M Is for Malice

you his telephone number. He hasn't gone anywhere."
    "I'd appreciate that."
    He recited the number off the top of his head and I made a quick note in the little spiral-bound notebook I carry."
    I tried to think about the areas I hadn't covered yet. "Was he a draft dodger? Did he protest the was in Vietnam?"
    "He didn't have to. The army wouldn't take him. He had bad feet. Lucky him. He never gave a shit about politics. He never even voted as far as I know."
    "What about religion? Did he do Yoga? Meditate? Chant? Walk on hot coals?" This was like pulling teeth.
    He shook his head again. "None of the above."
    "What about bank accounts?"
    "Nope. At least he didn't have any back then."
    "Did he own any stocks or bonds?"
    Bennet shook his head again. He was beginning to seem amused at my persistence, which I found irritating.
    "He must have cared about something," I said.
    "He was a fuckup, pure and simple. He never lifted a finder for anyone except himself. Typical narcissist. The girls couldn't get enough of him. You figure it out."
    "Look, Bennet. I understand your hostility, but I can do without the editorializing. You must have cared about him once."
    "Of course," he said blandly, averting his gaze. "But that was before he became such a pain in the ass to all of us. Besides, he's been gone for years. I suppose at some level I have some kind of family feeling, but it's hard to sustain given his long absence."
    "Once he left, none of you ever heard from him?"
    His eyes came back to mine. "I can only speak for myself. He never called me or wrote. If he was in touch with anyone else, I wasn't told about it. Maybe Paul knows something."
    "What sort of work does he do?"
    "He's a rare-book dealer. He buys and sells autographs, letters, manuscripts. Things like that." He closed his mouth and smiled faintly, volunteering nothing unless I asked point-blank.
    I wasn't getting anywhere and it was probably time to move on. "What about Jack? Could Guy have confided in him?"
    "You can ask him yourself. He's right out there," Bennet said. He gestured toward the windows and I followed his gaze. I caught a glimpse of Jack as he crossed the back lawn, heading away from the house toward a slope to the left. The rear of the property picked up just enough sun to foster a mix of coarse, patchy grasses, some of which were dormant at this time of year. He had a couple of golf clubs tucked carelessly under one arm and he carried a bucket and a net in a blue plastic frame.
    By the time we caught up with him and Bennet had introduced us, Jack was using a sand wedge to smack golf balls at the net he'd set up twenty yards away. Bennet withdrew and left me to watch Jack practice his chipping shots. He'd swing and I could hear the thin whistle as the club cut through the air. There'd be a whack and the ball would arc toward the net, with an unerring accuracy. Occasionally, a shot would hit the grass nearby, landing with a short bounce, but most of the time he nailed the target he was aiming for.
    He wore a visor with PEBBLE BEACH imprinted on the rim. His hair was light brown, a shock of it protruding from the Velcro-secured opening at the back. He wore chinos and a golf shirt with the emblem for St. Andrew's stitched on the front like a badge. He was leaner than his two brothers and his face and arms were tanned. I could see him measure the trajectory of the ball as it sailed through the air. He said, "I hope this doesn't seem rude, but I've got a tournament coming up."
    I murmured politely, not wanting to break his concentration.
    Whistle. Whack. "You've been hired to find Guy," he said when the ball landed. He frowned to himself and adjusted his stance. "How's it coming?"
    I smiled briefly. "So far all I have are his date of birth and his Social Security number."
    "Why did Donovan tell you to talk to me?"
    "Why wouldn't I talk to you?"
    He ignored me for the moment. I watched as he walked out to the net and leaned down, gathering the countless balls which he tossed in his plastic bucket. He came back to the spot where I was standing and started all over again. His swing looked exactly the same-time after time, without variation. Swing, whack, in the net. He'd put the next ball down. Swing, whack, in the net. He shook his head at one shot, responding to my comment belatedly. "Donovan doesn't have much use for me. He's a Puritan at heart. It's all work, work, work with him. You have to be productive – get the job done. All that rah-rah-rah