The Seersucker Whipsaw

by Ross Thomas

  “Hooligans?”

  “Quite. Each party has roving bands of paid thugs. They heckle the opposition, break up meetings, try to intimidate voters. Sometimes we have to break a few heads and put some in jail. Chief Akomolo’s party, I should add, has its full cadre of hooligans. I suppose it’s becoming part of the election apparatus. Tradition, perhaps.”

  “How do you handle them?” I asked.

  Cheatwood warmed to his subject. He was a professional and he liked talking about it. “We have our roving squads, you see, and we’re in constant touch with them by radio. These are specially-trained chaps. They have larger wicker shields and rather hefty sticks. They’ve been trained in mob dispersal and control. I’d say a dozen or so of them can break up just about any riot we can expect. They’re extremely fit—none under six feet, by the way, and they enjoy their work.”

  “Where you expecting the most trouble?” Shartelle asked.

  “Here in Ubondo—that’s going to be a major trouble spot. Barkandu will be another, but that’s out of my jurisdiction. In almost any of the small-to-medium towns you can expect an occasional flare-up. Not to worry, though. We’ll keep it in hand.”

  “How do you see the election, Captain Cheatwood?”

  He took another swallow of his drink. “That’s what Downer asked me. I’m a policeman, not a bloody politician, but I’d say that you gentlemen have your work cut out for you.”

  “That’s what we’ve been told.”

  Cheatwood set his drink down on a table. “I’ve been here fifteen years now. Came down from Ghana and before that I was in East Africa. Started out in Palestine during the trouble—just a boy then. But I’ve been through a few of these times when a country is approaching independence. And they all get just a bit violent. A few heads get cracked, some innocent and some not-so-innocent chaps get killed. My job is not to stop all that—which would be impossible—but to keep it to a minimum. If we do that, we think we’ve done a fair job of work.”

  “You said you think we have our work cut out for us,” I said. “Anything else you might add to that?”

  “Well, a policeman hears all sorts of rumors. The hottest one buzzing around now is that Akomolo is spending half the Regional Treasury to buy the election with the help of your CIA. That one’s making the rounds at the university. You could call it a typical one.”

  “But not true,” Shartelle said.

  Cheatwood waved his stick in a gesture of dismissal. “Of course not. For one thing, if the Premier’s crowd wanted to tap the till, they wouldn’t go through the Treasury. Too many checks. They’d go through the Regional Development Corporation: set up their own company and then award it a contract to build a school or hospital for twice what it should cost. The intellectual community at the university has a great deal to learn about finance, I’m afraid.”

  “And you’re saying that the National Progressive Party doesn’t?”

  Cheatwood smiled. “If there are any tricks to fund-raising, I would say that the Albertian politicians mastered them long ago. But that’s not my worry. I have another.”

  “What’s that?” Shartelle asked the question as he got up to mix the drinks. He picked up Cheatwood’s glass.

  “Very light, please.” He waited until Shartelle handed him the drink. “My worry is that I don’t like surprises. Surprises are splendid, say around Christmas or on one’s birthday, but they are a terrible nuisance if one’s a copper.” He stopped to taste his new drink. “And if one were a politician, I dare say.”

  “They can be bothersome,” Shartelle said.

  “Damn it all,” Cheatwood said, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this roundabout palaver.”

  “Captain Cheatwood, I’d say you were getting around to making a proposition. Now I don’t care much for pretty talk, so if you got one, why don’t you just say it right out loud?”

  Cheatwood placed his drink on the table again and leaned forward in the chair, his arms resting on his knees, his hands holding the twisted ebony stick. “I’ll make it as plain as I possibly can, Mr. Shartelle. I gathered from your colleague, Mr. Downer, when he was here, that your job will be to produce some political innovations. He didn’t know what they were, although he pretended to. He does talk a bit, I should add. Now I’m not concerned about your campaign strategy. My only concern is that should you employ some devices—and God knows what they would be—I would appreciate it very much if you would give me a general description of their nature. I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strict confidence. I would also assure you that I am not setting myself up as a censor. It’s merely that if your tactics are going to provoke a riot, I’d like a bit of warning so that I could plan the proper use of my chaps.”

  “We’re not revolutionists, Captain,” I said.

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m not going to lecture you on the nature of the Albertians, Mr. Upshaw. During the fifteen years I’ve spent here, I think I’ve come to know them. And believe it or not, I like them. I just want to keep things as peaceful as possible during the next six weeks. Now then, I said that it is my opinion that neither policemen nor politicians are overly fond of surprises. If you agree to give me a bit of advance notice concerning your plans, then I—in turn—will give you the gen on what we hear. And we hear a good bit, I should add.”

  “Just one question, Captain. Are you making this same proposition to the other two major candidates?”

  “No, Mr. Shartelle, I’m not. I am employed by the government of Western Albertia and my concern is for the affairs of this region. After independence, I doubt that I shall be about long, but I plan to leave with an unblemished record. If that sounds a trifle stuffy, forgive me. It’s a policeman’s way of thinking.”

  Shartelle nodded “I tell you what,” he said slowly. “We’ll brief you on what we’re going to do and where. You keep us informed. And we’ll both respect each other’s confidence. Now which of us should make the T.L. first?”

  “The what?”

  “The Trade Last. It’s an American expression that I haven’t heard in years. Probably hasn’t been used in years. But forget it; I’ll go first.”

  It took about five minutes for Shartelle to give Cheatwood a rundown on the plans for the helicopters, buttons, drums, newspaper, and speaking schedule. He didn’t mention the whipsaw operation.

  Cheatwood listened well without fidgeting. His face was almost oblong, with a large chin that looked as if it would be painful to shave. His green eyes were fixed on Shartelle and while he listened, he sat as still as any man I’d ever seen.

  “Now that we’ve taken you into the bosom of our family, Captain, maybe you can provide us with a little information that would prove useful.”

  Cheatwood leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He held the ebony stick up before him and stared at it.

  “The Army,” he said. “I have a few informers in its ranks, but none at the officer level. I did have some at the officer’s level, but they were white. The last white officer received his discharge seven weeks ago. It came quite unexpectedly. But keep an eye on it, Mr. Shartelle.”

  “You talking about a coup, a takeover?”

  “Not likely. The Army, especially since it is the first government organization to completely Albertianize itself, has gained a certain amount of political strength. It could toss that strength to the winner—or to someone who looked as if he were going to lose. There would be a high price to pay, of course.”

  “Interesting,” Shartelle said.

  “Yes, isn’t it? As soon as I hear anything definite, I’ll get in touch. Cheatwood rose and Shartelle and I got up, too. “By the way,” he said, “you don’t know of any CIA involvement in this thing, do you?”

  “They don’t confide in us,” Shartelle said.

  “No, I suppose not. But these rumors at the university are damned persistent. I might check out a few sources in the eastern and northern regions; our Old Boy network is still alive—if gasping its last
.”

  Shartelle grinned. “I’ve never worked a campaign hand-in-glove with the police before,” he said. “Should be most interesting.”

  Cheatwood walked to the door, turned, and leaned on his stick. “You know, something just struck me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the last white in either the police or the Army.”

  “Think you’ll be around long?”

  “Not long, but as I said, the record will be clean.”

  “Unblemished,” Shartelle said.

  Cheatwood chuckled softly. “There’s something else that’s unique about me, you know.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the last white in Albertia who can shoot an Albertian in line of duty.” He chuckled again, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “My God, what a way to wind up.”

  Chapter

  15

  I picked up Anne Kidd that night around 8:30 after bribing William five shillings to drive for me. She lived in a so-so apartment near the school where she taught. Two other Peace Corps girls shared the place with her. The furniture was nothing special, but they had decorated the living room with bits and pieces of carved calabashes, native statuary, some Albertian-woven cloth, and a few good pieces of brass work. It looked fine—like a cross between Barkandu and Grand Rapids.

  She kissed me lightly on the cheek in front of her roommates, who were from the West Coast. One was from Los Angeles, the other from Berkeley. The one from Berkeley had a merry look about her and I put her down in mental reserve for Shartelle should the need arise. The one from Los Angeles came out of the mold that they should have broken before the eighty-four millionth copy was run off. Not plain, but not pretty. Not gay, but not sad. She seemed to be pouting a bit because Anne was going out with a fellow.

  I helped Anne into the back seat of the car. “William, this is Miss Kidd,” I said.

  “Hello, William.”

  “Madam,” William said and gave her a big grin and threw an appreciative look at me. In town one day and already a date. His estimation of me was soaring.

  “Where we go, Mastah?” William asked.

  I turned to Anne. “Is there a nice, quiet air-conditioned bar in Ubondo?”

  “Sure,” she said. “One is in the Cocoa Marketing building. They keep it around sixty-five degrees, I think.”

  “Fine. Cocoa Marketing building.”

  I held her hand as William drove the car though the ill- lighted streets. The petty traders were still looking for a final sale, and their stands were illuminated with pressure lamps that gave off yellowish-orange flickering lights.

  “How’re your teeth?” I asked.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “He just had to clean them. See?” She smiled and showed them all. They were white and very straight.

  “Are you thinking about them much?”

  “Not as much as I am about you.”

  “Good clean thoughts?”

  “Nope. Some are nice and dirty. I think I had an orgasm this afternoon, just thinking about you.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Not with that kind; I just started thinking and thinking and the first thing I knew I wanted to be with you and then it happened; or something did. Whatever happened, I liked it. I like thinking about you.”

  I kissed her then in the back seat of the Humber driving through the streets of Ubondo. It was a long, deep kiss and we both were a little excited when we came up for air. William kept his eyes straight ahead.

  We drove into the parking lot of the Cocoa Marketing building and took a slow elevator up to the third floor. The place was called the Sahara South and it was leased by a Lebanese gambler who—Anne told me—served the second-best dinner in town. I told her I’d take her only to where they served the best dinner and she said that it wasn’t air-conditioned. I told her we would sit and sweat and eat well.

  It wasn’t cool in the Sahara South; it was plain cold. As far as I could see it was just another dimly-lighted cocktail lounge with a restaurant attached and a bar. We sat at the bar.

  “You come here often?” I asked her.

  “I can’t afford it on $82.50 a month. Don’t forget I’m living on that plus my supply of motivation, dedication and commitment.”

  “I’ll buy then,” I said.

  We ordered gin and tonic. Anne shivered slightly in her white cotton dress. It had dark blue or black piping on it here and there and looked what I suppose is still called smart. She knew how to wear clothes.

  “You didn’t buy that dress on $82.50 a month,” I said.

  “You like it?”

  “Very much.”

  “That’s daddy’s contribution to the Peace Corps—keeping me well-dressed. He was against the whole idea in the first place.”

  “You joining up?”

  “No. The Peace Corps.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t against the idea of helping. He just thought Americans should be paid more. He couldn’t see sending them all over the world for what he calls ‘pissant pay.’ He’s funny. He said if the people were needed, America ought to hire real pros—teachers, doctors, carpenters, bricklayers—what have you—and hire them at the going scale and send them out to do what he said those kids will only make a stab at. I think I got my structure a little twisted there.”

  “I follow you,” I said.

  “When the Peace Corps did as well as it did, he wouldn’t change his mind. He said if they want to be martyrs, it’s probably good for them. But we ought to have the other thing—the pro corps, he calls it—going, too. He kept talking to the AID people in Washington about it, but it never got anywhere.”

  “What’s he do? Maybe you told me, but I’ve forgotten.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “That’s cold. He does something with shopping centers. Builds them, I think. I asked him once and he said it was too complicated; that sometimes he didn’t understand it himself. It’s all something to do with selling land and then leasing it back. He just says he deals in land as quickly as he can because they’re not making it any more.”

  We listened to the piped-in music for a while and watched the people. About half were Albertians, some dressed in robes, some in European-styled clothes. The rest were white or tan or pink or olive. There were the businessmen, the British, the car dealers, the insurance salesmen, and the boys just passing through Africa on hopes of turning a quick dollar. A tall young man with a surfer’s haircut came into the bar and looked around. He smiled when he saw Anne and came over.

  “Hello, Anne,” he said.

  She introduced him as Jack Woodring, head of the United States Information Service in Ubondo. I offered to buy him a drink and he accepted.

  “I heard you were coming up,” he said. “They called from the Consulate yesterday—or maybe it was today. Drop by anytime. After 2 P.M., the office is officially off duty and I have a refrigerator. It usually has a pitcher of martinis.”

  “We’ll do that,” I said.

  “How goes the Peace Corps?”

  “Fine,” she said. “How’s Betty?”

  He shook his head. “She came down with something today and I had to go to this thing at Karl’s by myself. Those boys are a little far out.”

  Anne turned to me. “Karl Haunhorst is a German who’s gone native and specializes in Albertian art and culture. He gives a soirée once in a while. I went to one about four months ago.”

  “I’m the walking-talking example of U.S. culture in Ubondo, so I have to go,” Woodring said. “That reminds me, I’m supposed to lodge an official complaint with you.”

  “Lodge away.”

  “Kramer sent me a rocket asking if you couldn’t get the programming changed on the TV station.”

  “What’s that got to do with Pete?”

  “He’s the official representative of DDT and DDT got the Western Region the second commercial television station in all of Africa. Or is it the third?”

  “Second, I think.”

&nbs
p; “You mean you brought ‘My Little Margie’ to Albertia?”

  “Not me—Duffy. He found a European syndicate that put up half the money to build the station.”

  “They’ve only got seventy-five sets in the whole damned country,” Anne said.

  “They’re improving; there used to be only thirty-five.”

  “I don’t get as excited about it as they do down in Barkandu,” Woodring said. “Kramer’s worried about the violence. I just worry over getting a travelogue about the Grand Canyon shown on what might be called prime time, if you stretched a point. But Kramer said couldn’t something be done about the programming. For instance, on Monday there’s ‘Highway Patrol,’ ‘The Great Gildersleeve,’ ‘Richard Diamond,’ and ‘Meet McGraw.’ On Tuesday, there’s ‘Father Knows Best,’ ‘The Man Called X,’ ‘Dragnet,’ and ‘The Lone Ranger.’ On Wednesday, there’s—”

  “Duffy just bought them a package deal,” I interrupted. “All the crap. Maybe next year will be better.”

  “They’ve ordered two thousand transistor sets, I hear,” Woodring said.

  “I wonder who’ll repair them when they break down.”

  “I refuse to let it bother me,” he said. “In another year or so they’ll develop local programming and then it might serve some useful purpose. Although, damn it, I find myself leaving Wednesday nights free so I can watch ‘Gunsmoke.’”

  “It’s on tonight,” Anne said.

  “You’re right. I’ve got to go.” He turned to me. “I’ll tell Kramer I lodged the complaint with the proper authority.”

  “I’ll carry it through to London.”

  “Be sure to drop by with your partner soon and we’ll have a few. They told me his name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Shartelle.”

  “Right.” He spread his hands in a free and open gesture. “Drop by any time. If they’re throwing rocks at us, just duck.”

  “We’ll do it,” I said and we shook hands. He said goodbye to Anne and left.

  “He’s a nice boy,” she said. “They like him here.”