Free Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) Page B

rubbed his nose. "We've got adequate financial backing."
    "Mine," French put in.
    "Is the work progressing on schedule?"
    "Well, there've been some setbacks."
    French snorted.
    Wintringham said, "Larry sees them as far more serious than they are. He's not all that familiar with how this business works."
    "Business is business. A six-month halt is serious."
    "Will you let me tell this!" Wintringham snapped.
    French shrugged and poured himself more bourbon. Obviously he had a good head for liquor, better than mine, which was not bad. I slid my glass farther away from me, remembering my appointment with Greg.
    "The setbacks," Wintringham said, "are standard. Trouble getting permits. Hassles with City Planning."
    "And vandalism," French added. "We put in a window, some kid heaves a brick through it. Slogans sprayed on freshly painted walls: 'Kill the Pigs. Faggots Go Home.'"
    "That's typical of any project in a fringe area," Wintringham said.
    French wasn't to be stopped. "Then there're the workmen who show up with six beers on their breath at ten in the morning and leave by three."
    "That happens with nonunion labor," Wintringham said. "But nonunion labor saves money. And they're not all like that. You fired the worst one last week."
    "After I caught him sitting on the scaffolding smoking a joint."
    I said, "Given your background, I wouldn't have thought that would bother you."
    "Look, McCone, a singer smokes a J or snorts some coke to get up there, then goes on stage and gives one hell of a performance. That's one thing. But some goddamned handyman gets stoned, falls off the scaffolding, and next thing we're up to our asses in insurance claims. You follow?"
    "I follow." I turned back to Wintringham. "I take it the project is under way again?"
    "We have the permits," he said grimly. "It's going."
    French raised a skeptical eyebrow and drained his glass.
    "What about your prospects for selling these houses?" I asked. "Don't you anticipate difficulty, given the neighborhood?''
    "We've been restoring and reselling for three years now. We've had no trouble."
    "Where were your other restorations?"
    He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, the Haight. Noe Valley."
    "But never this area before."
    "No."
    "So you very well may have problems, given the junkies and proximity to public housing projects."
    He sipped his wine. "Okay, granted, we may."
    "Do you know of anyone who wants to put a stop to the project?"
    "Eleanor van Dyne. But I already told you that."
    "Anyone else?"
    He glanced at French, who asked, "What are you getting at, McCone?"
    "Just digging."
    "Nosy broad."
    I understood why Wintringham didn't let French's remarks irk him. Pure ritual, they were already sailing past me. "What about you, French? Do you have any enemies from your rock-and-roll days who might want to hurt you financially?"
    "Anybody who's anybody in the business has enemies, but I doubt mine would get back at me by clobbering a house painter I'd hired."
    He was probably right. And I couldn't see van Dyne, in all her elegance, doing Jake in. Still, I'd have to check her out.
    "All right," I said, "now let's talk about your father's murder, David. The police theorized a burglar killed him. What was taken?"
    "Small valuable things. Things that would have been easy to carry… Paul, how are you feeling?"
    Paul Collins appeared in the archway from the parlor. He wore a plaid bathrobe and slippers, and his sandy hair was tousled. "Better, thanks. I heard voices."
    "We're going over some things with Sharon. Do you want a glass of wine?"
    "Yes, I'd like that." Collins poured from the jug. I wondered if drinking were wise on top of the Valium he'd taken. Well, Collins must know his capacity.
    "Tell me about the things that were taken," I said to Wintringham.
    "What things?" Collins asked.
    "The ones that were stolen the night of Dad's murder."
    "Oh." Collins gulped wine.
    Wintringham tilted back in his chair. "Let me see. There were a few pressed-glass bottles