Ah, Treachery!

by Ross Thomas

  “Witnesses to what, Jessica?” the General said.

  “To whatever the fuck's going on here,” she said, then turned to Partain. “To whatever the fuck it is Ma hired you to find out.” “She hired me to provide her with security.” “From what? I mean, who’re the danger guys?” “I don’t know,” Partain said.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, then Partain turned and left the room, heading for the kitchen.

  Jessica Carver turned back to the General. “Is he really as good as you and Millie seem to think he is?”

  “He may even be better than that,” the General said.

  CHAPTER 28

  Partain entered Millicent Altford's hospital room and found her sitting in an armchair, wearing a smoke-gray silk suit, her long legs tucked back to the left and crossed at the ankles. On her feet were black suede pumps with two-inch heels that matched her purse. Next to her feet was a worn black leather suitcase with silver fittings that looked both old and expensive.

  Before Partain could say anything, she said, “I called you five minutes ago but Jessie said you were on your way.” He nodded at the suitcase. “Leaving for good?” “Leaving for Washington.” “Why?”

  “Because around seven-thirty this morning I got a call from the counsel of a three-man House subcommittee that's been looking into campaign financing and paying particular attention to soft money and bundling—my specialties. This guy said I could chat now or be subpoenaed later.”

  “I thought your guy won,” Partain said.

  “He did but some of my congressional friends didn’t. One of them used to be chairman of this same subcommittee. He was an old CIO leftie out of the Packinghouse Workers when he first got elected in ‘fifty-four during the Eisenhower years.”

  “Christ. How old is he anyway?”

  “Seventy-seven. But he wanted one last term. Well, they all want that, but he had stiff competition in the primary. An ex-flower child turned New Democrat and middle-aged twit. So I sent my old pal a small bundle.”

  “How big's a small bundle?” Partain said.

  “A hundred thousand. My guy loses by three hundred and twenty-six votes. So guess who's on this campaign finance subcommittee?”

  “The middle-aged twit,” Partain said. “What's he want—revenge?”

  She shrugged. “That—or maybe he just wants to get on C-Span. The car downstairs?”

  “You want me to drive you to the airport?”

  She stared at him. “We’re not too swift this morning, are we? Hard night?” Without waiting for answers, she rose and said, “I’ll use real short sentences. You and I’re driving to the airport. LAX. There we’ll stick the car into long-term parking. Don’t worry about the fifteen bucks a day or whatever it is they charge. Then we’ll get on a plane. Please note the ‘we.’ We then fly nonstop first-class to Dulles. There we rent a car, drive into Washington and check into the Mayflower.”

  “I’m not packed,” Partain said, just to watch her reaction.

  “What's to pack? You’ve got on a nice blue suit, a clean white shirt and a navy and maroon tie. You look a little like some Secret Service agent with six kids to feed. When we get to Washington, we’ll buy you a topcoat and a suit that fits. That one looks a couple of sizes too small.”

  “Maybe I’d better let the General know,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “He and Jessie are flying into Washington tonight. Coach.”

  Millicent Altford came out of the hospital, followed by Partain, who carried her suitcase. The Lexus coupe was parked just west of the entrance. Partain unlocked both doors with a touch of the electronic key. Altford got in on the passenger side, which was nearer the hospital entrance. Partain went around the car's front, opened the driver's door and flicked the button that unlocked the trunk.

  Partain had almost reached the trunk when a Yellow Cab pulled into the drive and slowed to a crawl. Partain's back was to the cab when the semiautomatic's silencer nosed out of the car's lowered rear window. It coughed twice, almost apologetically, and two rounds slammed into Partain's back just between his shoulder blades. The cab sped off down the circular drive, turned right onto Olympic Boulevard and raced west.

  Partain dropped the suitcase first, then fell forward, landing on his hands and knees. Millicent Altford, looking into the rearview mirror, saw him fall. She was out of the car and kneeling beside him in seconds, but by then he was down on his elbows.

  “How bad?” she said.

  “Shot...twice.”

  “I’ll get a doctor.”

  “No,” he said and slowly got back up on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath. “In Wyoming,” he said, then stopped to suck in more air.”In Wyoming... I sold...guns and ammo.”

  “You need a doctor,” she said.

  He took another deep breath and used it to say, “And bulletproof vests.”

  She grinned suddenly. “You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”

  Partain only nodded.

  Her grin went away. “Then where the hell's mine?”

  The Yellow Cab turned right at the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and several blocks later descended into an underground garage. The cabdriver was the same Mexican who had driven the getaway limousine, and his accent was still just as thick when he said, “You don’t miss this time.”

  “I never miss,” said Emory Kite.

  The Mexican parked the Yellow Cab three levels down in what apparently was a permanently reserved slot. Next to it was the Lincoln limousine. The Mexican got out, opened the left rear door of the cab for Kite, led him around the rear of it to the Lincoln, then unlocked and opened the limo's rear passenger door. As Kite climbed in, the driver asked, “Where to, jefe?”

  “LAX.”

  “What airline?” “United.”

  “Back to Washington, huh?” “New York,” Kite lied.

  The Mexican driver opened his door, got in, buckled up, started the engine, then asked one more question. “Why the fuck anybody ever want to go to New York?”

  “For the money,” said Emory Kite.

  The Lexus coupe was parked on the second level of the long-term-parking lot across from United Airlines. Partain, leaning forward slightly, sat in the passenger seat, bare to the waist. His coat, shirt, tie and Kevlar vest were in his lap. He examined the two holes in hisjacket, poking his little finger through both of them. He removed the two .25-caliber rounds from the car's flip-open cup holder, noted their slightly blunted tips and put them away in his right pants pocket.

  Partain had started wearing the vest the day after the drive-by shooting of Jack the doorman. The manufacturer called it the “Executive Protector” and cautioned that it protected only the chest, stomach, back and waist, leaving vulnerable the head, neck and throat. Both groin and buttocks were also defenseless. Kneecaps were equally expendable.

  Only Jessica Carver knew that Partain had begun wearing the vest. The first night they had gone to bed, she had watched him take it off without comment. The second time she’d asked him to leave it on.

  Partain heard the clicking high heels to his right, turned and saw Millicent Altford approaching the car, carrying a large plastic sack. “Your new outfit,” she announced.

  Partain pulled the long-sleeve gray sweatshirt down over his head and the refastened Executive Protector vest. The front of the sweatshirt read, “I Love L.A.” The hieroglyphic for “love” was the standard red heart. The second garment she handed him was a blue and gold UCLA warm-up jacket.

  “I suppose there was nothing less—”

  “Cute?”

  “I was going to say embarrassing.” “Put it on,” she said. “They’re about to call our flight.” As she watched him slip on the UCLA jacket, she said, “You’ve got a nice build.”

  He ignored the compliment and asked, “What do I do with my shirt, tie and coat?”

  “I’ll take care of ‘em,” she said. He handed them over and watched with dismay as she dropped all three into a near
by trash container.

  “That coat could’ve been rewoven,” he said when she returned.

  “I told you we’ll buy you new stuff in Washington. A nice topcoat from Burberrys. Some suits and a couple of jackets and pants from Brooks Brothers or Neiman's.”

  “You ever been inside a J. C. Penney's?”

  “Not in forty-two years,” she said.

  They were almost the last to board the United 747 and were seated in the front two seats on the port side of the first-class cabin. Altford said she preferred the window seat. Partain didn’t care where he sat. He had buckled his seat belt and was glancing through an airline magazine when Altford nudged his elbow and said, “Somebody you know?”

  Partain looked up and found Emory Kite standing in the aisle, staring down at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed. Then the mouth snapped shut and the eyes narrowed.

  “You feel all right?” Partain asked, unable to put any real concern into his question.

  “Flying,” the small man said. “Flying always puts me off my feed.” He turned toward his seat across from Partain, then turned back. “Washington, huh?”

  “Just for the night,” Partain said. “After that, it's on to either Paris or London.”

  Kite nodded, sat down in the window seat and buckled himself in automatically, staring all the while at Partain, who eventually noticed it and replied with a small smile and a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, “Okay, what now?”

  “I’ve never been to Paris,” Kite said.

  “You’ll love it,” Partain said and returned to his magazine.

  Kite nodded glumly, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. That's where I’ll go when all this crap's over, he decided. I’ll go to Paris and check into some fancy hotel, eat me some fancy French food and fuck me some fancy French whores. He was still leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips when the flight attendant asked if he would like something to drink.

  “Champagne,” Emory Kite said, opening his eyes. “French champagne.”

  CHAPTER 29

  They obviously knew Millicent Altford at the Mayflower Hotel. The doorman welcomed her by name and he himself whisked her rented Chrysler sedan away. An assistant manager checked her in, offering a two-room suite for the price of a single and also a special reduced rate for the room of what he called her “companion.”

  “Mr. Partain's my security executive,” Altford said, her tone icy, “and I want his room right next to mine.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Altford,” the assistant manager said.

  Because Altford said she needed an hour to herself and because Partain had nothing to unpack, he inspected her rooms first, then his own, washed his face and hands and went down to the lobby, where he bought toothpaste, a toothbrush, a razor, blades, shaving cream and what the salesclerk swore was an odorless aftershave lotion.

  He had just turned from the drugs and sundries counter when the male voice behind him said, “For somebody in the back-watchingtrade, Twodees, you sure don’t give a damn about your own.”

  Partain turned and said, “Ever hear of the shoemaker's barefoot children, Colonel?”

  “Yeah, but now that I’ve bumped into you—”

  “You didn’t bump into me.”

  Colonel Ralph Waldo Millwed shrugged and smiled, displaying most of his remarkably even gray teeth. “Let's call it an unexpected coincidence.”

  “All coincidences are unexpected,” Partain said.

  “Then let's go and have a drink in the T and C and discuss it some more.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because there's a possibility, maybe even a probability, that we need to discuss.”

  “The last thing we discussed was why the sun shouldn’t set on my head in Sheridan.”

  “Ancient history, Twodees. Olden times. Let's talk.” “All right,” Partain said. “Why not?”

  In the Mayflower's Town and Country bar they sat at a table at a decent remove from a pair of middle-aged lobbyists who were carrying on a desultory debate about whether they should go home or call up a couple of whores. When the drinks came, vodka on the rocks for the Colonel and bourbon and water for Partain, Millwed leaned forward and rested his tweed elbows on the small round table. “I’m not gonna beat around the bush, Twodees.”

  “Sure you are. But since I’m a slow drinker, take all the time you need.”

  The Colonel leaned back to give Partain a cool thoughtful inspection. Along with his brownish-green tweed jacket, Millwednow wore a black suede vest with brass buttons, a very pale yellow shirt, striped green and brown tie and brown flannel pants. He looked prosperous, natty and, in Partain's judgment, as duplicitous as ever.

  “I like your UCLA jacket,” the Colonel said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How's L.A. been treating you?”

  “I was born there.”

  “I thought Bakersfield.”

  Partain shrugged. “A suburb.”

  “Grew up poor like me, I expect.”

  “Not like you, Ralph. My old man drove a truck.”

  “Mine was a bookkeeper.”

  “I guess you could call a CPA a bookkeeper.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Is this the pitch?”

  “This is the pitch,” Millwed said. “How’d you like to have your record expunged, go back on active duty as a light-colonel and retire on a full twenty-year pension after a year of soft duty at, say, Fort Sam?”

  “I’d like it.”

  “Thought so. And as sort of a hardship bonus there’d be a quarter of a million in the bank of your choice anywhere in the world.” “I’d like that, too.” “Knew you would.”

  Partain glanced at his watch. “You said we wouldn’t beat around the bush.”

  Millwed spread his hands, palms up. “I’ve made my presentation.” “Not quite. You forgot the quid pro quo—the stuff you expect me to do.”

  Millwed produced a fresh smile, broader and merrier than before.He leaned toward Partain, still smiling, and said, “You don’t have to do one fucking thing, Twodees. Not one.” “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing—except quit your job.” “That's it?”

  “That's it. Quit your job and go lie on some beach for a month until the paperwork's done. Then go back in as a light-colonel, finish out your year down at Fort Sam doing PR for the polo team or some such shit and then retire on your pension plus the tax-free quarter mil.”

  “You can fix all that, Ralphie?”

  This time the Colonel's smile was a thin one. “A two-star general can.”

  “When do you have to know?” “Twenty-four hours.” “I need forty-eight.” “Why?”

  “I have to think up an excuse for quitting that’ll satisfy everybody. Something that won’t leave them wondering.”

  “Tell ‘em the truth. Tell ‘em you’ve been asked to re-up as a light-colonel.”

  Partain smiled slightly. “You really want me to tell General Winfield that?”

  The Colonel's expression turned thoughtful. “Yeah, well, maybe you’d better not. Maybe you’d better come up with something more—palatable.”

  “You mean lie to them?”

  Millwed's wide smile reappeared. “Exactly.”

  An hour later, in the parlor of the small century-old house on Fourth Street, S.E., Colonel Millwed was sitting on the ornate but remarkablypreserved Victorian couch and listening to Emory Kite's third and final version of the botched murder of Edd Partain.

  “Take the silencer I used,” Kite was saying. “I make my own, you know, right here in the basement, and I’d never use one on anything bigger than a twenty-five caliber. You use one on a thirty-eight, a nine millimeter or a forty-five semiautomatic and you almost gotta use a bipod to steady the fucker. But with a twenty-five you got concealabil-ity, portability, silence and accuracy. And with accuracy you got your stopping power. And this thing wasn’t no rolling shot either. Manny pulls the
cab to a stop just when Partain turns to put a suitcase in the trunk. I had time. Plenty of time. I squeezed off two rounds that take him right between the shoulder blades. It was a kill shot if I ever saw one.”

  “He must’ve been wearing Kevlar,” the Colonel said for the third time.

  “Well, how the fuck was I to know that?”

  “Wouldn’t a head shot’ve been almost as easy and far more certain?” the Colonel said, trying to put some curiosity into his tone.

  “A head shot, huh? Well, the human head is about one-fourth or maybe one-fifth the size of the human torso—waist to neck. It's also, I don’t know, ten times as hard. I know a shooter once who went for a head shot, and the guy who's supposed to get it moves his head just a hair. He got hit all right, but his skull's so fucking hard the slug ricocheted off and hit his wife in the mouth and killed her and she was the one paying for the hit.”

  “Well, it was a nice try, Emory,” the Colonel said.

  “But nice tries don’t pay off, do they?”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “What nice tries do,” Kite said, “is give you a heart attack. I get on the plane and head for my seat up there in first class, looking forward to a few belts and maybe a halfway decent meal and a nice longsnooze and who do I see? The fucking ghost of Twodees Partain, alive as you and me.”

  “Let's hear about the doorman,” the Colonel said.

  “Jack Thomson, with no ‘p.’ Well, Jack wasn’t any problem. I had a real nice piece I borrowed from Manny, a scope and good light from the building. It was a simple pop. Almost a gimme. Fact is, Partain was only a few feet away and I could’ve had him, too, but I thought that might screw things up. Manny—you know Manny?”

  “We’ve never met but we talked on the phone once.”

  “That's right. Then you know that accent he's got. We’re driving away in the limo and Manny said, ‘Chew meesed.’ He means I missed. He thought I was going for Partain but hit Jack the doorman by mistake.”

  The Colonel nodded and said, “I need to know something else. How did Manny take care of the General's nephew?”