Yellow Dog Contract

by Thomas Ross

  “What’d he want?”

  “About the same as you. He thought he might have a hunch about what really happened to Arch Mix.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE PUBLIC EMPLOYEES UNION headquarters was a five-year-old glass and steel cube on G Street between Eighteenth and Nineteenth. It was almost within hailing distance of the White House and only a short, pleasant stroll to the Sans Souci restaurant, which is where Arch Mix had liked to eat lunch, usually in the company of fellow deep thinkers from either the government or the news business or both.

  The appointment that Slick had made for me with Warner B. Gallops was for eleven and I arrived five minutes early, but was kept waiting until eleven-twenty. The outer office that I got to wait in was a comfortable place with nicely upholstered furniture, although I thought that Gallops’s taste in secretaries was a bit odd.

  The secretary was about thirty and he sat behind a desk with nothing on it other than a console telephone and a pad and pencil. Every so often the phone would hum softly, he would pick it up, listen, say “yes” or “no,” make a note on his pad, and hang up. It looked like a very soft job for someone who was at least six foot two and weighed about 175 pounds, all of it apparently big bone and hard muscle.

  When he wasn’t saying yes and no into the phone he sat quietly at his desk with the patient look of a man who has learned how to wait. Once in a while he would flick a glance at me although I don’t think I really interested him that much. My one attempt at idle conversation had failed utterly. I had said, “Been with the union long?” He had said, “No, not long,” and then he had gone back to waiting for the phone to ring so that he could pick it up and say yes or no.

  I took out my tin box, rolled a cigarette, lit it, and thought about Warner Baxter Gallops. I had first met him in the Birmingham bus station in 1964. He and Ward Murfin and I had met there for lunch because back in ’64, despite what the Supreme Court said, there still weren’t too many public places in Birmingham where two whites and a black could eat without somebody kicking up a fuss. And Murfin and I weren’t in Birmingham to desegregate lunch counters. We were there to pick up eight votes.

  Warner B. Gallops was not much more than twenty-four then, which would make him thirty-six now. He was a tall, very black, almost shy young man who spoke slowly and carefully as if he weren’t too sure of his grammar and was worried about making mistakes. The only one that I ever heard him make was his inevitable use of mens for men, but I had seen no point in correcting him, not if I wanted those eight votes that he had in his hip pocket.

  He and Murfin and I had moved down the cafeteria line in the bus station. Gallops had gone first. I remembered looking down the line toward the cashier. She was a white, middle-aged woman with a cheater’s eyes and a bitter mouth. Her gaze was fixed on Gallops and the only expression in her eyes was hate, the hot kind that supposedly sears souls.

  Without taking her eyes off Gallops, she started ringing our lunches up on the cash register. She didn’t look once at our trays to see what we had bought. Nor did she once look at the cash register keys. She just banged away at them, her mouth working a little, as she tried to kill Gallops with her eyes.

  When he and Murfin were past her she turned her death gaze on me. By then the hate was hot enough to fry brains. I said, “Nice day.” She ripped off the cash register tape and thrust it at me. The total cost of three pretty awful buck-fifty lunches in the Birmingham bus station came to $32.41, a net sum that I doubt that I’ll ever forget.

  There were two things I could do. I could set up a howl or I could pay. But I wasn’t in Birmingham to set up a howl. I was there to pick up eight votes. So I paid, silent and perhaps shame-faced, and when I did she grinned spitefully, the way some people do when they’ve taken money away from a coward, and said, “Maybe that’ll teach you to take blue-gummed niggers to lunch.”

  I think I said, “Go fuck yourself, lady,” or something equally trenchant. She gasped a little (it was 1964), but then she started grinning nastily again because, after all, she had won and the coward had lost.

  When I sat down at the table Gallops said to me, “I’d sure admire to buy this lunch for you and Brother Murfin.” That’s what we were to him then. Brother Murfin and Brother Longmire. We called him Brother Gallops because he seemed to think that’s what everybody called each other in labor unions. Dear sir and brother.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but it didn’t cost enough to even bother about.”

  “How much did it cost, Brother Longmire?” he said softly.

  “Four-fifty,” I said, but when I looked at Gallops I could see that he knew I had lied and he also knew why. At the time, I didn’t think too much about it.

  Over the lunch, Murfin and I told Gallops what a wonderful guy he was and what an equally wonderful future he had in the union providing that Hundermark got re-elected. During the previous three years Gallops painfully, all by himself, without help or encouragement, had put together a small, all black local of city employees that was either laughed at or ignored down at Birmingham’s city hall. But it was a local that would have eight votes at the convention and Gallops would be casting those eight votes.

  So we listened to his problems and his hopes and his dreams and then we assured him that once Hundermark was re-elected, the International union would bust its collective ass to see that he had all the organizational help and money that he could use along with a leased Chevrolet Impala four-door sedan so that he wouldn’t have to ride around on the buses anymore. But of course all this would happen only if Hundermark got re-elected.

  It was our standard pitch and maybe if we hadn’t been so tired, we would have caught the flicker in his eyes when he solemnly assured us that he had only the best interest of his local and the International union at heart and that he had nothing but respect and admiration for President Hundermark. Then he had said, “My, my! A Chevrolet Impala sedan! Mmmm-mm!” And again, if we hadn’t been so tired, we might have caught a trace of the contempt in his voice, but after all, it was only eight votes and they seemed pretty safe, and besides, we still had Montgomery, Mobile, Memphis, Little Rock, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans to go.

  At the convention Arch Mix had added up the votes and when he found that he might be four short, he had gone to see Warner B. Gallops. But Arch Mix hadn’t promised Gallops any Chevrolet Impala sedan. Mix had been too smart for that. He had promised him a vice-presidency instead and that’s when Hundermark lost the election. Although sometimes I have thought that Hundermark really lost it that day in the bus station in Birmingham.

  I stopped thinking about the past when the door that I had been waiting outside of finally opened. A man came out of it, looked at me thoughtfully, and said, “President Gallops will see you now, Mr. Longmire.”

  He stood with his back to the door and I almost had to brush up against him to get into Gallops’s office. He was a young man, not much more than thirty, if that, and as I went past him I could smell his cologne. It smelled expensive. He smiled at me as I went past but all he really did was stretch his lips without displaying any teeth and I didn’t detect any warmth in it.

  He closed the door behind us, accompanied me into the large room, and said, “President Gallops, I believe you know Mr. Longmire.”

  Gallops sat behind a huge desk that once must have belonged to Arch Mix. Gallops didn’t get up. He looked up at me without any pleasure that I could see and said, “Yeah, we know each other.”

  “Why don’t you sit down over here, Mr. Longmire, where you’ll be comfortable,” the young man said and indicated one of the four or five chairs that were drawn up around Gallops’s desk. Then he said, “I think I’ll just sit over here.” The chair that he picked for himself was the one nearest Gallops.

  I sat down, looked at Gallops, nodded my head toward the young man, and said, “Who’s he?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Longmire, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Ralph Tutor, President Gallops’s executive assistant.”

&
nbsp; “Is he new?” I said to Gallops.

  “That’s right,” Gallops said. “He’s new.”

  “Where’d you find him?” I said.

  The young man who said his name was Ralph Tutor smiled again and this time I was given a good look at his teeth. They were very white and shiny and almost square. “I formerly was with the government,” he said, “but that was some time ago. Most recently I’ve been associated with a firm of management consultants here in Washington.”

  “That sounds exciting,” I said and then asked Gallops, “What do you think, Warner, is Arch dead?”

  Gallops rose, went over to the window, and looked out. He was still just as tall as I remembered, and just as black, but he no longer seemed shy. “Yeah, I think he’s dead,” he said. “I think somebody killed him.”

  “Why?”

  He turned. “That’s what I’m paying that uncle of yours to find out. The cops haven’t come up with any answers and neither has the FBI. So that’s why I hired your uncle, although I sure as shit didn’t know he was your uncle when I hired him.”

  “We’ve also posted a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to the discovery of what really has happened to President Mix,” Tutor said and frowned. “So far we’ve heard from no one but cranks.”

  Gallops returned to his high-backed swivel chair, slumped down into it, and swiveled back and forth, his eyes not leaving my face. “A lot of the nuts that write or call in suggest that I got rid of Arch—or had it done,” he said. “We turn all of the stuff that we get like that over to the cops. Well, you can imagine what kind of questions they’ve asked me.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I can.”

  “I’ve had to go back and try and remember every goddamn move I’ve made for the past six months almost. So that’s why I hired your uncle. Not just to find out what the hell happened to Arch, but to prove I had fuck all to do with it—whatever it was.”

  “You’ve got no idea, right?” I said.

  “None.”

  “May I ask just what your interest might be in President Mix’s disappearance, Mr. Longmire?”

  I looked at Tutor. He had deep-set dark eyes that glittered a bit above a nose that hooked down slightly toward a wide, thin-lipped mouth that I found just a little too pink, although I was probably being picky. The mouth rested on a stubborn chin. It was a lean, mobile face that most people probably found intelligent. I thought it looked crafty.

  “The Vullo Foundation,” I said. “The Vullo Foundation is interested in conspiracies and they think that Arch Mix’s disappearance might just be one so they’re paying me to look into it and tell them what I think.”

  “And what do you think, Mr. Longmire?” Tutor said. “Do you think there is a conspiracy?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I said, “but when I do, I’ll let everybody know.”

  “President Mix’s disappearance is really rather a family concern of yours, isn’t it?” Tutor said. “I mean there’s your uncle, and yourself, of course, and then there’s your sister.” He smiled again. “You did know about your sister and President Mix?”

  “Yes, it’s been quite a family scandal,” I said. “Heartbreak all around.” I looked at Gallops. “What kind of shape did Arch leave you in?”

  “Rotten,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “He got this idea about three years ago that he was going to re-schedule all our big contracts. You know, Chicago, L.A., New York and the rest of the real big ones.”

  “St. Louis?” I said.

  “Yeah, St. Louis, too. Well, Arch’s idea was that if we could get them all re-scheduled to expire at about the same time, we would have a national instead of a local impact, you know what I mean?”

  “How’s it working out?”

  Gallops shook his head. “It’s a goddamn mess. This is the first time out that we’ve had ten, maybe a dozen big city contracts all being negotiated at once and, shit, the first thing I found out was that we just weren’t staffed to handle it.”

  “So what’d you do?” I said. “Hire some new people?”

  “Had to.”

  “Where’d you find them?”

  “Wherever I could.” Gallops nodded at Tutor. “That consultancy outfit that he used to work for has been a big help. In fact, that’s where I got him. I mean, hell, you just don’t go out on the street and tap some guy on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, pal, how’d you like to run over to Pittsburgh and help negotiate a new contract with the city for us?’”

  I smiled at Tutor and tried to make myself seem both earnest and sincere. “That must be quite an organization that you worked for.”

  “Yes, it is, although I must say I find my new association with President Gallops to be both immensely stimulating and rewarding.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “I don’t think you mentioned the name of the firm that you were with.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “It’s called Douglas Chanson Associates.”

  I turned back to Gallops. “You certainly were lucky to find somebody like that.”

  Gallops grunted. “They didn’t come free.”

  “How many people have they hired for you?”

  He looked at Tutor. “I’d say about two hundred, wouldn’t you?”

  Tutor nodded.

  “Jesus,” I said, “who’s paying them?”

  “We are, Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said, “although we are rather extending ourselves to do it.”

  “If you put two hundred guys on the payroll,” I said, “you’re going to have to pay them each at least fifteen thousand a year. That’s a three-million-dollar payroll right there and they haven’t even turned in their expense accounts yet, which they sure as hell will.”

  “They’ll pay them for themselves,” Gallops said.

  “How?”

  “Really, Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said. “When President Gallops agreed to give you an appointment, I don’t think he was expecting you to deliver a critique of his administration of the union. As we understood it, you were solely concerned with the disappearance of President Mix. I fail to see how that, tragic as it may be, has anything to do with the union’s current affairs.”

  “Does he always talk as pretty as that?” I said to Gallops.

  “Maybe I’d better translate for you,” Gallops said and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “What he’s saying, Harvey, is that Arch isn’t around anymore and that’s a real shame, but the union’s still got business to do, Arch or no Arch, and somebody’s got to handle that business and that somebody is me. Not Arch. Just me. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Perfectly,” I said and rose. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time and I certainly wish you luck, which somehow I feel you’re going to need a lot of.”

  “Mr. Longmire,” Tutor said.

  “Yes.”

  “If you do find evidence of some dreadful conspiracy, you will let us know, won’t you?”

  “You’ll be among the first,” I said and turned away.

  “Harvey,” Gallops said. I turned again. He was leaning back in his chair, staring up at me, a look of honest puzzlement on his face.

  “What?” I said.

  “You didn’t used to wear a moustache, did you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. You know who it makes you look like?”

  “Who?”

  He snapped his fingers a couple of times as if trying to remember. “He was a real old-time movie actor. Started with an H.”

  “Holt,” Tutor said. “It makes him look something like Jack Holt.”

  I looked at him. “You’re not old enough to remember Jack Holt.”

  He smiled pleasantly. Or maybe it was craftily. “That’s right, Mr. Longmire, I’m not.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SLICK WA
S IN a mild snit because he had forgotten to bring any salt. Our luncheon appointment was taking place on a bench under the shade of some trees along the north rim of Dupont Circle. Slick had brought his lunch in a proper wicker basket that was covered with a red and white checked cloth. Mine was contained in a brown paper sack. I reached into the sack and handed him a twist of paper that held some salt. He thanked me and sprinkled a pinch of it on his cold broiled breast of chicken.

  “Sometimes, Harvey,” he said, “you do have perfectly splendid ideas. I don’t really believe that I’ve been on a picnic in years.”

  “Would you like some of my cheese?”

  He looked at it suspiciously. “Is that some of your goat cheese?”

  “It’s kind of a Brie.”

  “Kind of?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, dear boy, I really do think I shall pass.”

  My lunch consisted of the cheese, two hard-boiled eggs, a tomato, and some cold biscuits left over from dinner the night before. Slick’s was somewhat more grand. There was the chicken breast; a portion of paté that he said he had made himself and insisted that I try; a small salad; half a loaf of French bread; some assorted olives, and a Thermos full of a chilled, light Moselle that he said was a particularly good buy that year. We didn’t drink the wine out of any tacky paper cups, however. We drank it the way it should be drunk, out of two long-stemmed wine glasses that Slick had packed in the wicker basket.

  While we ate I told him about how I’d found Max Quane with his throat cut and why I hadn’t waited around for the police, none of which seemed to disturb Slick’s appetite in the least.

  “And it was really one of Nicole’s old spoons?” Nicole had been my mother’s name.

  “Yes.”

  “And the girl—uh—Sally. I do have a problem with that young woman’s name.”

  “Sally Raines.”

  “Yes. Raines. She hasn’t returned to Audrey’s since receiving that phone call yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “So it would seem that the late Mr. Quane purposely wooed Miss Raines so that he could use her to pry information about Arch Mix out of Audrey. Pillow-talk information, I suppose one should call it. The fellow must have been something of a cad.”