“To the subcommittee,” she said. “Back in the ’fifties.”
Meade nodded, still grinning his cold, almost mechanical grin that contained, as far as Gladys Citron could detect, neither regret nor apology. Nor humor, for that matter.
“I want in, Drew,” she said.
“I figured you would.” He frowned as though in warning. “It’s big bucks though, understand?”
She shrugged. “I’ll have to make a few calls. You want to spend the night here? There’re a couple of spare rooms.”
“What’s wrong with yours?”
“I go for younger men these days.”
“What the hell,” he said, “I’m only thirty-three.” He paused and frowned again. “Maybe thirty-four.”
At three that morning, Gladys Citron rose quietly from her bed, turned to inspect the sleeping Drew Meade, and walked barefoot into the living room. In the bedroom Meade opened his eyes. It was absolutely quiet in the house and he could just make out the woman’s low voice as it spoke into the telephone.
“That’s right, he’s here with me,” she said. “He wants a hundred thousand — for what he calls secondary rights.” There was silence as she listened. “He says he’s going to give first crack at it to Draper Haere, that’s H-A-E-R-E.” She listened again. “He wants it in cash.” Another brief silence and she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
In the dark bedroom, Drew Meade stretched and smiled up at the ceiling.
Chapter 13
Morgan Citron awoke and turned his head to inspect the left side of the king-size bed that took up most of the space in the small room. Velveeta Keats was no longer there. Citron looked at his new watch and saw that it was a few minutes past four. They had gone to bed around 11:00 and made love — or fooled around, as Velveeta Keats would have it — for forty-five minutes or an hour. Citron hadn’t kept precise track of the time. Velveeta Keats had proved to be a passionate, inventive, even amusing lover much given to acrobatics and experimentation. Despite nearly four hours of sleep, Citron still felt slightly ravaged, but pleasantly so.
He located some of his scattered clothing — his shorts and shirt — put them on and went into the living room, where he found Velveeta Keats standing before the large sliding glass doors, a mug of coffee clutched in her hands. She was wearing a light cotton robe and staring out at the pale moonlight on the ocean. She was also crying, although she made no sound.
Citron put his arms around her. “Still scared?” he said.
He felt her nod against his shoulder. “I reckon... I reckon I’d best call him.”
“Your father.”
There was another nod against his shoulder. “He oughta at least know, hadn’t he?”
“I think so.”
She looked up at him. “What time is it back there?”
“Miami? About seven. Is that too early?”
She shook her head. “He won’t talk to me, though.”
“Not at all?”
Again, she shook her head no. “I suppose I could talk to Mama, but she’d just go into a tizzy. Mama doesn’t much like scary news.”
“Is there anyone else you could talk to — a brother, maybe a sister?”
“I had a brother, but Jimmy killed him.”
“Jimmy?”
“My husband. My late husband. I told you all about him, didn’t I?”
“You mentioned him. That’s all.”
“Jimmy found me in bed with Cash.”
“Cash was who?”
“Cash Keats. My brother. He was two years older’n me. I.” She turned away from Citron and resumed her inspection of the moonlit ocean. “Sounds like one of those sorry tales all about Southern decadence and incest, doesn’t it?”
“It happens.”
“Did you ever wanta go to bed with your sister or mama?”
Citron smiled. “Certainly not my mother. I don’t have a sister, so I can’t really say.”
“But you can imagine it?”
“Sure. It’s not hard.”
“Well, Papa couldn’t. He quit speaking to me, packed me up, and sent me out here. I call Mama now and then, or she calls me, and she says he hasn’t budged — Papa, I mean.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
She chewed her lower lip before answering. “I–I’d appreciate it.”
“What do you want me to tell him?”
“Just tell him what happened and that I’m okay, but that I thought he oughta know about those two kidnappers or whatever they were.”
The number in Miami rang six times before it was answered with an “allo.” It was a male voice.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Keats, please.”
“Je ne comprendspas.”
Citron switched to French. “I would like to speak with Mr. Keats. My name is Citron.”
“Ah, Citron. You are French?”
“Is Mr. Keats there?”
“You speak very good French. Are you from Paris?”
“Just tell him I wish to talk to him about his daughter.”
A deep voice boomed over the line. “What about my daughter, mister?”
“Are you Mr. Keats?”
“I’m Keats. Get off the fuckin’ phone, Jacques.”
Citron could hear an extension phone being put down.
“My name is Citron.”
“I heard all that. I’m getting so I can parlez-vous a little bit, but it’s sure as shit harder’n Spanish. Hell, anyone can learn to habla espanol, but you gotta talk way up there in the front of your mouth and move your tongue around real quick to parlez-vous French. Now what’s all this about somebody claiming to be my daughter?”
“Velveeta Keats.”
“Never heard of her.”
“I must have the wrong number.”
“No, you ain’t got the wrong number. Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me about this daughter I’m supposed to have.”
Citron could hear a woman’s voice in the background. And then Keats was yelling at her. “Goddamnit, Francine, I’m gonna find out what’s wrong. Just lemme do it my way.” Keats then resumed his conversational rumble. “Now go on with what you were saying, Mr. — uh—”
“Citron. Morgan Citron.”
“Citron. That’s ‘lemon’ in French, ain’t it?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Let’s have it.”
“I’m a friend and neighbor of your daughter’s—”
“Where?”
“In Malibu.”
“What’s the address?”
Citron reeled off the five-digit number on the Pacific Coast Highway.
“Okay. That checks. What number you callin’ from?”
Citron read off Velveeta Keats’s number.
“Hang up and I’ll call back. Just make sure it’s you who answers.”
The phone went dead. Citron hung it up and looked at Velveeta. “He said he’ll call back.”
She shrugged. “Papa’s sort of, well, suspicious, I reckon.”
A moment later the phone rang. Citron picked it up and said hello.
“Okay, buddy, let’s hear it.”
“As I was saying, Mr. Keats, I’m a friend and neighbor of your daughter’s.”
“So?”
“Last night she invited me to dinner. At seven o’clock, I knocked on her door. There was no answer. The door was unlocked so I went in. Two men dressed in wet suits were holding Velveeta. I threw something at them.”
“What?”
“Flowers.”
“You mean like — like pansies or something?”
“Carnations.”
“You must have clabber for brains, brother.”
“You may be right. Anyway, they pulled a gun.”
“They shoot her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“They left. Velveeta has a balcony facing the beach. They went over that, down to the surf, and swam out to a small cabin cruiser.”