Some Die Hard Page 3

  Old Mr. Court had built a home with a view, all right. The land sloped down from around us and about thirty yards below the house the woods gave way to open prairie, the vast expanse of flatness stretching as far as the eye could see, all the way to Nebraska and beyond. The net effect was one of being on top of the world, lord of all you surveyed, and it was kind of a nice feeling to have.

  Three people were already out there. One character, who was half leaning and half sitting against the far wall nursing a drink, and the two guys Helen steered us toward. Both of these held drinks also and the one on my left was doing most of the talking while the other guy played the audience.

  The younger of the two, the one with the busy mouth, was about Susan's age. He had her hair and until recently had probably still been on the slim side, but booze was taking care of that. Booze and too much rich food and probably not enough of the good things it takes to keep you in shape. His face was already beginning to fill out and his eyes were intense, seemed capable of extreme cruelty. A natural, sadistic turn to his lower lip kept him from being very handsome, and he too was mildly soused. He was dressed expensively, in mod fashion, and his whole attitude spelled cocky rich kid.

  He sounded as if he was busy pleading a case in court as we approached.

  "...but you've just got to let me help, Doc," he was saying. "My father's welfare is very important to me! I want him to have everything—the best! You'll tell him I was asking about him, won't you? And I want you to do everything you can to—"

  The audience, a sixtyish man with silver-streaked hair, decided it was time to interrupt.

  "Tommy, just who do you think you're fooling?" he asked plainly. "Don't you think it's a little late to come around playing the heartsick son? I know what you're up to and if you think I'll be party to it, you're sadly mistaken. You made your bed, now you can—" He stopped in midsentence as he spotted us.

  The kid seemed to sense our presence a moment later and spun around glowering. "Yeah? What the hell do you want?"

  The underlying threat of violence in his voice was about as subdued as a Shriner on the last night of a convention, but if the redhead noticed she let it go by.

  "Tommy, Dr. Hanley," she said, "this is Rock Dugan. He came from Denver with Susan. Rock, this is Tommy Court and Dr. Alex Hanley, Mr. Court's physician."

  Alex Hanley wasted no time in stretching out a hand and giving me a professional grip. "Mr. Dugan, how do you do? Welcome to our little get-together."

  I said I was glad to be there, and then it was Tommy's turn. He eyed me slowly up and down, making no attempt to conceal his instant dislike.

  "So this is what Suzy's up to—"

  "Tommy!" Hanley seemed to sense what was coming. "I don't think you need to—"

  But the kid was going strong.

  "Mr. Dugan looks like a cheap hood to me," he sneered, the curve of his lower lip becoming more pronounced. "Somebody my darling sister picked up to help back her play. To try and squeeze me out of what's rightfully mine!"

  'Tommy, you know Susan would never do such a thing," the redhead piped in, as if disapproving of a small child. "How can you say something like that? Now why don't you just go and fix Mr. Dugan a drink and—"

  Everyone was trying to keep it cool, but it didn't do any good. And I figured that maybe the kid was used to being talked to like a child. For sure it didn't do anything to slow him down.

  "I won't fix him a drink because he's a hood and I don't like hoods," he spat, even more the infant now than before. "And I especially don't like hoods in my house."

  I mumbled to no one in particular, "This sounds like the beginning of a great relationship."

  "Tommy," the doctor interrupted dryly, "in view of the recent turn of events, I'd hardly refer to this as your house."

  The old guy was going to say more but Little Lord Fauntleroy didn't give him a chance. He was building up under his own steam. He was clenching his fists now, and the knuckles were white.

  "I'm sick of being pushed around," he snapped. "This is my father's house...it's my house." He looked squarely at me. ''You have no business here, and you're not wanted

  here. Beat it. Get out, or I'll throw you out."

  And he actually took a step toward me. And then he stopped.

  "Don't, Tommy," I said quietly.

  Crazy fires had stoked themselves up in his eyes. Rich kids weren't supposed to take flak. They were supposed to be treated with respect; handled with care. And the ones who had crossed the line before had probably been paid for their indiscretion by Tommy himself, if they were weak and afraid and gutless enough, or by some of Tommy's friends if Tommy didn't think he could handle it. And it had probably been a long time since anyone had bothered to pull the cork on Tommy Court. Rich kids were supposed to do what they wanted, have what they wanted, and screw the world.

  But that wasn't going to wash here, and Tommy knew it the instant he heard my voice and even before; he knew it when his eyes locked with mine and he read what was in them. And that's why he stopped. Cold. Like some piece of machinery with the juice cut.

  He didn't have any trouble finding his throat muscles, though.

  "You...you're not wanted here," he repeated.

  "Why not take Helen's advice," I suggested, "and make like a good little busboy. I'll have a scotch on the rocks."

  The fires in his eyes began dancing back again. "You son of a—"

  "Tommy!" Hanley snapped, and that shut the kid up again. The doc continued in a gentler tone, "Thus far I don't think you have to worry about word of this particular incident reaching your father. But if you persist in making a drunken fool of yourself..."

  He let the sentence drop with an invisible shrug, and Tommy got the picture post haste. He looked at me, then at Hanley, and then down at the ground as he turned away in the direction of the portable bar along the far side of the patio.

  "You all think you're so goddamned high and mighty..." he said slowly, and the rest was inaudible, as they say in the Watergate transcripts.

  I looked back at Hanley and gave him a little twist of a smile. "Quite a boy," I said. "With quite a chip on his shoulder."

  He sipped his drink and shook his head with what seemed to be genuine sadness. "Such a shame, such a shame. Susan and Tommy, both of the same parents, and as different as day and night."

  "It happens sometimes," I nodded wisely...and suddenly felt a gentle yet warm pressure on my left forearm. I turned. It was Helen Bishop, and her dazzling green eyes gazed up at me with a look married women should save for their husbands.

  "You...you handled Tommy so...masterfully," she cooed throatily. "He can be pretty mean when he wants to."

  "I guess he just didn't want to," I said, and paused as the son of a bitch in question came back, thrusting my drink at me with such force that some of it sloshed over the top of the glass.

  "To your health," he growled. "I hope you fucking choke on it!"

  And then he was gone, not waiting for a reply. He crossed the patio, slipped over the low brick wall and disappeared into the woods, walking aggressively with his head bent and his hands in his pockets.

  The hell with him.

  It was good scotch he'd brought me and I took a sip and looked at Hanley. "That's what I like about parties," I said philosophically. "You always meet such interesting people."

  "I'm afraid I'll have to apologize for Tommy," he replied. "He never did seem to really grow up, and he's had a big letdown lately. Family trouble."

  I became aware then that the red-haired Amazon was still holding onto me, and still had her mind on the same track.

  "But...I've seen Tommy tear people apart when he's been drunk, when he's decided he doesn't like them." she was saying. "But all you did was say 'don't' and...and he didn't! It was fantastic, Rock. Simply fantastic."

  Hanley noticed her arm linked through mine and the look he gave her seemed to be a warning of some kind.

  "Helen—" he said softly.

  But she w
as still going strong.

  "I think Tommy might've been right. Maybe you are someone Susan brought back to try and keep him in line!"

  That was all I wanted to hear of that. I tuned her out for a moment and shifted my attention to the guy I'd first noticed when we stepped out here. The guy half leaning, half sitting against the far wall working on a drink. I now realized he had been watching us, and he didn't seem to care much for the attention I was getting from the woman. As I looked at him he pushed himself away from the wall and began coming forward, a set, surly expression pasted across his face that wasn't too reassuring.

  I sighed, took another gulp of my drink, and girded my loins for another run-in...but it never got that far.

  "Uh, Mr. Dugan?"

  The voice, when it came, startled the hell out of me but I didn't let it show. It came from my right and I turned to find a little brown-haired runt of a guy in his mid-thirties with a narrow face and body that reminded me of a professional jockey. He was dressed super-casually in blue jean slacks and jacket and a checkered plaid shirt.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Court would like to see you," he said politely. "He's in the study, if you'll follow me."

  I didn't have to be asked twice. With the exception of Alex Hanley, who I kind of liked, these really weren't my type of people.

  I untangled myself from Helen Bishop, forgot about the bozo who was still coming at me, and followed the jockey back into the house, not letting go of my drink. He led the way across the living room, up a flight of curved open stairs, down a hallway, and gave a polite knock at a closed door.

  The door opened and Susan Court stepped out.

  She gave me a bright smile as she edged between us. "Having a nice time?" she asked.

  "A real blast. What's up?"

  "Nothing. Dad just wants to see you...about why you came. You'll like Dad; he's all right. I'll be down by the patio with the others when you're done, okay?"

  "Sure," I said dryly. "Don't get hurt."

  And then my guide and I were in Mr. Court's study. It was quite a room. A luxurious, male-oriented chamber done in heavy oak paneling with a deep shag carpet, walls adorned with sketches and photos of buildings I figured he had designed and, behind the desk where the man now sat, a wide bay window that seemed to take in the whole panorama of the scene I'd enjoyed from the patio, and more. And from a different, higher vantage point. I was Carlander Court's own personal Mount Olympus, and he looked right at home in it.

  He got up from behind the wide desk and came around to me with an arm outstretched. When we shook hands his grip was steel-like and authoritative. He was a heavyset, hearty, robust-looking man and though his hair was snow white, in direct contrast to the deep brown of his tanned face, it was practically impossible to pin down his age, even to being in the fifties, sixties or seventies. He certainly didn't look like a man only a few months away from death, and I realized that his daughter had been right.

  I did like him.

  "Mr. Dugan, welcome to my home. I'm Carlander Court."

  "I'm glad to be here, Mr. Court," I said socially. "Thanks for having me."

  His manner was easygoing, charismatic. While one hand still held my own his other arm encircled my shoulder and he led me further into the room.

  "Come in, come in. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you, Dugan. Probably some of the things Susan has already told you about." I glided into a deep brown leather chair facing his desk, that he'd steered me into while he turned back to the guy in the blue jeans who was still standing in the doorway. "That'll be all for now, Jinx," he said. "I'll be ready for..for the surprise in about a half hour."

  "Okay, Mr. Court," the jockey said, and let himself out, closing the door soundlessly after him.

  Court moved over to a cellarette to the right of his desk. "Care for a drink?" he asked over his shoulder,

  I motioned with the glass I still had. "No thanks, I'm taken care of."

  "That?" he snorted. "That's for the hired help and parties." He reached slightly over his head, brought down a corked bottle of wine. "How does Bordeaux 1953 sound?"

  I set my drink over on his desk with a heavy clunk.

  "Like the nectar of the gods," I said sincerely.

  He gave a warm, appreciative laugh, poured, and handed me a small, delicately carved glass.

  "To your health," he said, lifting his own in a toast.

  We each took a slow sip—the only way you can drink wine that old—and before I could say anything he was moving back to sit in his chair behind the desk and there was a bittersweet turn to his mouth. ''Health," he said softly, as if it were a curse. "It's something a man usually doesn't think about, until it's too late..." The sentence drifted off into an uncomfortable moment of silence, and then he began a new line of thought, gazing down at the glass in his hand. "I'd been sitting on fifteen bottles of this stuff for nearly twenty years," he said, and the bittersweetness had moved from his lips to his voice. "For twenty years, just...waiting for it to grow old, I guess. But then I found out that I wasn't going to grow old—any older." He looked back up at me. "And do you know something, Dugan? This is the second to the last bottle of that wine left. It took me all of three months to put it away!" He took another sip, let out a long sigh, and locked his eyes with mine. "'Course, I had to save one bottle for the biggie. For that last day. For that one last toast to life." He nodded ironically. "Good old Life, and all the goddamn little tricks she loves to play!"

  It wasn't pretty to watch and I saw that Susan Court had been right about something else too—about the dark side of her father's nature that could strike without warning.

  "Mr. Court—"

  Maybe it was my voice, something outside the depths of his soul speaking to him, or maybe it was just the way it always happened. But his head snapped back as if from some kind of electrical shock and he was out of the dumps as quickly as he'd slipped into them.

  "Sorry, Dugan," he said, that same sense of authority back in his voice that I'd noticed in his handshake. "Sorry, but sometimes..."

  "That's all right, Mr. Court," I told him. "You wanted to talk to me...about Susan?"

  He nodded, took a last sip of the wine, and said, "Yes. Susan, and Tommy and the reasons you're here."

  "How much did Susan tell you?"

  He set down the glass, leaned back and stroked his chin. "Most of it," he said. "She told me about the other man she hired and...what happened to him this morning."

  I gave that some thought. I hadn't known the girl was planning to come clean with her dad as soon as we got there, but I couldn't see any harm in it. I just wondered if she was planning on telling anyone else the whole story.

  He pushed himself up and started walking around, finally coming to a stop with his back to me, his hands clasped behind him, staring out the window behind his desk.

  "Did you read Hochman's report?" he asked.

  "I did."

  He still didn't turn. "Tell me about it, please."

  I'd had a chance to page through the thing on the drive up.

  I said, "One thing first, and I think it's important. Susan didn't have this stuff dug up on Tommy just to have it laid out in front of you the way we're doing now. It was supposed to be a private matter between her and Tommy, period."

  He nodded, still not looking at me. "But Hochman's death changes all that, doesn't it?"

  "I guess it does," I agreed slowly.

  "Don't worry, Mr. Dugan. I know and love my daughter, and I know she's not a vindictive person. I think I know what she had in mind."

  I nodded at his back. "Good," I said. "I just wanted to make sure we were going at this from the right perspective." I cleared my throat. "The report, then. Your son Tommy, to speak plainly, sir, is a stinker. He's into a gambler in town named Murray Zucco for fifteen thousand dollars, which is quite a feat in itself. This Zucco must be pretty sure of collecting to let the tab run that high. He's also, uh, keeping a girl. A married woman named Eve Harmon, on the
other side of town." I ended with a shrug. "Susan mentioned something about a brawl and a stabbing outside of Zucco's, but that wasn't in the report."

  "Fine. Now. You've met Tommy. Do you think him capable of such things?"

  "I didn't like him," I said honestly.

  He finally turned to face me and he seemed more tired than he had before. He moved back to his chair, sank into it.

  "Not many people do," he sighed. "Tommy—well, Tommy pulled the wool over my eyes for quite awhile, I'm afraid. He can be a smooth, greasy little bastard when he wants to. I know these are things a father's not supposed to say but, in this case, they're true. I'm afraid I'll go to my grave wondering where that boy got his bad streak. I tried to love him, Dugan. I tried..."

  "Susan said you've changed your will."

  "I'm in the process, yes. I told her so over the phone last night. I made my decision yesterday and my attorney, George Bishop, has been working on the new document most of today. I'll be signing it first thing in the morning." He shook his head. "Poor Susan. I really did misunderstand that girl. I mistook Tommy's fawning facade for love, and my daughter's desire for artistic achievement as selfish rebellion." He looked across at me. "Another of Life's rotten little tricks, you see?"

  "But you're mending the mistake now."

  "I've got to," he nodded grimly. "There isn't that much time."

  "But I thought the doctors said—"

  "I'm not talking about the doctors, Mr. Dugan. I'm talking about my son, and Murray Zucco."

  "You think Tommy would try something like that?"

  "Susan does."

  "That's true," I admitted. "The boy sounds like quite a prize."

  "The reason I called you in here," he continued, "is to tell you something I want you to remember in case anything does happen. Dugan, I'm a strong believer in the family. In the lifeblood between parents and children. Maybe I have made a few mistakes in bringing up my own. I've probably made more than a few since...since my wife passed away. But I know I've done some things right. I know that because of the way Susan's turned out—a beautiful, mature, sensitive woman. And, like I said, I now know Tommy. I tried to love that boy the way a father should. And maybe the wool-pulling wasn't all his fault; maybe I helped, more than a little. Hell, no father wants to admit that his son...that his son's no goddamn good. But after watching that boy grow up under my eyes for some twenty-six years...well, it's something I finally did have to admit, and I'm afraid...I'm afraid that he is capable of murder, of actually killing his own father, if there's any money in it for him. The fact that Hochman is already dead, even if it was technically an accident, proves I have something to worry about. I don't think there can be any doubt that Murray Zucco, and certainly with the knowledge of my son, sent those men after Hochman. I heard what Hochman did. Susan told me. He delivered her photos of Tommy's I.O.U.s, and to do that he had to have somehow slipped into Zucco's establishment where he had access to them. I don't have much doubt about what would have happened to Stanley Hochman if those men in Denver had caught up with him."