Читать книгу Suitcase City - Sterling Watson - Страница 18

ELEVEN

Teach sat in the Grille Room at the Terra Ceia Country Club sipping his second beer. He had purchased a pitcher. He felt rank and grubby and knew he looked it. He hoped the members who glanced at him as they passed through would conclude that his greasy hair and thirty hours of beard were simply the Saturday-morning rebellion of a successful man who’d already played a relaxing nine. The eleven o’clock beer would just have to puzzle them.

After breakfast, Dean had gone up to her room for the friend phoning that was her Saturday-morning ritual. Teach had gone out to the garage and slipped on the polo shirt he kept in the LeSabre’s trunk for the times when he stopped at the driving range after work. In the club parking lot, he’d put on his golf shoes and a white visor, and walked to the Grille Room to order the beer and wait for attorney Walter Demarest.

Walter teed off at seven o’ clock Saturday mornings, sun or rain, no matter what the condition of the Great Republic or the needs of his well-heeled clients. Teach knew Walter’s patterns, knew he would pass through the Grille Room on his way home. He trusted Walter as much as he trusted anyone on the narrow social shelf that housed Paige’s friends. Walter played good golf, didn’t cheat, and had never said a word to Teach about any of his clients.

When Walter Demarest walked in, Teach was on his third beer and believed he might be looking exactly like a guy who’d played a pleasant early round. Walter went to the bar for his usual Amstel Light. With the bottle in his hand, he turned and surveyed the room. Teach waved. “Walt, join me, why don’t you?”

Walter Demarest glanced around the Grille Room as though he might get a better offer, saw nothing, smiled, and ambled over to Teach’s table. He was tall, round at the middle, and as pale as the belly of a catfish. He had coffee-black hair and the sort of chinless, hook-nosed look that reminded Teach of the British royal family. He had been president of his chapter of Alpha Tau Omega at Florida, and Teach had known him in one way or another for a long time.

Walter looked Teach over, sighting down the brown barrel of the Amstel bottle. “So, Teach old buddy, you get around already? How’d it go out there? I didn’t think you were an early bird.” Walter lowered the bottle from a mouth that was small and too crowded with chalky-looking teeth. Inbreeding, Teach thought, not for the first time.

Teach considered lying about a golf game. Why bother? Walter would question him about his deportment on the evil twelfth hole, a par five that required a drive and a long iron over water to a narrow landing, and he would have to invent golf shots and be questioned with legal precision about the lie of his ball and his choice of clubs. “Actually, Walter, I didn’t play this morning. I’ve been sitting here waiting for you. I need to talk to you about something important.”

Walter put the Amstel bottle on the table and shrugged on the mantle of his profession. Clearly, he did not want to wear it: not here, not now. He examined Teach carefully, noting in his mental ledger Teach’s greasy hair, the clean golf shirt, the haggard, unshaven face. His eyes lingered on the half-empty beer pitcher, then met Teach’s frankly. “Rough night?”