by Ross Thomas
“Have they found who did it?” Coit asked.
“Not yet.”
“What was it, robbery?”
“That’s one theory,” I said.
“You mean there’re more?”
“A number of them. One is that he had some information that somebody wanted him to keep to himself. When it became apparent that he wouldn’t, he was killed. Some even think the hooligans did it.”
“Do you have a theory?” Coit asked.
“No, we don’t,” Shartelle said. “We just met him once briefly and we were playing poker the night he got stabbed.”
“You didn’t have any trouble or anything?” Kramer asked.
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Strange he should be killed on your driveway,” Coit said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Shartelle said.
We talked some more about the election and showed them the map with the green, yellow and red flags. Kramer was impressed; Coit looked as if he were trying to photograph it with his eyes.
“Give my regards to Chief Akomolo when you see him,” Kramer said. “I’m sorry to impose on your hospitality like this, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.” He smiled at Shartelle. “I’ve been following your campaign closely, Mr. Shartelle. I’d say your reputation is intact, regardless of who wins.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We shook hands again and they walked out to their Cadillac. We watched them leave.
“They sure liked those hamburgers,” Shartelle said.
“Coit didn’t rise to the bait about Cheatwood.”
“I noticed. Either he’s one cool customer or he’s purely ignorant about it.”
“He’s too clean-cut to engineer a policeman’s assassination.”
“They said that about somebody else one time,” Shartelle said.
“Who?”
“Pretty Boy Floyd.”
Chapter
24
Anne, the Widow Claude, Shartelle and I went to the rally the next day in the big white LaSalle, with the top down. We’d bought William a new shirt and a pair of slacks. He drove and we sat in the back, Shartelle and Claude in the rear seat, Anne and I on the jump seats that folded down.
The car was recognized by many of the Albertians and some of them prostrated themselves, thinking that the Ile was going by. Their more sophisticated friends got them up with shouts of laughter and a kick in the ribs. Shartelle gave all who bowed the benediction of his waved cigar.
I was once quite good at guessing crowds, but the one at the race track was a puzzler. I had seen Shartelle count a political gathering of five hundred with a sweep of his eyes and miss only by three. He put the crowd down at 252,000 people. My newspaper experience led me to put it down at 250,000. Nobody was ever sure.
A special pass provided by Chief Akomolo got us onto the race track grounds itself. William parked the car and we decided to stick with it. There was no place to go except into a packed human mass that shifted restlessly now and then. The vendors were out, selling food, cold drinks, and pop- sides. Some members of the crowd wore all three campaign buttons proudly. There were government clerks dressed in neat white suits and farmers dessed in shorts and undershirts. There were richly-robed northerners and Europeanized professional men from Barkandu. We sat under the shade of umbrellas that Claude had thought to bring and watched the people settle down into groups, waiting for the show to begin.
It began when the two helicopters appeared over the horizon, flying low and in formation, if two can do it. They passed over the crowd, did a few tricks of hovering and going up and down, which delighted everyone and also blew a place clear for them to land. The machines came down about a hundred yards from our car. We could see Chief Akomolo get out first, hopping briskly to the ground. Chief Dekko got out next and moved through the crowd, standing a full foot taller than anyone else. They made their way to the bandstand.
Alhaji Sir Alakada Mejara Fulawa arrived in equally fine style. His Mercedes 600 had four motorcycle cops in front of it and they all played their sirens. The Mercedes bored through the crowd to deposit Sir Alakada at the foot of the bandstand. He wore white robes.
Dr. Kensington Kologo came in a Cadillac. I could see that he wore glasses because they flashed in the sun. Both Fulawa and Kologo were accompanied by a number of aides. Chief Akomolo had only Dekko.
“These are sure ’nough quality folks, Sam, you can tell by their big car.” It was Jimmy Jenaro dressed for the racetrack. A bright plaid cotton sports jacket, a yellow shirt open at the neck, and fawn-colored slacks made up the uniform of the day. It was topped by a cocoa straw hat and the wraparound shades. He climbed into the front seat with William.
“What’s new?” he asked.
“Not much, Jimmy. We’re just waiting for the speaking to begin.”
“They changed the schedule,” he said. “They’re bringing in both the skywriters and the blimp.”
“When did you find out?”
“Last night. Late. But not too late to get the word out to the poison squad. They’re all here, circulating through the crowd.”
“Now that’s just fine.”
“I’ve got another idea,” Jenaro said.
“What?”
“Wait and see. If it doesn’t work, we’ll forget I mentioned it. ”
“When does the speaking begin?” Claude asked.
Jimmy looked at his big watch. “Soon. Each of them gets an hour.”
“Let’s serve the lunch, Anne,” she said. “Jimmy, you will stay?”
“Of course,” he said.
The lunch was one of small, cool sandwiches, very cold champagne, and stuffed eggs.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Anne said. “I got up early, drove over to her house in the jeep to help, and she had it all done, and she looked as if she had just stepped out of her bath. And then she apologizes because the coffee would take another two minutes and we had to delay breakfast.”
“You are silly, Anne,” Claude said. “It is nothing, and you were of tremendous help.”
We sat in the back of Shartelle’s big LaSalle and ate the sandwiches and stuffed eggs and drank the cold champagne. William turned down the champagne, but helped himself to a half-dozen of the eggs.
Chief Akomolo was introduced by the Ibah of Ubondo, who would make all of the introductions. The crowd clapped and shouted for eight minutes and forty-five seconds. It was a warm reception; he was in friendly territory. Loudspeakers were scattered around the race course and the crowd could hear him distinctly, even if most of them couldn’t see too well. He gave the speech. He had changed it some, but it remained mostly the way I had written it. He had learned to phrase it well and the parts I listened to didn’t sound as if he were reading. He spoke for fifty-one minutes. The applause was good and lasted for eleven-and-a-half minutes.
After a musical interlude, Fulawa spoke. He had a bass voice and his Oxford accent was pleasant. He talked for sixty-three minutes about the good days to be after independence. They applauded him for seven minutes and fifteen seconds. Dr. Kologo was smart and spoke for only twenty- nine minutes. He had a rapid-fire delivery and, all things considered, he made a good speech in the face of a restless crowd.
While they were applauding him the airplane appeared in the sky and started to trace in white smoke on blue sky the first upright bar in the H of HAJ. The crowd roared and “ohhhed” and “ahhhed.” A man standing by our car turned to Jimmy Jenaro. He was a well-dressed Albertian who wore a white suit, white shirt and tie. Steel-rimmed spectacles covered his eyes.
“Sir,” he said to Jenaro, “do you believe it’s true that the vapors from the airplane destroy one’s manhood?” He unconsciously touched the fly of his trousers.
“You’re working the wrong territory, Jack,” Jenaro said.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said. “I am from Barkandu and I came specially today to hear the candidates. But this rumor disturbs me.”
Jenaro looked at him carefully. “You’re not
from Ubondo?”
“No. I am from Barkandu. Have you heard this rumor?”
“Yes,” Jenaro said formally. “I have heard it, too, and it distresses me.”
“It should not be permitted,” the man said.
“You are right, my friend. It should not. The candidate, of course, is responsible.”
“Perhaps he does not know.”
“Then the voters should tell him at the polls.”
The man thought about that. “Thank you,” he said. “You talk much sense.”
“Not the poison squad?” Shartelle asked.
“Free lance,” Jenaro said happily. “He’s really worried.”
The skywriting plane was a North American AT-6. It was making the mile-long horizontal bar across the big H when the two helicopters took off. Chief Akomolo and Dekko were still on the stage. Arguments about the danger of the smoke seemed to be flaring. There was a scuffle about twenty feet from us. We watched that for a while and then watched the helicopters. They flew straight up.
“He’s writing at only nine thousand feet and they’re going for the smoke,” Jenaro said.
Shartelle grinned. “They’re going to fan away the evil vapor, Jimmy?”
“They are indeed.”
The American skybum got there first and he ran his rotors through the smoke. The crowd roared its approval. The AT-6 saw what was happening and started to write another H in another part of the sky. The South African took care of that, and hovered in the area so that the skywriter couldn’t complete it. The crowd screamed with delight. William was out of the car and jumping up and down and pointing.
The skywriter got mad and dived at the American sky- bum, trying to move him out of position. He had picked on the wrong boy. The American just sat in the sky, his rotors eating at the smoke.
“Why, Pete, it’s just like Hell’s Angels,” Shartelle said. “All we need is a closeup of old Jean Harlow with the plane going down and around and around and some chocolate syrup running out of the corner of her mouth for blood.”
From the left, the blimp approached. The South African left the American to harass the skywriter and went after the blimp. Again, the crowd roared with happiness. A tall young Negro frantically pushed his way through the crowd toward our car. He was wearing an American suit, and he was mad. When he got to the car, he demanded: “Are you Clint Shartelle?”
“Why, yes sir, I am.”
“Call ’em off, Shartelle.” The man had a Massachusetts accent.
“Call what off, sir?”
“Your goddamned helicopters.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Don’t call me boy, you white bastard! I’m Calhoun from Renesslaer. Call ’em off!” He was furious.
Shartelle chuckled. “Now would that be Franchot Tone Calhoun? I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Madame Duquesne, on my right. Miss Kidd. My associate, Mr. Upshaw. And Chief Jenaro, Minister of Information for the Western Region, and, I might add, the gentleman to whom your request should be directed.” Shartelle settled back in the leather seat, stuck his twisty, black cigar in his mouth, and grinned wickedly.
Jenaro caught Calhoun by the arm and spun him around. There was no big white smile below his wraparound shades. “Now, boy, what can I do for you?” Jenaro’s accent came out pure Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio.
The young American Negro twisted away from Jenaro’s hand. “Call off those ’copters. We’ve got a right to the sky.”
“Can’t call ’em off. No radio contact.”
Franchot Tone Calhoun stood quivering for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Then he turned and ran off through the crowd.
By that time the South African was turning the blimp around and herding it off towards the horizon. Every time the blimp’s pilot would attempt to maneuver, the South African would bring his rotors within inches of the outer skin. The crowd made one continuing roar.
“What if he ripped the outer covering, Pete?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know, but I think nothing. They must have it sectionalized by now. But I don’t blame the blimp driver. That South African is crazy enough to do it.”
The skywriter gave up, wiggled his wings in resignation, and flew off. The blimp pooped along the sky towards the horizon. It showed no evidence of turning back towards the race course.
The two helicopters flew low over the race track and the crowd screamed, “Ako! Ako!” Then the pilots did a few up, down and sideways tricks in unison before settling back to the ground. The crowd mobbed them.
Jenaro grinned some more. “The word will go forth from this place, Pete, of how Ako’s machines drove the evil ones from the skies.”
“I trust you’re giving those two boys a bonus,” Shartelle said.
“Bonus, hell. They charged me 250 pounds each in advance before they’d even get off the ground. I’ve got to go round up my poison squad and send them out.” He waved a goodbye and melted into the crowd.
Shartelle shook his head in admiration. “There goes one smart nigger,” he said. It seemed to be the highest compliment he could pay.
Chapter
25
The green flags which were stuck in the map of Albertia that hung on the wall of the wide-eaved house continued to sprout, replacing the yellow ones that indicated doubtful districts. By the Thursday before the Monday election there were enough of them to indicate that Chief Akomolo would be asked to form the government.
Shartelle liked to stand in the room and squint at the map, puffing on his cigar, a contented smile on his face. Occasionally one of Jenaro’s three telephone men would hang up, grin at Shartelle or me, and change another flag from yellow to green. On rare occasions, a red flag would be changed to yellow, signifying that one of the districts formerly wired by Fulawa or Kologo had gone doubtful for them.
“I’d say we’ve done all the mischief we can, Pete,” Shartelle said that Thursday afternoon as we slumped in the chairs in the living room, drinking iced tea and eating some delicate sandwiches that Claude had taught Samuel to make. Samuel called them “small chop.”
“Now when you get to this point in a campaign, you hold your celebration. You don’t wait until you’ve won, because there’s too many folks around slapping you on the back and wondering whether you could find a job for their twentyfour-year-old nephew who just got out of the state penitentiary. And you don’t celebrate if you lose, of course, so the only thing to do is pitch your party when you’ve done all you can and it looks like you just might sneak in.”
“You got an idea?”
“Well, I’ve been talking it over with the Widow Claude and she knows a kind of retreat over in the next country where it’s French and all. Some old boy she knows runs a kind of resort there on a lagoon—they got lagoons in Africa?”
“Beats me.”
“Well, the widow says it’s on a nice beach and they got nice little cottages and the food, according to her, is magnifique, so I figure it ought to be right eatable. Now if Miss Anne could talk the Peace Corps out of her services for a weekend, why I thought we’d all go over to this resort and sort of relax. I might even get drunk, if I feel good enough, and I’m feeling fine right now. How’s that sound?”
“Great.”
Shartelle took a swallow of his tea. “Sometimes you can sense them, Pete. Sometimes you just know when you’ve won a close one, and that’s the feeling I’ve got now. And I do like it! You got that feeling?”
“I think so. My antennae aren’t as keen as yours. But I’ll be damned if I can think of anything else I can do.”
Shartelle put his tea down and stretched. “You’ve done well, Pete. Better’n anybody I’ve ever worked with. Maybe we can take on another one some of these days.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Anne and I arrived at the resort over in the next country, as Shartelle put it, around noon the next day. It was called Le Holiday Inn, but I didn’t think anyone in the States was going to sue. It was owned and ope
rated by a round little Frenchman called Jean Arceneaux and he seemed to enjoy the wine from his cellar as well as the food on his table. He was half smashed when we checked in, but Claude had previously assured us that he would be.
Le Holiday Inn was located on a small bay that backed around in an S-curve. The tide kept the white sand beach cleaned off and the water was as fresh as the sea. There were six small, one-room cabins, each with its own tiled bathroom—containing a bidet, which M. Arceneaux pointed to with pride. The cabins were shaded by coconut palms and the beach started almost at their doorways. thatched pavilion with walls that went halfway up served as a dining room. When it rained, bamboo-slatted blinds were rolled down. M. Arceneaux lived in a small house to which the resort’s kitchen was attached. We were the only customers.
Shartelle and Claude were to have left two or three hours after we did. Shartelle had wanted to make a final swing through Ubondo’s so-called downtown section. “I just want to nose around a bit, Pete. Me and the Widow Claude will take the LaSalle.”
At Le Holiday Inn, M. Arceneaux wanted somebody to drink with before lunch so I obliged. Anne kept pace. M. Arceneaux was not only a noteworthy drinker, he was also a talker. We discussed De Gaulle and M. Arceneaux gave an excellent impersonation. We talked about his liver for a while, and he assured us that the trouble lay in the bad water in the area. He was now confining himself to wine. I remarked that the wine seemed to be running low. A waiter produced another bottle immediately. We drank that and talked about French wine for a while which we agreed was the best in the world. Anne said that she thought California wines were improving, but M. Arceneaux disputed her contention and delivered a fifteen-minute monologue on the history, technique and future of the French wine industry. It was a fascinating, graphic description and Anne agreed that the California wine growers might as well close up shop. We decided to try another bottle of the rare vintage which M. Arceneaux had been saving for just such a special occa sion. We drank it solemnly and agreed that it justified his faith. Then we ate. We began with snails and ended with salad. The entree was what M. Arceneaux described as “boeuf Holiday Inn.” It was one of the best steaks I’ve ever had. We voted to help ourselves to another bottle of the rare wine, which went especially well with the beef. After lunch, M. Arceneaux presented us with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He announced that he planned to retire for his usual nap, and moved off towards his house, weaving only slightly.
