Chapter Ten
Huber’s, Swan claimed, was one of the oldest restaurants in Portland. Harry didn’t know or care if that was true, but it was certainly a beautiful place. The high arched ceilings had stained-glass skylights, the bar and walls gleamed in rich dark mahogany, and the tile floor, although well worn, still showed its pattern. Harry wondered if anyone else in his hometown had ever eaten in such a fancy place.
He ordered a turkey dinner, which was the house specialty. Since he still had the ghost of a headache, he intended to avoid booze. But Swan insisted, and Harry hoped the food in his stomach would help him remain sober. Swan ordered a bourbon for himself and something called Spanish coffee for Harry. The waiter served this with considerably more drama—flames and flashy pouring—than what had accompanied the previous night’s Irish coffee.
“This place was a speakeasy during Prohibition,” Swan said. “My father used to come here for meetings. He and his colleagues drank Manhattans from coffee cups and the police looked the other way.”
“Cops were probably on the take.”
“Perhaps. Even today, the Police Bureau chooses to ignore certain activities when doing so advances their own interests.”
Harry shrugged. He figured that was the case just about everywhere. He didn’t know why this city seemed to tolerate queers so readily, but somebody probably profited from it—and the cops profited from that.
“Tell me, Harry. What line of work were you hoping to pursue here?”
“I don’t need a job right away. Like I said, Mr. Lord left me a little money. And, uh, something else maybe valuable.” Harry didn’t have to fake his discomfort at this last part; he didn’t like discussing John as a commodity. And he was becoming increasingly unhappy about using John as bait. But that was the assignment, wasn’t it? And without John, Harry might never get the goods on Swan, which meant Harry would fail. Again.
Swan nodded thoughtfully. “I see. But I assume you don’t possess enough to sustain you indefinitely.”
His mouth full of turkey, Harry shook his head.
“Perhaps I could assist,” Swan said. He’d hardly eaten at all. “I have good contacts. What are your professional aspirations and experiences? Aside from films, of course. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” He smiled like a crocodile, all sharp white teeth.
Harry wiped his lips with a napkin. “Look, Arthur. You see me. I’m just a hick from a whistle-stop town. I’ve shucked corn, pulled weeds, hauled hay and manure. I don’t reckon that’s useful to any of your contacts.”
“Not terribly, no. But you had quite a different occupation with your deceased mentor, yes? Personal assistant, you said.”
“Yeah.”
Harry let that affirmation sit there, blunt and heavy, and Swan didn’t reply. He did, however, angle his body subtly in Harry’s direction. Harry just continued eating.
The longer Swan stared at him, the dirtier Harry felt. It didn’t help that after the Bureau had rejected him, when his hopes and cash had begun to wane, Harry had considered an arrangement similar to what he’d been hinting at with Swan. Find a rich older man—LA was full of them—and persuade the guy to take Harry on. As a gardener, maybe, or driver. Something that gave the man an excuse to keep Harry real close without anyone making a big deal of it. And if Harry’s services extended from the flowerbeds or limo to the bedroom, well, that was better than living on the streets. Wasn’t it?
If Harry had stumbled onto such a wealthy man, he might very well have swallowed his pride. Hell, he’d already had trouble looking at himself in the mirror anyway.
Swan changed the subject, going on about renovations he’d recently had done to his kitchen, the new car he was considering buying, and his excitement about television. Portland’s first station was due to begin broadcasting soon. Harry nodded at the right spots, but it was clear that Swan didn’t expect him to add anything.
After the plates were cleared and more drinks arrived, the predatory gleam returned to Swan’s eyes. “Perhaps you and I might discuss potential employment opportunities for you. After we get to know each other a little better of course.” Perhaps that emphasis on know was meant to assure that Harry caught his meaning.
“Told you. I’m not looking for a job right now.”
“What are you looking for, Harry?”
Harry pretended to think this over carefully, choosing his words at length, even though he’d rehearsed this with the Bureau. “Can I be frank, Arthur?”
“I rather hope you will.”
“All right.” A heavy sigh. “I didn’t exactly find you by accident. Least not if you’re who I think.”
“Whom do you think I am?”
Harry looked around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Mr. Lord, he was an inventor and scientist. Those were his hobbies, I mean. His real job was a lawyer.”
“Yes?”
“The particular things he was… studying…. Look, I don’t know much about it. I’m no scientist, and he didn’t tell me much. Secret, he said. But he gave me a couple of peeks, some hints, and that… that gift he left me. So I have a general idea what he was up to.”
“Which was?” It was Swan’s turn to lean forward. And now Harry felt every bit the predator—a fisherman slowly reeling in his catch.
“Can’t tell you. Not now. But one night when he was drunk he said something interesting. Said that up in Portland, a fellow was doing work like his, studying the same thing.”
Already pale, Swan’s complexion whitened another shade. “Why would he think this?”
“Dunno, not exactly. But he was a lawyer, remember? He had access to all kinds of information. A couple of private dicks on his payroll too. He was good at finding things out.”
Swan pursed his lips so tightly that it looked painful. A thousand different thoughts seemed to be flashing through his eyes as he kept his gaze on Harry’s face. Oddly, Swan’s discomfort relaxed Harry, maybe because making someone else feel ill at ease was rare for him. It was kind of powerful, really.
“This has all been a swindle of some kind?” Swan spat the words fiercely.
“No, I’m just being careful. I don’t know if you’re the right man. Mr. Lord didn’t tell me the fellow’s name. After he died, I had a look at some of the notes Mr. Lord took after he talked to his private dicks. They didn’t give a name either, but they described him. Named some of the bars he goes to. You fit.”
Townsend had been very clear about this—Harry couldn’t let on that he’d known Swan’s name from the start. Too direct, my boy. This game needs more smoke and mirrors. It hadn’t made any sense to Harry, but then, he wasn’t the Bureau’s West Coast Chief.
“What do you want from me?” Swan demanded.
“That depends on whether you’re the right fellow.” Harry leaned back and crossed his arms.
“And if I am?”
“Then I have something you might be interested in buying from me. For the right price, I might be interested in selling.”
“What do you have to offer that might interest me?” Pure contempt in the tone, but Harry was accustomed to that. What mattered was that the fish was nearly landed.
“Can’t say. Not until I know you’re who I’m looking for. If I spill the beans to the wrong people, I could end up in prison. And mister, I don’t want to go to prison.” He paused, allowing the hint of a smile to play at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me. You the right guy?”
“That’s impossible to say since you’ve told me nothing about the specifics.”
“Tell me what kind of science you’re doing.”
“I cannot divulge that information. I too wish to avoid legal entanglements. Which leaves us at an impasse.”
Smoke and mirrors worked fine in the movies, but Harry was tiring of this—and he feared that fatigue would lead to mistakes. Never sharp even at his best, his wits grew duller when he was frustrated or weary. And he’d also had those drinks. He shook his head. “All I’m gonna tell you is one thing: Mr. Lord’s research was going real well. That thing he left me? It’s a successful experiment.” Sorry, John. Harry hoped his chagrin was well hidden.
Swan’s eyes widened and hectic blotches of color bloomed on his cheeks. He swallowed a full glass of bourbon in one go. “Do you mean to tell me you possess—” He stopped himself, but his jaw kept working.
“I’m not telling you anything until you prove you have the same hobby as Mr. Lord. Otherwise how do I know you’re not a cop or running some kind of con?”
“I am neither.”
Harry shrugged. “Look, if you don’t want to play, fine. There’s another fellow too, you know. In New Jersey. I came to you first because Portland’s closer to LA, but if you’re not interested, I’ll head East.”
Although Swan looked very much as if he wanted to hit someone—or at least down a lot more booze—his voice stayed even. “I believe I am the man you seek, and I’m willing to pay a great deal if you truly have… this object.” He rubbed his forehead in thought. “All right. Tomorrow I have an unavoidable meeting in Seattle. I’ll return home the following day. You come to my house that evening at eight and bring your inheritance. At the same time, I will show you my laboratory. We’ll provide proof to each other concurrently. Acceptable?”
The fish was in the net. But Harry didn’t exult over it, and his sensation of being dirty and corrupt had only increased. Harry had gotten himself into this mess and deserved whatever happened to him; but not John. As far as Harry could tell, John was innocent.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Swan wrote his address on the back of a business card and slid it across the table. Harry took the card, stood up, and removed his coat and hat from the hook. “See you soon, Arthur.”
Swan nodded and took another sip of his drink.
***
Harry walked a few blocks and found a pay phone. This time when he called, Townsend himself picked up. “Yeah, kid?”
“He’s real interested, but he doesn’t want to tell me anything until he sees Jo—the proof. I’m going to his house the night after next. He says he’ll show me his lab.”
“Two nights from now? I thought he’d be more eager.”
“He has to go to Seattle for something tomorrow.”
Townsend made a hmm sound.
“Hey, Chief? He didn’t come right out and confess, but he sure hinted at being up to something. Isn’t that enough? Can’t your guys crash his house and see the lab for themselves?”
“Has he confirmed that he’s attempting to make creatures like the one we lent you? Because if he’s simply digging up bodies with no intent to resurrect them, there’s no federal jurisdiction. And I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with the local authorities.”
Harry sighed. “He hasn’t confirmed anything.”
“Then report back after you see his lab.”
“Okay. Hey, Chief?”
“Yes?”
Harry wanted to tell him about John. The way his eyes lit up over small gifts. The look of wonder he’d had during a simple walk in the park. How he caught on to things really fast—reading a thick volume as if it was a comic book—but didn’t make Harry feel stupid. How his smile was so sweet that the scars no longer mattered and he became beautiful.
Townsend wouldn’t want to hear any of that.
“Nothing. Night, Chief.”