THIRTEEN
Paul Massey faltered, stopped, looked back at the mansion he'd just walked out of. Damn! He'd forgotten something.
Without speaking to the bodyguard preceding him, Massey turned toward the wing of the house that held the servants' quarters. Where it joined the building proper were Barron Tallmon's office and apartment.
The door through which Massey entered opened into a short cross-corridor; he strode the few yards down it to Tallmon's office door.
It was locked. "Barron!" he called, and knocked firmly. "Barron, I need the summary report on Sumitomo Trust."
For a few seconds there was no response. Then, as he fumbled out a key chain, a voice came, muffled by the solid teak door. "Just a minute, Mr. Massey. I'll bring it."
Massey frowned, then pulled out the keys anyway and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he found Tallmon fastening his belt.
"I was about to bring it, sir," Tallmon said.
Massey's eyes fixed on him. "Who is in here with you?"
"No one sir."
The older man turned and looked back down the hall; his bodyguard was just entering from outside. "Wait for me in the yard, Mr. Mueller," he called. "I'll be along directly."
He watched the large, neatly-suited man leave. Then he closed the office door behind him.
"Who?"
Tallmon only shook his head, his face flushed now.
Massey scanned the office, then looked at the door to Tallmon's private restroom. Closed. He went to it and turned the knob. Locked.
"Open it!" No response. He rapped loudly. "Open this door!" Still nothing. Looking back over his shoulder, Massey saw Tallmon standing motionless. Once more he knocked. "If you do not open, I'll have my bodyguard force the door. You will then be in serious trouble."
He waited. After three or four seconds he heard the lock slip; the door opened. Inside was a boy of about fifteen, Hispanic, from Waterbury probably, who Massey had seen working for the groundskeeper on weekends. His jeans were on, but his undershorts lay over the rim of the washbowl. Massey looked him over; the boy's cheeks darkened.
"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" Massey said to him.
Surprised at this seeming non sequitur, the boy nodded. "Yessir."
Massey's voice was curious, rather than angry. "How did you get out here today?"
"I caught a ride with the grocery truck, sir. That's how I always come out." The boy was looking past him through the door now; at Tallmon, Massey realized. "I tol' them I was suppose' to work today," the boy added. His nerve was already coming back.
"Ingenious." Massey was aware of Tallmon's approach. "Aren't you supposed to be in school today?"
"They don' do nothin' to you for not goin' to school, Mr. Massey. I skip lots of times; I tell them I was sick. My mother don' speak English, so they don' bother her about it."
"I see. What's your name again? I may have heard, but I don't remember it."
"Joey, Mr. Massey. Joey Jerez." He pronounced it in the Anglo manner—Juhrehz.
"All right, Joey." Massey stepped back out of the bathroom. "I want you to go—Let's see. Just wait outside. And don't worry. You're not in trouble."
Joey started for the bathroom door.
"Oh, and don't forget your underwear."
Turning, the boy looked around, confused for a moment, then saw the shorts, grabbed them and stuffed them in a pocket. Massey watched him almost to the hall door.
"Joey!"
Reluctantly the boy stopped and turned.
"How much was Mr. Tallmon going to pay you?"
The answer was little more than a mumble. "Thirty dollars, sir."
Massey turned to Tallmon, impressed; these were hard times. "Is that right, Barron? Thirty dollars?"
Wordlessly Tallmon nodded.
"Then you should pay the boy before he goes. We can't have him come all the way out here and send him off without paying him."
Tallmon's cheeks flamed at this. He dug his wallet from a pocket and drew forth three bills. The boy was standing straight when Tallmon handed him the money, pleased at how things had developed but being careful not to smile.
"Now wait outside, Joey. In the yard. Mr. Tallmon has some things to do for me in town. He'll be out in a few minutes and take you in with him."
Massey followed Joey Jerez to the door, watched him down the hall and out, then closed the door and turned to Tallmon.
"Barron, I'm disappointed in you. I have never objected seriously to your liaisons with mature and competent adults like Jaubert, but really, this is not all right. How old is this Joey Jerez?"
"Sixteen." Tallmon's voice was as expressionless now as his face.
"Indeed? I'd have thought fifteen at most. Ah well, I suppose these adolescent latinos look younger than they are."
Massey looked thoughtfully at the carpet. "I presume you've worked out how you'd handle things if the boy talked to the authorities. Or if his parents found out and called the police."
"He wouldn't talk." Tallmon's voice was husky now. "He's Puerto Rican or Mexican. His father would kill him if he found out. And besides, the boy wouldn't jeopardize his source of money."
"You've done this before?"
Another nod. "Once. Last Saturday."
"Hm-m." Massey's voice became curious. "Tell me, who plays which role?"
"We take turns."
"Ah. Oral or anal?"
It took a moment for Tallmon to answer. "Anal."
Massey's eyes examined Tallmon's face. Tallmon's eyes slid away. "Barron, I'm afraid you've overlooked some serious risks here. A boy like that will flaunt his money. Some bigger, rougher boy may make him tell where he got it. The story could spread. Or he could spend it on drugs, and babble. And I cannot risk the scandal." Massey shook his head. "No, we'll have to make sure that nothing like that happens."
His lips tightened. "Take him to town. Waterbury?"
Tallmon nodded.
"But don't take him home. Drop him off outside his neighborhood. I suppose we have his address?"
"Edwards will have it in the employee files."
"Good. When you get back, call one of the New York fatality contractors and arrange to have the boy disappear. Or die in some apparent mugging—whatever the contractor feels will work best. Just make sure it can't be traced to us. Do you understand?"
Again the nod.
"And Barron, something like this must not happen again." He looked hard at Tallmon, who in spite of himself allowed a meeting of eyes. "You do see my position, don't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Massey."
"Good. And Barron." He paused, shook his head. "You are very valuable to me; you are my right hand. We'll talk about this when I get back. There are physicians, you know, who can relieve you of these compulsions."
"Yes, Mr. Massey." The voice was thick with emotion.
Massey looked at him for another moment, then nodded and left. When he settled himself in the helicopter, Tallmon had not yet come out of the building. Poor bugger, Massey said to himself, then grimaced at the unvoiced, inadvertent pun. The man was losing his grip.
He'd talk to Dr. Merriman about him. Maybe Tallmon could still be salvaged; he'd seen Merriman do remarkable things with PDH—pain-drugs-hypnosis treatment. Otherwise, well—Disposing of Tallmon should be no problem, but replacing him would be a real nuisance.