, strongest men in the union, got a little clumsy, got them to thinking...”
Griffin Paris smiled lazily.
“Yes, I assumed they were corruptible, but they weren’t, and they became suspicious. First they went to Morrie and Burnett here.” He chuckled. “Who came to me immediately, of course.” He looked at Danny. “But by then they had the nosy frog here snooping around. Croak for me, frog. Where are the specs and the contracts that you took?”
“You’ll never find them,” said Danny.
Paris looked over at Sebastian. “Make these fools hurt.”
Kearny couldn’t believe it. A goddamned flat tire. He could call Triple A, but on a Saturday night in the deserted financial district they’d be forever. Besides, cars were his business. He sighed and threw his suit jacket across the front seat and went to get the jack from the trunk.
Giselle’s worries about the banquet, nipping at him all day, suddenly bit deep: he hoped that something bad wouldn’t go down at the Officers Club before he got there.
In the kitchen at the Officers Club, Dieter Konrad, head chef, was so aghast that German consonants corrupted his excellent English.
“You vish to do vat?” he shrieked.
Antoine said in a très reasonable voice, “I do not wish to do it, Dieter. I am doing it.”
Dieter Konrad looked to his left. A phalanx of grim-faced pastry sous-chefs was wheeling the Viennese windtorte out from behind its concealing drapes. It was gorgeous, but Gott in Himmel, it could not just be wheeled into the dining room before the meal had even begun!
He turned back to Antoine, but the fat little fool was already striding — as well as a man of his considerable girth could stride — toward the service door to the dining room. Dieter shook his clenched fists to the heavens. He should not have been surprised. Pastry chefs were always fools.
He went in search of the sommelier for a glass of liebfraumilch to settle his nerves.
The disguised and resplendent Eddie Graff, who had left the kitchen during the argument, went up the three wooden steps to the narrow porch and back into the Officers Club. The reception area was high-ceilinged, wide, handsome: straight ahead was a huge fireplace with comfortable couches flanking it, facing one another. He paused by the maître d’s table in the doorway beyond the fireplace to peek into the dining room.
Yes. Inga was at the head table with her mother and Paul. Antoine, the pastry chef, was standing in the middle of the room, tapping on a crystal glass with a silver fork.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” he called. The dining room noise gradually abated. “Merci. Bon. I have for you a special surprise tonight.” He beamed at them. “I shall return avec a creation to be enjoyed in sweet anticipation through the meal.”
Graff turned away and crossed the reception area to take the narrow stairway down to the men’s room and pay phones, dropped his dimes, tapped out a number.
Overhead, the maître d’ said, “Fort Mason Officers Club.”
“I need to speak with Mrs. Inga Rochemont on a matter of the utmost urgency. She’s at the head table.”
The phone was put down. He could hear crowd noises, a minute later heard the man’s voice coming back into range.
“...this phone right here, Mrs. Rochemont.”
Inga’s childish voice was in Graff’s ear. He said to her: “You know who this is, so no names.”
“Yes, Ed... uh, yes.”
“Remember when I told you Paul would be murdered by someone if you didn’t drug those detectives’ coffee and kill the alarm on one of the windows for me?”
“Y... yes, but—”
“It still isn’t over, Inga. Once again, Paul is going to die unless you do exactly as I tell you. Hang up the phone, walk straight out of the club, get in your car, and drive away. Don’t say anything to anyone, understand?”
“No, I don’t, darn it! Why can’t you just explain—”
“There isn’t time if I’m going to save Paul’s life. Drive around for exactly twenty minutes, then wait for me in the parking lot by Basic Pascal. Paul will be safe by then, and I’ll bring him to you. Just do as I say.”
He hung up before she could raise further objection.
Giselle and Frank Nugent, still bound back-to-back and panting, were on their feet, Giselle still fighting hysterical giggles. They hopped sideways, tiny hops they had to coordinate so as not to lose their balance and fall.
They paused at the sideboard. “You have to knock the purse on the floor with an elbow,” said Giselle.
Nugent started to whine, caught himself, instead began his contortions that finally knocked the purse to the floor.
“Okay,” said Giselle, hope actually starting to ignite in her breast, “let’s fall down together. One... two... three...”
They fell down.
Ballard had a broken nose and Heslip was missing two teeth. Danny had fainted from a kick to the ribs, was coming around again. Sebastian looked like a Doberman on a leash. Brett looked like he might throw up, but he was still holding the Luger. Paris surveyed the wreckage thoughtfully.
“Okay,” said Danny in that tired voice of his. “You win.”
“I always do,” said Paris. “Now — what have I won?”
“Everything I had was lashed on the back of my bicycle. It went over the cliff with me when these two ran me off the road.”