Once a Mutt (Trace 5) by Warren Murphy Page B

First of all, she’ll refuse for sure. But then, she’ll always remember. For the rest of your life, you’re going to hear her telling everybody about the time you tried to get her to give you her last ten thousand dollars, which would have put her in poverty and taken away all her security because, well, you know, her husband drinks and no one seems to care about whether she lives or dies in her old age, not like some children who seem to care about their—”
    “Enough, enough,” Trace said. “You’re bringing tears to my eyes.”
    “Did you try borrowing from Chico?” Sarge asked.
    “Of course I did. She was my first hope. She wouldn’t lend it to me.”
    “Why not?” Sarge asked.
    “She said I’d lose it.”
    “Got a good head on her shoulders, that girl,” Sarge said. “If you married her, maybe under the law you’d have a right to loot her savings account.”
    “I’ll have to think about that,” Trace said. “It’s not a bad idea. Anyway, I just called to see how things were. I’m glad you’re all right.”
    “Mother and I are both fine. I’m out working, so I’m happy, and she’s staying home, complaining about being neglected, so she’s happy. What do you need ten thousand dollars for?”
    “I invested in a restaurant. Some start-up expenses that I didn’t expect.”
    “A new restaurant?” Sarge asked.
    “Yes,” Trace said. “Down the Jersey shore.”
    “Did you know that seventy-five percent of all new restaurants go under?” Sarge asked.
    “No fooling, Pop. I never heard that.”
    “It’s true, son.”
    “I’ll never forget it again. Give my love to Mother.”
    “You’re not going to call her?”
    “Of course not. I never call her,” Trace said.
    “Hey, if I win the Pick-Six lottery, I’ll give you the ten grand outright,” Sarge said.
    “I’ll hold you to that,” Trace said. “Try fourteen grand.”
    Trace pressed the handset button with a finger, dropped the receiver on the bed alongside him, and lit a cigarette. This was getting serious. Chico wouldn’t give it up, Sarge didn’t have it, and the only one left was Bob Swenson, the president of Garrison Fidelity, and that was a dead end without making a telephone call. Despite being a millionaire, Swenson never had any money. He was always stiffing Trace on bar tabs and hotel bills. Any money he might have in his pocket, he always spent on women. He frequently complained to Trace that his money was tied up.
    “When does it get untied?” Trace once asked him.
    “The minute I die. Then watch my wife untangle the twisted web of my finances. She’ll have me liquidated before I’m cold. Until then, I can’t touch anything. It’s the only reason I don’t leave that woman.”
    There was nobody else. There was no hope. It was all over.
    When disappointed, lash out. That was Trace’s philosophy. He called Walter Marks’ office at Garrison Fidelity.
    “Let me talk to Groucho,” he told the woman who answered.
    “I beg your pardon,” the woman said.
    “You’re new there, aren’t you?” Trace asked.
    “Who is this calling?”
    “You know how I know you’re new? Because only the new ones ask ‘who’ when I ask for Groucho. Walter Marks. Groucho. I want to talk to him.”
    “And you are?”
    “Trace. Devlin Tracy. And now you’re going to say that you’ll see if he’s in. Trust me, he’s in. Just punch this call right into his office.”
    “I’ll see if he’s in, sir,” the young woman’s voice said coldly.
    The secretary put him on hold. Trace hung up.
    He got up and finally unpacked his clothes. He put his kit of toilet articles in the bathroom and wondered why everybody laughed when he suggested that someone manufacture a joint mouthwash and after-shave lotion.
    He found an ice-cube machine in the hall and put some ice cubes and the rest of his dwindling vodka supply into a plastic water glass.
    He sang three choruses of “Finlandia, Finlandia All the Way,” lit a cigarette, smoked