Goodey's Last Stand: A Hard Boiled Mystery (Joe Goodey) Read Free Page B

close-set eyes begged me to be reasonable, be kind, be human.
    “All right,” I said, “what the hell.” Walking toward the telephone, I told the nephew, “Have a good look around. I won’t be long.” Tak ing the receiver, slightly damp, slightly warm, I put on my most bored voice, and it didn’t take much acting.
    “Hello Sonny. Did you hear the good news?”
    “Now, Joe,” said his Lower Second Avenue voice overlaid with Harvard and thirty years of good living, “you know better than that. I wish you no ill. I’ve got nothing against you. I only want Patricia to be happy, and the only thing I know that can make her happy is for you to give her a divorce. Joe, you must understand. Pat’s in love. She wants to marry Ernest.”
    “I’m touched,” I said, “deeply touched. But the answer’s the same. If Pat wants a divorce, she’ll either have to come back here or wait out the divorce laws there. I’m not going to make it any easier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been to sleep for so long that I forget what it’s like, and I’ve got some fast moving to do. Goodbye, Sonny, give—”
    “Joe,” said my practically ex-father-in-law in a voice so sincere that I felt like the rat I really was, “Seymour said there was no point in mentioning it, but I know that with no paycheck coming in things are going to be a bit tight for you. Listen, with no strings attached, I could let you have a small loan, hell, a medium loan, just to keep you going until you connect with something else. No strings, Joe, no strings at all.”
    “I believe it, Sonny,” I told him, “but no thanks. I’m loaded with money, no matter what Seymour tells you. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m giving you back to Seymour.” I handed the still-talking receiver to a sorrowful Seymour and turned my attention to the Bible student, who was standing at the bay window looking out past Coit Tower at the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge sticking out of the haze. I joined him.
    “What do you think?”
    “It looks just fine to me, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “Here’s the contract my uncle drew up. I hope everything is satisfactory.”
    He handed me a long sheet of accounting paper half covered with tiny writing. I skimmed it quickly. I knew that if Lum Kee wanted to hide some joker clauses I’d never find them anyway. It all seemed fairly straightforward.
    “It looks okay,” I said, “but I don’t really like the idea of leaving my apartment to anybody.” I peered clo sely at Fong, bringing out myI’m-a-keen-copper-so-don’t-try-to-bullshit-me look. “I only hope you’re nowhere near as big a crook as Lum Kee. I couldn’t stand it.”
    “I’m not,” he said, apparently neither knocked over by my look nor offended. “One of the things my mother asked me to do while I am here is to try to put my uncle’s feet back on the path of right eousness.”
    “You’ve got a big job,” I told him. “I don’t think Lum’s feet were ever within taxi distance of it. But I’m wasting time. The place is yours for six months—no more. If you or your uncle double-cross me, I’ll come back and get you both. I’m a hard man. Ask Mayor Kolchik.” Having failed to impress Fong, I turned to Chub, who was just hanging up the telephone.
    “Chub, come here and witness this legal document.”
    We all three signed the contract, and Fong left, agreeing to pick up the key to my apartment at his uncle’s store. I jumped back into the bedroom and locked my packed cases. Bringing them out into the living room, I put the cases down by the door and turned to Seymour. “Well, Chub—” I held out my hand.
    His jaw dropped. On that round face the fall couldn’t have been fatal.
    “You’re not going to try to lose me, are you, Joe,” he asked. “Mr. Berkowitz’s instructions are to stick with you wherever you go. It’s my job. Besides, he’s authorized me to lend you any reasonable amount if you need it. That might come in handy, Joe. Think about