Desperate Enemies 3 Adam Carpenter (books like beach read .TXT) 📖

Miller acted as if he hadn't heard or didn't care.

“What is it you wanted to see me about, Edgar?”

“I need your help getting some information on someone,” replied Edgar, “hopefully information that will get rid of him for good.”

“I'm listening.”

“This person claims to own the land where my home and the homes of our neighbors are built,” said Edgar. “He wants to force us out so that he can re-develop the land for a business venture.”

“And what makes you think that I can help?” asked Miller, his voice emotionless.

Just then the server reappeared carrying their drinks, which she placed on the table in front of them. Edgar passed her a twenty.

“Keep the change,” he said.

As soon as the server was gone he turned back to Miller.

“You were always a good source when I worked at the Chronicle,” he said. “Considering this guy's been around for a while and no doubt involved in all kinds of illegal activities, I figured you were the right guy to call.”

Miller gave Edgar a sideways glance that suggested a punch in the nose for the ‘illegal activities’ crack, but took a sip of his scotch, instead.

“What's this fellow's name?”

“Danvers Converse,” replied Edgar.

Edgar took a sip of his beer and was surprised to hear Miller laughing a real, hearty laugh. It was the first time, to Edgar's recollection, that he had ever seen Miller laugh.

“What's so damn funny?” he asked.

“Danvers Converse?”

“Yes,” replied Edgar, “why?”

“Edgar,” said Miller, “Danvers Converse is one screwed up motherfucker. Do you know how many people he's made disappear? And I'm just talking about California. God knows how many people in Nevada. . .”

“Surely there's got to be some way to get to this guy,” argued Edgar.

“Have you thought about killing him?” asked Miller.

Edgar glanced nervously around the bar, which was beginning to fill up. He suspected that the next show was about to begin.

“One of my neighbors already had that idea,” replied Edgar, his voice low, “and that didn't go so well.”

“Really?” asked Miller, taking another sip of scotch. “What happened?”

“He got into a scuffle with another neighbor and the gun went off, killing him and badly injuring the neighbor.”

Miller's shoulders made a little jerk and he exhaled sharply, as if amused.

“Too bad,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Edgar, hotly, “it was.”

Their conversation was interrupted by pounding dance music. Edgar looked up to see three young women, in varying states of undress and suspect ages, take the stage. Miller seemed hypnotized by their gyrations and surprised Edgar when he spoke.

“So, you want me to get rid of him?”

“What?” asked Edgar, “No, Miller, that's not what I'm asking. . .what I need is to find any information regarding that land and who really owns it.”

Edgar looked back at the stage, his hands sweaty from the uncomfortable conversation. One of the dancers was feigning licking another dancer's exposed nipples. Edgar cleared his throat and took another sip of beer.

“There is a young man who lives on my street who claims to be the rightful heir to the property in question,” he continued. “Unfortunately, he is in cahoots with Converse.”

“And what is this young man's name?” asked Miller, his eyes still glued to the stage.

“Parker St. John,” replied Edgar. “He claims that George Saunders is his father.”

“George Saunders, the old loon up on Lombard?” asked Miller, another sidelong glance at Edgar.

“Yes,” replied Edgar. “I tried talking to him but he's out of his mind.”

Miller took another sip.

“Sounds like something a paternity test could settle,” he offered.

“I doubt we could force that issue,” replied Edgar, stonily. Since when had Miller become so goddamned pragmatic? He was out of ideas; that's why he was here. Miller was a man of action.

Both men were silent as the music continued to blare from the speakers, propelling the dancers on the stage as they twirled and gyrated against the brass poles. Finally, it was Edgar who again spoke.

“Please, Miller,” he said, “you're my last hope. Are you going to help me or not?”

“And why would I do that?” asked Miller. “I'm too old to get shot by some psycho.”

“I'll pay you well for anything you can come up with,” Edgar replied, “just like the old days.”

Miller gave another sidelong glance and shook his head, smiling. His eyes were either misty or glassy from the scotch, Edgar couldn't tell which.

“The old days are gone, Edgar,” he said, “dead and buried.”

Edgar didn't reply and looked back at the action on the stage. More breasts greeted him. This time it was Miller who spoke first.

“I'll call you if I find anything,” he said. “Good seeing you, Edgar.”

He held his hand out and Edgar shook it, suddenly comprehending that this was his cue to exit.

“Good seeing you, Miller.”

Edgar stepped out onto busy Columbus Street, momentarily blinded by the sun but grateful to be in relatively fresh air once again. Nearby, a barker called to passersby, attempting to lure them inside for the lurid show. The sound of his voice was jarring and all Edgar wanted was to be somewhere quiet, so he crossed the street in search of a quiet drink at Tosca.

* * * *

Edgar's meeting with Miller hadn't taken nearly as long as he had imagined, so he found himself back on the road to Wonderland earlier than expected. He had even managed to stop at a little shop in Chinatown to buy something for Jack, a bundle of rice paper that he liked to use as stationery and a couple of silk pillows for the spare bedroom. Of course, the irony of having bought something for their house when it was uncertain whether or not they would be staying in the house was not lost on Edgar, but he bought the pillows anyway. They would make Jack happy, and that's all that mattered.

Although it wasn't quite fall, Edgar could feel it in the air. . . could smell it, could feel it. . . and although it was not quite five o'clock when he pulled the car back onto