Free Who Murdered Garson Talmadge by David Bishop Page B

the flat of my hand over his hand which by now was over his holstered gun, then drove with my legs the way I had in my younger days pushing defenders off the line of scrimmage. He stopped when his backside hit the closed front door. His dark glasses fell out of his coat pocket and clattered on the floor. I put my other forearm against his throat and leaned into it. I also put my foot on top of his glasses.
    “I said, drop the tough guy act. You’re no good at it. Maybe it worked when you had your daddy’s rep backing you up. Now you’re just a silly pup trying to play with men.”
    “Okay. Okay.” His shoulders slumped in childlike defiance. “Whatdaya wanna know?”
    “For openers, where were you the night your father was killed?”
    “I was at home most of the night. I was here when Papa called, and when I called Susan.”
    “How do you prove that?”
    “I think it goes like this: you have to prove I wasn’t.”
    I pushed my arm harder against his throat. Then he said, “A couple people saw me around. I drove to a gym to work out on some equipment I don’t have here, around ten o’clock. Then I stopped at the liquor store on the corner of Carson and Atlantic to get some beer.”
    “What about later?” I asked.
    “I met some friends at six for breakfast.”
    “That doesn’t tie it all down does it?”
    “Hey. It was just another night. I wasn’t into alibi building. God bless America, I’m innocent until proven guilty.”
    I took my arm from his throat, thrust my hand inside his jacket and pulled out his short-barrel Smith & Wesson. After yanking out his silk shirt tail and using it to wipe my prints off the handle, I held the barrel and tossed the gun behind a chair in the far corner of the room. While I did that he picked up his glasses. When he saw they were broken, he threw them against the far wall. I shoved him toward his dark-brown leather couch and sat on an ottoman fronting the matching chair in the corner.
    “Why would your dad call you in the middle of the night to tell you his plans?”
    “Papa was impulsive. Once he made a decision, he wanted to kick it into gear.”
    “Your sister said your father used the two of you in his weapons deals.” Susan hadn’t actually said this, but I wanted to try out the idea to see if he would disagree. He didn’t do so right off, so I carried the idea forward. “She said, you were muscle, I would guess with some real muscle along to back your play. And Garson used your sister to tantalize the men’s eyes. Sex and violence, a winning combination, and he kept it all in the family. What a dad. That would also explain your recent trips to France.”
    Charles wasn’t about to offer much, so I kept making some educated guesses designed to either get confirmation through his not challenging them, or learn something if he did.
    “Lots of children work in the family business,” Charles said. “As for Susan, there are guys all over Europe spanking their monkeys with thoughts of my sister. Dad always said, ‘Whatever it takes. Get the deal done. There’s too much money at stake to be squeamish.’ Not that I didn’t help with a few wives now and again while Sis worked the husbands.”
    “Now, now, gentlemen don’t kiss and tell.”
    He smiled, adding a sound that made it a snigger.
    “There’s no percentage in you lying about your dad’s late night call. Clarice’s attorney will get the phone records.”
    “I figured somebody, likely the cops, would want verification, so I called and got my cell phone company to show me where I needed to go online to see and print a copy of my calls since the last billing. May I get up? I’ll get it for you.” I nodded. “It shows both my outgoing and incoming calls.”
    He handed it to me and sat back down.
    Damn. There it was, just like he said. We had expected it would be, but seeing it still had a deflating affect. Garson had called his son a little before two-thirty the morning that someone punched his