“Then why am I here?”
“Because my father scares you all the way down to your crooked little toes. If he told you to be celibate for a week, I just bet you’d do it.”
“He’s a murderer, Molly, shouts to the world that he’s a big legitimate businessman, but he’s nothing but a big-time crook, and you know it. You’re no better. You took me for everything in the divorce, you’re nothing but a-”
Ramsey broke in. “All right, enough of the emotional sentimental reunion. It’s time to get out of here before more reporters show up.” He turned to the acne-faced young guy who was Louey Santera’s bodyguard. “You get Mr. San-tera’s luggage. You can drop it off at Mason Lord’s place in Oak Park. Then you can go to a motel or something. Don’t think you’re included on Mr. Lord’s houseguest list.”
Louey looked over at the reporter who’d been so rude. He recognized him. His name was something like Marzilac. He was from the Chicago Sun-Times. Hell. He was just standing there, speaking low to his photographer. What were they talking about? Maybe they were talking about whether to print any of this. Just his luck. Now he had to face Mason Lord. His kidney hurt just thinking about it.
“Let’s go,” Ramsey said.
“Do as he says, Alenon,” Louey said. “Just call the house and tell me where you’re staying.”
16
AN HOUR AND a half later, Louey Santera faced his ex-father-in-law across the huge mahogany desk in Mason Lord’s study.
“This cretin-” He motioned toward Ramsey, who was standing by the door. “He accosted me. He nearly broke my bodyguard’s thumb. In fact, I’ll just bet you he got a reporter to come there and ask me stupid questions. It cost me a bundle to leave Germany. I was busy, everything was going great with the crowds. Besides, there’s nothing I can do for you. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t know of anyone who could have done this.”
Mason Lord didn’t rise. He sat there, tall and straight in his chair, weaving his black Mont Blanc pen, heavy with gold trim, expertly between his long fingers. He let Louey talk and talk. Finally, when he’d heard more than enough, he said, smoothly, “You’re looking thin, Louey. Your eyes look too bright, the pupils too large. I hope you’re well.”
“Touring is hard work, real long hours. Sometimes I have to take sleeping pills to calm me down. Listen, I didn’t want to come here. What can you possibly want from me?”
“I do hope you’re not doing cocaine again. I really hate drugs, you know that. I told you that when you were married to Molly. If the coke doesn’t kill you, then it’s usually something else. Like the guys selling it to you getting pissed off. I’ve never seen simple sleeping pills dilate your pupils.”
“I’m not doing drugs.”
“Did you meet Ramsey Hunt?” Mason Lord waved a hand toward Ramsey, who was still standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest.
“I told you, he was the bastard who-”
“It’s Judge Ramsey Hunt. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“No. Who is he? Some gigolo your young wife wanted?”
“Ah, Louey, you do like to push the envelope, don’t you? I suggest you think a bit before you open your mouth. If you ever mention my wife again, I’ll have Gunther cut off the end of your tongue. Your singing wouldn’t benefit from that. Now, since you appear to be ignorant as well as unwise, I’ll tell you that Ramsey Hunt is the San Francisco Federal District Court judge whose picture was on the covers of both Newsweek and Time magazines a while back. He’s a real hero, they say. Don’t you remember? The big drug murder case in San Francisco? What Judge Hunt did all by himself when they tried to break the defendants out of the courtroom?” Louey looked blank. Mason Lord sighed. “Ah, Louey, I do pray that Emma didn’t inherit your brains, your inability to recognize the importance of anything that doesn’t pertain directly to you. It would be a pity.”
Ramsey said, “Ignorance isn’t the same as stupidity.”