by Ross Thomas
The library sits in a pleasant enough park with wooden benches and grass and trees and a couple of squirrels. There’s a public toilet. In winter one can always go in the library and get warm while nodding over a magazine or newspaper. Across the street from the library on the north side is a deserted seven-story building that once housed a labor union’s Washington headquarters until it moved downtown, closer to the White House. There’s a church on the west side, a string of bars and secondhand stores on the south, and some liquor stores on the east.
The area is to be included in the city’s urban renewal plans someday. In the meantime, the bums sit in the sun and wonder where the next bottle of wine is coming from and read the stone letters above the library entrance which proclaim that the whole thing is “Dedicated to the Diffusion of Knowledge.”
Hardman had his sometime collection office around the corner a block or so from the library on Seventh. We climbed a flight of stairs and Mush was there, leaning against the door. He and Padillo said something in Arabic to each other. Then Mush opened the door and handed me the key. “Hard says keep it long as you need it.”
“Thanks.”
“Need anything, he say, just holler. You got his car telephone number.”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“He’ll be cruisin today.”
“Tell him we’ll see him later.”
Mush nodded and went down the stairs two at a time. We went into the one-room office. The window that faced Seventh looked as if it hadn’t been opened or washed since Roosevelt was sworn in for his second term. There was a yellow oak desk with a telephone on it and a blotter that had accumulated a thick coating of dust. There were six chairs, the metal kind that fold and can be stacked against the wall. There was no name on the pebble-glass door; no carpet on the pine floor. It was an office that would be rented to somebody who sold penny stocks, or who promoted Lonely Hearts’ clubs, or who founded organizations to hate someone or abolish something. It was an office that seemed to have witnessed scores of failures and half-a-hundred shattered dreams. It was an end-of-the-line office, and Hardman sometimes used it as a numbers counting house and sometimes lent it to friends who wanted a place to split up forty-two thousand dollars among three thieves.
Philip Price arrived first. He said hello and looked around the office, dusted off a chair, and sat down. “Am I early?” he asked.
“You’re on time,” Padillo said.
“Good.”
We waited five minutes and Dymec arrived. He sat down without bothering to dust off anything. I don’t think he noticed the office.
Magda Shadid arrived three minutes or so after Dymec. She wore a loose, white wool coat and brown alligator shoes with wicked heels.
“It’s so dirty,” she said. Padillo gave her a handkerchief.
“Clean off a chair,” he said.
“I’ll get my coat just filthy.”
“Is this all?” Price asked.
“This is all,” Padillo said.
“Where’s the nigger?”
“He’s busy.”
“On our job?”
“On something else.”
“Today we get money, right?” Dymec said.
“Today you get money,” Padillo said. “First you get some information. Can you wait?”
“Looks as if we’ll have to,” Price said.
“McCorkle and I are meeting with Van Zandt and his people, whoever they are, this afternoon.”
“I saw in the paper that he flew in early,” Price said.
“Why does he want to meet you?” Magda said. “You’re going to kill him, or you’re supposed to.”
“We didn’t ask,” I said. “We’re not in much of an asking position. If he wants to see us, we want to see him. All we’ve had up until now are a couple of phone calls and a note.”
“We see him at three o’clock this afternoon,” Padillo said. “I’m going to name Dymec as my substitute then.”
“What reason will you give?” Dymec said.
“Would I normally tell you?”
Dymec thought a moment. “No. You wouldn’t. You’d only mention money to me.”
“Then you don’t need to know my reason.”
“Agreed.”
“They’ll probably want to check on you. Can they?”
“I have a certain reputation, not under the name Dymec, of course, but—”
“I’ll mention another name.”
He nodded.
“They’ll probably want to meet you, possibly tonight, possibly tomorrow. Keep yourself available.”
“Of course.”
“What about us two?” Price asked.
“You’ll work with Dymec after he’s given the assignment. Don’t forget; the idea is to blow it, not to make it come off. I’ll tell you what I have in mind later.”
“And me?” Magda said.
“You’ll be with McCorkle and me. You’ll help us get Mrs. McCorkle out from wherever she is. A woman will probably come in handy.”
“I will still get my full share, won’t I, Michael?”
“Yes.”
“So all we have to do is lay about and count our money until you call?” Price said.
“That’s it.”
“When will we meet again?” Price asked.
“Tomorrow. Here at the same time.”
“That will be Sunday.”
“That’s right.”
Padillo opened the briefcase that had once belonged to Underhill and put three stacks of pound notes on the dusty table. “It’s all there,” he said, “five thousand pounds each. You don’t mind if we don’t hang around while you count it?”
Magda had already picked up her stack and was thumbing it quickly. “Call me at the saloon about five-thirty, Dymec,” Padillo told him. The angular man nodded, but said nothing as he kept on counting his pile of bills, moving his lips silently as he did so. “Close the door when you leave,” Padillo said. This time Price nodded and went on counting his money.
“Let’s go,” Padillo said. We went down the steps and out the back door into an alley. We walked down to I Street and then to Ninth and caught a cab that drove us back to the saloon.
“We should have another caller soon,” Padillo said.
“Who?”
“Somebody who will want to find out what happened to Underhill and the seventeen thousand pounds he was carrying.”
We opened the thick slab door and walked towards the back. We checked with Herr Horst, made a few suggestions, okayed five purchase orders, and took a quick look at Friday’s receipts.
“We must be the richest kids on the block,” Padillo said.
“It was a typically better-than-average day. Fortunately, the average keeps rising.”
We went back into the office. “Someone call you about Underhill?”
“No. But by this time they know he’s dead and they may have had somebody bird-dogging Van Zandt.”
“If you’re right, we’ll be their next stop.”
“What should we tell them?” he asked.
“Will it be a them or a him?”
“I have no idea. Probably a him; I doubt that they have enough money to send more than one.”
“Maybe it will be his wife.”
“That’s all we need.”
Padillo picked up the telephone and dialed a number. I just listened. I didn’t really much care whom he called.
“Mr. Iker,” he said.
I could hear Iker answer over the telephone, but I couldn’t understand the words.
“This is Michael Padillo; I’d like to talk to you.” Iker’s voice made some more noise. “About the business we discussed in my hotel room.” Padillo listened again, then he said: “Whenever an attempt is made on my life, I often change my mind.” Iker’s voice went up a few notches. “I don’t bluff, Iker. Be in the lobby of my hotel at six o’clock. We’ll go up to my room and I’ll show you my stab wound.” He hung up.
“I wonder if the Wise
Lady from Philadelphia is still around?” I said.
“Who?”
“There was once this family who put salt instead of sugar into a cup of tea. Their name was Peterkin, as I remember. So they went to the doctor and the pharmacist and the grocer and God knows who all, trying to make the salt taste like sugar. Nothing worked. Finally they went to the Wise Lady from Philadelphia.”
“And?”
“She told them what to do.”
“What?”
“Pour a new cup of tea.”
Padillo leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk and looked up at the ceiling. “You don’t remember her name, do you? If you do, we’ll give her a call.”
THIRTEEN
About a quarter after two we walked over to my apartment building and got my car out of the basement garage. Padillo glanced at the mileage on the speedometer.
“You don’t use it much.”
“We take long drives on Sunday.”
“Then you really need something that will do one-fifty.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I turned down Twentieth Street and then left on Massachusetts. We went past the Cosmos Club, around Sheridan Circle, and past the Iranian Embassy. The trade mission was located in a narrow four-storied house that had been converted into office space. It was flanked by similar houses that served as embassies for a couple of small South American countries. There were a half-dozen Cadillacs parked in no-parking zones and it only took us fifteen minutes to find a place to put the Corvette.
We walked a block back to the trade mission that had the solid, respectable appearance of a rich man’s house built in the 1920’s with easy money. Its roof tried to look thatched and the shingles curved around and under the edges of the roof line. The brick was a glazed dark red that seemed almost purple. The mortar oozed out between the bricks, lending something to what was supposed to be a rustic appearance. It’s hard to make anything look rustic that’s four stories high, and the leaded windows didn’t make it come off either.
There was a polished brass plate that said it was the trade mission so I rang the bell and we waited until a thin man in a black suit opened the door and asked us to come in.
“You are Mr. Padillo and Mr. McCorkle?”
“Yes.”
The man nodded. “Please be seated. You are expected.” We were in a wide entrance hall that ran back towards what seemed to have been the kitchen at one time. To the left were some oaken sliding doors and to the right was a paneled one. They were all closed. A curved staircase was located about halfway down the hall. The floor was carpeted in dark brown and there were some couches and chairs along the walls. We sat in two of the chairs. The man had disappeared through the sliding doors. We waited five minutes before he opened them.
“The Prime Minister will see you now,” he said.
Padillo went through the doors first and I followed. It had been the drawing room of the house and now it served as the principal office. There was a large, rather ornate desk of wood so dark it was almost black. It dominated the room. A conference table made of the same wood adjoined the front of the desk. Two men sat at the conference table. Behind the desk sat another man. He looked tired and sick and terribly old.
“Do sit down,” the old man said. His voice was deep and there was no quaver in it. He gestured towards the end of the conference table. Padillo and I sat in two chairs at the end. There were two empty chairs between us and the two men who sat next to the desk and looked at us. They were fairly young, in their late thirties, and one was dark and one was fair. They were both big. Not fat. Just big.
“You’re Van Zandt,” I said.
“That is correct. Which of you will do the killing? I thought I might be able to tell, but you both have the hunter’s look about you.”
“Where’s my wife?” I said.
The old man looked at me with black eyes that sat deep in his skull. He looked at me carefully, then nodded to himself, and switched his gaze to Padillo.
“You’re the one,” he said.
“Where’s his wife?” Padillo said.
The fairhaired younger man spoke. “She’s quite safe.”
“I didn’t ask if she were safe,” I said. “I asked where she was.”
“We don’t propose to tell you that.”
Van Zandt shifted his gaze from Padillo to the blond man. “That will do, Wendell.” His eyes went back to Padillo.
“Few men, Mr. Padillo, have the opportunity to study the man who will kill them. I hope you will forgive my curiosity, but I find you fascinating.”
“Since nobody seems inclined to make the introductions,” Padillo said to me, “I will. On your right is Wendell Boggs. He’s the Minister of Transport. On your left: Lewis Darragh, the Minister of Home Affairs. We met in Lomé.”
“Your wife talks a lot,” I said to Boggs.
He flushed and looked at Van Zandt. The old man put his hands flat on the table, raised his elbows until they were level with his shoulders, and leaned forward. He looked like an angry turkey buzzard about to take off. His hands had brown mottled spots on their backs.
“We are not here to squabble,” he roared. “We are here to plan my death and I damn well intend to see that it’s planned correctly.”
“Sorry, sir,” Boggs said.
Darragh, the Minister of Home Affairs, looked at Padillo. “Are you willing to proceed?”
“With what?” Padillo asked.
“With the discussion.”
Padillo leaned back in his chair, produced a cigarette, lighted it, and blew the smoke out. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll discuss it. It’s set for Tuesday now, I understand.”
“That’s correct,” the old man said. “That gives me a little less than three days of living left, doesn’t it?” He seemed to almost enjoy the thought.
The two younger men stirred uncomfortably in their chairs. “How does it feel to plan a man’s death like this, Mr. Padillo?” Van Zandt said. “I mean in a civilized manner, over the coffee and cigars that I’ll offer later? I understand you’ve done this type of work before.”
“So they say.”
“I remarked that look about you. You’ve got the hunter’s eye. At eighty-two I’m not sorry for a damned thing so I’m not sorry about ending this way. Tell me, what type of piece do you plan to use?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. What would you say to a Ga-rand M-i—the old World War II standby?”
“No sporting piece for you?”
“It depends upon what’s available. I have no favorites.”
The old man leaned back in his chair. “Just recalling my first military rifle. Was an old Lee Metford Mark II with a ten-round magazine and a half-length cleaning rod attached. Damned thing weighed more than ten pounds, and it stood more than four feet tall.”
Van Zandt stopped talking and coughed. It was a deep, wracking cough. His face flushed and a vein popped out on his forehead. He shook his head when he was done.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said. “First, let me say it’s a dirty business. I know it and you gentlemen know it. Kidnapping a man’s wife—well, it’s something that I’d rather have had no part of. But it’s done; it’s done. I’m going to have myself assassinated because of politics, but that’s usually the reason for assassinations, isn’t it? Unless you have one that’s wasted, like that fool Verwoerd’s. The only thing he ever drew were madmen. He could have died for something, if he’d planned it. I’m dying anyway, you know. Be gone in a month or two, no matter what. Cancer of the stomach. Nasty thing—a truly nasty thing.” The old man paused and stared across the room. He seemed to be staring at nothing. The two younger men twitched in their chairs.
“Just remembering,” Van Zandt said. He smoothed his long thin white hair with a mottled hand. “Remembering how it was sixty years ago before they built the roads and brought in their stinking autos and spread out their filthy cities. It was a good country then. Still a good country and that’s what my
dying’s all about. To keep it a good country.”
He looked at me. “You have blacks here and you have trouble with them, don’t you, Mr. McCorkle?”
“We have all kinds of trouble,” I said. “We’ve got a big country.”
“Have you found a solution to your color problem? Have you? Of course not. Never will either. Black and white can’t live together. Never could and never will. That’s why I’m dying. My death will slow down the blacks. It won’t stop them. I know that. But it will slow them down. It will shock people.”
“Nobody grieved much over Verwoerd,” Padillo said.
“Of course not. The bloody fool got killed in his own country, by a madman and white at that. My country wants to be independent and run its own affairs, elect its own government, conduct its own foreign relations, arrange its own trade agreements. The blacks can’t do this—they haven’t a notion.”
He stopped again and again the young men twitched. “My death will help do this one thing, gentlemen: it will slow down the encroachment of the blacks on the affairs of my country. It will create sympathy. It will—since I am to be assassinated in the United States—weaken your country’s resistance to our independence. My death at the hands of a black will give my country twenty years to put its affairs in order. By then it will be able to cope. I assure you: we will be able to cope. Rhodesia, South Africa, and us—we will conduct our own affairs. And my death will serve this purpose.” He paused again. “Separate development,” he said firmly. “It’s the only solution. Your country should adopt it.”
Padillo moved his chair closer to the table. “I don’t know if your death will affect the future of your country or not. It sounds to me as if you’re giving it too much weight. Maybe it will create the political climate you’re looking for and get the British off your back. Maybe they’ll let you go independent and then a hundred-thousand whites can go on keeping two million blacks in their place—wherever their place is. The back door, I suppose. Maybe it will work; maybe it won’t. But before you get too carried away with it all, let me mention something. I won’t be the one who pulls the trigger.”
