“Is he dead?” Citron said from behind Haere. “He sure as hell looks dead.”
“Hey, Meade,” Haere said, raising his voice slightly. When there was no answer, Haere said, “He’s dead. They even left the rug.”
Citron looked. A cheap eight-by-ten blue rug lay neatly rolled up by the Huey Long chair. Hubert, the cat, was on the rug, using it as a scratching post. When he was through scratching, he yawned.
“Not much of a watchdog, that cat,” Citron said.
“He has no enemies,” Haere said, turned back, closed the door, and moved slowly and cautiously over to the dead Drew Meade. Citron moved with him.
“I don’t think your locks bothered them any,” Citron said.
“Not much,” Haere agreed and took a ballpoint pen from his vest pocket. He used the pen to move the lapel of Meade’s jacket to one side. The two bullet holes made in the white shirt by the .25 caliber rounds were separated by less than an inch. A bloodstain, about the size of a saucer, had spread over the shirtfront.
“He didn’t bleed a lot, which means he died fast,” Haere said.
“There’s no blood on the chair either, and what’s on his shirt seems dry, so I’d say he’s been dead awhile, and that’s about the extent of my forensic knowledge.”
“Mine, too,” Haere said as he bent over and almost absently picked up the cat, who cried with delight in its loud half-Siamese voice. Stroking the cat, Haere circled the dead Meade, stepping over the rolled-up rug. “Ever search a dead body?” he asked Citron.
“Shouldn’t we let the cops do that?”
“What cops?” Haere said as he and the cat started circling Meade once more.
“I see. No cops.”
“He’s already dead and buried in Singapore. We’ll just prop him up against a lamppost somewhere, maybe over in Culver City. Dead bodies don’t bother them much over there. See what he’s got in his pockets.”
“Me?”
“I’ve got to feed the cat.”
Still carrying Hubert, Haere headed for the kitchen area, took down a can of 9-Lives from a shelf, and sliced off its top with his electric can opener. While Haere fed Hubert, Citron knelt by the side of the Huey Long chair and studied the dead man.
Drew Meade’s eyes were still open and, for some reason, seemed focused on something off to the right. Despite himself, Citron glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see but a wall of books. He looks as if he’s reading the titles, Citron thought, and doesn’t see much that interests him. If there was an expression on Meade’s dead face, it was one of disappointment mingled with disdain. The mouth was slightly open in the beginning of what seemed to be a sneer. The head was tilted back, leaning against the large chair’s padded rest. The lifeless hands lay palm up in the lap in a supplicant’s helpless position that somehow Citron knew they had never once assumed in life. The big feet were firmly planted on the floor. Meade smelled of death, which meant that he smelled of urine and feces.
Citron sighed and reached into the inside breast pocket of Meade’s jacket just as Haere rejoined him. He found a U.S. passport and handed it to Haere. In the outside jacket pockets he found a pack of Camels and a box of matches that bore the name of a Chinese restaurant. He passed both up to Haere. There was nothing in the shirt pocket or in the pants hip pockets. In a pants side pocket, the one on the right, there was a small roll of bills, which he also handed up to Haere. The other side pocket produced seventy-four cents in change. Citron put the change back and studied Meade for several moments, then lifted up the pants legs and rolled down the short black socks. There was nothing concealed beneath them, only eggshell-white, surprisingly thin ankles. Citron rose.
“That’s it,” he said.
“He had sixty-seven dollars and a passport made out to someone called Donald B. Millrun. Has he got a watch?” Citron looked. “Yes.”
“Take it.”
Citron removed the watch, an old self-winding stainless-steel Omega Seamaster. He gave it to Haere. “Robbery?” he asked.
“Why not?” Haere said. “It’ll make the cops happy.”
“What now?”
“Well, now we roll him back up in the rug, put him in your car, and dump him over in Culver City. Somewhere just off the freeway, I think.”
“My car?”
“Sure.”
“Why not yours?”
“I can’t remember where I parked mine.”
“Well, Christ,” Citron said, knelt again, and rolled out the rug. He looked up at Haere. “What d’you want? The head or the legs?”
Haere frowned. “Did you look in the watch pocket? A New York cop I once knew told me some guys hide things in their watch pockets. Older guys especially. He said it was one of the first places he always looked.”
“I didn’t look there.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“What do you expect to find — a folded-up thousand-dollar bill with the Swiss account number on it?”
“Just look, will you?”
Citron dug a forefinger down into the small watch pocket, felt something, and used thumb and forefinger to lift it out. It was a business card folded into a small square. Citron unfolded the card. On its front was printed: DREW MEADE, INVESTMENT COUNSELOR. There was no address or phone number. On the back was written in pencil, “D. Haere,” and then Haere’s phone number. In ballpoint ink was written, “B. Maneras,” and after that something illegible. Citron handed the card to Haere.
Haere read the investment-counselor side and then turned it over. “Well, Haere we know,” he said. “Who’s B. Maneras?”
“Maybe he’s the one they want us to find out about.”
“You think it was planted?”
Citron shrugged. “If we hadn’t found it, you would’ve been talking to the cops.”
Haere thought about that and then shook his head. “I can’t decide whether it was planted or not.” He turned to examine Meade thoughtfully, then turned back to Citron. “What d’you think we should do about B. Maneras?”
“We can stop where we are and call the cops — or I can find out who Maneras is, which I don’t think is going to be too hard. You call it.”
Instead of replying, Haere once more turned back to the dead Drew Meade and again seemed to study him thoughtfully. After fifteen seconds went by, Citron said, “Well?”
“I’ll take the feet,” Haere said.
They had no trouble getting Drew Meade down the stairs, but they did experience some difficulty in folding him into the rear of Citron’s 1969 Toyota sedan. Either Meade or the rug wouldn’t fold. They finally managed to fit him in by lowering the head end of the rug down onto the floor and letting the feet end stick up in the air, pointing at the rear window.
Haere slammed the rear door shut. “Well, that should do it,” he said, taking a step backward to see how it all looked.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” Citron said.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Mine, too,” Haere said as he opened the curbside front door and got in.
In Culver City they found an industrial side street with a vacant lot that contained six junked cars, and there they dumped Drew Meade. They left him, still wrapped in his cheap blue rug, lying between the remains of a 1970 Volvo and a 1973 Ford Fairlane.
Back on the Santa Monica freeway, Draper Haere said he could use a drink, and they decided on a bar in Venice they both knew, the Mainsail, a place that catered to serious drinkers.
After the waitress brought Haere his double Scotch on the rocks and Citron his double vodka, also on the rocks, they both drank and then waited for the other to begin. Finally, Haere lit one of his occasional cigarettes and said, “You’ve got something else, haven’t you? That’s why you were outside waiting.”