“At my office at the sawmill. Why? You need to see me?”
I asked because I’m thinking about going to talk to Tallulah Williams, the Matheson maid. “Where’s Paul?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?”
“Jesus, Max.”
“Okay, hell. Paul’s at the wood treatment plant. I hope you’re not trying to see Jet again. I told you last night, you’ve hit that pussy for the last time. If I find out you’re disregarding my advice—”
“I’m not looking for Jet. I’m trying to find your damn cache.”
The tourist couple is staring at me.
“Good survival strategy, Goose. Keep me posted.”
I click off and take another long swallow of coffee.
Before I can even reflect on my conversation with Max, my iPhone rings again. I figure it’s Max calling back, but the screen says bienville southern bank. That bank belongs to the most senior member of the Bienville Poker Club.
“Hello?”
“Mr. McEwan?” says a perky female voice.
“Yes.”
“I have Claude Buckman for you. Please hold.”
Two seconds later, a hoarse, elderly voice says, “Mr. McEwan, this is Claude Buckman. We met on the roof of the Aurora two nights ago.”
“I remember. What can I do for you?”
“You’ve got that backwards, son. I want to do something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d prefer to tell you in person. Could you come by my bank in half an hour?”
This request is so unexpected that my initial instinct is to stall. “What for?”
“Merely a conversation.”
“On the record?”
“I’m afraid not. But you’ll be glad you came.”
Now I get it. “Is this about a bribe?”
Buckman chuckles. “Not in the sense you’re thinking of. This is about making the world a better place.”
Those are the last words I could have imagined coming from Claude Buckman’s mouth. “Can you be more specific?”
“Only to say that you’ll be perfectly safe, and several of my associates will be present. You know most of them, I believe.”
So this is to be a meeting of the Poker Club. “I just spoke to Max Matheson, and he didn’t say anything about a meeting at your bank.”
“Max doesn’t know about it. Half an hour, Mr. McEwan. I’ll be expecting you.”
He hangs up.
“Unbelievable,” I murmur.
Like Max, Claude Buckman must believe that I’m in possession of Sally Matheson’s cache. What princely sum will the banker offer me to bury it? The most interesting thing Buckman said was that Max doesn’t know about the meeting. That tells me there may already be a rift inside the Poker Club. The covert delivery of the flash drives has already suggested as much. If there is dissent in the club, then maybe this meeting will offer an opportunity to turn one faction of the club against Max.
As I ponder this prospect, I sense someone approaching me from behind. I turn in my chair, causing a loud scrape on the floor.
“Sorry,” says the “college guy” who a moment ago was sitting in the back of the café. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The man I mistakenly assumed was a college student turns out to be about fifty. Like Max Matheson, he’s in such good physical shape that I didn’t notice his true age from a distance. Also like Max, he’s blond and handsome, though not quite as rugged or rangy. This guy reminds me of Stefan Edberg, the Swedish tennis player. But maybe it’s only his outfit.
“Mr. McEwan?” he says. “I was hoping I could speak to you for a minute.”
So he knows me. “Look, if you’re upset about a newspaper story, I’d rather you write me an email.”
He blushes. “Oh, no. I’ve loved the recent stories. Buck Ferris was a wonderful man. The idea that somebody killed him because of that paper mill is just . . . obscene.”
This is so far from the usual reaction I get when people accost me in Nadine’s that it makes me curious. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“A long time ago. I’m Tim Hayden. I coached tennis at St. Mark’s for two seasons, back in the mid-eighties.”
A rush of good memories spools through my head. “I remember you! You coached Adam.”
Hayden breaks into a broad smile. “I did. He was a great player. Really gifted.”
“In every sport, annoyingly.”
Hayden’s smile widens. “I think Adam could have gone pro if he’d . . . you know, had a chance. And if they hadn’t made him play football and baseball.”
“Nobody forced him.”
He laughs. “You’re right. Do you have a minute to talk?”
“What about? Adam?”
Hayden’s smile vanishes. “Yes, actually. I need to confess: this isn’t a random meeting. I’m a friend of Christopher Simms, Nadine’s friend. The one she’s staying with. He told me that you come in for coffee every day around this time.”
“I see. Well . . . I have about twenty minutes before a meeting. Sit down.”
Hayden looks uncertain. “Actually, I was hoping we could speak privately.”
I look around the shop. “Nadine’s courtyard?”
He shakes his head. “Customers out there. There’s a little park halfway up the block. I hate to impose. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, but you’ve lived away ever since high school. It would mean a lot to me.”
Maybe Hayden’s request should trip my radar, but something about his manner reassures me that he’s not a threat. “Okay, let’s go.”
I pick up my shoulder bag and walk toward the door. “Have you lived in Bienville all your life?”
“No, no,” he says. “I lived in New Orleans for twenty years. I liked it, but it was too violent for me. Katrina gave me an excuse to get out. I’ve moved around some, but now I’m the tennis pro out at the new country club here. Belle Rose.”
“I see.”
“The park’s just up on the right,” Hayden says, pointing.
I remember it now. I drank an eight-pack of Miller ponies with a buddy in that park when I was about fifteen.
I find the little alcove between two buildings. Behind a low wrought-iron fence, two heavy park benches stand on weathered flagstones. The ornate green benches face each other. Tim Hayden takes the right-hand one, and I, the left. Looking into his still-boyish face, I suddenly wonder whether the pitch about Adam was a pretext, and he’s my secret source for the Poker Club material.
“This is hard for me,” he begins. “Do you remember me from Adam’s funeral?”
Something in me goes still. I don’t know what he’s getting at, but bringing up Adam’s funeral puts me on guard. Over a thousand people came to the high school for Adam’s memorial. Athletic teams from nearby cities caravanned in on school buses. “I’m sorry, that day is mostly a blur for me.”
“I’m sure. Of course.”
“What’s important about that day?”
“It’s not that day, really. I got to be good friends with Adam when I coached at St. Mark’s. We were only four years apart in age. I’d just graduated from college, and I helped out there as a favor to my old coach. I wasn’t on staff or anything. St. Mark’s never took tennis that seriously.”
“I know. Same with swimming.”
Tim smiles wistfully. “I remember your swimming medals, by the way. If you’d kept on . . .”
I wave my hand. “After what happened to Adam, I couldn’t do it anymore.”
He looks down at the flagstones and shakes his head. When he looks up, his eyes are wet. “I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know if I’m right to say it. But I imagine you’ve spent a lot of time wondering about your brother, what his life might have been like if he’d lived.”
“Sure I have.”
“Adam was very confused during his senior year.”
“Confused?”
“Yes. He thought he might be gay.”
I should have realized sooner where this was headed. My conversation with Russo and Buckman must have knocked me off-balance. But the truth is, I never once suspected that Adam might be gay.
“Should I go on?” Hayden asks.
“Yes. Please.”
“Adam got so much attention from girls, remember? And women, too, my God. I think every female teacher under fifty was in love with him.”