The walls were covered with red and black velvet stamped with silver designs of nymphs, mermaids, satyrs, and, on the ceiling, a depiction of Leda being raped by the Swan. The water bed and the pillows on it were sheathed in black satin. In the center of one wall was an abbreviated red velvet curtain that seemed to have no purpose. I parted the curtain slightly and looked through a fixed glass window onto a recessed boxing ring and a cockfighting pit.
When I returned to the living room, Karsten Mabus was saying good-bye to his guest at the door. The gelatinous man who seemed to have no blood under his skin looked at the light in the sky the way ordinary people look for impending rain, then put on a straw hat and shook hands before walking toward the pool to gather his companions. I would have sworn Mabus and his friend were speaking in a Middle Eastern language, but perhaps it was my imagination.
“Let me get you a drink, Mr. Holland,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’ll make this quick. Someone has created some serious problems for my family. My son received a scholarship which he sorely needed, only to discover he wasn’t eligible. Then I got stung on a bail deal for two hundred thousand dollars. Yesterday the brake-fluid line on my truck was cut and my wife almost died in the Blackfoot River.?
??
“I’m sorry to hear all this. Sit down.”
“I’ll stand, thanks. My purpose is to tell you neither my wife, my son, nor I have anything you want or need. We don’t know the whereabouts of the files stolen from Global Research or even who stole them. We are of no value to you or people who might work for you.”
He listened respectfully, nodding, taking a sip from his whiskey and soda before setting it down. He held his eyes on me, then began. “The research facility I own here is involved with genetically enhanced food production. Nothing else, sir. Our goal is to end starvation in the Third World. But for some reason probably known only to God, a bunch of fanatics have targeted my company as the source of all evil in the world. I don’t begrudge them their point of view, but I’d at least like to have a dialogue with them before they decide to burglarize my businesses and characterize me as the Antichrist.”
“Leave us alone, Mr. Mabus.”
He sat down on a couch even though I was still standing, his eyes searching the air as though he could not find the proper words to express his frustration.
“Long ago I stopped trying to sort out all the ethical complications that accompany the operation of a national or global enterprise,” he said. “Today, my standard is simple: I protect myself from my enemies and try to do the greatest good for the greatest number of people possible and make an acceptable profit at the same time. Occasionally, that means doing business with people like Emile Asahari. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“No,” I replied.
“The third biggest independent arms dealer in the world. He provided over two million Chinese-manufactured AK-47 rifles to rival factions all over the Mideast. On one occasion, when he thought a particular regional war wasn’t being prosecuted vigorously enough, he paid a bounty for human ears. His business boomed. Sixty Minutes did a special on him.”
“Not interested.”
“You should be. Emile gets along very well with a lot of people in our government.”
“I had my say, Mr. Mabus.”
“You went in the little bedroom off the library, didn’t you? Don’t bother explaining. You went in there to use the bathroom. Your hands are still a little wet.” He jabbed his finger at me, his face breaking into a grin. “Got you again, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
He got up from the couch. “That bedroom looks like it was transported from a Marseilles whorehouse.” He started laughing. “But the house came like that. It was built for a notorious Hollywood sex freak who blew out his doors with speed he cooked down from diet pills. Come on, lighten up. The guy screwed every starlet in the business, then canceled his own ticket because his stomach was so big he couldn’t see his schlong.” He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, that bedroom is scheduled to be remodeled next week. In the meantime, don’t leave here thinking you’ve just visited a theme park for sex addicts. I’m a decent guy. In fact, you may be looking at the next governor of Montana.”
When I left, he was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. As I drove back toward the highway in the fading light, the wheel lines blowing haloes of water spray above Karsten Mabus’s pastures, I had to conclude that he was perhaps the most engaging man I had ever met. I also believed absolutely nothing he had told me.
THAT NIGHT, while we slept, someone cinched a vinyl garbage bag over the head of my buckskin gelding and let him run himself to death in the darkness.
Chapter 17
I REPORTED THE GELDING’S DEATH to Darrel McComb in the morning. He looked wired, distracted, his hands too busy on top of his desk. “You don’t have any idea who did it? An angry client, maybe some guy you defended on a traffic ticket who ended up in Deer Lodge?” he said.
“You think this is funny?”
“I’m on the desk, if you haven’t noticed. I can’t do anything for you.”
“You’re a good cop, Darrel. You’re the one guy in here who can help me.”
He twisted a pencil between his fingers. Two wire baskets filled with traffic reports and time sheets rested on his desk. He wore a starched white collar that was biting into his neck. He pulled at his collar and glanced through the opening in his cubicle. “Romulus Finley wanted me to get rid of Johnny American Horse for him. I thought it was because he wanted Johnny out of Amber’s life. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Get rid of him?”
“You heard me.”
“Go back over that. You’re not sure about what?”