by Ross Thomas
“What do you think I have in mind? A showdown in the lobby of the Washington Hilton?”
“I’m afraid of something like that, but then I’m an incurable romantic.”
“I didn’t deal in violence,” I said. “I dealt in action, or at least that’s what they liked to call it It was spurious violence—faked—no more real than the death scenes. This country has a taste for violence, both real and faked, but I think it’s having a hard time separating the two. You can switch on a news program and watch a South Vietnamese police chief put a pistol to a VC’s head and pull the trigger. Thirty minutes later you can watch a western marshal gun down the visiting bully. Which is more real to the viewer? The police chief or the marshal? I’ll put my money on the marshal.”
“But your new friends are real,” Trippet said.
“Very real.”
“And you think I might be their next target if you refused again—or would it be Ramón or Jack?”
“There’s somebody else,” I said.
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
For the first time since I had known him, Trippet almost lost his poise. He ran a hand nervously through his long, grey hair. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose they are capable of that. I hadn’t thought of it.” He paused for a moment, then rose, turned to me, and made a small, almost apologetic gesture. “I say, would it be terribly inconvenient for you to give me a lift home?”
CHAPTER VII
There was a reception committee for me that late afternoon or early evening when I landed at Dulles International Airport and rode the doodlebug contraption from the plane to the lobby of the soaring terminal building that somehow seems a little lonely sitting out there all by itself on the edge of the Virginia hunt country. It was a committee of one who introduced himself as John Ruffo and nobody could fault him on his manners. He insisted on collecting my bag and carrying it out to the longest, blackest six-door Cadillac that I’ve ever seen except for one that’s owned by a certain Los Angeles funeral parlor. At the car the bag was almost snatched from Ruffo by a uniformed chauffeur who opened one of the two rear doors for us, saw to it that we were tucked safely inside, and then stowed the bag away in what must have been a cavern of a trunk.
“Mr. Cole is delighted that you could come,” Ruffo said. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“I’d already seen the picture,” I said, “but the Scotch was excellent.”
“Yes,” Ruffo said, drawling the word as if my remark had been particularly profound. “We’ve taken the liberty of booking you into the Sheraton-Carlton. It’s not the Century Plaza, but it’s quite comfortable, I assure you.”
“I like older hotels,” I said. “Their employees are usually older, too, and that makes for better service.”
The envelope had been waiting for me at the United desk at Los Angeles International, just as Salvatore Callese had promised it would be. It contained a round-trip, first-class ticket to Washington, ten one-hundred-dollar bills, fairly new, and a typed, unsigned note which read:
“Mr. Charles Cole’s car will meet you at Dulles International Airport.”
The car that met me was now gliding down a four-lane highway that seemed almost deserted and my escort, the well-mannered Mr. Ruffo, explained that it was a direct access route to the airport which no other traffic was allowed to use. “Unfortunately,” he added, as if he really cared, “Dulles didn’t draw all the air traffic that its planners thought it would, but it has been picking up lately, I understand.”
“That’s most interesting,” I said, determined to match Ruffo’s politeness. “When do I get together with Mr. Cole? That’s Mr. Charles Cole, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said again, as if still convinced that I was the wise man from the West. “Mr. Cole thought it might be nice if you could join him at his home for dinner this evening.”
“That might be nice,” I said, “but it might be even nicer if I knew what the agenda was going to be.”
Ruffo laughed in what I suppose was meant to be a well-bred, yet deprecatory way. “I’m afraid that is something that Mr. Cole will have to discuss with you.”
“You just run the pickup and delivery service.”
“Something like that, Mr. Cauthorne,” Ruffo said and laughed another laugh that matched his J. Press suit and his Eastern seaboard accent. “I suppose you could say that I do something like that.”
Thirty-five minutes after we left Dulles Airport the chauffeur steered the oversized Cadillac into the semicircular driveway before the Sheraton-Carlton at 16th and K Streets and the doorman hopped to it when he saw the car. “Good evening, Mr. Ruffo,” he said as he opened the door and I noticed that Ruffo didn’t tip him. The doorman probably got one of those fairly new hundred-dollar bills every Christmas just to remind him to say, “Good evening, Mr. Ruffo” a half-dozen or so times a year.
The chauffeur transferred the bag to the doorman who transferred it to a bellhop who seemed to think it was a privilege. Ruffo, slightly preceding me, demanded the key to my room from an alert clerk who handed it to the bellhop with the admonition to see to Mr. Cauthorne’s comforts.
Then Ruffo turned to give me the benefit of an exceedingly white, exceedingly deferential smile. “I thought I’d give you an hour or so to get settled and relax,” he said. “I’ll call for you around—” He looked at his watch. “Say around seven-thirty. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly.”
“I had some Scotch and soda sent up to your rooms,” he said. “If there’s anything else you need, just ring for it.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” I said.
“Not at all. Just part of the pickup and delivery service.” He smiled again, that nice white smile, but he neglected to put any grin into it and I noticed that the olive skin, the neatly trimmed black hair, the dimpled chin, and the six feet or so of what appeared to be supple muscle failed for the first time to disguise the contempt that his dark brown eyes flicked over me for only a second. In the polite Mr. Ruffo’s social book I was nothing. Perhaps a little less than nothing.
The bellhop followed me into the elevator with my bag where another septuagenarian fiddled with the controls and we wheezed up to the sixth floor.
“Six-nineteen,” the bellhop said. He was a kindly looking little man who probably was fond of his grandchildren. “This way, sir.” I followed him down the corridor and he unlocked the door and ushered me into a two-room suite.
“John L. Lewis always liked this suite,” the bellhop said as he put the suitcase on a rack and pulled back the curtains. “He liked it because of the view.” Obediently I walked over to the window and looked out. By craning a bit I could see Lafayette Park and beyond that the White House.
“He probably wanted to keep a check on what was going on,” I said and handed him a dollar. The bellhop liked that and said so. After he left, I inspected the bathroom whose fixtures were newer than the hotel and then unlatched my bag and hung a suit in the closet. When you’ve done all that there’s not much else to do in a hotel room except have a drink or call somebody. Convinced that nobody in the White House cared whether I was in town or not, I decided to have a drink and went in search of the Scotch that Mr. Ruffo had promised.
It was in the sitting or living room which contained some club chairs, a couple of divans, a writing desk and a coffee table which held a bucket of ice, six glasses in case I had company, a bottle of soda and a fifth of Chivas Regal which proved to me that Mr. Ruffo was indeed thoughtful even if he didn’t like my manners.
I put three cubes in a glass, poured in some Scotch, and then journeyed to the bathroom to fill it up with water. On the way back to the sitting room I started to sweat and I managed to get the glass back down on the coffee table before the shakes came. It lasted for no longer or shorter a time than usual. Angelo Sacchetti fell in slow motion again, still clutching his cutlass, and his face turned up to me and he winked again, that grotesque Sacchetti wink that screwed up the
entire left side of his face. Then it was over and I downed the drink and took some small comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn’t see Sacchetti’s face again for at least twenty-four hours. After the drink I showered, decided to hell with shaving, and did Mr. Charles Cole the honor of brushing my teeth and putting on a fresh shirt. I was halfway through my second drink when the telephone rang and the ever-polite Mr. Ruffo said that he would await me in the lobby.
The ride to Mr. Charles Cole’s residence on Foxhall Road took about twenty minutes and along the way Mr. Ruffo pointed out some of the Washington sights that he thought might prove of interest. They didn’t really, but he seemed to think it was part of his job and for all I knew it may well have been.
Foxhall Road in northwest Washington is where the rich live. They live other places, too, I understand. In Georgetown and Virginia and Maryland. A Vice-President once lived in an $89,000 cooperative apartment in southwest Washington because it was convenient and he sometimes liked to walk to work. He moved into the apartment after the President decided that a separate mansion for a Vice-President would cost the country too much money. The Vice-President wasn’t rich and I doubt that he could have afforded Foxhall Road. I know he couldn’t have afforded the house that belonged to Charles Cole.
It looked as if it were located on at least ten acres of wooded ground, but then I’m city oriented and an acre remains a dimly defined area. But in Los Angeles the grounds would have composed a good-sized city block. There was a bluegrass lawn that grew right up to the trunks of the pines, the oaks, and the maples and I knew just enough about horticulture to realize that all that required a full-time crew of skilled gardeners. There were a few magnolias and some dogwood. They lined the crushed oyster-shell drive that wound leisurely up to what at first glance looked like Tara. There were eight white columns that went three stories high to support a Federal arch. Each side of the main house boasted a two-story wing that seemed large enough to house the full staff of the Portuguese Embassy. The windows were flanked with white wooden shutters that apparently really worked and the entire structure was built of soft, red used brick which was supposed to make it look old and almost succeeded. There was no garage that I could see and I assumed that it was discreetly out of sight in back along with the swimming pool and the servants’ quarters.
The Cadillac crunched up the drive and stopped in front of the entrance to the house which was dominated by a huge wrought-iron lantern that hung on a thick metal chain. The chauffeur was out and had the door open on my side of the car almost before it came to a full stop. I climbed out and paused when I noticed that Ruffo made no move.
“Aren’t you invited?” I said.
“This is as far as I go, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said and let me have another look at his winning smile. “As you say, I just run the pickup and delivery service.”
I didn’t have to ring the bell at the wide double doors that served as the entrance to the white-columned mansion. One of them opened as soon as I mounted the thirteen steps and started to cross the bricked veranda. And if I expected a silver-haired, Negro butler in a white coat, I was in for a disappointment. The man who opened the door was young, tanned, and dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He looked at me carefully, taking his time, and when he was through he said: “Mr. Cauthorne.”
“Yes.”
He nodded and stepped back, opening both of the double doors wide as he did so. “Mr. Cole is expecting you in the library.” In back of me I could hear the Cadillac move off, bearing the polite Mr. Ruffo to wherever he went that time of evening.
I followed the young man in the black suit into a formal entrance hall that was paved with large squares of black and white marble. There was an immense crystal chandelier about halfway down the hall and its lights played upon some pieces of cherrywood and walnut furniture that looked old and well cared for and terribly expensive. To the right of the chandelier was a gracefully curving staircase that floated up to the second floor, but we didn’t get that far. Instead, the young man stopped at a paneled sliding door, knocked once, and then pressed a button that caused the door to move silently into its recess in the wall. The young man entered first and I followed. Then he stopped, stepped to one side, and in a flat voice, without inflection, said: “Mr. Cole, Mr. Cauthorne is here.”
It was a big room, oblong in shape, and it smelled of leather and the burning apple wood that flamed and crackled in the fieldstone fireplace which, at first glance, looked large enough to roast a medium-sized ox. A man rose from one of the dark leather chairs that were placed on either side of the fireplace, dropped a newspaper to the floor, and moved towards me, his right hand outstretched. I stood where I was and it took him a while to walk the thirty or so feet from the fireplace across the thick, dark brown carpet to where I waited.
“Mr. Cauthorne,” he called, “I’m delighted you could come.”
“Everybody is delighted but me,” I said and took the proffered hand and shook it politely. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do.
Charles Cole turned to the young man in the black suit. “We’ll dine in here, I think, Joe.” Not Jonathan, or James, or even Malcolm. Just Joe. “But first,” Cole added, “I suggest that we have a drink.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole,” Joe said. He turned and disappeared through the sliding paneled door which closed behind him. For the first time, I noticed that the door had no handles.
“There’s a bit of a chill in the air for so late in the spring,” Cole said as he took my arm and steered me towards the fireplace. “I thought a fire would be pleasant.”
He indicated that I should take one of the leather chairs and he lowered himself into the other one. Then he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, formed a steeple of his fingers, and looked at me pleasantly enough, almost as if he were the friendly family counselor who had helped many a young man out of similar difficulty. Charles Cole, I noticed as I returned his friendly gaze, was not a tall man, but neither was he short. He had an oval face and wore his hair long at the sides, perhaps to compensate for his ears which stuck out a trifle, and perhaps to compensate also for the top of his head whose pink skin glistened in the light from the fire and from the two reading lamps that stood by each of the leather chairs. His eyebrows were grey as was his hair, but the carefully trimmed military mustache that he wore beneath a straight thin nose was pure white. The mouth, now forming a slight smile, gave way to a firm chin which was just threatening to grow another one beneath it. His eyes were brown and large, or perhaps magnified by the thick black-framed glasses that he wore, and they either twinkled or sparkled behind the lenses. I was never sure.
“They say,” I said, just to be saying something, “that they call you Charlie the Fix.”
He laughed at that as if it were genuinely funny. “Do they indeed?” he said. “And who, may I ask, is they—my old friend Christopher Small? I thought he might mention me in passing.”
“He said you went to school together—a long time ago.”
“That’s right, we did,” Cole said. “And it was a long time ago. I’ve made it a point to see most of his films. Some of them were quite ghastly, but he’s done fairly well for himself.”
I glanced around the room. There were some more chairs and a couple of comfortable-looking sofas, all leather. Books lined two of the walls and from where I sat it looked as if someone might have read them all at one time or another. There was a pair of refectory tables, nicely carved, and at the far end of the library, placed so that it would catch the light from the French windows, was a large partners’ desk that would have dominated any lesser room. In Cole’s library it fitted perfectly.
“Both of you seem to have done fairly well,” I said.
“Expensive trappings are sometimes useful to impress the impressionable,” Cole said. “I would be disappointed in you, Mr. Cauthorne, if you were overly impressed.”
“Then why the treatment?”
One of his eyebrows cocked itself into a questioni
ng arc. “Treatment?”
“Sure,” I said. “The block-long Cadillac, the Ivy League messenger boy, the suite in the old, but quite comfortable hotel, the bodyguard at the front door, and dinner in the library in front of the crackling fire. I’d call it the treatment.”
Cole chuckled. “How could you tell that Joe was a bodyguard? You’re right about Ruffo, of course. Yale law school is something that one can scarcely disguise, but I thought Joe’s camouflage rather good.”
“You forget one thing,” I said. “As a one-time stuntman I studied movement. I’d say that Joe would be very handy to have around in a neighborhood brawl, providing this neighborhood ever has a brawl.”
Cole chuckled again. “And you’re observant, too. I like that, Mr. Cauthorne, I really do.”
The sliding door disappeared silently into the wall again and Joe wheeled in a well-stocked bar. He pushed it over to near where we sat and looked at Cole expectantly. “The usual, Mr. Cole?” he asked.
“The usual is a very dry martini which Joe does quite well, Mr. Cauthorne. Would you care to join me?”
“A martini would be fine.”
“Any particular kind of gin, Mr. Cauthorne?” Joe
“Any kind,” I said.
“On the rocks or straight up?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Joe nodded and quickly mixed the drinks with the deft, economical movements of an experienced bartender. He served me first and then handed Cole his drink. “Dinner in twenty minutes, Joe,” Cole said.
“Yes, Mr. Cole,” Joe said and trundled the movable bar across the thick carpet and through the sliding door which again closed silently behind him.
“Well, Mr. Cauthorne,” Cole said, “shall we drink to something?”
“How about to crime?”
Cole chuckled again. I decided that it was a fairly pleasant sound. “Very well, sir, to crime.”
We drank and I lit a cigarette and then waited for Cole to get to the point, providing that there was one. I didn’t have to wait long.
