Gallops rose, went over to the window, and looked out. He was still just as tall as I remembered, and just as black, but he no longer seemed shy. “Yeah, I think he’s dead,” he said. “I think somebody killed him.”
“Why?”
He turned. “That’s what I’m paying that uncle of yours to find out. The cops haven’t come up with any answers and neither has the FBI. So that’s why I hired your uncle, although I sure as shit didn’t know he was your uncle when I hired him.”
“We’ve also posted a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to the discovery of what really has happened to President Mix,” Tutor said and frowned. “So far we’ve heard from no one but cranks.”
Gallops returned to his high-backed swivel chair, slumped down into it, and swiveled back and forth, his eyes not leaving my face. “A lot of the nuts that write or call in suggest that I got rid of Arch — or had it done,” he said. “We turn all of the stuff that we get like that over to the cops. Well, you can imagine what kind of questions they’ve asked me.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can.”
“I’ve had to go back and try and remember every goddamn move I’ve made for the past six months almost. So that’s why I hired your uncle. Not just to find out what the hell happened to Arch, but to prove I had fuck all to do with it — whatever it was.”
“You’ve got no idea, right?” I said.
“None.”
“May I ask just what your interest might be in President Mix’s disappearance, Mr. Longmire?”
I looked at Tutor. He had deep-set dark eyes that glittered a bit above a nose that hooked down slightly toward a wide, thin-lipped mouth that I found just a little too pink, although I was probably being picky. The mouth rested on a stubborn chin. It was a lean, mobile face that most people probably found intelligent. I thought it looked crafty.
“The Vullo Foundation,” I said. “The Vullo Foundation is interested in conspiracies and they think that Arch Mix’s disappearance might just be one so they’re paying me to look into it and tell them what I think.”
“And what do you think, Mr. Longmire?” Tutor said. “Do you think there is a conspiracy?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said, “but when I do, I’ll let everybody know.”
“President Mix’s disappearance is really rather a family concern of yours, isn’t it?” Tutor said. “I mean there’s your uncle, and yourself, of course, and then there’s your sister.” He smiled again. “You did know about your sister and President Mix?”
“Yes, it’s been quite a family scandal,” I said. “Heartbreak all around.” I looked at Gallops. “What kind of shape did Arch leave you in?”
“Rotten,” he said.
“How so?”
“He got this idea about three years ago that he was going to re-schedule all our big contracts. You know, Chicago, L.A., New York and the rest of the real big ones.”
“St. Louis?” I said.
“Yeah, St. Louis, too. Well, Arch’s idea was that if we could get them all re-scheduled to expire at about the same time, we would have a national instead of a local impact, you know what I mean?”
“How’s it working out?”
Gallops shook his head. “It’s a goddamn mess. This is the first time out that we’ve had ten, maybe a dozen big city contracts all being negotiated at once and, shit, the first thing I found out was that we just weren’t staffed to handle it.”
“So what’d you do?” I said. “Hire some new people?”
“Had to.”
“Where’d you find them?”
“Wherever I could.” Gallops nodded at Tutor. “That consultancy outfit that he used to work for has been a big help. In fact, that’s where I got him. I mean, hell, you just don’t go out on the street and tap some guy on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, pal, how’d you like to run over to Pittsburgh and help negotiate a new contract with the city for us?’”
I smiled at Tutor and tried to make myself seem both earnest and sincere. “That must be quite an organization that you worked for.”
“Yes, it is, although I must say I find my new association with President Gallops to be both immensely stimulating and rewarding.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “I don’t think you mentioned the name of the firm that you were with.”
“No, I didn’t, did I?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to?”
“I’m just curious.”
“It’s called Douglas Chanson Associates.”
I turned back to Gallops. “You certainly were lucky to find somebody like that.”
Gallops grunted. “They didn’t come free.”
“How many people have they hired for you?”
He looked at Tutor. “I’d say about two hundred, wouldn’t you?”
Tutor nodded.
“Jesus,” I said, “who’s paying them?”
“We are, Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said, “although we are rather extending ourselves to do it.”
“If you put two hundred guys on the payroll,” I said, “you’re going to have to pay them each at least fifteen thousand a year. That’s a three-million-dollar payroll right there and they haven’t even turned in their expense accounts yet, which they sure as hell will.”
“They’ll pay them for themselves,” Gallops said.
“How?”
“Really, Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said. “When President Gallops agreed to give you an appointment, I don’t think he was expecting you to deliver a critique of his administration of the union. As we understood it, you were solely concerned with the disappearance of President Mix. I fail to see how that, tragic as it may be, has anything to do with the union’s current affairs.”
“Does he always talk as pretty as that?” I said to Gallops.
“Maybe I’d better translate for you,” Gallops said and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “What he’s saying, Harvey, is that Arch isn’t around anymore and that’s a real shame, but the union’s still got business to do, Arch or no Arch, and somebody’s got to handle that business and that somebody is me. Not Arch. Just me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly,” I said and rose. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time and I certainly wish you luck, which somehow I feel you’re going to need a lot of.”
“Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said.
“Yes.”
“If you do find evidence of some dreadful conspiracy, you will let us know, won’t you?”
“You’ll be among the first,” I said and turned away.
“Harvey,” Gallops said. I turned again. He was leaning back in his chair, staring up at me, a look of honest puzzlement on his face.
“What?” I said.
“You didn’t used to wear a moustache, did you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. You know who it makes you look like?”
“Who?”
He snapped his fingers a couple of times as if trying to remember. “He was a real old-time movie actor. Started with an H.”
“Holt,” Tutor said. “It makes him look something like Jack Holt.”
I looked at him. “You’re not old enough to remember Jack Holt.”
He smiled pleasantly. Or maybe it was craftily. “That’s right, Mr. Longmire, I’m not.”
Chapter Eleven
Slick was in a mild snit because he had forgotten to bring any salt. Our luncheon appointment was taking place on a bench under the shade of some trees along the north rim of Dupont Circle. Slick had brought his lunch in a proper wicker basket that was covered with a red and white checked cloth. Mine was contained in a brown paper sack. I reached into the sack and handed him a twist of paper that held some salt. He thanked me and sprinkled a pinch of it on his cold broiled breast of chicken.