The Seersucker Whipsaw

by Ross Thomas

  “Well, I sent off for that course about the time that I sent for old Charles Atlas’s dynamic tension. I got so I could skim the Times in ten minutes—that’s what I used to practice on—and read every word damned near.”

  “How’s your comprehension?”

  “It was bad at first, but it got better and better. Now it’s pretty fair, I’d say.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Why, there’s nothing to it. You just start yourself off by reading in a diagonal line down the page left to right and pretty soon you’re taking the whole thing in at a glance. It’s come in handy sometimes when all you had is a minute to sneak a look at the opposition’s campaign plans as they’re being taken down in the elevator from headquarters on the fifteenth floor to the mimeograph room on the fourth.”

  “I imagine.”

  The XK-E was shifted down into second for the drive and Jenaro roared it up to a stop in front of the doorway with his usual flair and disregard for the gravel. I had seen Ojo that morning run across a piece of gravel with his new lawnmower. He had inspected the blades for fifteen minutes and was down on his hands and knees for an hour looking for more rocks.

  Jenaro looked as if he had just come off the eighteenth at Pebble Beach. He wore a windbreaker with arms specially cut to allow for a free swing of the club, a pale green turtle neck sweater of what looked to be soft woven cotton, chino slacks, cordovan golf shoes, and on his head he had a rain hat that matched the fabric of his jacket. A set of clubs nestled in the left-hand seat of the Jaguar whose top was down as usual.

  Jenaro bounded up the steps and slipped off his spiked shoes before coming into the house. He looked happy. “I just shot a thirty-two on nine holes, sand greens and all.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Club record’s thirty-one. I’ll bust it one of these days.”

  “You look hot, Jimmy,” Shartelle said. “Take off your jacket and let me hang it up for you.”

  “Thanks.” Shartelle took the jacket and hung it over the back of one of the dining-room chairs.

  “In time for tea again?”

  “I hear him fooling around in the kitchen,” Shartelle said. “I reckon you are.”

  “If you could talk him out of a cold beer, I’d be glad to give you a report.”

  Samuel came in with the tea and Shartelle, with a note of apology, asked him to bring Chief Jenaro a cold bottle of beer. Samuel said “Yes, Sah,” but his heart wasn’t in it.

  After a long draft of beer, Jenaro sighed, belched and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Diokadu will be along in a moment. He had to pick up some papers, as usual. But I might as well tell you how far I got.” He reached into his hip pocket and took out a small notebook.

  “First—the fans. I spent an hour with the Minister of Economic Development and his Permanent Secretary. It took me fifteen minutes to sell them on the idea and forty-five minutes to convince the Minister that they all couldn’t be manufactured in his village. The plans and specifications have already been drawn up and they’ve got a team of field-men fanning out across the country. We’ll have our first sizable order in by late next week. Okay?”

  “Good,” Shartelle said.

  “Two—distribution. I spent last night at party headquarters and I’ve lined up the distribution for everything—fans and buttons. It’s complicated and unless you want me to go into details, I won’t. I’ll just guarantee you that it will work—and work fast most of the time. We truck them some places; we fly them others. We’ve got a Dakota—you know, one of the old C-47’s—on standby and it’ll take a load any place we want—as well as transport some of the party faithful if we need a claque. Okay?”

  “Good.”

  “Third item: helicopters. I’ve got two of them laid on to arrive here Sunday, late afternoon. The goddamned oil company thinks it’ll have mineral rights to the whole country when the Leader goes to the center. I promised them everything but money, and they weren’t interested in that. Two pilots—one South African and one American. I figure the South African can go with Dekko, who’s big enough to make him think twice about any smart cracks.”

  “Good,” Shartelle said. “What kind of helicopters?”

  Jenaro consulted his notes again. “The big ones. Two old Sikorsky S-55’s. Big jobs. They’ll carry eight plus the pilot. Should have two pilots, but we couldn’t swing it. I’ve got a list of the oil company’s refueling stations. They’re going to let us use them. But we’ll have to pay for the gas. I agreed.”

  “Damned good,” Shartelle said. He was beginning to grin broadly now.

  “What did you think I’ve been doing—screwing off on the golf course?”

  “Go on, Jimmy, you’re doing great.”

  “The newspaper. I talked to the guy who used to work on the Santa Fe New Mexican and he’s hot for it—for a price. We settled on fifty quid a week which is about forty more than he ever made in his life, but not to hear him tell it.”

  “When you’re in a spot, they can smell it,” Shartelle said.

  “This guy could, but he’s also enthusiastic. I gave him carte blanche to recruit a staff, make arrangements for the printing, and I’ll handle the distribution through headquarters. We’ll give it away, right?”

  “Right,” Shartelle said.

  “Okay. As I said, the guy’s enthusiastic. I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about, but I didn’t let on since I’m Minister of Information. I wrote it down and I thought I’d check it with Pete, here. He wants to put out an eight-page five-column tabloid, using horizontal makeup, with flush left heads, no column rules, no cut off rules, lots of art and air, and he wants to use heavy condensed Tempo and Tempo medium for the heads, 00 on 11 Times Roman for the body type, with the leads going to 11 on 12, all set on an 11½ pica measure. I think.”

  Shartelle looked at me. “What do you think, Pete?”

  “He knows what he’s doing. It’ll be mighty pretty. Maybe he can write, too.”

  “Claims that he can and he’s hot to do some exposés about the north and old Alhaji Sir as Clint calls him.”

  Shartelle rose and began to pace the room. He would go as far as the television set in the corner, turn, and stride over to the bookshelf divider that separated the living room from the dining area.

  “Who’s going to give him the party line?” he asked Jenaro.

  “I will. Anything you furnish me in the way of speeches and news releases goes straight to him, special priority.”

  “You’ve got distribution licked?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’re you going to call it?”

  “The People’s Voice. It was his idea,” Jenaro said.

  “Maybe he can’t write after all,” I said.

  “Okay,” Shartelle said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Last item—the drums. I only got started on that and then Diokadu took over. He should be here in a second.”

  It was five minutes before Dr. Diokadu arrived, bustling into the living room with his now-familiar sheaf of papers under his arm. “As usual, I am late,” he said. “But I am not as late as usual.”

  “Tea?” Shartelle asked.

  “Please.”

  I poured.

  “We’ve just been hearing a report from Jimmy here, Doc, and things seem to be moving right along,” Shartelle said, lighting himself another twisty, black cigar as he resumed his pacing of the room.

  Diokadu drank his tea gratefully and then set the cup and saucer down. He pulled out a legal pad of yellow paper, flipped through a few pages of notes, found the ones he wanted, and then looked up expectantly. “Do you want my report on the drums or the artists first?”

  “The artists.”

  “Right. A committee calling itself the ‘Albertian Artists and Writers for Akomolo’ was formed last night in Barkandu. On the steering or founding committee are one actor, one poet, two novelists, and two artists. They’re all fairly well- known both here and, to a certain extent,
in England.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “One hundred pounds each and each agreed to recruit five new members.”

  “This week?” Shartelle asked.

  “This week.”

  “Good. Now the drummers.”

  “It’s set. It took most of the day, really. I was on the telephone from nine this morning until just a few minutes ago. I divided the country into fifteen rough areas and then selected a principal drummer in each area. The message will be telephoned to him nightly—or however often we wish to employ him. He in turn will get in touch with the drummers in his particular section. Each of the fifteen principal drummers was willing to settle for two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. Out of this they will take care of the drummers in their section.”

  “How soon they ready to start?” Shartelle asked.

  “Almost immediately. I told them probably Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Good.”

  Shartelle stopped his pacing and slumped into an easy chair, his long legs stuck out in front of him, his ankles crossed. “Jimmy,” he said, “you know who’s spying on you, don’t you.”

  “Oh, sure. From the north it’s the present Parliamentary Secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture. He told me he’s really working for us, but has to keep up his contacts in the north to be effective. I think they pay him more.”

  “He’s an obnoxious little man,” Diokadu said and sniffed.

  “How about the east? Who’s feeding them information?”

  “A boy in my own Ministry,” Jenaro said. “I keep an eye on him.”

  “Uh-huh. Now then, if I were to send off two telegrams to Duffy in London, do you think you could arrange for copies of them to fall into the hands of these fellows—maybe a day or two before Duffy got them?”

  Jenaro smiled. “A specialty of the house.”

  Shartelle turned to me. “Pete, can you get that little old typewriter of yours in here plus the Orphan Annie code ring? We’re going to send Hiredhand a secret message.”

  I brought the typewriter in. “Now then,” Shartelle said. “I want you to code us up a message asking Duffy to find us a firm that will do skywriting down here in Albertia between now and election day.”

  “Skywriting? I don’t buy that, Shartelle.”

  “Now, boy, you don’t have to. You just code us up that telegram.”

  I shrugged and thought a minute as I slipped a sheet of paper into the typewriter. Then I wrote it, took it out of the machine, and handed it to Shartelle. Diokadu and Jenaro looked puzzled. I thought I was beginning to understand. The message read:

  HIREDHAND: IMPERATIVE SECURE SERVICE TOPSIDE SCRIBBLERS ALBERTIAWISE. SCARFACE ENTHUSIASTIC. SHORTCAKE CONVINCED LOCAL SCRAMBLE MAKEORBREAK DEPENDS THEIR AVAILABILITY. CONFIRM SOONEST ENDIT SCARAMOUCHE.

  Shartelle read it and grinned. “I don’t think it would fool Punjab or the Asp,” he said. “But it might cause old Sandy to study a bit.” He passed it over to Jenaro, who read it and handed it to Dr. Diokadu.

  “I’m not quite sure—” Dr. Diokadu began.

  Shartelle held up his hand. “Just a minute, Doc, and I’ll give you a rundown on the whole thing. I want to get Pete here to bang out another one while he’s got the code in his head.”

  “That wasn’t really necessary, Shartelle,” I said. “In fact it was goddamned inexcusable.”

  “Purely unintentional, Petey, but come to think of it, not bad for a pun.”

  “What pun?” Dr. Diokadu asked.

  “Code in his head,” I said.

  “Oh, yes … yes. Jolly good.”

  “What do you want from Duffy this time, Clint?” I asked.

  “Need me a Goodyear-type blimp.”

  “Sweet Christ.”

  I put in another sheet of the paper, thought a few seconds, and hammered out our second secret coded message of the day. Even Sandy would get this one at first glance. I handed it to Shartelle who read it and passed it on to Jenaro. He read it aloud:

  “HIREDHAND: IMPERATIVE WE SECURE BONNEANNEE CIGAR FOR USE ALBERTIAWISE. SCARFACE HOT PROIDEA. SHORTCAKE CONVINCED NECESSARY PROELECTION SWEEP. SUGGEST NEWYORK CHECK AVAILABILITY. MONEY UNOBJECT ENDIT SCARAMOUCHE.

  “Boy,” Shartelle said to me, “you are a natural-born conspirator. Those are two of the worst secret messages I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.” He turned to Jimmy Jenaro. “Now that first one—about the skywriting—I want that to fall into the hands of the Renesslaer boys up north. One of them’s named Franchot Tone Calhoun.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jenaro said.

  “I ain’t.”

  “Okay. That I can do. Then you want Duffy to get this in a day or so?”

  “Right. Now the other one I want to fall into the hands of whoever’s ramrodding Dr. Kensington Kologo’s campaign in the east. Now make sure they don’t get them too easily and make sure that they understand that these are top secret and all. You follow.”

  Jenaro smiled. “You don’t have to draw me a map, Clint.”

  “Didn’t figure I would.”

  Dr. Diokadu shook his head sadly. “Some place, some place far back, about fifteen minutes ago, I became hopelessly lost. I think it all started with the pun.”

  Shartelle grinned, threw his head back and shouted for Samuel who responded with his usual “Sah!” from the netherworld of his kitchen. “Thought now that teatime’s over, we might have a drink. I swear I think that gin and tonic is habit-forming.”

  Samuel brought the drinks. Jenaro had another beer; Diokadu decided to try orange squash and gin, and Shartelle and I tried the gin and tonic.

  “Now then, Doc. It’s simple. I want the opposition to learn of our secret weapon—skywriting and the use of a helium- filled blimp. Now if my understanding of the Renesslaer psychology is right, they’re going to try to get the skywriting before we do. That’s been the secret of their success in advertising and public relations all over the world. In television, they sponsor only the tried and true. When situation comedy was the rage, they sponsored a raft of situation comedies. When the cute, low-key ads took “ hold, they started producing cute, low-key ads. They’re imitators, not innovators. I doubt if they ever had a fresh idea of their own, but they can take somebody else’s and do it a hell of a lot better. Now I figure they’ll think skywriting is just the ticket and before you know it, they’re going to have a team down here that’s going to be writing old Alhaji Sir’s name all over the sky. Has he got a short nickname by the way—like Ako?”

  “He’s called Haj,” Dr. Diokadu said.

  “Now that’s just fine,” Shartelle said. “They can skywrite that real easy. Now how about their party’s symbol?”

  “It’s a pyramid,” Diokadu said.

  “That’s not bad either. Give me a piece of that typewriter paper, Pete.”

  I handed him one and Shartelle sketched on it quickly and then handed it to Diokadu who nodded and passed it to Jenaro who handed it to me. It looked like this:

  “Me no vote for man in sky, Mastah,” I said.

  “Well, now, Pete, that’s just what I hope the reaction is. But we gotta be certain. Now here’s where Jimmy comes in.”

  “How?” Jenaro asked.

  Shartelle leaned back in his chair and looked dreamily up at the ceiling. He had a slight smile on his face. I had come to know that smile. I felt sorry for whomever he was thinking of.

  “Jimmy, I need me a poison squad.”

  “A what?”

  “Have you got some good old boys down at party headquarters who’d be something like traveling salesmen back in the States? You know, they’re mixers and minglers, go around to all the villages and towns and talk to the folks. Bring the latest gossip.”

  Jenaro nodded carefully. “I know what you mean.”

  Shartelle kept looking at the ceiling. “They’d travel in pairs. Wouldn’t be identified with the party in any way, shape, or form. They’d just sort of drift into town and when the conversation turned to politics, and I imagine
it does, they’d have just a couple of quiet comments. Know what I mean?”

  Jenaro nodded again.

  “Now say that Renesslaer does get a skywriting team down here. Have you got some boys that could get hold of their schedule in advance?”

  “I’ve got them,” Jenaro said.

  “Uh-huh. Now suppose we sent the poison squad out—maybe a day ahead of where the skywriting was to take place. And these two good old boys, these traveling salesmen, sort of bring up the skywriting casual-like?” The South was rising again at the end of Shartelle’s sentences.

  We all nodded this time.

  “Now one old boy turns to the other and says: ‘You know, Ojo, I do not believe that the vapors from the plane in the sky destroy a man’s sex, do you?’”

  “And Ojo—or whatever his name is—says: ‘I have heard it said in the last village that the strange smoke is a deadly gas and that it has made many widows whose husbands still live.’ Or however they talk. I think maybe I’m overly influenced by H. Rider Haggard. Then one of them—I don’t care which one—says: ‘I cannot believe that the villages over which the name of Haj was written are doomed to have no more sons.’ And they keep it up, moving on from town to town, village to village, just ahead of the skywriting plane.”

  “Now, Jimmy, you got a hundred or so boys that you could send out to do that little job?”

  Jenaro shook his head. It was a shake of admiration. “It just might do it, Clint. We can work the sexual taboos. Sure, we got the boys—in fact, the party faithful we’ve wit would find it just about on a par with their capabilities. They won’t have to do much more than buy beer and talk, and they’re good at that, if nothing else. It just so happens that I ordered a hundred Volkswagens about two months ago. Looks as if they’ll come in handy.”