Free Too Close to Home by Linwood Barclay

hadn’t simply failed to write another hit. He’d not written another book, at least not one for public consumption.
    But I’d never punched Conrad in the nose, although I’d been tempted over the years to do much more than that.
    So back to the mayor.
    He had asked me to drop him at the Holiday Inn on the north side of Promise Falls. It was far enough from downtown that it had an air of anonymity about it, but it was hardly Vegas. What happened at the Promise Falls Holiday Inn did not necessarily stay at the Promise Falls Holiday Inn.
    I learned early not to inquire too persistently about the mayor’s purpose in any of his trips. Most I knew without having to ask. I was privy to Finley’s meetings with his administrative assistant. I’d get a copy of his daily schedule, then hear him blathering away in the backseat into his cell phone.
    But occasionally there were meetings that did not show up on his agenda, and this was one of those.
    There was always a chance that these off-the-agenda meetings were arranged by Lance Garrick, the mayor’s backup driver and all-around gofer. Lance was known by plenty of folks around Promise Falls as the go-to guy if you wanted an after-hours card game, booze when the stores had all closed, a hot tip on a horse at Saratoga, or even a girl.
    I wasn’t much interested in gambling or booze or hookers, and I felt the mayor’s association with Lance was ill-advised and likely to bring him grief someday. But then, I was his driver, not his political strategist. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.
    When Finley said he wanted to go to the Holiday Inn one night after the end of a council session, I said nothing, even though I hadn’t seen any kind of hotel meeting listed on his itinerary. I put the Grand Marquis in drive and headed that way.
    Mayor Finley was particularly upbeat. “So, Cutter,” he said. “What’s this I hear about you being a painter?”
    I glanced in the mirror. “Where’d you hear that?”
    “Just around. That true?”
    “I paint,” I said.
    “Whaddya paint?”
    “Landscapes, mostly. Some wildlife, portraits.”
    “Oh shit,
that
kind of painting,” Finley said. “I was thinking of having you do my kitchen. Let me ask you this. You a good edger? I hate it when the wall color bleeds into the ceiling.” He laughed. “But seriously, what are you doing driving my fat ass around if you’re a painter?”
    “Not all artists get to make a living from what they love,” I said. “There reaches a point when you have to accept that you’ve either got it or you don’t.”
    I’d never been inclined to open up to him, and this was as close as I’d ever gotten, and Finley must have realized it because he didn’t have a quick comeback. “Yeah, well,” he said, “seriously, you ever want to make a few extra bucks painting my kitchen, the offer’s on the table.”
    I looked at him in the mirror. “Sure,” I said.
    Before we reached the Holiday Inn, Randall Finley let me know he wanted me to park around back. He didn’t want the black Mercury seen up front. That gave me a hint about what sort of meeting he had planned.
    I said fine.
    “You talk to Lance today?” he asked.
    “No,” I replied.
    “You and him, you don’t get along so good,” the mayor observed. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t say anything. “You could learn a thing or two from him, you know? He’s got terrific connections. Knows a lot of people. You need something, he can get it for you.”
    “He isn’t offering anything I need,” I said, putting on the blinker.
    “Need’s got nothing to do with it,” the mayor said. “It’s all about want.”
    It was ten o’clock, it had been a long day, and I wanted to go home and see Ellen before she fell asleep. I asked if he wanted me to wait or drive around awhile and come back in, say, an hour?
    Finley glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes,” he said. Then, hesitantly, “If you have to come and get me, should you happen