It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock on a cloudless Thursday night. The nearly full moon gleamed a Velveeta yellow in the high summer sky. The retractable skin of Willowdale’s pool/pavilion complex was pulled back to reveal the relatively bright night, which in turn made visible the female form that circled Rexroth’s blading track. As bright as the moonlight was, her face was still not discernible in the darkened pavilion. All that was visible were the iridescent elbow and knee pads, glowing a light green, as she skated in leisurely fashion, throwing in a pirouette or two in every other loop.
Rexroth, who sat behind his vast desk reading computer printouts, occasionally raised his head to glance at the circling figure, but did not speak. The only sounds in the building were of the whirling of her wheels and of the woman’s breathing as she made her rounds over the track.
At five seconds before eleven, Rexroth heard movement behind one of the ceiling-to-floor curtains that hung from the expanse of windows back of his desk. He knew who it was, but couldn’t help turning to look.
Ronald Mortvedt slipped into the pavilion. His entrance, as always, served to send a shudder through Rexroth. No matter how many times he met with the ex-jockey ex-con, Rexroth could never come close to feeling comfortable with him-this, despite the fact that in almost every moral and ethical sense they were blood brothers. Maybe that was why Mortvedt made the publishing magnate so uncomfortable.
Also disturbing, Rexroth had found, was the little man’s great gift of stealth. He always arrived right at the appointed time, easily eluding the Willowdale security setup. That’s what makes him so good at the jobs he does for me, Rexroth thought, with a mixture of admiration and unease. Rexroth well understood that Mortvedt was, to the unsuspecting-as his victims almost always were-as deadly as cobra venom.
Rexroth realized from the start of their relationship that the only way to meet with Mortvedt was like this, at night, at Willowdale, where secrecy was best maintained.
Mortvedt, as always, remained out of sight behind one of the pavilion’s drawn curtains until Rexroth dismissed the blader.
“Darlene,” Rexroth announced, “that’s enough for tonight, sweetheart. You’re excused. And thank you.”
After Rexroth heard the far door close, he signaled Mortvedt to come forward.
As was his custom for these night meetings, Mortvedt was dressed all in black: long-sleeved jersey, jeans, cowboy boots, all the color of his slicked-back hair. His eyes were impassive and he sat perfectly still, strong hands on the arms of the chair. He was not there to apologize for the Bolger disaster, that was clear to Rexroth.
Rexroth said, “What went wrong?”
Mortvedt shrugged. “Motherfucker picked the wrong night for a walk in the rain,” he said nonchalantly. “Bad luck for us-I couldn’t do the horse-but worse luck for him.”
“Yes, I’d say worse luck for him,” Rexroth replied. “And damned bad luck for me, too, and Willowdale. The Bolger incident has been all over the media. The fact that you apparently covered your tracks, that they have no leads or suspects-well, that’s fine, but….”
“But fuckin’ what?” Mortvedt said quietly. “Ain’t no way to pin that thing on me, and you should know it. You should know it,” he repeated. Mortvedt shot a steady, black-ice look at Rexroth, who not for the first time felt a powerful feeling of regret that he’d ever decided to welcome Mr. Ronald Mortvedt into his employ.
Mortvedt said, “Boss, where you hidin’ your nearest john in this here mansion?”
“Oh,” Rexroth said, standing to point. “Take that door at the far end of the pool. There’s a sauna room, then a washroom.”
Sometimes Rexroth, when making his motivational speeches dressed in his General George Patton regalia, advised his employees that “there are different ways of looking at looking back.
“A philosopher named Santayana used to say that if you didn’t know history, you were doomed to repeat it. A baseball pitcher named Satchell Paige, on the other hand, advised never to look back because something might be gaining on you.
“Both men were right, in their own way,” Rexroth-as-Patton would shout, “both men were wise. It’s up to RexCom employees to distinguish between the validity of these views when applied to the situation at hand. Deciding which wisdom fits at the proper time is what makes for a leader in the mighty media army of RexCom troops. It is all about choice, people!” Like all of Rexroth’s utterances, this one was always greeted with a wave of orchestrated applause from the carefully prepped employees.
In Mortvedt’s brief absence, Rexroth wondered to himself exactly what kind of a choice he had made when he launched his alliance with the little Cajun killer. Even now he had to fight off the memory of Aldous Bolger’s horribly battered features that he’d been forced to view when visiting the crime scene in the Willowdale stallion barn.
Mortvedt slipped back into his chair across from Rexroth’s desk. Eyebrows raised, he asked, “You been sick, boss?” He nodded at the hospital cart and tray of food nearby.
“No, I haven’t,” replied the suddenly irritated Rexroth. Ordinarily, he limited the knowledge of his hospital-like cuisine preferences to members of the immediate staff. Rexroth could not imagine how he might explain this idiosyncrasy of his to Mortvedt, and he did not attempt to do so.
As he looked at Mortvedt’s lean, sharp-featured face where the little man sat at the edge of the lamplight, Rexroth thought, I’ve known him four years now, and in every one of those years his sociopathy has become more obvious. Rexroth realized just how fearful he was of the ex-convict.
Rexroth noticed that his desk clock read 11:23. The end of their association was very near.
He said, “Ronald, I’ve got one more job for you. Then, I think it will be in the best interests of us both if we stop doing business together.”
Mortvedt’s always morose face darkened even further upon receipt of this news. The little man leaned toward the light. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair.
“What’s the problem?” Mortvedt said. “Yeah, I laid the wood to that clumsy farm manager of yours. That was his fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I didn’t leave a goddam trace of anything in that barn. These hayseed cops ain’t got a clue,” he said dismissively. His eyes locked onto Rexroth’s, challenging him. “So, what’s the fuckin’ problem?”
Rexroth attempted to summon all his powers of amelioration and persuasion. He didn’t want Mortvedt to become an enemy. Rexroth needed to usher him out of his life as smoothly as possible.
“The problem is this: we’ve stretched the envelope, you and I. Oh, certainly,” Rexroth continued expansively, waving his huge cigar, “our work together has been ultra-efficient and effective. You’ve done a marvelous job, accomplishing everything assigned you. But,” Rexroth said with a shake of his head, “I’m convinced that we’re at that point where we are uncomfortably close to pushing our luck past where it will go.
“What you did to Bolger, no matter how much it needed to be done considering the circumstances you were in, raises the stakes for us considerably. Insurance fraud that involves dead horses is one thing. Action bordering on the murder of a human being is quite another.
“Nothing lasts forever, Ronald. I’ve decided that we are just about at the end of our line together. I want you to kill one more of my equine liabilities. His name is Mister Mulvey. He’s in stall five in the stallion barn. You can do it any night you choose within the next two weeks. And that will be the last one you do for me. That’s why,” Rexroth said, reaching into a desk drawer for an unmarked envelope. “I’ve readied this for you.” Mortvedt took the envelope, noting, without expression, the thick packet of bills it contained. He looked at Rexroth expectantly.
“There is seventy-five thousand dollars there, all fifties and hundreds. You may count them if you wish. This represents your final fee, plus a bonus for excellent work done in the past. Consider the latter a farewell gift.”
Mortvedt saw that Rexroth was determined to end their relationship in this abrupt way. He felt a wave of resentment. All the dirty work I’ve done for rich boy here, and he calls the final shot without asking me? he thought. His expression darkened, but he said nothing.
Mortvedt tucked the cash-filled envelope into his boot. When Mortvedt did so, Rexroth noticed the ankle holster on Mortvedt’s right leg. Then he realized it wasn’t a holster for a gun, but a knife scabbard. Light briefly reflected off part of the knife blade before Mortvedt pulled his jeans leg back down over his boot. Rexroth felt himself hosting another involuntary shudder.
But knowing now that Mortvedt was, indeed, going to go along with this parting of the ways, Rexroth began to relax. This was going to work. Mortvedt was not going to present a daunting obstacle to his plans, or any kind of obstacle at all.
Mortvedt stared at Rexroth for a moment. Then he quickly rose from his chair and left without a backward glance. Rexroth stared at the curtained doorway through which the little man had slipped. The curtains continued to shift for several seconds after Mortvedt had disappeared, though Rexroth was unable to discern the presence of any summer breeze. The night, Rexroth knew, was dark, deep, and as silent as the black-clad figure that must be now moving to his car, hidden as always on one of Willowdale’s farthest borders.