by Ross Thomas
Sylvia Underhill held Fredl in her arms while I drove. Neither of us said anything. I tried the car’s telephone once to see if the conference call was still working, but it was dead. I parked in the no parking zone in front of Betty’s apartment house, went around the car, and helped Sylvia out. She needed help. A reaction seemed to have set in and she was trembling.
“Hold on a few more minutes,” I said. I picked Fredl up and we walked up a flight of steps and into the building. I had Sylvia ring the doorbell. Betty answered it.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Bring her into the bedroom. I’ll get hold of Doctor Lambert. He’s spectin to be called.”
I didn’t take off my shoes as I walked across the white carpet and into the room with the big oval bed. I put Fredl down on it gently.
“She’s very pretty,” Sylvia said from behind me.
“Yes, she is, isn’t she.”
Betty came into the bedroom. “She sick or hurt?”
“Doped.”
She nodded as if it happened every day in her house. Maybe it did. “Doctor’s on his way.” She turned to Sylvia. “Who’s this?”
“This is Sylvia. She helped us find my wife.”
Betty looked at the girl carefully. “Look like Sylvia needs a drink. She’s shaking.”
“So am I.”
Betty put her hands on her hips. She was wearing lime green stretch pants, a white blouse, and no shoes. “You know where the liquor is. You all go on in the livingroom and I’ll get your wife undressed and tucked into bed. Don’t look like she’s gonna be waking up anytime soon.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And take off your shoes.”
After I got my shoes off, I mixed two drinks and gave one to Sylvia. “Drink it,” I said. “It’ll help your shakes.”
She nodded and drank. We sat in the livingroom until Doctor Lambert knocked on the door. He nodded at me. “Who’s the patient?” he asked.
“My wife. She’s in the bedroom.”
He went in, carrying his doctor’s bag, and I sat there on the couch and stared at the white rug. Sylvia said nothing. The doctor and Betty came out in a quarter of an hour.
“I can’t determine what they gave her,” he said. “But it was an injection—in her right arm. She’s in no danger, but the best thing to do would be to let her sleep. I estimate she’ll be out for another four or five hours at least.”
“You sure she’s all right?”
“Yes.”
“Take a look at this one then,” I said, nodding my head at Sylvia.
“Has she been hurt?”
“In a way,” I said. “But it’s mostly fright. She doesn’t like herself very much either.”
The doctor’s dark face was impassive. “Go take a look at your wife,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do for your friend.”
I went back into the bedroom and looked down at the oval bed where Fredl lay sleeping, the covers drawn up to her chin. She stirred slightly, but not much. I stood there for what seemed to be a long time and looked at her and I found myself smiling. I put my drink down on the dresser, then went back to the bed, bent down, and kissed Fredl on the forehead. She didn’t stir. I stood there for a while longer, just looking at her and smiling until my jaws seemed to grow stiff, then I picked up the drink and went back into the livingroom.
Dr. Lambert was handing Sylvia a capsule and a glass of water. “Some people,” he said to me, “seem to think that liquor is the cure for everything.”
I looked at the drink in my hand and then took a swallow. “I’ve known it to brighten a few dark moments,” I said.
“It’s a depressant,” he snapped. “Not a stimulant.”
“I didn’t think she needed a pep pill.”
“She needs to sleep,” the doctor said testily, “not to brood. This will help her sleep.”
“She can sleep on the couch,” Betty said. “You want the floor?” she asked me.
“I have to go,” I said.
“You don’t look too well yourself,” the doctor said. “You look beat.”
“I’m all right,” I said and waved my drink at him. “I’ll stick to the home remedy.”
“Liver,” Doctor Lambert murmured. “It gets them all in the liver.”
“What about the bill?” I said.
“Three hundred.”
I got my billfold out and paid him. “I’ll drop back by in a couple of hours,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He picked up his bag and moved to the door. “When’s the last time you had a complete examination?” he said.
“Five or six years ago.”
He shook his head. “A picture of health,” he said. “Just yellowing at the corners.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He opened the door and said: “No charge.” Then he was gone.
Betty went into the bedroom and returned with two pillows, some sheets and a blanket. She made up a bed on the couch, talking to herself as she worked. I went over and knelt on one knee by Sylvia. She was staring at her hands in her lap. “Get some sleep,” I said. “You need it.”
She looked up at me. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see him—just once more.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Try.”
She nodded. I rose and walked over to Betty. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
She looked up at me and grinned. It was a wide, white grin with a lot of cynical sauciness in it. “You see Hardman, you tell him he better get me a maid.”
I smiled back at her. “I’ll tell him.”
“Come on, Sylvia,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I went over to the door and opened it. “They be all right,” Betty said. “I’ll look after them both.”
“Thanks,” I said and left.
I parked Hardman’s Cadillac on I Street and started walking the two blocks to the Roger Smith. It was two o’clock, three-quarters of an hour before Van Zandt’s four-car motorcade was supposed to turn down Pennsylvania at the corner of Seventeenth. I found myself wondering how the old man liked taking a tour of Washington’s sites, believing that he had only forty-five minutes to live.
I was approaching the corner of H and Eighteenth when a figure stepped out of a doorway and said: “You’re late.” It was Padillo.
“I had a couple of things to do,” I said. “It took longer than I thought.”
“There’s a bar around the corner,” he said. “You can tell me about them.”
We walked around the corner and went into a bar that had a surplus of dark oak fixtures. The luncheon crowd was almost gone and a waitress gave us a booth in the rear. I ordered a Scotch-and-water and Padillo said he wanted a martini. When the drinks came and the waitress left, Padillo said:
“We broke the conference call when Hardman said you were taking Fredl and Sylvia to Betty’s.”
“You broke it a little soon.”
“How?”
“Sylvia had to help me kill Magda.”
I told him about it then and he listened as he usually did, without showing much more surprise than if I had been telling him that the electronics stock I had touted to him had taken a turn for the worse.
“Where did Hardman take the other man—the third one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Fredl all right?”
“Yes.”
“Sylvia?”
“Not too well. She wants to see you. One more time, she said.”
He nodded and looked at his watch. “Now would be a good time to back out,” he said.
“It would, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not really our do anymore.”
“No. Fredl’s safe. Sylvia’s all right.”
“We can just walk back to the saloon,” Padillo said. “Might even catch a cab.”
“We could do that.”
“Have a nice quiet lunch with
a good bottle of wine.”
“Read about it in the papers tomorrow.”
Padillo looked at me. “But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why? Because some little girl with puppy-dog eyes saved your life?”
“Don’t knock my excuses. I’ve got better ones than you do.”
Padillo put a couple of bills on the table. “Let’s go. Mush is waiting in the lobby.”
“Which way is Philip Price going to bounce?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do we do?”
“Keep Dymec from shooting Van Zandt.”
“How?”
“By persuasion.”
“Will that work?”
“Let’s find out.”
We walked into the Roger Smith at two-twenty p.m. Mush was sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby, reading The Wall Street Journal through his dark glasses. He nodded his head twice as we walked to the elevator. He didn’t seem to look at us.
I glanced around the lobby. There was no one else I knew. The elevator came and another man got in with us. He pressed the button for the third floor. When he got off, Padillo pressed the tenth-floor button. “Mush has a description of Dymec and Price,” Padillo said. “That nod means that Dymec’s gone up. Price hasn’t shown yet.”
We got off on the tenth floor and walked down to the thick door that said “Roof Garden.” The door was painted a Chinese red and the lettering was in gold. We went through the door and stopped because of the two guns that were aimed at us.
One of the guns was an automatic. From where I stood it could have been a Colt Commander .38. I wasn’t sure. But there was no mistaking the big fist that held it. That belonged to Hardman. The other gun, a revolver, was in the hand of Philip Price and he seemed to know what he was doing. We let the door close behind us.
“Roof garden’s done closed,” Hardman said. “For the season.”
Padillo looked at me. “Your friend,” he said.
“He was on our side this morning.”
We were standing in the small landing that faced the stairs which led to the roof. Hardman and Price were up five or six steps, aiming their guns at us in a calm, professional manner. Their advantage of height didn’t hurt any.
“Just stand easy,” Price said. “Keep your hands in front of you and don’t ask if you can light a cigarette.”
“I don’t get it, Hardman,” I said.
“Money, baby. Fifty thousand is a lot of money.”
“We decided to consolidate,” Price said. “In return for our complete cooperation, your African friends agreed to raise the fee. Enormously.”
“They went way up,” Hardman said. “I just couldn’t say no.” He sounded almost apologetic.
Price glanced at his watch. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“That little brunette gal with the pistol was supposed to hold you, Mac,” Hardman said. “What happened?”
“I killed her.”
He nodded. “That’s more for us,” he said to Price.
“So it is,” Price said.
“Your wife all right?” Hardman said.
“She’s all right.”
“I like Fredl,” Hardman said. “Didn’t want nothin to happen to her.”
“It didn’t.”
“What happened to you, Price?” Padillo said. “I thought you were going for the letter.”
“I don’t need the letter,” he said.
“Just money.”
Price smiled. “There seems to be enough for all.”
Padillo turned slowly and leaned against the wall. He kept his hands in sight. “Your friend Hardman ever try to beat a murder rap?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” I said.
“How about it, Hardman?” Padillo said.
“We’re comin out of this one nice and clean. Ain’t gonna be no mess.”
“Then you fixed it with Mush?” Padillo said.
“Mush works for me, baby.”
Padillo turned his head to look at Hardman. “What did you send Mush up to Baltimore for? Heroin?”
“I don’t fool with H. Mush was goin after acid. Five hundred grams of lysergic acid diethylamide.”
“That’s a lot of LSD,” Padillo said. “What’s the market? I thought you could mix up a batch in the bathroom sink.”
“Gettin tough, baby. Feds are crackin down and so’s the states. That much acid is good for a little less’n five million trips at five bucks per retail. I figure to wholesale it at thirty cents a trip.”
“The Englishman was supposed to have it?”
“He supposed to.”
“But they shoved him into the freezer. You think the acid went with him?”
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Let me ask you something else, Hardman. How did Mush know who I was?”
“Didn’t. He just found Mac’s address in your pocket.”
“You’re talking too much, Padillo,” Price said.
“You’re in the business, Price. Do you think I’d carry a piece of paper around in my pocket with an address on it?”
“Not bloody likely. But shut up anyway.”
“If I didn’t have any address in my pocket, Hardman, then how did Mush know about McCorkle and me?”
“You ain’t makin sense,” Hardman said.
“You’re smarter than that, Hardman,” I said. “Even I can figure it out.”
“How long’s Mush been workin for you?” Padillo said.
The big man took one step down the stairs. “You sayin Mush is a ringer?”
“You didn’t get your acid, did you?” Padillo said. “You got me instead. Why?”
“Mush get my acid?”
“Shut up,” Price said. “We’re going to have to leave here in a few minutes. You can worry about it then.”
“Man’s talking about maybe a million dollars’ worth of acid—wholesale,” Hardman said. “I wanna know what happened. I gotta find out. Mush get my acid?” he demanded of Padillo.
“No,” Padillo said.
“Who got it?”
“The United States Treasury.”
TWENTY-SIX
The door from the hall slammed open and Mush came through it, moving fast. Padillo seemed to have expected him because he lunged for the steps and jerked Price’s legs out from under him. Hardman kicked at Mush’s head, but missed, and Mush scrambled on up the stairs. I grabbed Hardman’s other leg and gave it a yank and he fell backwards and the gun clattered down the steps. Price was up and moving quickly up towards the roof, Padillo behind him. Hard-man wasn’t down for more than a second. He moved too fast for a man of his size. I couldn’t move like that and Hardman carried fifteen more pounds than I did.
I was still at the bottom of the stairs and Hardman was on the sixth step. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. Price and Padillo disappeared around a corner at the top of the stairs. Mush was no longer in sight.
“You ain’t goin nowheres, Mac. You stayin here with me.”
“I’m going up the stairs,” I said.
“You ain’t goin by me.”
“You’re still clean on this one, Hardman. You can move out. I’ll let you by.”
He laughed. “You a gentleman, ain’t you? You gonna let me by. Shit, you somethin, baby.”
“Go on, Hardman. You’ve got time.”
“I ain’t goin nowheres and you ain’t goin nowheres.”
“I’m going up the stairs,” I said.
“Not past me.”
I reached into my coat pockets and took out the knife with my left hand and the .38 with my right. “You’re wrong about two things. One, I’m no gentleman. If I were a gentleman, I’d try to take you with the knife. Now the gun says I go past you.” I pointed it in his general direction.
“No gun, Mac. Gun’ll bring the law.”
“This place is soundproofed,” I said. “It keeps the band noise down.”
“You won’t shoot me,” he said.
“You talk a lot.”
Hardman started down the steps towards me. He held the knife in his right hand, his arm up and out a little. The blade was flat with the floor, the easier to pass through the ribs, I suppose. He came down two full steps. “Gimme your gun, Mac.”
I shook my head. “Go on out the door and you’re home free.”
“You ain’t gonna shoot, Mac.” He took one more step. He moved slowly, but with curious grace.
“I’m going past you, Hardman.”
“No,” he said. He grinned. He took another step and he was still grinning when I shot him. Then the grin disappeared, and he tried one more step. I shot him again. He said, “Shit, man,” and fell the last step and sprawled in the corner and lay still.
I went up the stairs three at a time. Padillo and Price were in the anteroom that led to the roof. Price was in front of the stall where you checked your coats. He had lost his gun on the stairs, but he had a knife out. It seemed to be the day for knives. Padillo’s back was to me as Price moved towards him slowly. Price kept his eyes on Padillo’s right hand which also had a knife in it.
“If you move over, I’ll shoot him,” I said.
“I’ll drop flat on the floor, and then you can shoot him,” Padillo said.
I pointed the gun at Price. “When he drops flat on the floor, I’ll shoot you,” I told him. “I’ve got four rounds left. I should be able to hit you with one.”
“I don’t think he wants to be shot,” Padillo said and straightened up and put away his knife. Price looked at the one he held in his hand, shrugged, and tossed it on the floor.
Padillo jerked his head towards the French doors at the top of the stairs that opened onto the roof. “Move over there, Price.”
“All right,” the man said.
“Keep your gun on him,” Padillo said and moved quickly over to the doors. I motioned Price towards them. Through the doors’ glass we could see a strange dance on the polished marble floor. Dymec and Mush were locked together as each struggled to get a killing hold. They seemed to glide around the dance floor. A rifle lay near its edge. The two men broke apart and Mush tried to produce a revolver from his coat pocket. Its hammer snagged on his lining and Dymec kicked it as if he were kicking a soccer ball and the gun flew out of Mush’s hand and landed a dozen feet away.
