but Mr. Harden brought in Elmer Mueller instead. When I reported back, Mueller had my job and I wound up in SPUDS.”
Richelieu leaned back. Lindsey half expected to see a flunky run in and polish the desk-glass. Richelieu said, “You’ve doubtless heard that we have a high rate of attrition in SPUDS.”
Lindsey nodded.
Richelieu kept on going. He had not waited for the nod. “It’s true. You’ll get tough cases. Some people think SPUDS is International Surety’s own little Gestapo, its own little Gulag. Neither of those is true, Hobart. We’re not police. We don’t torture anybody. We’re very law-abiding. We are a little bit like detectives, but then I understand that you like to play Sherlock. Is that true?”
“No, sir. I just try to do my job, sir. I’m a claims adjuster, that’s all. Somebody’s store is burgled, we pay for the loss. Somebody’s car gets stolen, we pay fair value.”
“Yes, yes. But if you can recover the stolen goods you can save International Surety a lot of money. You’ve done that, haven’t you?”
Lindsey nodded. The man was playing cat and mouse with him. He had to know that Lindsey had saved the company a fortune in rare 1940s comic books and an even bigger fortune on a stolen 1928 Duesenberg. Each case had involved a murder, as well, but the company paid him to save money, not to catch killers. He did that on his own time, and Harden had used it against him more than once.
“I’m not going to spend a lot of time reviewing material that you learned in your seminars,” Richelieu said. “If you do a good job for me, you can make a good thing out of SPUDS. You’ll have lots of freedom. I understand you have a penchant for breaking rules, Hobart. You should be happy working for me.”
Richelieu swung around in his heavily padded leather chair. He seemed to be gazing out the window. Lindsey followed Richelieu’s glance. The sunlight glinted off Cherry Creek. Lindsey wondered if he would see Perry Mason pacing regally beside the waterway, a black Burberry concealing his girth, a polished walking stick in his hand. TV shows and motion pictures, magazine covers and record sleeves. Mother had kept him tied to her for so many years, where other kids grew up riding bikes and playing ball he’d lived a life of media images and his perception of the world was permanently formed. Sometimes it was useful, sometimes frustrating, but there it was.
“I think I’m ready for my first assignment,” Lindsey said.
Richelieu whirled back. The eyes behind those rimless bifocals flashed. Clearly, he did not like having anyone else take the lead in a conversation. Last night at the Broker he’d deferred to Ms. Johanssen, but as Lindsey knew, she represented the Corporate structure. Richelieu had saluted not the man—or woman—but the rank. And Richelieu outranked Lindsey, and expected Lindsey to acknowledge that relationship.
Once upon a time Lindsey would have quivered and apologized for his faux pas.
Now he stood up and said, “I have to catch a flight for Oakland. If there’s nothing else.…”
A smile flashed across Richelieu’s lips so fast that Lindsey would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching for a reaction. “Sit down, Lindsey.” That was an improvement! “Mrs. Blomquist can phone Stapleton and take care of that. Harden is still running Regional and Mueller is running Walnut Creek but you’re working for me now. For me. You get that?”
Lindsey hesitated for a moment before slipping back into his chair. This wasn’t the FBI, despite what Desmond Richelieu might think. And it wasn’t the army and it wasn’t the Mafia. It was a corporation, for heaven’s sake, and if Lindsey just decided to walk out of here, there was nothing that International Surety could do to stop him.
Richelieu smiled. “This is your first assignment for SPUDS, and I’m going to make it a nice easy one for you. Just to help you get your feet wet. You understand?”
Lindsey nodded. If he answered verbally, even grunted, Richelieu could turn away and still continue the conversation. But if Lindsey spoke only in body language, Richelieu would have to stay focused on him. It was a subtle tug-of-war. Maybe it was something in the Rocky Mountain air that was changing Lindsey. Maybe it was his encounter the night before with Aurora Delano.
What kind of man would break his wife’s arm because he’d lost a job? A common enough type, if the TV feature stories about battered women were to be believed. Was that the kind of man who ran the governments and corporations and families of the world? What kind of man was Hobart Lindsey? What kind of man had he been since Hayward State, and what kind of man was he becoming?
“Make it a good one,” he said.
The ghost-smile flickered across Richelieu’s lips again. He reached under the edge of his desk. Lindsey assumed he was pushing a button to summon Mrs. Blomquist. Lindsey wondered whether Richelieu had a telephone in his office, or a computer, or any of the other tools of the modern corporation. Maybe he let Mrs. Blomquist deal with machinery.
The door opened behind Lindsey and he swung around to see Mrs. Blomquist carry in a folder. Lindsey chewed the inside of his lips. He’d lost a point to Richelieu. He followed Mrs. Blomquist’s progress as she carried the folder to Richelieu and laid it on his desk. Lindsey didn’t follow her as she retreated to the outer office. He figured that he’d got back maybe a quarter of the point he’d lost. It was really getting complicated when you had to calculate fractions of points.
“This is practically in your backyard,” Richelieu said. He hadn’t opened the folder, just left it lying on his desk. “Elmer Mueller has written a special policy for a film company that’s going to shoot some footage at the Oakland airport. You can stop and check this out on your way home today, Lindsey.”
“How much is involved?”
“Ah, this is a big policy. Cost of the aircraft, indemnity to the Port of Oakland, personal liability, life coverage of people involved in the film.”
“Why didn’t the movie company set up their own coverage?”
Richelieu tapped the folder with one fingertip. The folder was of tobacco-brown cardboard. Richelieu’s fingernails were perfectly manicured and coated with clear polish that caught the sunlight coming off Cherry Creek. “It’s an odd situation. Not a commercial studio. Somebody got a line on a bucket of foundation money, put together an ad hoc organization to make a film.”
He ran a polished fingernail over his neatly-trimmed moustache.
Lindsey said, “I don’t understand. Is there a claim on the policy?”
Richelieu shook his head. “If there were it would be Mueller’s problem, not mine. This is a risky operation. We’re getting a nice premium out of it, but if we have to pay off, we’ll be in a deep hole. We’re covering their aircraft, the flight crews, ground crews, passengers, the film crews, bystanders, physical plant—the works.”
He pulled his rimless glasses down his nose and peered at Lindsey over their tops. “What if a plane crashes and takes out a schoolyard full of kids? Or an office building? You had a light plane crack up in a shopping mall out there, didn’t you?”
“I remember it,” Lindsey said.
“Well, what if—say, what if one of these people pancakes into the ballpark out there during a baseball game? Can you imagine the claims? It could cost us millions. It could put us out of business!”
“And
