Chapter Three - Sleazeball de Jure

SID USHERED US INTO HIS OWN OFFICE and shut the door. We sat down on a gaudy, overstuffed sofa. There was a man sitting next to the desk, and I took an instant dislike to him, though I kept my face as blank and neutral as possible. His suit was expensive and flawlessly tailored. He was slightly taller than me, somewhat more muscular and heavier, and good looking in a way that made me think of pimps and television preachers. His thick brown hair was scrupulously barbered, and he smelled of an expensive men's cologne. The slight smile on his face was warm and reassuring. His eyes were dark, cold and hard. I was just about dead sure I'd seen him before.

"This," said Sid to the stranger," is Jesse Nolan and Rainbow--"

"Bo," said Bo firmly and almost a little too loud.

"--Hunter. And this," he continued to us, "is Seth Monroe."

Seth Monroe. Now I knew where I'd gotten my first look at him. One night during a spell of insomnia, I'd watched an infomercial ballyhooing the American Patriot Foundation, and it had featured its founder, Seth Monroe, quite prominently both on the screen and in voice-overs. The video went on at length about all the terrible things that were happening around the country, none of which would have happened if liberals (and just possibly the Jews--the show hinted but never stated anything outright) didn't control the media and the government. The show featured lots of patriotic music, lingering shots of Old Glory waving proudly in the wind, and children dressed in their Sunday best saluting the flag. Once in a while there was a shot of a Confederate battle flag. It also featured lots of appeals for donations, at least one every seven or eight minutes by my reckoning. Some kind of morbid fascination took over and kept me watching for the whole two hours.

I'm as patriotic as the next guy, but this seemed a bit much.

After that, I'd paid attention whenever Monroe got mentioned in the paper or on television. The cult watchers had Monroe and the American Patriot Foundation on their hot list, and a number of ex-members claimed they'd been brainwashed and financially exploited. Neighbors near the organization's headquarters had complained of harassment by heavily armed men, and a left-wing political magazine reported that paramilitary training had been going on at a compound deep in rural Alabama. It was known that the Foundation took in millions of dollars but apparently felt no need to explain what was done with all that cash to either the rank-and-file members or the general public. To top it all off, the Foundation paid a team of lawyers to bring expensive, frivolous lawsuits against almost anybody who badmouthed the Foundation in public. That sometimes included people who just made a passing remark or two on Internet newsgroups.

I had to hand it to him, Monroe was slick. He knew his audience, and he knew how to present himself. He targeted poorly educated Southerners, although he was quite happy to take money from anyone else as well. His demographics were surprisingly good in the Mid-West. That deep, rich voice with the "aw, shucks I'm just a good ol' boy from down home" way of speaking was bound to go over well with a lot of folks. I could just picture little old ladies and ninth-grade dropouts in trailer parks across the country scurrying to the mailbox to mail Seth Monroe their checks.

Nice work, if you can stomach it.

"Now, Mr. Monroe," Sid said in somber tones, "I believe you have an offer to make to my associates." I was pleased he'd used the word "associates". If he'd said "clients", he would have expected me to pay. And even though he'd never seen Bo before in his life, he knew enough not to let on to the fact. Sid's a quick study.

Monroe turned up the wattage on his smile. My face remained a stony mask.

"Well, Mr. Nolan," Monroe began, "I'm not going to waste your time. I'll be blunt. You may have heard of the American Patriot Founda--"

"I'm well aware of your relationship with the Foundation," I interrupted. His smile grew brighter. The slimeball was actually proud of it.

"Well, a few weeks ago," he began, "we gave your friend, Barry Hunter, permission to use our library and documents center. The Foundation keeps a large collection of books and documents from every era of America's past because we hope someday to restore this great nation to its--"

"Excuse me, Mr. Monroe," I said, politely but very firmly. "I'm well aware of the Foundation's principles and goals. If we could stick to my friend Barry--?"

"Ah, yes." The smile lost some wattage. "It seems that Mr. Hunter came across some very private documents that belonged to my family and made copies of them without permission. Then he simply disappeared. We believe he returned here to Atlanta, but we have yet to locate him."

Try the city morgue, I thought.

"This was a serious invasion of my family's privacy, Mr. Nolan. A detective learned that he'd sent photocopies by overnight mail to Mr. Dougherty to hold for you and Miz Hunter here."

Sid said suddenly, "Are these documents copyrighted, Mr. Monroe?"

Monroe hesitated a fraction of a second too long, then nodded. "Yes," he said, but Sid clearly didn't believe him. Neither did I.

"If they were so very sensitive, Mr. Monroe," I asked, "why were they easily available in your foundation's library?"

Again he hesitated just a little too long. "They were mis-catalogued and mis-shelved," he said. The grin had frozen on his face.

"I see. And you want to buy these documents back from us?"

"I certainly do, Mr. Nolan. Morally and legally, of course, those documents are mine in the first place, but I believe we would all be happier if we avoided any sort of, ah, legal entanglements. In short, if you will agree to return the documents to me unopened and unread, you will receive one thousand dollars."

I doubted Monroe knew very much about morals but said nothing.

"Each?" asked Bo, much too innocently.

That hesitation again. "Yes, each."

"Any other conditions, Mr. Monroe?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You would sign an agreement drawn up by my attorneys to relinquish all claim to both the documents and their contents."

"I presume, then, that someone else might pay an even higher price?"

The smile vanished. "This is not a time for joking, Mr. Nolan," he said coldly.

"Who's joking?"

"Those documents carry nothing of any financial or economic value at all, Mr. Nolan. And since you insist on being inquisitive, I will tell you a little something about their contents. You see, quite some time ago, there was a scandalous incident involving, ah--my grandparents. The papers are important to me because I want to spare my family some embarrassment, and they are otherwise without importance to anyone. Speaking as one gentleman to another, I'm sure you understand my predicament."

Does he know that Barry's dead? I wondered. Did he kill him or have him killed? If not him, then who?

"I don't believe I can return the documents." My tone should have told him there was no room for argument.

Monroe assumed a poker face. "I'll pay twelve hundred and fifty each."

I shook my head.

"You don't speak for the girl." Monroe looked at Bo.

"Girl?" Bo said with disgust. "Nope, sorry, I'm not selling either."

"One way or another, they'll be mine. Legally and morally, they're my property. If you don't sell, I'll just take you to court and you'll end up with nothing."

I shrugged. Bo gave Monroe a comical frown that clearly told him what he could do with his money.

"Fifteen hundred."

No response.

"Two thousand."

Sid bit his lower lip.

"Nothing doing," I said.

Monroe looked at Bo again. "And you?"

"Same here," she said. "No sale, mister."

Seth Monroe sat in his chair looking back and forth between Bo and me with eyes like lasers. You could almost smell the burning brimstone.

At last, he stood. "Very well. You and Mr. Dougherty here will be hearing from my attorneys.

Monroe favored us with one last cold, furious glance before stalking out the door, almost slamming it on the way out.

We all looked at each other.

"Dumb," I said at last. "If he set Barry up to get killed, coming here to buy Barry's papers was the worst possible move he could make. He might as well have sent a signed, notarized confession to the chief of police."

"Greed makes people stupid," Sid said. "Maybe he isn't aware that you know Barry's dead. And maybe he figures his attorneys can keep him clear of it. But turning down all that cash? Not you, Jesse, not you at all. I know you both could use it."

I paused for a moment before I spoke. "It was an impulse. I'm just about sure that guy has something to do with Barry's murder, and I want to get to the bottom of all this."

"Same goes for me," Bo said, "or maybe double for me. Uncle Barry was practically my whole family. Hell, so far as I'm concerned, it was practically genocide."

Sid looked back and forth from Bo to me and back to Bo again. He frowned and held up his palms in a what's-the-use gesture. "It's your life. Look, I liked Barry. We weren't close, but I liked him. But I'd still turn this whole business over to the cops and let them handle it."

"That's the trouble with America these days," I said. "Everybody wants someone else to do all the dirty work."

"Maybe," said Bo, "we should put off a final decision until we've had a look at what's in these packages Barry left us."

I nodded my head instantly. "Sid, we'll go back to my place and get out of your hair, what there is of it."

"Bad enough you're a goy, you've got to be a smart-ass, too."

I grinned, then Bo and I headed out the door.