Free All That I Have by Castle Freeman Page B

same.
    I was pretty sure Emory would be working, too. Saturday is a busy day in the real estate business, as in sheriffing. Is that because home buyers forget for the weekend that they’re going to have to work to earn the money to pay off all the debt they’re about to go into? I don’t know.
    Emory O’Connor did very well. He had his office in a nice old brick house right on the green in Manchester. He’d bought the place and spent a lot of money in fixing it up so it looked right, or a little better than right. Emory liked to make money, and he liked to spend money — and he was good at both.
    He was in his reception room talking on the phone when I walked in. He wasn’t happy to see me, but he held his hand up for me to wait, and when he got done with his call we went into his office and he shut the door. Emory took the chair behind his desk, and I sat across the desk from him.
    “What can I do for you this morning, Sheriff?” Emory asked me.
    “Well,” I said, “you can tell me who in the world is that fellow Tracy, at the place up in Grenada, who’s his friend with the slickeddown hair who don’t have much to say, who’s behind them. You can start by doing that for me.”
    Emory smiled and shook his head. “No, I can’t, Sheriff,” he said. “Not really. You know as much as I do. Tracy’s with the owners’ insurance company, in New York. I told you that. The other guy’s name I don’t know, either. I took it he’s one of the owners or their representative.”
    “Buster Mayhew, your caretaker, says the owners ain’t around much. He says they’re some kind of foreigners. He can’t understand what they’re saying.”
    Emory chuckled. “If you’ve talked to Buster,” he said, “you know he may not be the brightest guy who ever lived. He’s paid to make sure the doors are locked, basically. He’s not paid to be a linguist, Sheriff. He doesn’t have to talk to the owners.”
    “You do, though. Who are the owners?”
    “Investors,” said Emory.
    “Investors,” I said. “There’s a good many investors, one kind and another, here and there, ain’t there? Do these ones have names? They pay you, don’t they? For managing the place? Somebody sends you checks.”
    Emory smiled again. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Big ones.”
    “Who’s name’s on the checks?”
    “Odessa Partners, Limited,” said Emory. He was sounding a little short.
    “Who are they?”
    Emory shrugged. “Investors,” he said.
    “Where are they located?”
    “Offshore.”
    Getting information out of Emory was like trying to get a turtle to stick its head out of its shell when you’ve caught it crossing the road.
    “Offshore, where?”
    “St. George’s, Bermuda,” said Emory.
    “Bermuda?”
    “Does that surprise you, Sheriff?” said Emory. “Bermuda’s a very — I guess hospitable is the word. It’s a very hospitable place.”
    “They’re Russians,” I said. “At the house in Grenada. They ain’t Bermudas. The place is full of papers in Russian, newspapers, magazines. They’ve even got Russian skin books. Bermuda? Do they read Russian in Bermuda?”
    “Look, Sheriff,” said Emory. “I’m not responsible for what they read. Bermuda’s where the checks come from. Have for several years. Very regular. Very useful. We’re in business, here, you know.”
    “I know you are,” I said. “I know you’re in business. And, talking about business, that insurance company in New York? Atlantic Casualty? Mr. Tracy’s company? That’s a business, too, ain’t it?”
    “Of course it is.”
    “ ‘Course it is,” I said. “But it’s the damndest thing. What would you say if I told you I called New York, and the telephone company down there never heard of Atlantic Casualty? There ain’t no such business.”
    “If you’re asking me whether that surprises me,” said Emory, “I have to tell you I can’t say it does.”
    “Don’t it kind of trouble you, though?”
    “Not in the least,” said