“How would you describe him generally?”
“High-powered,” Bexley said without hesitation. There were traces of bitterness in his voice, just as there had been in Orin Tedescu’s yesterday. “When he makes up his mind to do something he goes out and does it. On his terms. He doesn’t let anything or anybody stand in his way.”
“That sounds as though he might be a little unscrupulous.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He—”
The woman’s voice rose again from the rear bedroom. One of the kids quit yelling, but the other one kept it up in an argumentative way. Then he broke off and let out a howl, as if the woman had smacked him one, and began to cry noisily.
Bexley winced. “Kids,” he said. “You have any?”
“No. I’m not married.”
“They get on your nerves sometimes.” He made a meaningless gesture with his cigarette. “What was I saying?”
“That you wouldn’t call Mr. Emerson unscrupulous.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Not exactly. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; he hasn’t done anything unethical in building up our firm. Mid-Pacific is aboveboard in every way, Mr. Rable. Orin Tedescu and I see to that.”
“Meaning Mr. Emerson might do something unethical if you weren’t around?”
“No, I don’t want to imply that either.”
I made a couple of squiggles in the notebook, just for show. Bexley watched me write with the book balanced on one knee, and when I looked up again he asked, “What happened to your arm?”
“An accident.”
“Car accident?”
“Yes. Even insurance investigators have them now and then.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Must be difficult, trying to do things with one hand.”
“It is,” I said. “Can you tell me if Mr. Emerson has ever been in trouble?”
“Trouble? You mean with the law?”
“With anyone at all.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Lawsuits, anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about his personal life?”
A little boy about five or six came running into the room; his face was scrunched up, wet with tears. “Daddy, she hit me!” he wailed. “Mommy hit me!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bexley said. He glanced at me, said, “Excuse me a second, will you?” and got up and scooped the little boy into his arms and carried him out of the room.
I looked around at the potted plants. It’s not Bexley, I thought. He wasn’t putting on an act for my benefit; the things he’d said so far, the domestic stuff, had the feel of authenticity. Unless I was losing my sense of judgment, he was just a guy with a wife and a couple of kids and a thinly veiled dislike for one of his business partners.
I listened to muffled voices and then silence as the little boy stopped crying. Bexley came back and sat down again and said, “Sorry about that. I had to play peacemaker.”
“No problem.”
He lit another cigarette; he’d got rid of the other one while he was out of the room. “You were asking me about Carl’s personal life, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not sure I ought to talk about that. He wouldn’t like it if he found out.”
“He won’t find out, Mr. Bexley. These interviews are strictly confidential.”
“Yes? Do you mind telling me if Mr. Tedescu talked freely when you interviewed him?”
“He was very cooperative, yes.”
“I’ll bet.” Bexley’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “I’m surprised Carl listed him as a reference.”
“Why is that?”
“They’ve had their differences in the past.”
“Over business matters?”
“Primarily.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“I’d rather not. It doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re discussing here.” He paused. “Just what sort of policy did Carl apply for, anyway? Life insurance?”
“Yes. Property insurance as well, on his home in Burlingame.”
“May I ask who’s the beneficiary on the life policy?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that.”
“Sorry. I was just curious. Carl doesn’t have any relatives, and it certainly wouldn’t be Tedescu or me. Or his ex-wife.”
“Do you know his ex-wife?”
“Just to talk to. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
“What was the reason for it? The divorce, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Carl never said. But it wasn’t an amicable split, I can tell you that. Not the way he acted after it happened.”
“How did he act?”
“Oh, angry and upset. The divorce was her idea, not his; he didn’t seem to want it.”
I nodded. “How would you characterize Mr. Emerson’s present life-style?”
“I really can’t answer that question.”
“No? Why is that?”
“He keeps his private life pretty much to himself.”
“You don’t socialize with him?”
“No. An occasional business dinner, that’s about it. We’ve never been to his house, he’s never been to ours. As I said before, my relationship with him is strictly business.”
“I see.”
“Yes,” Bexley said.
“Can you tell me anything at all about his habits?”
“What do you mean by habits?”
“Well... does he use drugs, for instance?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Drug users are health risks,” I said.
“Really?” Bexley said, as if he didn’t believe it. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he smokes a little grass. Who doesn’t, these days?”
I didn’t. But I said, “Hard drugs of any kind?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How about women?”
“Women? You mean is he a swinger?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he gets his share. But he doesn’t talk much about it.”
“Is there any vice he might have that he does talk about?”
“Just one. And not much about that, either.”
“What would that be?”
“Gambling,” Bexley said. “It’s a big passion with him.”
I sat up a little straighter. “What sort of gambling?”
“You name it. Horses, football games, blackjack, craps. And poker — especially poker.”
“Does he play for high stakes?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He usually wins, too. Or he does to hear him tell it.”
“Is there any place in particular he goes for poker?”
“Las Vegas. Three or four times a year.”
“How about here in the city?”
“None that he’s ever mentioned.”
There it is, I thought, the possible connection. Carl Emerson is a heavy gambler; Lee Chuck runs a gambling parlor for the Hui Sip tong; Jimmy Quon is a body-washer for Hui Sip. But Emerson was a Caucasian, and those Chinatown parlors were generally reserved for Chinese gamblers. How would Emerson get in on high-stakes games at Lee Chuck’s? Why would he want to, given the fact that there were plenty of other gambling spots in San Francisco?
I could not think of a way to pump more information out of Bexley without making him suspicious. And I didn’t want to blow my cover; Bexley may not have liked Emerson much, but if he realized I wasn’t who I said I was, it might drive him straight to his partner to find out what was going on. If Emerson was the man behind Jimmy Quon, I did not want him to know I was on to him. There were others who might be able to tell me if Emerson and Lee Chuck were connected. Kam Fong, for one. Emerson’s ex-wife, for another.
I said, “Has Mr. Emerson ever lost enough gambling to put him in financial difficulty?”
“If he has, he’s kept it to himself.”
“Then as far as you know, he’s financially solvent?”
“As far as I know. That ranch he bought up in Mendocino County didn’t come cheap.”