“Forgive me for not getting up. I’m about half fossil these days,” he said, his gaze lingering on Rosita. He wiped at his nose with his wrist. “What’s this about?”
“A private detective named Harlan McFey. A hit-and-run driver killed him in north Houston,” I said. Down below I could hear the traffic in the street, a policeman blowing a whistle at an intersection.
“Yes, I remember him,” Wiseheart said. “He was a bird dog for anybody who’d throw him a bone. Here, sit down. Why are you coming to me about him?”
“My father was killed in 1934 at the bottom of a bell hole in East Texas. McFey had a photograph of his body. The company my father was working for covered up his death.”
“My son sent you to me to help find information on your father? That doesn’t make much sense.”
“McFey worked for you, sir, at least until two years ago. He also worked for your daughter-in-law, Roy’s wife.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and picked up his julep glass from the floor. “Y’all want a drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Good for you. Roy’s wife is a different kettle of fish. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”
“Were any of your companies laying pipe in East Texas in ’34, Mr. Wiseheart?”
“Probably. You think my people had something to do with your daddy’s death?”
“That’s what I’d like to determine,” I said.
Others around us had stopped talking. A white-jacketed black waiter had brought another julep on a tray and was standing motionlessly next to Wiseheart’s chair. “Set it down,” Wiseheart said.
“Yes, suh,” the waiter replied.
“Now go back over there by the bar.”
“Yes, suh.”
Wiseheart turned back to me. “How’d you make my son’s acquaintance?”
“He wanted to buy out my company.”
“I remember the name now. You’re the one with the welding machines. They say your welds never leak. I’m happy for your success, son, but our visit is over. No offense meant. I’ve got a mess of work to do, more mess than work.”
“Somebody sicced McFey on us. If it wasn’t you, who do you think it was?”
The awning above the veranda was riffling in the breeze. Wiseheart watched a pigeon glide out of the sunlight into the shadows; his eyes shifted to Rosita, his mouth wrinkling at the corner when he grinned. “What are you?” he asked.
“Beg your pardon?” she said.
“You’re either European or British. Which is it?”
“I grew up in Madrid. You might say I’m Spanish. Some of my family came from Germany.”
“You’re a handsome woman. I think your husband is a fortunate man. Now I need somebody to prop me up behind my desk so I can get some work done.”
With the passage of years, I’ve learned that age can be used as either a sword or a shield. Dalton Wiseheart was a master at both.
As we walked to our car, Rosita put her arm in mine. “Want me to go to Louisiana with you?” she said.
“I’d like that.”
“Leave that man alone,” she said.
“He’ll be hearing from me again.”