Cast a Yellow Shadow

by Ross Thomas

  “The British wouldn’t kill Price just because he’s a double agent.”

  “No, but the loss of the fifteen hundred dollars a month we pay him might. If he weren’t a British agent, he’d be off the U.S. payroll.”

  “Any of them know each other?”

  “I don’t think so, but they may by reputation. They’re not amateurs, and the pros in any business get to know the competition.”

  “They must be very fond of you.”

  Padillo shrugged and grinned. “They didn’t cross over because they had a change of heart. They doubled when I offered them money. It’s a soft berth, and they don’t want to lose it. That’s why I can put the pressure on them like this—once; I’d hate to try it twice.”

  There was a knock on the door and Padillo went to answer it. It was Mustapha Ali and he and Padillo went through their formal Moslem greeting.

  “Man, you sure can rattle it off,” Mush said. “How you, Mac?”

  “Fine.”

  “Hard said to carry you over to Betty’s. You ready?”

  “We’re ready,” Padillo said. “I just want to put this in the hotel safe.” He picked up the leather case that contained the seventeen thousand pounds that he was supposed to earn for not killing Van Zandt and we took the elevator down to the lobby. We found the assistant manager and got the briefcase stored away and then we got in the Buick that Mush drove. It was parked in a tow-away zone, but it didn’t have a ticket.

  “That TV set in the back along with the phone makes ’em think that the cat who owns this machine would just get a ticket fixed anyhow,” Mush said. “It’s good as diplomatic plates.”

  We turned up Seventeenth Street to Massachusetts, went around Scott Circle, and took Rhode Island to Georgia Avenue. The traffic at four-thirty in the afternoon wasn’t heavy, and Mush made good time, driving the Buick hard with a lot of skillful use of its power brakes.

  “If a man wanted to defend himself in this town,” Padillo asked, “what kind of gun could he lay his hands on?”

  Mush turned his head to look at Padillo. “You wanna grease gun?”

  “Pistol.”

  “Fancy shooting or close up?”

  “Close up.”

  “Get you a Smith and Wesson .38 belly-gun.”

  “Can you get two?”

  “No trouble.”

  “How much?”

  “Hundred each?”

  “They’re sold. Now if I wanted to get a knife, what would I do?”

  “Switchblade or shakeout?”

  “Switchblade.”

  “You wanna throw it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get one. Be fifteen dollars.”

  “You want a switchblade, Mac?” Padillo asked.

  “Just make sure it’s got a pearl handle,” I said. “I’ve always wanted a pearl-handled one.”

  “Might not be real pearl,” Mush said.

  “Do the best you can,” Padillo said.

  Mush let us out in front of the apartment and sped off, presumably in search of our arsenal. We walked up the steps, found Betty’s apartment again, and Padillo knocked while I knelt down to unlace my shoes.

  “The white rug,” I said.

  Hardman answered the door in his stocking feet and Padillo knelt down to take off his shoes. “Mush wasn’t too early?” Hardman asked.

  “Just right,” I said.

  “They’s a good one tonight at Shenandoah Downs in the fourth,” he said. “They runnin Trueblue Sue at nine to two.”

  “With a rhyme like that you can put me down for ten.”

  “Ten to win,” he said and wrote it down in a small blue book.

  “You ever win?” Padillo asked.

  “I did last spring—or was it winter?”

  “You big winner, Mac,” Hardman said.

  “That means I don’t owe him any money.”

  Betty came in from the bedroom, said hello, glanced at our feet to make sure that the shoes were off, and sailed on into the kitchen.

  “I’m sending her to the pictures,” Hardman said. “You want me to stick around or disappear?”

  “We’d like you to stay,” Padillo said.

  “Who’s comin?”

  “Three friends of mine—a Pole, a Hungarian-Syrian, and an Englishman.”

  “You’re not much on matched pairs.”

  “They were handy and they owe me a favor or two.”

  Betty marched through again and disappeared into the bedroom. She came out almost immediately wearing a mink stole that looked as if it might still be breathing.

  “I need fifty dollars,” she told Hardman, planting herself in front of him, her right hand extended. She carried her shoes in her left.

  “You just goin to the movies, woman!”

  “I might do some shopping.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hardman said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a roll of bills. “You better not do your shoppin in the store that fancy coat’s from. Folks there might like to have it back.”

  “This coat hot?” she said, her voice going from a low contralto to a searing soprano.

  “You know it is.”

  She drew the fur around her and rubbed her chin against the collar. “I’m going to wear it anyhow.”

  “Here’s fifty dollars. You can come on home about nine.”

  She took the fifty and tucked it in her purse. It seemed to be an easy, practiced gesture. She moved to the door and opened it. “You gonna be here?” she asked Hardman. This time she used a little girl’s voice.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I’d sure like you to, Hard,” she said, using the small voice again.

  The big man preened a little in front of his male friends. I didn’t blame him.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “You just run along now.”

  “There’s a pot of coffee on the stove,” she said and left.

  We all decided to have coffee and Hardman served it with quick, efficient movements. “You never knew I used to work the dinin cars on the B&O, did you?”

  “I thought you had to be over sixty,” Padillo said.

  The front door chimes rang before Hardman could tell us about his railroad career. He opened it and a man asked if Mr. Padillo was there. Hardman said yes and the man came in.

  “Hello, Dymec,” Padillo said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “Padillo.”

  “This is Hardman. This is McCorkle.”

  He nodded at us and glanced around the room. “You mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said.

  The man looked at him without expression. He was about thirty-four or thirty-five, with a face that looked as hard as concrete and had about the same texture and color, except for two patches of red on the high cheekbones. The patches could have been caused by either weather or tuberculosis. I voted for weather; Dymec looked as if he had never been sick in his life.

  “Why?” he asked Hardman. The way he said it sounded as if he had been asking why all his life and nobody had ever given him a very good answer.

  “The rug, baby. The lady of the house don’t want it messed up.”

  Dymec looked around at the rest of us, saw that our shoes were off, and sat down on a chair and took his off. He wasn’t breathing hard when he straightened up.

  “How’ve you been, Dymec?” Padillo asked.

  “I heard you were dead.”

  “Like some coffee?”

  Dymec nodded his head, which seemed to have no curves, only corners and planes and lines. He had mouse-colored hair that was cropped close and big ears and small grey eyes. “Cream,” he said and his lips barely moved when he spoke.

  Hardman served him a cup of coffee and he balanced it on the arm of the chair.

  “What do you have going, Padillo?”

  “We’re waiting for two others. I’m just going to explain it once.”

  “You’ve got two too many now.”

  “Your English is damned near perfect.”

 
“You can call me in this time,” Dymec said. “I wouldn’t try it again.”

  Padillo shrugged and leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand against his side. He was due for a change of bandages.

  The door chimes sounded again. Hardman was up quickly, moving his weight without effort.

  “Mr. Padillo, I believe, is expecting me,” another man’s voice said.

  “Uh-huh. Come on in.”

  “This is Philip Price,” Padillo said when the man was in. “At the door is Hardman. On that chair is Dymec and this is McCorkle. How are you, Price?”

  “Well,” the man said. “Quite well.”

  “Do you mind takin off your shoes?” Hardman said. “We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

  “Hello, Dymec,” Price said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “The shoes, baby,” Hardman said.

  “I took mine off, Price,” Dymec said. “It’s as the gentleman said: We’re trying to keep the rug nice.”

  Price knelt and took off his right shoe and put it carefully by a chair. He looked up at Dymec. “Where was the last place we ran into each other? Paris, wasn’t it? Something to do with NATO, I believe.” He changed his position and knelt on his right leg and took off his left shoe. “The name wasn’t Dymec then, was it?”

  “And yours wasn’t Price.”

  “True. Well, Padillo, now that you’re back from the dead how have you been?”

  “Fine. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please. Where would you like me?”

  “Any chair,” Padillo said. The Englishman took one where he could face the door and keep the rest of us in view. Hardman went into the kitchen and brought him back a cup of coffee. “You want any sugar or cream?”

  “Just black, thank you.” We sat there and sipped our coffee and looked at each other. The Englishman appeared prosperous. He had on a bluish-grey tweed suit with a white shirt and a dark blue and black tie. The shoes under his chair were black, as were his socks. He had a slim build that looked deceptively frail until you noticed his shoulders. His eyes were brown and their lids seemed to droop over them as if he were only partly awake. I guessed him at around forty-five although there was no grey in the long brown hair that covered the tops of his ears. Maybe he dyed it.

  “Seriously,” Price said to Padillo, “I heard you were missing and presumed dead. Can’t say I went into mourning.”

  “I just took a little vacation,” Padillo said.

  “South, I should say, by the tan you’re wearing.”

  “South,” Padillo agreed.

  “Africa?”

  Padillo smiled pleasantly.

  “Could it have been you who—”

  “West Africa,” Dymec said. “I heard about it. Somebody dumped a lot of arms there. A great deal of 7.62 millimeter stuff.”

  “You always did have an ear for languages, Dymec,” Padillo said. “You’re talking like an American now. When I first met you, it was more of a Manchester sound.”

  “He talks good as I do,” Hardman said.

  Price made a show of looking at his gold wristwatch. “Are we waiting for something or—”

  “We’re waiting,” Padillo said.

  We sat there in our stocking feet in the fancy apartment in the northwest section of Washington, D.C., the Negro, the Spanish-Estonian, the Pole, the Englishman, and the Scotch-Irish saloon-keeper, waiting for the Syrian-Hungarian woman to arrive. We sat there and drank the coffee in silence for fifteen minutes before the door chimes rang again.

  “I’ll get it,” Padillo said. He rose and opened the door.

  “Hello, Maggie, come in.”

  She came in and the wait had been worth it. She was probably twenty-six or so, and her dark long hair hung carelessly about an oval face whose enormous black eyes swiftly took in everyone in the room. The eyes were complemented by a near-perfect straight nose that just escaped being a shade too long. Her mouth was wide and it was smiling at Padillo. It was a warm, dazzling smile and it looked as if it were used a lot to get a lot of things. She wore a loose coat of soft wool that was woven into large black, white and brown hounds-tooth checks. She said hello to Padillo and turned so that he could take her coat. She wore a white knit dress and her figure was close to perfection. She knew how to stand, how to walk and how to show it all off to its best advantage. Padillo put her coat on a chair.

  “May I present Miss Magda Shadid,” he said. We all rose. She was worth getting up for. “Mr. McCorkle, Mr. Hardman, Mr. Dymec and Mr. Price.”

  She nodded at each of us. Then she turned to Padillo and said: “I have something for you, Mike.”

  “What?”

  “This.”

  She was the only woman I ever saw who slapped a man with her left hand after first feinting with her right.

  NINE

  She should have known better; perhaps she did. Padillo smacked her hard across the cheek with his right palm. It left a bright red mark. She threw her head back and laughed and you could see that her back teeth had no fillings.

  “I’ve been practicing that for two years,” she said. “Maybe it will teach you not to stand me up again. I waited for two days in Amsterdam at that ghastly hotel.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep the date. I’m not sorry I hit you.”

  “I expected you to hit me,” she said rubbing her cheek. “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. But you didn’t have to hit me so hard. Who are all these people?”

  “Fellow associates.”

  “They come in large sizes, don’t they?” she said smiling at Hardman. He smiled back. I decided it was just as well that Betty had gone to the movies.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Magda?” Dymec said. He still didn’t move his lips much when he spoke.

  She looked at him and sniffed. “I remember you, but not with pleasure. If I have to remember someone with big, busy hands I’d prefer to remember someone like our sad-faced friend over here.” This time she smiled at me. I smiled back.

  “You can turn off the charm, Maggie,” Padillo said. “We’re all impressed.”

  “Then you can get me a drink, Michael. Scotch-on-the-rocks.” She swirled around, as if deciding whom she should do the favor of sitting next to, and chose Price. He nodded at her coolly.

  “I’ll get the drink,” Hardman said. “Anybody else? I got Scotch, bourbon and gin.” Everyone chose Scotch.

  “When we get our drinks, Padillo,” Price said, “could you take stage center and go through your ‘I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here’ routine? We are all here, aren’t we?”

  “You’re here because I told you to be here,” Padillo said.

  Hardman came back from the kitchen carrying three drinks in each hand. He served the woman first and she gave him another smile.

  Padillo took a swallow of his and leaned forward. He directed his remarks at Price. “If I had my way, the three of you would be the last I’d ever call in on a deal like this. I don’t trust you; I don’t like you.”

  “You like me just a little, don’t you, Michael?” Magda said in a sweet small voice.

  “I especially like the way you crossed me in Budapest three years ago. I like that so much I sometimes dream about it.”

  She shrugged and crossed her legs so that we could see them better. They were worth a glance.

  “I got you here because I have a handle on each of you and you’re all so greedy that you’ll do anything to keep on doubling.”

  The three of them looked at each other. “I say,” Price protested, “you’re talking a bit freely.”

  “Am I? Well, I’m going to offer you the chance to form a Mutual-Protective-Association-Against-Michael-Padillo. In other words, I’m going to give you the chance to get off the hook and still keep drawing that fifteen hundred dollars a month from the Crosshatch Corporation. That’s where your check comes from every month, doesn’t it, Dymec?”

  “Mine does,” the Pole said, “but it
’s not fifteen hundred. It’s only thirteen hundred.”

  “Mine’s only a thousand,” Magda said. Price said nothing.

  Padillo grinned and turned to me. “They are greedy, aren’t they?”

  “What do we have to do to get off the hook, Padillo?” Price asked. “And how will we know that we’re really off?”

  “By the time you do what you have to do, you’ll have enough on me—and on my two friends here—to make us all even. It’ll be a standoff. I’ll be in no position to inform on you, because you could do the same to me—and to them.”

  Dymec shook his head slowly. “I would like—as you say—to get off the hook. I don’t know about these two, but you wouldn’t call me in, Padillo, unless you had a particularly nasty job of work. One that could very easily get me killed.”

  “You’re talking Manchesterese again, Dymec. Maybe I’ve been too positive. Let me put it this way: If all three of you don’t do exactly as I say, then I’m going to inform on you and two of you will be dead within a week and Price here might wind up in jail.”

  “A powerful selling point,” Price said.

  “I thought you might see it that way.”

  “Get on with it, Michael,” Magda said. “You know you have us or we wouldn’t be here. I can’t say that I like someone gloating over me.”

  “Dymec?” Padillo said.

  “All right.”

  “Price?”

  “I’ll go along.”

  Padillo nodded. “I’ll spell it out for you. You’re right, Dymec; I was in West Africa. All over it. When I got to Lomé, a couple of sharpies offered me a sizeable sum to assassinate their Prime Minister.”

  “Togo doesn’t have a Prime Minister,” Price said. “It has a President, or did the last I heard.”

  “You’re behind. It’s got a general now. But it wasn’t Togo; they just made their approach in Togo.” Padillo told them the name of the South African country that Van Zandt presided over.

  “I’ll be damned,” Price said.

  “How much did they offer you?” Dymec wanted to know.

  “Seventy-five thousand, and when I turned them down they said they’d kill me if I didn’t shoot Van Zandt when he goes riding down Pennsylvania Avenue next Friday afternoon.”

  “So you took their money and ran?” Magda said.

  “No, I just ran. But they caught up with me and they’ve kidnapped McCorkle’s wife. If I don’t shoot Van Zandt, they kill her. If I go to the police or the FBI, they kill her.”