by Ross Thomas
After Sylvia Underhill took her first sip of coffee I told her about what had happened to her father and what he had wanted us to do.
“And you agreed to do it?”
“Yes.”
“But after he was dead, you didn’t have to.”
“That’s right.”
“You could have kept the money and just forgotten about it.”
“We could have kept the money,” I said.
“He wasn’t cut out for this,” she said.
“Few people are.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Is Mr. Padillo?”
“He’s had practice.”
“He seems a strange man. I read the dossier that my father got some place. Has he really done what it says—I mean, all of those things?”
“I haven’t seen the dossier, but Padillo has had what could be called a full life.”
“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I would ever know what he was really thinking. Does he do all these things because he believes in them or because he enjoys doing them or why?”
I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. It seemed time for the cocktail hour. “You sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”
“No thank you.”
“I think I’ll have one.”
“All right.”
I walked over to the bar and mixed a vodka martini. “Padillo has had one ambition in life from the time he was sixteen years old, and that is to run a nice quiet saloon. It’s something that we have in common. But he was born with three handicaps for a saloon-keeper: an extremely quick mind, an unusual gift for languages, and superb muscular control—far better than most athletes. He didn’t work at any of these; they just happened to him, just as you happened to turn out to be an extremely pretty girl.”
“Some people found out that all these handicaps were wrapped up in one man, so they used them—much as they would use a lawyer or a surgeon. When they learned that something was wrong somewhere, they would send Padillo in to fix it. He did it not because he wanted to do it, but because it was the price he paid for being allowed to do what he really wanted, and that’s to run a saloon. He would have liked to have run one in Los Angeles, but it never worked out.”
“When you speak of some people, you’re talking about your government.”
“No. I’m speaking about some people. They work for the government and they’re caught up in their ambitions and their convictions and the power of decision and command that they’ve acquired. They would use Padillo to fix things that they thought needed fixing.”
“He killed people, the dossier said.”
“I suppose he did.”
“Because these people in government told him to?”
“Yes.”
“Were they always right?”
“Probably not.”
“Then he killed innocent people?”
“He killed people who were very much like himself, I’d say—as innocent or as guilty. They were chosen to die because somebody in our government thought that the world would be a better place to live if they weren’t around any more. Perhaps they thought it would make a difference, and maybe the world did get better for them because they received a promotion or a discreet commendation. But it didn’t change things much for the rest of us.”
“And it was someone like that in my country’s government who decided that my father should die.”
“Probably. They wrapped it up in patriotism, their own brand, and tied it up with their own convictions, and your father was killed. Those who killed him consider it progress. For you it’s a senseless tragedy because your father’s death seems meaningless. Most deaths are.”
“But Van Zandt’s death would have a purpose.”
“He thinks so and so do those who support him. He thinks it will change history and give him a share of immortality. Those who support him think it will make the world a better place to live—for them.”
“There’s something that bothers me,” she said. “Why are you going to do what my father asked you to do? Why don’t you just do what they wanted you to do and get your wife back and then just forget about it? You seem to be able to take death so very casually.”
“How long do you think they would let my wife live after it was over?”
“I don’t know. Would they kill her?”
“I think so.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to get her back.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t thought about that yet. I don’t think that I can.”
FIFTEEN
Karl didn’t flick an eye when I walked in with Sylvia Underbill on my arm. It was that kind of place. We took a broad view of everything.
“Padillo here yet?”
“He’s in back.”
“Call him and tell him I’m here. Which table?”
“Thirty-two, in the corner,” Karl said. “Drinks?”
“We’ll wait for Padillo.”
We followed one of the waiters over to the table that I had asked to be reserved after Padillo had called me from his hotel. The waiter helped Sylvia with her chair and hovered around a bit more than usual because she was with the owner. Padillo came out from the back and crossed the room quickly, counting the house as he came. We were full and those without reservations were lining up at the bar. The customers liked the bar for its generous drinks, its fast service and Karl’s knowledgeable gossip about Washington. He served a quick, bright line of chatter that just bordered on slander. It provided an interesting contrast to Herr Horst’s meticulously correct formality.
“How’d it go?” I asked after Padillo was seated and had said hello to Sylvia.
“I didn’t remember how well I can lie.”
“They went along?”
“Take a look at the bar—the third and fourth seats from the end.”
I waited a few moments and then looked around, as if for a waiter. Two men in their early thirties sat at the bar, half-turned to the room, trying to look unremarkable. They succeeded. Each had a bottle of beer and a half-full glass at his elbow. They didn’t seem thirsty or worried about the beer going flat.
“The two nursing the beers?” I asked.
“They picked me up at the hotel when I left.”
“Who are they?” Sylvia asked.
“They’re from the FBI.”
“They followed you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they think I’m in danger.”
“What happened when you got to the hotel?” I said.
“You think we could get a drink?” Padillo asked.
I held up a hand and waved it slightly. A waiter materialized. We ordered three vodka martinis.
“You recall that circular seat that the hotel has around the fountain in the middle of the lobby?” Padillo said.
“Yes.”
“When I arrived at six, Iker and Weinriter were sitting on it, waiting for me. They didn’t make it too obvious, but it was obvious enough. Darragh was sitting on the other side of the thing. He followed us to the elevator.”
“You should have invited him up.”
“He still looked unhappy.”
“Are you speaking of Lewis Darragh?” Sylvia said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You tell her,” I said. “I’ve been talking all evening about how clever you are.”
Padillo sketched it quickly—how we needed the FBI surveillance to convince Van Zandt that Dymec should be brought in as the substitute assassin.
“You told Weinriter and Iker about Angola?” I asked.
“I even drew them a map, an accurate one.”
“They look at your side?”
“Iker wanted to. He also wanted to know who the doctor was.”
“And they bought the whole thing?”
“Reluctantly. They still want to hear about the arms deals that did take place.”
“That’s next week, I take it.”
“Possibly the week after.”
The waiter brought the martinis. I told him we would order in ten minutes.
“Now that you have your Federal guardians, what do you plan to do with them?”
“I don’t know. It’s supposed to be a twenty-four hour surveillance.”
“They can’t keep that up forever.”
“I probably told the story too well. I’ll try to think up another one that will get them to fade out tomorrow.”
Herr Horst came over and Padillo introduced him to Sylvia Underhill. He recommended the tournedos and a wine from the Ahr and we agreed to try them after another martini. A waiter brought a telephone over and plugged it into the jack. “It’s for you, Mr. McCorkle,” he said.
I picked it up and said yes.
“We’ll accept the substitute, McCorkle.” It was Boggs’s voice. “But we want to talk to him.”
“When?”
“Tonight?”
“I’m not sure we can reach him tonight. I want to talk to my wife.”
“In a moment. It has to be tonight, is that clear?”
“Hold on.” I put my hand over the receiver. “It’s Boggs,” I told Padillo. “They’ll go along with Dymec, but they want to see him tonight. It’s tonight or never, according to him.”
“Set it up for Seventh Street at midnight. I can get Dymec.”
“It can be arranged for midnight,” I said into the phone. I gave him the Seventh Street address.
“Tell him he’d better start getting the money together,” Padillo said.
“Don’t forget the money,” I said. “If he’s not sure of the money, he’ll walk out.”
“That’s being taken care of,” Boggs said. “But the money’s to go to Padillo, right?”
“Right.”
“He’ll have it tomorrow.”
“Put my wife on.”
“I’ll see you at midnight, McCorkle. Here’s your wife.”
“Fredl?”
“I’m on, darling. I’m doing fine; it’s just a little tiring and I miss you so much.”
“It’ll be over soon; it’s near the end now.”
“It seems so long. It seems longer than forever. I hope—”
The telephone went dead and I placed it in its cradle and signaled a waiter to take it away, but Padillo told him to leave it for a moment.
“She all right?” Padillo asked.
“I guess so; I couldn’t tell. She didn’t scream anyway.”
“Has she screamed before?” Sylvia asked.
“Once. They made her scream to impress me. They succeeded.”
“They’re rotten!” she said and I was surprised by the intensity in her voice. “They kill and they hurt and they don’t leave you anything. Then they laugh about it. I’ve heard them laugh when someone was hurt. Their big, loud laughs.”
“Maybe they laugh because they’re afraid,” Padillo said quietly. “I’ve seen frightened people laugh.”
“Are you apologizing for them?” she demanded.
“I don’t apologize for anyone,” he said. “I have trouble enough finding excuses for myself.”
He picked up the phone and dialed a number. It seemed to take a long time for it to answer. “This is Padillo. You have an appointment at midnight on Seventh Street with your future employers. McCorkle will be there. I can’t make it.” He listened for a while. “Just you and McCorkle. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He replaced the phone and the waiter took it away and plugged it in at another table where some customer probably wanted to call Honolulu. If he did, we added twenty per cent. The food came and it looked good, but I wasn’t hungry. Herr Horst went by and stopped to find out whether something was wrong and I assured him that it wasn’t.
“You can miss a meal,” Padillo said. “In fact, you could miss two or three.”
“You think I’ve filled out a bit?”
“It gives you dignity. You’re losing that lean, raffish look.”
“Care for some coffee?” I asked Sylvia.
“Please.”
“You try,” I told Padillo. “I want to see how well Horst has passed the word to the staff.”
Padillo looked up, nodded his head slightly, and a waiter was hovering at his elbow. It could have been Herr Horst’s instructions about the new active partner, or it could have been Padillo. I had seen him command attention like that in restaurants where he dined for the first time. If it were a trick, it was one I wanted to learn.
He ordered the coffee and none of us wanted dessert.
“When your meeting with Boggs and Dymec is over,” Padillo said, “it might be a good idea to let Boggs leave first. Then stall Dymec for ten minutes or so. I don’t want them to have the chance to do any negotiating on the side.”
“Don’t you trust anyone?” Sylvia asked.
“I’m careful.”
“It must get lonely.”
“There’s usually someone around with big cinnamon eyes who seems to think so—and wants to do something about it.”
“It could be a challenge, but one I could easily resist,” she said.
“Then I’ll keep on being lonely for a while.”
Sylvia turned to me. “Your business associate doesn’t go out of his way to be friendly, does he?”
“I’m surprised,” I said. “I’ve never seen that line fail before. It’s been used often enough.”
“I’m out of practice,” Padillo said. He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock Saturday night and I understand the town has an hour to go before the curfew of the Sabbath. How would you like to go pub-crawling?”
“With you?” she said.
“I’m as harmless as McCorkle.”
“I’m not dead, just married,” I reminded him.
“I think you’re fine,” she said.
“We’ll call it a comparison shopping tour to see if anyone has better grafitti than ours.” This time he smiled.
Sylvia turned to me. “Is it all right?”
“If he gets his glass of warm milk at one, he’ll be fine,” I said.
Padillo rose and helped the girl with her chair. I took a key off my ring and handed it to her. “This is a spare to my apartment.”
“Call me when you get back,” Padillo said.
“I will.”
“Where should we go?” Padillo asked.
“Try M Street in Georgetown,” I said. “There’s a whole string of bars there, or at least they were there last week. They have some very cute names—new ones every other day or so.”
I watched them leave, the slender young girl with the helmet of blonde hair and an up-from-under look that could melt a hangman’s heart, and the partner, not that young nor nearly so, with the tanned, quiet, hard face and the effortless movement that’s seldom seen in a human and always in a cat.
They were, as the town’s frosty-eyed society writers would have it, a striking couple, and the customers forgot about their steaks long enough to look at them as they went by. They didn’t seem to notice the two FBI men who followed along behind. I ordered more coffee and a brandy and after being served, I watched the customers for a while. There didn’t seem to be any poor ones. Most were too round in the belly or too sparse on top. Their laughter was too loud and too long and too hard. But then I’d seldom heard happy laughter in a saloon, and I had been listening for a long time.
I didn’t like my customers that night and I wasn’t too wild about myself. I wondered what Fredl was doing and where she was and what she was thinking. I wondered where the customers would go when they stopped eating and drinking at midnight. I wondered if they had homes, or if they ever quit talking and chewing and swallowing because I never saw them unless their jaws were moving.
It was eleven-thirty by the time I decided to catch a c
ab and go down to Seventh Street and talk to a couple of men who wanted to kill a Prime Minister. It seemed as good a way as any to wind up Saturday night in the capital of the world.
By no means a new hand at intrigue, I had the cab driver let me out two blocks away from the dingy office. It was ten minutes to twelve and Seventh Street was almost dead except for a couple of drunks moving slowly and carefully down the opposite sidewalk. I let myself into the office, turned on the light, and pulled down the cracked green shade. The dust was still on the blotter. I sat behind the desk to wait. Boggs was the first to arrive. He looked around the office and didn’t seem to like what he saw. I didn’t feel up to an apology.
“You reached your man?” he asked.
“We reached him.”
“He’s not here.”
“If he were here, he’d be three minutes early.”
He grunted something at that and brushed off one of the folding metal chairs and sat down. I propped my feet on the desk, smoked a cigarette, and carefully dropped the ashes on the floor.
“Your man knows what he’s supposed to do?”
“He knows.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him everything—the where and the when to begin with. He’ll have to check it all out. If you have a how let him in on that, too. He has the who and the money is the why. You needn’t go into your lecture on the humanitarian service he’s performing. He wouldn’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You have a low opinion of us, don’t you, McCorkle? And it’s not just because of your wife.”
“I think you’re aces,” I said, and blew some smoke rings at the ceiling.
Dymec came in and gave us his grave nod. He took a seat. It was the same one he had sat in that morning.
“All right,” I said, swinging my feet off the desk. “I’m the interlocutor. This is Jon and this is Wendell. I don’t think we need any more names than that. Jon knows what he’s supposed to do. You can give him the details.”