Cast a Yellow Shadow

by Ross Thomas

  “They’ll kill her anyway,” Dymec said.

  “Of course,” Price said.

  “What’s McCorkle to you?” Magda asked.

  “He’s my partner. We own a saloon together.”

  “Was he the one you were using as a cover in Bonn?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And now they’re getting to you through his wife,” she said. “I’m glad you don’t like me, Michael. I don’t think I want to be a friend of yours.”

  Padillo ignored her. “Dymec’s right. They’ll kill her whether I shoot Van Zandt or not. And that’s one of the reasons I thought of you. Of all of you. We’re going to get her back.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Price asked.

  “No. She was in a house in Georgetown, but they’ve moved her again by now.”

  “Do you know who has her?” It was Price asking again.

  “No. At least not a list of individuals. But it’s probably members of Van Zandt’s cabinet.”

  “What do they propose—a takeover after they dispose of their Prime Minister?” This time Dymec asked the question.

  “No,” Padillo said. “The whole thing is Van Zandt’s idea. He wants to blame the assassination on an American Negro and stir up American public opinion in favor of his country’s independence for whites only.”

  “Colored folks ain’t got a chance nowhere,” Hardman said in solemn tones.

  “They are well treated in Poland,” Dymec said.

  “That a fact?” Hardman said. He seemed to welcome the information.

  “You said it’s all Van Zandt’s idea,” Price said. “What is he—suicide prone?”

  “He’s eighty-two and he’s dying of cancer. He won’t be around six weeks from now anyway and he’d just as soon die a martyr for what he thinks is a good cause.”

  “How do we fit in?” Price asked.

  “You help get McCorkle’s wife back first.”

  “What’s second?”

  “We go ahead with the assassination attempt.”

  “For the original price, of course,” Magda said. “That was seventy-five thousand, wasn’t it, darling?”

  “That’s right, Maggie. Seventy-five big ones.”

  “And our fee? I assume that you are planning to provide some incentive other than those dreary threats of yours.”

  “You get five thousand pounds each. Or fourteen thousand dollars.”

  “That leaves you a tidy profit,” Price said. “But not exorbitant. You’re getting soft, Padillo.”

  “You haven’t heard it all, Price.”

  “Let me see whether I have it correct,” Dymec said. “We—and I assume that includes all six of us—rescue the woman—McCorkle’s wife. Then you agree to go ahead with the assassination attempt for the original fee.” He paused and stared at his drink. “It doesn’t make sense. Why don’t you merely contact the Africans and tell them you’ve changed your mind? You’ll go ahead with the assassination in return for the woman and the fee.”

  “They’d hold the woman until the assassination was done,” Padillo said, “and then they’d kill her. They’d also kill Mc-Corkle and anyone else who they thought knew about it.”

  “You, too.”

  “Me, especially. Except that if I killed the Prime Minister, they’d be in no hurry.”

  “You’re not the type to confess,” Price said.

  “You’re leading up to one of your trickier operations, Michael,” Magda said. “Usually someone gets hurt. Or dead.”

  “You’ll be well paid for any risk you might take, precious,” Padillo said. “But it is a little tricky. It goes like this: the Africans only have this next week in which to get their Prime Minister assassinated in Washington. During this week we are going to have to get Mrs. McCorkle away from them and then we’re going to have to work it so that they will hire Dymec here to substitute for me.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you have the reputation,” Padillo said.

  “If a larger share is involved, old man,” Price said, “I should point out that I have certain qualifications in this line of work.”

  “They wouldn’t go for an Englishman.”

  “They went for an American,” Price said.

  “An American who was selling guns and on the run, or so they thought.”

  “I would get a larger share?” Dymec said.

  “You’d keep half of whatever they paid you. You’d split the rest with Magda and Price.”

  “Your share?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve already been paid.”

  “You’re not still working, are you, darling?” Magda asked.

  “No. I’m not still working,” Padillo said.

  “Would the fee still be in the seventy-five-thousand-dollar neighborhood?” Dymec asked.

  “Probably.”

  “And this would be in addition to the fourteen thousand dollars that you have agreed to pay each of us?” Price said.

  “Yes. Now is everybody happy about the money? Any more questions about who gets what?”

  There were no questions. They sat quietly, not looking at each other. They were probably spending the money.

  “When do I do it?” Dymec asked.

  “Friday. A week from today.”

  “Where?”

  “Eighteenth and Pennsylvania. A block and a half from the White House.”

  “Who’ll supply the rifle? I have a preference in this line of work, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of rifle you have, Dymec,” Padillo said. “Because you’re not going to kill him. You’re going to botch the job and it’s all going to come out that it was Van Zandt’s idea.”

  “Good God!” Price said.

  Magda smiled brilliantly. “He said it would be tricky, dar-ling.”

  Dymec nodded. “You sure you’re not still working, Padillo?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It sounds like a typical American intelligence plot,” he said. “Only 2,032 things could go wrong—and probably will.”

  “You’ll get off the hook and you’ll be paid,” Padillo said. “If it goes really wrong, you’ll be fourteen thousand dollars ahead and you’ll be rid of me. What more could you want?”

  Price licked his lips. “Speaking only for myself, old man, I’d like my full share of that seventy-five thousand.”

  “When do we get the first payment, Michael?” the woman asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “We’ll have to find some place else to meet. I’ll know by eleven tomorrow morning. Call me at the restaurant’s number. What’s the number?” he said, turning to me. I told them.

  “Who’s putting up this fourteen thousand dollars for each of us, if you’re not working?”

  “You wouldn’t know him,” Padillo said.

  “Will we meet him?”

  “No. He’s already dead.”

  TEN

  “I like your friends,” I told Padillo when they had gone. “Maybe we can have them over soon.”

  “They’d like that,” Padillo said. “Just count the silver after you serve the coffee.”

  “At least they’re not squeamish. Dymec seemed a bit miffed when he found out he wouldn’t get to shoot anybody.”

  “Those folks’d do most anything for a dollar, wouldn’t they?” Hardman said.

  “You’re high,” Padillo told him. “They’d do it for four-bits. That’s why we can count on them—up to a point.”

  “Do you know that point?” I said.

  “Sure. It’s when they get a better offer from somebody else.”

  “How about another drink?” Hardman asked. We agreed it would be a good idea and the big man went out to the kitchen to mix them. He came back, carrying the three glasses in one hand.

  “Can you find us another place to meet?” Padillo asked him.

  “I was just thinking about it. I believe I can get you an office down on Seventh Street—not too far from
the main public library.”

  “That’s wino town,” I said. “It should be safe.”

  Padillo shrugged. “As long as it’s got a back entrance. Does it?”

  Hardman thought for a moment and drew a map in the air to help himself remember. Then he nodded. “It’s on the second floor and the stairs lead down to a hall that goes to the front and to the back. The back’s an alley.”

  “Has it got a phone?”

  “Unlisted number. We used to count there.”

  “What happened?” Padillo asked.

  “Nothin. We just like to move around.”

  Padillo put his hand to his side and grimaced. “I’d better get this bandage changed. Any chance of calling that doctor again?”

  “Sure. He lives right upstairs. Should be home now.” Hardman went over to the pushbutton telephone and hit seven numbers. He talked briefly and hung up. “Be down in a minute,” he said.

  “What is he, a GP?”

  “Something like that,” Hardman said.

  In five minutes, the door chimes rang and Hardman let in a small, fiftyish man with very dark skin, a wide thick-lipped mouth, and big square teeth that he wore in a friendly grin. He was dressed in a sports shirt, slacks and bedroom slippers and carried a doctor’s black bag.

  “Hello, Doc. This is Mr. McCorkle and you remember Mr. Padillo from last night. This Doctor Lambert. He patched you up.”

  “Hello, there, young fellow,” the doctor said. “You’re looking a sight better, I’d say. How’s the side?”

  “It gives me an occasional twinge. Thanks for taking care of it on short notice.”

  “No bother. You can expect that twinge. But it shouldn’t be too bad if it doesn’t get infected. A few inches to the right and we’d have had a different story. Where’s Betty?”

  “Gone to the pictures,” Hardman said.

  “Let’s take a look.” Padillo took off his jacket and his shirt. The bandage was of gauze and adhesive tape about six inches below his armpit on his left side. The doctor went into the bathroom, washed his hands, came back and deftly removed the bandage. The cut wasn’t over an inch wide, but it was ugly. He cleaned it off, clucked over it, and applied a new bandage. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

  “How’s it look?” Padillo said.

  “Doing nicely. You can keep that one on for a couple of days. You want something to ease the pain if it acts up?”

  Padillo shook his head. “I’m not much on pills.”

  The doctor sighed. “I wish more of my patients were like that.” He looked at Hardman. “Putting on weight, aren’t you, big boy?” he said and patted him on the stomach. I sucked in mine before he could prescribe anything. Doctor Lambert went back into the bathroom, washed his hands again, and came back out. He looked at Padillo steadily.

  “I don’t usually send bills on cases like this.”

  Padillo nodded. “I didn’t think you would. How much?”

  “Two hundred dollars. A hundred a call.”

  “Reasonable. Mac?”

  “I’m low. Why don’t you pay it, Hard, and put it on my bill?”

  The big man nodded, produced his roll again, and pulled off two one-hundred-dollar bills from its insides. He kept the tens and twenties on the outside which spoke well of his modest character, I thought.

  The doctor stuck the bills into his pocket, picked up his bag, and turned to Padillo: “I should see you in a couple of days to change it again.”

  “I’ll be back. By the way, do you make house calls?”

  The doctor gave him a careful nod. “Sometimes. If it’s an emergency.”

  “You want to give me your phone number?”

  “I’ll write it down.”

  “Just say it,” Padillo said.

  The doctor said it. “You can remember it?”

  “I can remember it.”

  “You have an unusual memory.”

  “It’s a trick. We may have to give you a call in a few days. The patient may be suffering from shock and exhaustion. A doctor may be needed in a hurry. The fee would be high under such conditions, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lambert said.

  “Would you be willing to make the call?”

  The doctor nodded his head. “Yes, I’d be willing.”

  “It may be extremely short notice.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. We’ll be in touch.”

  The doctor left and Padillo got dressed. We finished our drinks and were deciding whether to have another when the door chimes sounded again. It was Mush. He was wearing a tan topcoat, dark glasses, and a brown suede hat with a braided band that had a feather stuck in it.

  “We’ll skip the drink,” I said. “We’d better get back to the saloon.”

  “Mush’ll drive you down,” Hardman said.

  “Good.”

  “I got what you needed,” Mush said.

  “What you got?” Hardman asked.

  “Couple of blades and a couple of guns.” He drew two short-barreled pistols from each of his topcoat pockets and held them loosely in his hands. “They ain’t new, but then they ain’t old either.” He handed one to Padillo, butt first, and one to me in the same fashion. We both checked to see whether they were loaded. They weren’t. I looked at the one he handed me. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Military & Police. The barrel was about an inch long and the butt-stock was rounded and fitted comfortably in my palm. The sights had been removed and if I wanted to shoot somebody from about four inches away, it was a perfect weapon.

  Padillo examined his quickly and tucked it into his waistband. It seemed like an uncomfortable place, so I dropped mine into my jacket pocket where I could get to it in five or ten minutes if the occasion arose. A long time ago they had trained me in how to use firearms—all kinds. I had used them and when it was over, I lost interest in guns. I had retained even less interest in knives, which I had also gone to school to learn about.

  Mush reached into his topcoat pocket again and produced two switchblades. He gave me the one with the imitation pearl handle. I flicked it open and ran my thumb down its edge, just like a kid in a hardware store. It was sharp. So was the point. I closed it and dropped it into the other pocket of my jacket.

  Both Hardman and Mush watched Padillo examine his knife. It had a plain black case. He tried the spring a half dozen times, watching it carefully.

  “Needs tightening,” he said. “It’s a little slow.”

  After he tried it for balance and heft he turned to Mush and handed it to him, handle first. “I want to figure out what I did wrong the other night. Try for right under my rib cage. Don’t pull it.”

  Mush just looked at him, and then looked at Hardman as if he needed counsel to make his plea. Hardman cleared his throat. “You want Mush to come at you with this knife?”

  “That’s right. I want him to go for just under my ribs.”

  “Uh—Mush is pretty good—” He broke off and looked at me.

  “They say he’s pretty good,” I said to Padillo.

  “If he’s not, I might break his arm.”

  Mush shook his head. “You want me to really try?”

  “That’s right,” Padillo said.

  “Baby, I can’t pull it once I’m started.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay. You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  There was no circling about, no feinting, no fancy footwork. Mush ducked and went in low, the knife flat, its blade horizontal with the floor. He seemed to move incredibly fast. Padillo was faster as he turned his left side to Mush, grasped the knife-holding arm, shoved it away from him, down and back. Mush yelled and flipped to the white carpet. I noticed he had forgotten to take off his shoes.

  Padillo reached down and picked up the knife with his left hand and extended his right to Mush. He helped him up. “You’re good,” Padillo told him.

  “What’s that trick, baby? Judo?”

  “Juarez judo, if there is such a t
hing.”

  “You could have kicked my brains out.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How come that cat caught you up in Baltimore?” Mush asked.

  Padillo closed the knife and slipped it into a trouser pocket. “You’re lucky he did. He’s better than you.”

  Hardman said he would check to find out whether anyone had learned anything about Fredl. He didn’t seem hopeful because they would have called if they had. Mush drove us down to the saloon in silence. When he stopped in front, he turned to Padillo and said: “You teach me that, huh?”

  “What?”

  “That sidestep move.”

  “Sure, I’ll teach it to you.” Then he said something in Arabic and Mush grinned delightedly. We got out and the car drove away. “What did you tell him?”

  “Chapter four, the Koran: ‘Fight for the religion of God.’”

  “What was the sideshow for? You didn’t have to find out whether you could take him.”

  “No, but he did. And so did Hardman. We were tossing around some pretty high numbers with my three friends. Hardman wasn’t included in for any. I don’t know how strong your friendship bonds are, but I’d feel better if he got a cut.”

  “We’re spending the seventeen thousand pounds we got from Underhill on the trio?”

  “We’ll give them five thousand pounds each. If it makes any difference, it’s going for what Underhill wanted. That leaves two thousand pounds for Hardman. Think that’s enough?”

  “We might have to sweeten it a little.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Padillo said. “I’m going to have to get some funds transferred from Switzerland anyway.”

  We went through the thick slab door into the restaurant. Business was better than usual for a Friday night, and we moved over to the crowded bar so that Padillo could shake hands with Karl, the bartender.

  “You’re looking good, Mike,” Karl said. “Horst told me you were back.”

  “So are you, kid. What’re you driving?”

  “Pre-war Lincoln Continental. Mac found it for me.”

  “Pretty car. I hear you’ve chosen Congress as your new hobby.”

  “It’s a howl,” Karl said.