Free Dead Low Tide by John D. MacDonald Page A

Thank you.” I went back and sat down.
    The door was yanked open and Gordy Brogan came steaming in. He came over and put his hands flat on my desk and looked down at me. He is an Irishman, professional variety. Peat bog, potato famine, when Irish eyes are smiling in a whisky tenor, smoky whisky and all. As he is at least fourth generation, he has had to develop his own brogue. It isn’t genuine, but it gives the impression.
    “By God, Andy, this is hell!” he said. He was too upset to remember the brogue.
    “It’s rough. Sit down.”
    He sat, his blue eyes intensely serious, for once. “What’s going to happen?”
    “You guess.”
    “Man, I’m done out there in a little over a week. Where was I going?”
    “He was going to haul you over to Key Estates.”
    “And now?”
    “Stop asking me. I don’t know. The operating funds will run for maybe three weeks.”
    “Why does a man go and do a thing like that to himself, I’m asking you?” The brogue had begun to reappear.
    “You do it when you have reasons, they tell me.”
    “And his little lady? And how is she bearing up?”
    “Not good.”
    “Aaa, the poor little thing. It’s alone she is now.” He suddenly became aware of the sound of a typewriter and looked over at Joy. “Say, I was wondering what lovely girl voice it was answering the phone when I called.”
    “Miss Kenney, Mr. Brogan,” I said.
    “It is an improvement, indeed,” he said, beaming. And then he apparently remembered John Long again, and his face became lugubrious. “The best I can do, lad, is go back out and finish my job, I see.”
    “That makes sense. They were paying on the basis of percentage of completion, but they weren’t paying into our operating account. The last quarter payment is due as soon as they inspect and accept.”
    “We’ll carry on for John, God rest his soul.” He went out and climbed into the pickup truck and rattled back toward his job.
    I hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do. Close the office—Was that what you were supposed to do? I wanted somebody around to tell me what to do. My executive talent had a few mothholes in it. Disuse, perhaps.
    I got up, and said, “Hold the fort, Joy. We’ll close up at noon. I’ll be back. If anybody wants me, I’ll be at Mr. Marinak’s office.”
    “Shall I call and make sure he’s in?”
    I went to the door and looked diagonally across the street and up at the second-story office. I saw the wild flare of a shirt through the window. “He’s in.”
    I went over and up the stairs, and Steve’s gaunt girl told me I could go on in.
    Steve gave me a quick glance and said, a bit too heartily, “Set, Andy.”
    “You know about it, of course.”
    “I know about it. What’s on your mind?”
    “I want to know what happens now.”
    “In what way?”
    “With the business. The operating funds are a little feeble. But it is a corporation, I understand. Who makes the decisions now?”
    “We don’t know. Not until we get an order to open his lock box over at Gulf Savings and see if there’s a will in there. He held the controlling interest. Mary Eleanor owns about thirty per cent of the outstanding shares. I’ve got a few. Harvey Constanto has a few.”
    “You don’t know if there’s a will?”
    “He never made one out with me. That isn’t saying there isn’t one. He never let anybody know all his business. If he died intestate, the court will appoint an executor, probably Gulf Savings. Mary Eleanor will have the controlling interest. Until it’s settled up, the executor will be able to release funds from other accounts to keep the business rolling. We’ll have a sort of a directors’ meeting once we find out how the shares are split up.”
    “What would you suggest I do, Steve?”
    “Carry on. What else? And you have got that contract you—asked for.”
    “Actually, Steve, I didn’t ask for it. He insisted.”
    I could detect a faint unpleasant aroma of unfriendliness. “That isn’t what you