Winter Tides by James P. Blaylock Page B

though. He sat in the chair and looked Ray in the face, as if he were studying something out. “I appreciate your position,” he said finally. “And call me Edmund, for God’s sake. We’re all friends here.”
    “I’m glad you understand,” Ray said. “You’re a businessman yourself. My advice is to make all this legal and aboveboard. Neither one of us needs some county official down here asking questions.” Ray had a gut feeling now: Dalton was going to make him an offer. Either Ray could act indignant or he could take it. He made up his mind then. He’d act indignant first; then he’d take the offer if it held up.
    Dalton sat there silently again, studying his fingernails, which appeared to Ray to have been manicured. Last month’s deed had transferred title to a lot that must have been worth a couple hundred thousand, and this one on the desk now was something of the same kind. The guy could afford a manicure. A hundred bucks! Ray laughed out loud, cutting it off short and shaking his head.
    “Something’s funny,” Dalton said.
    “I just remembered something I heard on the radio once, that’s all.”
    “Go ahead.” Dalton tossed his head. “Let’s hear it.”
    “Well, I don’t know. It was funny as hell at the time—a few years back, when Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.”
    Dalton nodded. “I hear he’s buried under the goalposts at some football stadium. What’s the joke?”
    “Well, what I read was that there were all kinds of ransom notes that came in. Hundreds of them, all bogus, apparently.”
    “I bet there were.”
    “One of them was really rich, considering it was Hoffa.”
    “What’d it say?” Dalton had a big grin now, as if he was ready for a good laugh.
    “It said—this is what I heard—‘We’ve got Hoffa. Put five hundred dollars in a paper sack and …’ ” Ray waved his hand in a little whirlwind gesture and waited for Dalton’s reaction.
    “And what?”
    “I forget. Put it under a bush or something.”
    “Five hundred?” Dalton appeared to be mystified, maybe doubtful. “That’s all they asked for?”
    “That’s what’s funny. That’s it. That’s the joke. It was because it was Hoffa, see. If it was somebody else—JFK or somebody—the joke wouldn’t make any sense.” Either the man was dense, or he was playing dumb because he was catching on. “The idea was that Hoffa was only
worth
five hundred bucks….”
    Dalton sat back in the chair again, all the anticipation gone out of his face. The joke had fallen flat on him. “You laugh easy. I admire that.”
    “Well, in a world like this, you pretty much have to.”
    “Business down a little bit? What else do you do here? You can’t make a living stamping papers.”
    “Income tax. Investment counseling.”
    “In
vest
ments?”
    Ray nodded.
    “That’s
good
. You’re a wise man, Ray. You could fool anyone with an office like this. Anyone with any sense would bet you’d never made a successful investment in your life. I guess that’s a lowball approach to the game.” He looked around, taking in the metal file cabinets, the stained carpeting, the desk against the back wall piled high with overfull file folders, the Mr. Coffee machine surrounded with plastic spoons and empty Cremora packets and used Styrofoam cups. “Now let me see if I’ve figured out what you’re driving at with this Hoffa joke, Ray. Basically, to begin with, you think that I don’t want to round up any witnesses because the signature’s a fake. Am I right so far?”
    “I didn’t say it was a fake.”
    “Wait, wait … No offense. I’m just organizing thingshere. You figure the signature’s a fake, and so you tell me this Hoffa story, making fun of five hundred bucks in a bag. That’s the punch line, isn’t it? My hundred dollars is the same kind of thing. That’s the joke.”
    Ray nodded slowly. “That’s the punch line,” he said carefully, watching Dalton’s eyes, which were still full of sincerity.
    “Well,