outwitted, trying to keep up with the chain of events Whiteside had described. I rubbed my face with two fingers until I got used to the pain, then I asked him, "Did Nancy give you any idea where they were going, except for here?"
"No. Honest, Chief. This place belongs to the woman who set up the kidnapping. Calls herself Margaret Sumner."
The name meant nothing to me. I pushed him. "What do you know about her? Is she a dumpy broad, in her fifties?"
He nodded, eager as a puppy to please. "That's her. There's no Sumner on the Reserve, that's for sure, but she's an Indian, around fifty-five."
I remembered the September morning. Three bangs of the pump gun, three ducks. Maybe she was Indian, but if so she had made money along the way. Her clothes were expensive.
"Anything else? Is she married, widowed, what?"
He held up his hands. "That's all I know. She bought this place last summer. I've seen her come into the marina a time or two, keeps an old plywood runabout there, got a Mercury motor."
I sensed a pattern to this. She had bought the cottage here and then set about building her little organization. Had it been because she wanted to get her hands on the Carmichael kid for something? Or had the Carmichael kid seemed like a usable totem for her cause? Whichever it was, Irv Whiteside wouldn't be able to help me. I tackled his knowledge from the other end.
"How come you and Nancy Carmichael are so close? Are you getting next to her?"
He folded at the shoulders and crossed his legs guiltily. "Hey, come on, Chief, get real. Me an' a kid like that?"
"Well, how much was she going to pay you for looking after her?"
"Nothing." He muttered it, not looking at me.
"Nothing? You don't work for nothing, Irv. I've seen your sheet, don't try to snow me."
"This was a favor." The rawness of his longing for the girl was painful to watch. "I mean, she's a pretty kid. I'm a man of the world. You know. I'd be shut up here with her a couple days. You never know what'll happen."
I slumped down in an armchair, weary beyond belief. "You mentioned pouring a snort. Is there any more around?"
"Yeah! Sure. You want some?" He was on his feet at once, desperate to please. He found the bottle. It was J & B.
"Sorry it's not Black Velvet, Chief. I'm a scotch man."
"Sounds good," I said. He found a couple of coffee mugs and poured a solid belt into both.
He gave me mine, then raised his and said, "Chimo!"
"Chimo yourself." I toasted him and sipped. It went down smooth and spread out into my tired body like fresh blood.
Now he was setting his drink down and feeling in his pocket for cigarettes. He found them in his side pocket, crushed flat from his exit through the window. He extracted one, rolled it gently, and lit it with a stick of kindling he then threw into the stove.
"Now." I sipped again and set down my drink. "You probably don't need me to say it, but I have to. You're in trouble up to your ass. For openers, you're a part of a conspiracy to commit a felony." I looked at him to see how he was taking it. The kidnapping was nothing more than a case of public mischief and that's just a misdemeanor, but I wanted him scared. And besides, the caper involved a murder now.
"What's more, you attempted to murder a peace officer." He put his drink down on the floor and spread his hands like a crucifixion victim. "Come on, Chief. I told you what was goin' down."
"You know as well as me that story wouldn't last a minute in court."
He said nothing, just sat staring at the floor. Slowly he lowered his hands and brought the right to his mouth for a drag on his smoke. He cupped the cigarette in his hand. He had never been in the pen but he had worked for men who had. He knew the drill. No J & B, no Friday night women, just noise and fear and the chance of ending up as somebody's punk if you didn't hit any guy who looked at you sideways.
I took pity and got to the point. "So we'll scratch the shooting. I've been shot at before, by experts."
He
"No. Honest, Chief. This place belongs to the woman who set up the kidnapping. Calls herself Margaret Sumner."
The name meant nothing to me. I pushed him. "What do you know about her? Is she a dumpy broad, in her fifties?"
He nodded, eager as a puppy to please. "That's her. There's no Sumner on the Reserve, that's for sure, but she's an Indian, around fifty-five."
I remembered the September morning. Three bangs of the pump gun, three ducks. Maybe she was Indian, but if so she had made money along the way. Her clothes were expensive.
"Anything else? Is she married, widowed, what?"
He held up his hands. "That's all I know. She bought this place last summer. I've seen her come into the marina a time or two, keeps an old plywood runabout there, got a Mercury motor."
I sensed a pattern to this. She had bought the cottage here and then set about building her little organization. Had it been because she wanted to get her hands on the Carmichael kid for something? Or had the Carmichael kid seemed like a usable totem for her cause? Whichever it was, Irv Whiteside wouldn't be able to help me. I tackled his knowledge from the other end.
"How come you and Nancy Carmichael are so close? Are you getting next to her?"
He folded at the shoulders and crossed his legs guiltily. "Hey, come on, Chief, get real. Me an' a kid like that?"
"Well, how much was she going to pay you for looking after her?"
"Nothing." He muttered it, not looking at me.
"Nothing? You don't work for nothing, Irv. I've seen your sheet, don't try to snow me."
"This was a favor." The rawness of his longing for the girl was painful to watch. "I mean, she's a pretty kid. I'm a man of the world. You know. I'd be shut up here with her a couple days. You never know what'll happen."
I slumped down in an armchair, weary beyond belief. "You mentioned pouring a snort. Is there any more around?"
"Yeah! Sure. You want some?" He was on his feet at once, desperate to please. He found the bottle. It was J & B.
"Sorry it's not Black Velvet, Chief. I'm a scotch man."
"Sounds good," I said. He found a couple of coffee mugs and poured a solid belt into both.
He gave me mine, then raised his and said, "Chimo!"
"Chimo yourself." I toasted him and sipped. It went down smooth and spread out into my tired body like fresh blood.
Now he was setting his drink down and feeling in his pocket for cigarettes. He found them in his side pocket, crushed flat from his exit through the window. He extracted one, rolled it gently, and lit it with a stick of kindling he then threw into the stove.
"Now." I sipped again and set down my drink. "You probably don't need me to say it, but I have to. You're in trouble up to your ass. For openers, you're a part of a conspiracy to commit a felony." I looked at him to see how he was taking it. The kidnapping was nothing more than a case of public mischief and that's just a misdemeanor, but I wanted him scared. And besides, the caper involved a murder now.
"What's more, you attempted to murder a peace officer." He put his drink down on the floor and spread his hands like a crucifixion victim. "Come on, Chief. I told you what was goin' down."
"You know as well as me that story wouldn't last a minute in court."
He said nothing, just sat staring at the floor. Slowly he lowered his hands and brought the right to his mouth for a drag on his smoke. He cupped the cigarette in his hand. He had never been in the pen but he had worked for men who had. He knew the drill. No J & B, no Friday night women, just noise and fear and the chance of ending up as somebody's punk if you didn't hit any guy who looked at you sideways.
I took pity and got to the point. "So we'll scratch the shooting. I've been shot at before, by experts."
He
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