Psyc 03_The Call of the Mild by William Rabkin Page B

this had anything to do with the mime.”
    “During the chase, the police were able to run the Town Car’s plates and discover that it was registered to the law firm of Rushton, Morelock, and Weiss. Which, if you were extremely familiar with the firm and didn’t feel like using its entire name every time it came up in conversation, could easily be abbreviated as Rushmore.”
    “No, it couldn’t,” Gus said.
    “I’m pretty sure it could,” Shawn said. “Let’s see—you take the first part of Morelock. That’s the ‘More.’ And then you slap that together with the first part of Rushton. That gives you
    ‘Rush.’ You put them together and you get something like—wait for it—More Rush. No, better still: Rushmore.”
    “But that’s not how law firms abbreviate their names,” Gus said.
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t know why not,” Gus said. “Maybe it’s because the senior partners like to hear their names said out loud. If Rushton, Morelock, and Weiss is too long, they’ll just call it Rushton Morelock.”
    Out in the water, Gus could see divers tying nylon ropes to eyes in the raft. One of the divers gathered all the ropes together and started swimming towards the shore.
    “Are you sure about that?” Shawn asked.
    “I’ve read every one of John Grisham’s books,” Gus said. “And that’s how they do it.”
    “Well, then, there are two possibilities,” Shawn said. “One is that John Grisham isn’t always right—which you have to admit seems a lot more plausible after that book about the football player who went to Rome and ate pizza.”
    “What’s the other one?” Gus said.
    “That we’re about to make a mortal enemy out of one of the most powerful men in Santa Barbara,” Shawn said.

Chapter Nineteen
     
     
     
     
     
     
    T he man in the wheelchair didn’t seem to notice Shawn and Gus as they came up behind him. His eyes were fixed on the spot in the water where the Town Car bobbed on the waves. But before they were within a dozen feet of him, he spoke out in a voice that was cragged with age and grief.
    “I said I wanted to be alone,” he said, without looking around to see who was coming up behind him.
    “And I said I wanted my breakfast burrito with no meat, but when Patty the waitress brought it, it had more bacon in it than anything else,” Shawn said. “And you know why that is? Because Patty knows that when I say ‘no bacon,’ what I mean is stick in as much of the pig as can possibly fit inside a tortilla, including the snout and the trotters.”
    Now the man did turn around. If he was surprised to see Shawn and Gus, he didn’t betray it with even the slightest look. Typical, Gus figured. A guy like this probably hasn’t been surprised by anything since Pearl Harbor.
    “And which part of the pig are you?” he said, giving them a long, appraising look.
    “I’m Shawn Spencer,” Shawn said. “I’m a private detective. And this is my henchman, Bertie O’Myrmidon. Or he’s my myrmidon, Bertie O’Henchman. I keep getting that confused.”
    Normally Gus would have jumped in and given his real name at this point in the conversation. But one look at Rushton suggested he might be better off if the old man didn’t know who he was. Even confined to an electric wheelchair that had sunk an inch into the sand, he seemed to tower over Shawn and Gus. His hand-tailored gray suit, his perfectly symmetrical fingernails, his shoes cobbled from the hides of several endangered species—all these announced his great wealth. But there was something else about the man, something money couldn’t buy, that exuded power.
    Up the beach, a winch started up with a loud whine, and the raft began to float in towards the shore. The old man turned back to watch its approach.
    “I’ve hired and fired the best private detectives in the country,” Rushton said. “I’ve never heard of you.”
    “Yes, you have,” Shawn said.
    If he thought he could do it without Rushton’s noticing,