1520 Main

20

By the time he and Gio picked the girls up from school, Trey didn't feel like being witty or deceptive. At Kresge's, he told them he had received some bad news he'd rather not talk about and hinted he might not be good company for the rest of the evening. Even Gio was surprised. Marina very obligingly told him she had a lot of homework to get done, but hadn't wanted to spoil the evening's plans by saying anything.

He really liked that girl.

Unfortunately, his mood didn't abate throughout the night. At midnight, he told Gio, "I'mma be gone for a while. You and Vern lock up tonight and cover for me with Marina tomorrow."

"Where?" Gio asked, concerned. "You've been off since you got your books checked."

"Nothin' to do with Boss Tom or Lazia or the bet or Scarritt or the bar. I just gotta sort somethin' out." With that, he got in his car and headed east as impulsively as he did everything.

He got to St. Charles five hours later, but he was in no condition to meet Elliott Dunham, no matter the man's station in life or condition or health. He found a decent hotel, paid a girl to go get him a nice set of duds, paid another one to bring him a bath and breakfast, and paid a third to bring him a cigar, a bottle of whiskey, and her pussy.

He drank, smoked, and thought of Marina the whole time she rode him.

He went to bed at his normal time and by evening, had found out almost everything he wanted to know. He was shocked to find out Boss Tom hadn't been blowing smoke about the existence and station of Elliott Dunham, who was a filthy rich bigwig in and around St. Louis. Whether he was Trey's grandfather or not made only half a difference. He had to know who this cat was, why he was wearing Trey's eldest brother's name, and why Boss Tom did not want to piss him off.

The wife was some sort of society matron and they lived in a Second Empire mansion in a very swank neighborhood. He had a Duesenberg Model J—and so did she.

"Good Lord," Trey whispered to himself, wondering if they were up to sharing the wealth.

He shook that off. No, he didn't want their money. Money was cheap. He wanted information.

He'd caught part of their routine and followed what he thought was their car. Along around suppertime, he was leaning up against a tree in a park, a newspaper in front of his face, when he finally got a good look at the old man and it was like looking in a mirror—if Trey were about a hundred years old and a hundred pounds too fat. And Boss Tom would've won that bet. Trey was so shocked he nearly dropped his newspaper and then fumbled with it, fighting the breeze to keep hold of it, which drew the old man's attention. And then the old man stopped cold, staring right back at him where he was still trying to be smooth.

Smooth was out the window.

Trey smirked wryly and shoved himself away from the tree, then sauntered across the street to where his future stood. The old man's eyes narrowed and the old woman by his side, dressed in the height of fashion, watched also, her mouth pursed. They both stood straight and proud, which did Trey a whole lot of good.

He stepped up onto the sidewalk, stood in front of the old man—they were the same height—and said, "Trey Dunham."

The old man looked him up and down, then drawled, "Took you long enough. You aren't as curious as you should've been."

"I have more important things to do than look up a likely-dead relative I never heard of," Trey shot back.

The old woman's face softened into a smile and she held out her hand. Trey took it and kissed the back of it. "Ma'am."