Ah, Treachery!

by Ross Thomas

  “You want me to keep the boots on?” she asked.

  He looked down at the heavy black leather boots with their bulbous toes. “Sure,” he said. “They might add a kink or two to what we’ve got in mind.”

  When the sex ended thirty-six minutes later, Shawnee Viar lay nude on the bed except for her boots. Colonel Millwed was also nude save for a corner of a sheet that covered his groin, not out of modesty, but because that was how the tangled sheet, blanket and counterpane wound up after the final variation.

  Once his breath was back to normal, the Colonel said, “You must’ve memorized a couple of shelves of sex manuals.”

  “Any complaints?”

  “None. You’re exactly what you claim to be—a first-class weirdo.”

  “I had this funny feeling,” she said.

  “When?”

  “During it. The fucking. I had this feeling somebody was watching us.”

  “Some people like being watched—or to pretend they’re being watched. What about you?”

  She seemed to think about it. “I guess it did sort of spice things up.”

  “If somebody’d made a tape of us,” the Colonel said, “would you want to see it?”

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t?”

  Millwed rose, went over to the TV set, pushed the eject button on the built-in VCR without switching the set on, and a videotape slid out. Shawnee Viar sat up. He turned, handed her the tape and said, “Be sure to rewind it first.”

  She looked down at it, then up at him. “But this isn’t the original, is it?”

  “No, that's next door,” he said, using an over-the-shoulder thumbto indicate the room behind the TV set. He then picked up his Jockey shorts, pulled them on, sat down on a chair and reached for his black cashmere socks.

  “What's this supposed to buy you?” she said, moving the videocassette back and forth a little.

  “An in-house live monitor on your daddy, Hank Viar,” he said, slipping his feet into his loafers. “We need to know where he goes, when he goes and who he talks to—either in person or by phone or fax.” By then, the Colonel had his pants on and was buttoning his shirt. “We’ll want two daily reports,” he continued, “one at noon, the other at midnight.”

  “Or what?” she said. “You’ll send him this tape?”

  “It won’t be sent to him,” he said, pulling the sleeveless sweater down over his head. “It’ll be sent to his friends and enemies.”

  “With your face and little-bitty cock prominently on display?”

  The Colonel smiled. “Electronic magic will white out my face. As for my cock, it's just average. No birthmarks. No tattoos. Just your run-of-the-mill circumcised prick.”

  “Where do I call you?”

  “Nice try. Somebody’ll call you.”

  She was again studying the featureless videotape cassette when she said, “A full report will go something like this: ‘Dear old Dad awoke at nine, saw no one, talked to no one and passed out dead drunk at eleven thirty-five P.M. right after the news.’ Except there aren’t going to be any reports.”

  “Fine,” the Colonel said. “Then copies’ll be sent to his three friends and his host of enemies—a lot of ‘em still with the agency. They’ll have a giggle over it. Pass it around. Old Hank Viar's kid, they’ll say, fucking and sucking the mystery man.”

  “He won’t care.”

  “But you will.”

  “Not really,” she said, put the tape down, pulled the sheet loosefrom its tangle and draped it around her shoulders. When she had it the way she wanted, she looked at him again and said, “You didn’t ask me much about my husband, did you, Colonel Millwed?”

  There was a sudden absolute silence, the kind that ends not only noise but also time and motion. After hearing his name, Colonel Millwed froze—his right arm almost through the sleeve of his tweed jacket. Then time, motion and noise started again and the Colonel put his left arm through the other sleeve, tugged at the jacket's lapels, buttoned its center button and resisted the temptation to look at himself in the mirror.

  “Hank talked to you about me,” he said. “Probably when he was shitfaced. Even showed you a photo or two.”

  “Only one photo,” she said. “Of you and him and the then Colonel—now General—Walker Hudson. There was one other guy in the photo. A Major Partain. Edd-with-two-ds Partain. For some reason, Twodees Partain gnaws at my old man a lot.”

  “I believe all that except the gnawing part,” he said. “Nothing ever gnawed at Hank Viar. Not Partain. Not even the suicide of his wife. Your mother.”

  She continued to stare at him without expression until he nodded and said, “Okay. It's a standoff. You won’t make any reports and I won’t pass out any copies of the tape.”

  She continued to look at him without expression, neither accepting nor rejecting the offer.

  “You recognized me this morning, didn’t you?” he said. “From that photo.”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  The Colonel looked unsure for a moment, as if he really didn’t want to know the answer. He held out his right hand and, using his harshest command tone, barked an order. “Gimme the fucking tape.”

  She shook her head. “That's not part of the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “When I saw you this morning in that dumb convertible, I went back and pretended to lock my car and make sure it was you—one of the two guys my daddy warned me about. When you popped up at the frozen pizzas, the deal sort of popped into my mind.”

  “What fucking deal, goddamnit?”

  “Know what killed my husband, Colonel?”

  “I heard pneumonia.”

  She shook her head. “AIDS. And for more than a year now I’ve had myself checked weekly. Day before yesterday, my test turned out to be HIV positive even though I’m still asymptomatic.”

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you gave it to me.”

  “No, but under certain circumstances I might consider it my civic duty to report all of my recent sexual partners. And that means you. Just wonderful you.”

  Millwed gave her a bleak stare, then a nod of dismissal, and headed for the motel room door. Just before reaching it, he turned back and said, “Don’t show that tape to anyone.”

  “I won’t, unless there’re certain circumstances.”

  “There won’t be,” he said, opened the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER 24

  Emory Kite's glass of bourbon and ginger ale stopped halfway to his mouth when he saw them heading toward his preferred table at Le Dome. In the lead was Ione Gamble, the actress-director. Following in her wake of admiring glances and gathering his own share, which he acknowledged with the charming loopy grin that helped him earn six or seven million dollars a picture, was her escort, Niles Brand.

  “Jesus Christ,” Kite said, “they’re coming right over here.”

  “So they are,” General Winfield said and rose.

  “General,” the smiling Ione Gamble said, offering her left cheek, which Winfield's lips intentionally missed by a sixteenth of an inch. “You remember Niles.”

  “Certainly,” Winfield said, turning to shake the actor's hand. “The three of us sat together—or rather stood, I suppose—through Cuomo's keynote in ‘eighty-four.”

  “In New York,” Brand said, in case Winfield couldn’t recall the site of that year's Democratic convention. “Helluva speech,” Niles Brand continued. “Immigrant parents. Wretched refuse. All that.”

  After introducing them to Edd Partain, who said it was nice tomeet them, the General introduced them to Emory Kite, who shook their hands, gave them both a dazed smile but said nothing at all.

  On their way out of the restaurant, Brand asked Gamble, “Why the hell’d Millie Altford want us to shake hands with some mute midget?”

  “Beats me.”

  “How’d I do?” he said, anxious as always for her approval. “Wretched refuse?” she said. “Cuomo didn’t say anything about wretched refuse.”
<
br />   “Yeah, well, if he didn’t, he should’ve.”

  The General had the trout, Partain the sea bass and Emory Kite a filet mignon, which he ate noisily while giving detailed accounts of the sexual peccadilloes of various actors and actresses he had read about in an impressive number of supermarket tabloids. After the last bite of steak was chewed and swallowed, he turned to Partain and said, “What about this shooting you saw?”

  “Someone shot and killed a doorman at the Eden apartment building on Wilshire.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Then what d’you care?”

  “I work for a woman who lives in the building.” “So?”

  “My client's being considered for a top-level job in the new administration. A few nights ago, someone dumped a dead body in the driveway of the apartment building—the body of a man her daughter’d been living with in Mexico. What my client wants to know—”

  Kite interrupted. “Lemme take it from here. She wants to know if there's any connection between the dead doorman and the guy who was shacked up with her daughter.”

  “Any embarrassing connection,” General Winfield said.

  “She's also had several threats,” Partain said.

  “What kind of threats?”

  “On her life. She's hired me as her security adviser.” “Sounds like bodyguard to me,” Kite said.

  “I’m responsible for advising her on what security precautions she should take.”

  “But if a shooter comes along while you’re there giving her all this good advice, he’d have to go through you to get to her, right?” Partain nodded.

  “Then you’re a bodyguard,” Kite said. “No reason to be ashamed of it. Christ, that's what the Secret Service does. Ask those guys what they do, they’ll tell you their job is to protect the President. I mean the guys on the White House detail.”

  “Let me spell out what I want from you,” Partain said.

  “Maybe you’d better.”

  “I don’t know anything about the doorman who got shot.”

  “How about the other guy, the one who was fucking her daughter down in Mexico?”

  “I know about him, but not about the doorman.”

  “I hope to Christ you at least know his name.”

  “He said his name was Jack. For the moment, we’ll call him that. All I know about Jack is that he was a doorman and a none too successful actor. I know nothing about his friends, family or the people he owed money to.”

  “What makes you think he owed money?”

  “Because everybody does.”

  “Then what you want is an A to Z background check on Jack the doorman-actor.” Partain nodded. “Why come to me?”

  “Because I recommended you,” General Winfield said.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Kite said. “I got a lot of other business out here to take care of. Besides, background checks take lots of time and cost lots of money.”

  “I don’t know how much you charge,” Partain said. “But I do know how much time they take. First, you check the guy's credit rating, if any, through TRW. Second, you find out if he's got a local police sheet. And third, you find out if the FBI's keeping tabs on him. That's three phone calls—if you know your way around. An hour's work. Maybe two.”

  “You’re making it sound awful fucking easy,” Kite said.

  “That's because it is.”

  Kite leaned back in the chair and studied the man who wanted to hire him. “You’ve done this kinda shit before, haven’t you?” “Not like this.” “Where?” “In the Army.” “CID?”

  “Let's just say in the Army and let it go at that.”

  Kite nodded, more to himself than to either the General or the ex-Major, and said, “It’ll cost you three thousand. One thousand in advance. Cash.”

  “You want it now or when we get outside?”

  Kite looked around, as if to see who was watching, then shrugged. “Outside’ll do. After you pay me, maybe you’ll even remember Jack's last name.”

  “Thomson,” Partain said. “With no ‘p.’“

  CHAPTER 25

  At first she thought her father had passed out from too much vodka. He was in the living room of the small Georgetown house on Volta Place, sprawled in the chair he liked to use for drinking and writing. It was a big leather and oak chair with wide flat arms. On one arm was a bottle of Smirnoff 80-proof vodka, three-quarters empty. On the other arm were a pack of cigarettes, a full ashtray and an empty glass. In front of him on a coffee table was his old black Smith-Corona portable typewriter with a sheet of white bond in it.

  Shawnee Viar carried the sack of groceries through the living room, the dining area and on into the kitchen, where she put them away, all except the carton of Pall Malls. She took the carton with her when she returned to the living room and went back into the foyer. There she removed her blue overcoat with the missing ivory-colored button and hung it on the government-issue coatrack. Back in the living room again, still carrying the carton of Pall Malls, she went over to inspect her father. It was then she saw the gun on the floor beside Henry Viar's dangling right hand.

  She dropped the carton of cigarettes and used both hands to cover her mouth but the long low moan escaped anyway.

  After four deep breaths, she edged toward him until she could feel for a pulse in his neck, certain there would be none. She found herself wondering when they had last touched, not hugs or kisses, but just the brush of a hand. She decided it had been at least ten years, maybe even fifteen.

  The gun was a semiautomatic pistol and looked to her like the one kept in the drawer of his bedside table. It was a small weapon that could be concealed in a man's hip pocket or a woman's purse. She knelt beside him to look up at his face. The eyes were slightly open and staring at his lap. The mouth, too, was slightly open.

  After discovering he hadn’t shot himself in the head, she noticed the small black hole in his black sweater. The hole was almost in the center of his chest and she reasoned that he must have shot himself in the heart.

  Still kneeling, she turned to look at the page of bond paper in the typewriter. There was only one line on it. She read the line silently, moving her lips, then rose, went to the telephone, looked up a number in a red address book and called it. While it rang she looked at her watch and saw that it was 4:52 P.M .

  The phone call was answered on the second ring by a man's voice reciting the last four digits she had dialed. She said, “I’d like to speak to General Winfield, please. This is Shawnee Viar.”

  “General Winfield's out of town, Ms. Viar. I’m Nick Patrokis. Maybe I can help.”

  “Is there a number where General Winfield can be reached?”

  “I’m sorry, there isn’t. But the General and I work closely together and I’m sure he’d want me to help, if I can.”

  “You know my father?”

  “We’ve never met but I know who he is,” Patrokis said. “And I know the General's known him for years.” “He's dead. My father, I mean.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Patrokis said. “When did he—when did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. I just got here. He was kind of slumped over in a chair in the living room. I thought he was asleep. No, I didn’t. I thought he was passed out. He drank a lot. Too much.”

  “I understand.”

  “He killed himself.”

  “How?”

  “With a gun. A small one. He shot himself in the chest, the heart, I guess, and the gun's lying on the floor beside him.” “Not in his lap?”

  “No. It's not in his lap. Is it supposed to be?” She didn’t wait for Patrokis's answer. “He left a note. It's still in his typewriter.” “Then it's not signed, is it?” “It's not signed.”

  “Can you see the note from where you are?” “No, but I remember it. It's only one line: ‘Had enough? Try suicide. I did.’ “

  “Have you called the police?” P
atrokis said.

  “Not yet. I guess I should call them, shouldn’t I? But that's why I was calling General Winfield. Because I couldn’t think of anybody else who’d give a damn if he's dead or not. The General dropped by the other night. They had a long talk and, well, I thought maybe the General could tell me what I should do now.”

  “You live in Georgetown, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said and gave him the Volta Place address.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I really don’t want to trouble you—”

  “It's no trouble,” Patrokis said. “What about the police?” she asked.

  There was a long pause of several seconds before Patrokis answered. “I’ll call them when I get there.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The house at 3219 Volta Place in Georgetown was just where Nick Patrokis, a native Washingtonian, knew it would be—directly across the street from where the old Second Precinct police station had been before being torn down long ago to make room for houses large enough to suit assorted Federal judges, an occasional cabinet member, the odd New York multimillionaire and even, years back, a President's mother-in-law.

  The helmetless Patrokis rode his eleven-year-old Harley up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, cut the engine, removed his goggles and stuffed them into a pocket of his down-filled jacket. At shortly past 5 P.M . it was almost dark, the temperature was two degrees below freezing and streetlights had just come on, allowing Patrokis to inspect 3219, which was a small two-story brick house painted pale yellow with white trim. It sat on a twenty-foot-wide lot and he guessed it had been built sometime between 1840 and 1870. The front door was enameled dark green.

  Patrokis rang the bell and the green door was opened seconds later by Shawnee Viar, still wearing her denim skirt, man's white shirt andspeed-lace boots. She stared at him silently, taking in the jagged scar, the bandana and the ring in his ear. She said, “I like the ring.come in.”

  Once in the foyer, Patrokis removed his jacket, looked around, saw the government-issue hat rack, got a nod from Shawnee Viar and hung the jacket next to her old blue coat.