Denton - 03 - Way Past Dead (34 page)

But Agon Dumbler is also one of the half dozen or so best music-industry reporters in the country. His three-times-a-week column in the newspaper we both used to work for had gone into syndication a few years before I, euphemistically speaking, changed careers. This had the result of making him the richest employee on the paper within a year or so, not to mention the substantial extra income he made stringing under an assumed name for publications like the
National Enquirer
, which very few people knew about. Resentment at his growing reputation and wealth ballooned until Agon was forced to resign and open up his own office, which he did gladly. He repaid the newspaper’s nurturance of his career by offering his column to the other Nashville daily at reduced rates.

I hadn’t thought of him in years. Strangely enough, I never had much trouble getting along with him. He’d waddle over to my desk with a copy of one of my stories from the previous day’s paper and proceed to rip it to shreds, ending with a supercilious, dictatorial lecture on how I could improve my work. I’d just smirk at him, nod, thank him for stopping by. The only explanation I have for my behavior toward him is that I just never felt that it was my place to interfere with another person’s compulsive need to be an asshole.

The White Pages were buried in a stack of unanswered mail and junk on my desk. I pulled them out without tipping the pile over, and thumbed through the business section. Under the Ds, Agon had bought one of those new listings where they print your name in double-sized red type. His read:
AGON DUMBLER, SYNDICATED COLUMNIST
. There was a number, but no address.

I punched in the number. Two rings later a shrill voice with a harsh Brooklyn accent shouted into the phone: “Agon Dumbler, Syndicated Columnist, may we help you?”

“Good morning,” I said. “My name’s Harry James Denton and I used to work with Mr. Dumbler at the newspaper. I wonder if he has a moment to spare.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she screeched. Then, mercifully, I was put on hold.

Two minutes passed before a voice came on, and this time it was the phlegmy perpetually allergy-plagued voice of Agon Dumbler. “Denton,” he drawled. “Denton … Let me see, now, the name sounds familiar.”

“We used to work together at the paper. I was cityside, you were in the entertainment section.”

“I
was
the entertainment section,” he interrupted.

“Of course. And you kind of took me under your wing. You were my mentor.” I bit my lip to keep a straight face.

“Oh, yes, Denton. Young fellow, if I remember.”

“Yeah, that’s me, Agon.”

Young fellow, my keister
. Agon and I are the same age.

“So what can I do for you, Denton?”

“Well, you knew I left the paper a couple of years ago.”

“No, actually I didn’t. I prefer not to have contact with”—he sniffed loudly—“those people.”

“I know what you mean. I don’t blame you. I’ve even left the field altogether. I’m a private investigator now.”

He made a sound like he’d just accidentally stepped into doggie surprise.

“Anyway, I’m working on a case and I’ve run into a dead end. I’m absolutely at my wit’s end on something, and I remembered how whenever any of us at the paper got into this kind of situation, we always came to you.”

God forgive me, I thought, for lying to this poor man in such an unholy, brazen fashion.

“Yes, you all did, and if I remember, none of you ever appreciated it. Not one bit.”

“Well, I always did, Agon, and if I didn’t let you know that, it was just because of the atmosphere down there.”

“Nevertheless …” he said, then let loose with a long sigh. “What case are you working on?”

I gritted my teeth and steeled myself. “I’m digging into the murder of Rebecca Gibson.”

“Oh, my heavens,” he blurted. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

“I know,” I said. “It’s a nasty one, all right.”

“Who are you working for?” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll tell you, Agon, but you gotta promise not to hang up on me.”

“I never make promises.”

“Okay. I’m working for Slim Gibson, but before you say anything else, let me state that I believe he’s innocent. Rebecca Gibson’s killer is still out there.”

There was a long silence. I held the phone away from
my ear, waiting for him to slam it down. Only he surprised me. “What makes you think I can help you?” he asked softly. “I need some information.”

“Ah, information is a valuable commodity. It’s my stock-in-trade.”

“I realize that, but I’m afraid my financial resources are rather limited. My client expects to be impoverished by this process. Consequently, there’s not much extra in the defense fund.”

“If it was
money
we were talking about,” he said, “you’d definitely be out of the running. You certainly can’t afford my consultation fee.”

I was confused. “So what do …?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I have a one o’clock lunch appointment at the Sunset Grille. You meet me there at twelve, and I’ll let you buy me lunch.”

Wait a minute, I thought. You have a lunch appointment at one, so meet you there at twelve, and I can buy you … I started to say something, then let it go.

“Sunset Grille at twelve,” I said.

“Twelve,” he answered, then hung up the phone without another word.

I pulled the cashier’s check out of my pocket and stared at it. Sunset Grille, huh?

This check wasn’t going to last long.

It’s not that I have anything against the Sunset Grille, you understand. It’s a damn nice place, very chichi, close to the Vanderbilt campus. It’s more that I’ve left that life behind, for the time being anyway, and the thought of spending big bucks for lunch makes me blanch.

I stopped by the bank, deposited the check, took out a hundred in cash, and hoped for the best. The Sunset Grille was across the street from Faison’s, another trendy restaurant, but one that I find much more laid-back
and comfortable. I’d have rather been there anytime, but this was a command performance.

The kid handling the valet parking screwed up his face when I pulled the Mazda to a stop in front of him. When I got out, he inspected the car as if something inside might bite him.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked. He was early twenties, well built, genuine 1950s crew cut.

“Mazda Cosmo. Very rare. I’m restoring it, so be careful. Don’t ding it.” I turned and walked into the restaurant as he snickered behind me.

“I have a lunch appointment with Mr. Dumbler,” I told the young woman with the clipboard who looked like she knew what she was doing. “Has he checked in yet?”

She looked over the top of the clipboard and curled her upper lip. “Oh, yes, he’s here. Try the bar.” She pointed. I walked.

The bar was a darkened room, small, with booths lining two of the walls. Against the far wall, in the corner booth, Agon Dumbler sat taking up all but a couple of inches of the bench seat. He still wore the white suit, but he’d gotten even heavier since I last saw him. His skin stretched so far over the bones of his face I thought it would split. His eyes were swollen almost shut, and even in the lousy light, I could tell there was a pink splotchiness to him that I didn’t remember seeing before. Age had not been kind to him. Frankly, he looked like hell.

“Agon, you haven’t changed a bit,” I said, extending my hand toward him. Not only was it a lie, but it was the worst possible insult I could have dispensed. Only he didn’t know that.

He stuck a fat hand out toward me and clasped mine. The hand felt hot, moist, yet somehow clammy at the same time. After we let go, I fought the urge to wipe my palm across my pants.

“How are things?” I asked as I sat down.

“Fine, Henry. Just fine.”

“That’s Harry, Agon. Harry.”

“Whatever …” He stared away at the ceiling, forcing himself to appear bored.

The waitress came up and introduced herself, as all waitresses seem compelled to do these days. She handed us menus, then cocked her hand. “Will this be one check or two, gentlemen?”

“Ugh, one,” I offered, pointing to myself.

“Can I get you something from the bar?”

“I’ll have a glass of the Woodbridge merlot,” Agon said. I looked down at the wine list. Six bucks. I gulped.

“Unsweetened tea,” I said.

“We’ll order now,” Agon announced. He then proceeded to order the most expensive item on the menu, some kind of steak doobie or something. I didn’t read the description, only the price: $18.95.

I scanned the sandwich section of the lunch menu.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” I said.

After the waitress left, I lifted the glass of ice water and took a long slug, trying to steady myself.

“Well,” I said uncomfortably, “shall we get right to business?”

“Splendid,” he said, “Now, what are you attempting to do here?”

“I’m attempting,” I said, “to prove that Slim Gibson is innocent of the murder of his ex-wife.”

“And what proof do you have?” he demanded. Why did I feel like I was talking to Professor Kingsfield in a remake of
The Paper Chase?

I shrugged. “I know Slim, and I just happen to believe that he didn’t kill her.”

“Oh,” he said, then snorted, “that ought to convince a jury.”

It was monumentally hard not to hate him. I squirmed, trying to figure out some way to get what I needed out of him without letting him know what I
knew in return. My prospects of pulling this off seemed dim.

“From all the people I’ve interviewed, I now have a composite portrait of Rebecca Gibson. That portrait is of someone who’s spent years working to make it, is finally on the brink of major stardom, and who then, tragically, is brought down by the petty jealousies and angers of less-talented people. At first, it was just a matter of figuring out which little person she left behind was pissed off enough to kill her. Now I’m not so sure.”

The waitress brought our drinks and set them down. Agon picked up his six-dollar goblet of wine and snarfed down three dollars’ worth in one gulp, then motioned to the waitress for another.

He glared at me, traces of wet red around his lips. “Stop pulling my pud,” he said.

I fought a wave of nausea at the thought. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve stumbled—and I think
stumbled
is the operative word since you were never a competent reporter—upon something that has made you suspect someone. Only you’re not divulging who it is or what you stumbled upon. Let me tell you something, young man, you don’t get anything in this world for free.”

I contemplated getting up and walking out. But he’s right; everything had a price, and the price of getting what I needed from him was putting up with his crap.

“So what’s it going to cost?”

“Information for information. If you know something, I want to know it. You find out who murdered Rebecca Gibson, it comes to me first.”

I sat back and breathed a sigh of resignation. I should have expected that.

“I have information that indicates Rebecca’s manager may be in serious financial trouble.”

“What kind of information?”

“I know the guy who, within the next day or so, is going to repossess his Rolls.…”

Agon whistled, then drained his goblet as the waitress brought him another. She set the glass in front of him; he wrapped one corpulent hand around the stem, then drummed a thick set of fingers on the table next to it.

“Well, well, well …” His eyes flicked from side to side. “So Mr. Ford has taken the high road to Needham.…”

“Yeah, no kidding. What I’m trying to do is figure out what’s going on with him. How could this happen?”

He looked from the wineglass to me, his eyes a glimmer of light through the slits of his fat eyelids.

“I don’t know if this is going anywhere or not,” I said. “The fact that he was hard up for dough is no reason to have murdered Rebecca Gibson. After all, she was going to make him a millionaire, right? That’s why I don’t think he killed her. Still, I want to find out where this leads.” I stared at him for a second as he polished off dollars seven through nine of the Woodbridge merlot. You know, these grape drinks last longer when you don’t slug them down, I thought. Agon’s liver must look like it had undergone an artillery barrage. “So can you help me?”

He sighed. “This is the very sleaziest form of gossip imaginable,” he said, lowering his voice well below the lunchtime din. I had to ease in closer to catch what he was saying. “And I never pass on scurrilous gossip.”

“I know that, Agon,” I said. “You’ve got too much journalistic integrity.”

God, I hope I wore my lightning-proof Jockey shorts this morning.

“Mac Ford is a man of many vices, and a man of great passions as well.”

“What kinds of vices?”

“For one thing, he smokes rather a large amount of marijuana. Always has. To him, it’s nothing more serious than those foul cigars. I understand he grows his own, on some three hundred acres he owns in the Dominican Republic. He’s paid off the local officials, goes
down there several times a year to frequent prostitutes, party, and take care of his crop. He’s also been known to roll a dollar bill up every now and then, if you get my drift. He drinks quite a bit of expensive brandy as well, although I’d hesitate to call that a real vice. Quite a lifestyle he has—traveling all over the world in pursuit of pleasure and his own screwy business deals. You know he’s produced quite a number of albums?”

“Really?”

“Yes, all of them losers. The Bonne Nuit Haitian Smoke and Kettle Club Band, for example, a bunch of ‘Hey, mon’ dope smokers and drum bangers. You know, those awful Caribbean metal instruments made out of oil drums?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what those are called. And I never heard of the band.”

“Neither has anyone else,” he said. The waitress arrived with our food. Agon’s steak was about the size of a small hubcap and covered in hollandaise sauce. It looked exquisite. My club sandwich looked feeble.

“Word on the Row is that Ford has made a string of imprudent decisions,” Agon said, sliding the first chunk of steak between his lips. His jowls vibrated as he chewed. “You knew he lost at least four major acts last year. Let’s see, there was Cathy Fields, Alan Simpson, the Prospectors, Emerald Jade.”