Missionary Stew

by Ross Thomas

  “Me.”

  “Right.”

  “Fine,” Citron said, “but I have to meet someone at the airport at noon.”

  “Anything to do with this?”

  There was a long pause before Citron answered. “I don’t really know,” he said.

  Gladys Citron turned from the medicine cabinet and handed Drew Meade her razor. He had already brushed his teeth with one of her spare toothbrushes. “Didn’t you bring anything?” she said.

  “Just me, darlin’.”

  She leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and watched as Meade soaped his face and began shaving with quick, impatient strokes. She was wearing one of her Chanel suits, the dark-gray, almost black one. The Legion d’Honneur ribbon was in place on the lapel. Meade was bare to the waist. She could detect no flab—not even at sixty-three.

  “What do you do, work out?”

  “Me? Christ, no.”

  “How do you stay in shape?”

  “I don’t sit around on my butt, that's how. People get out of shape because they sit around on their butts. You gotta keep moving. That's one thing you can say about me: I’ve kept moving.”

  “When’re you going to move out of here?”

  Meade looked back over his shoulder at her and grinned. The white soap made his teeth seem more yellow than they really were. “What's the matter, Gladys, not used to a man around the house?”

  “Younger men, usually.”

  “We didn’t do too bad last night for a couple of old crocks. I mean, you still know how to wiggle pretty good.” He pressed up his nose with a thumb and shaved under it. When he was done, he rinsed off the razor, put it back in the medicine cabinet, and turned. “You know, I was just thinking about the first time you and me made it—back in ‘forty-four just outside Dijon. Remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “They’d just co-opted you into OSS to liaise with the Resistance and I was your new wire man.”

  “I remember.”

  “We stayed at that farm, that dairy farm, the one where you’d stashed that kid of yours. Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

  “He's around.”

  “I remember he was only four or five then and didn’t speak anything but French. He went on to become some kind of reporter, didn’t he? A hotshot, I heard.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Back then, in ‘forty-four, he didn’t even hardly know who you were.”

  “He knows now,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Gladys,” he said.

  She turned back.

  “I’m going to need a little cash to go see Haere.”

  “I can let you have a hundred. It's all I’ve got unless you can cash a check somewhere.”

  “No checks.”

  “When do I get a sample of what you’re peddling, Drew?”

  Meade thought about it. “Three o’clock?”

  “Where?”

  He reached for his shirt, which was hanging on the bathroom doorknob. “What's wrong with right here?”

  “Nothing,” Gladys Citron said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Drew Meade didn’t much like what he saw. Instead of one, there were two of them. There was the tall skinny one in the cheap new tan suit, and the other one, not quite so tall, wearing the banker blue suit and looking as if somebody had just run over his dog. Both were about the same age: forty, maybe even forty-one. He stared at each of them separately, memorizing them, and then gave a quick, careful examination to his surroundings.

  “Just the one big room, right?” he said.

  “Right,” Draper Haere said.

  “You’re Haere.”

  Haere nodded.

  “You got older. I don’t even think I’d’ve recognized you. Who's he?” Meade nodded at Morgan Citron.

  “A friend.”

  “The witness, huh? He got a name?”

  “Mitchell.”

  “What's Mitchell's first name?”

  “Mitch.”

  “Mitch Mitchell,” Meade said, still staring at Citron. “Middle initial probably M. Okay, I can live with that. Let's get the other thing out of the way.”

  “What?” Haere asked.

  “Your old man. I wanta clear the air about him.”

  “Go ahead. You want to sit down?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Meade chose the walnut armchair. He patted its left armrest appreciatively. “Nice old chair.”

  “It used to belong to Henry Wallace,” Haere said, taking his usual seat in the Huey Long chair.

  Meade was unimpressed. “Wallace, huh? Old bubblehead.”

  Citron chose the leather couch. He sat, leaning forward, arms on his knees. Hubert, the cat, jumped up on the couch and inched his way onto Citron's lap.

  “About my old man,” Haere said.

  “He was a commie.”

  “Was he now.”

  “Sure. And I nailed him. It's what they paid me to do. It was a living, that's all, and not much of one at that. They offered me the job back in ‘forty-nine, I took it, they paid me, and I did it. I didn’t have anything against your old man. Not personally. In fact, he was a pretty nice guy. We used to have some laughs and a few beers together.”

  “While you were setting him up.”

  “Him and the others. You gotta remember I nailed him and six others out of that old Mine, Mill bunch. By rights, your old man should’ve gone to jail with the rest of ‘em for contempt, except Replogle jerked hard on a few wires and got him off. You know it and I know it, but what the hell, it's all ancient history now. But if you wanta get steamed about it, well, go ahead. I just wanta get it over and done with.”

  There was only silence as Draper Haere examined the big grayhaired man who now sat slumped in the old chair, one long leg, his left, stuck straight out in front, the other, the right, dangling over the chair's padded arm. A mercenary, Haere decided, forever reenlisting on life's losing side. And a believer yet in all the old recruiting lies and tired blandishments, but perhaps a bit puzzled now by why the war is still not won. Of course, there's always the one big battle to come, the decisive one, the last one, the one that’ll win the war and then, afterward, there’ll be loot, booty, and spoils for all.

  Haere had long wondered how he would feel upon seeing Drew Meade and now, sorting through his emotions, he was surprised that all he could come up with was a touch of pity.

  “You want a breakfast beer?” he said.

  “Sure,” Meade said. “Thanks.”

  Citron gently dumped Hubert to the floor and rose. “I’ll get them,” he said, and headed for the splendid refrigerator.

  “You saw Jack Replogle in Singapore,” Haere said.

  “That's right. He tell you about it?”

  “He told me. I was with him when he died.”

  “That's what his wife said.”

  “He also said he paid you ten thousand dollars. You started out at fifty, but settled for ten.”

  “He tell you what it bought?”

  “No,” Haere said, and accepted a can of Budweiser from Citron. “He was just about to tell me when it happened.”

  “I’d like to hear about that,” Meade said as he opened the top on his own can.

  Haere drank some beer first. “He was just about to tell me when a blue Dodge pickup ran us off the road about fifteen miles past Idaho Springs. I got thrown out. Replogle didn’t. The gas tank exploded and he burned to death. Or maybe he was already dead.”

  “You weren’t hurt?”

  “I scorched my hands. They just took the bandages off last night.”

  “Replogle didn’t say anything at all?”

  “He said it could probably blow them out of the White House in ‘eighty-four.”

  Meade nodded thoughtfully. “Well, he was right about that. You say he was just about to tell you what he got from me when they ran you off the road?”

  Haere nodded.

  “They might’ve had you guys wired. The car anyway. But
maybe not.”

  “Who?” Citron said.

  Meade looked at Citron steadily for several seconds, then shifted his bleak gaze back to Haere. Meade jerked his head at Citron. “Mitch here doesn’t talk much, does he?”

  “He's a listener.”

  “Well, that question Mitch just asked brings us around to the meat of the thing.”

  “Money,” Haere said.

  “I’m thinking,” Meade said, “I’m thinking of around four hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Think again,” Haere said.

  Meade took out his Camels, lighted one, blew some smoke out, and smiled. “What I gave Replogle was just a taste—because that's all he’d pony up for. What I’m offering you and, of course, Mitch here is the full course. Is Mitch the money man?”

  “No,” Haere said. “I’m the money man.”

  Hubert, the cat, wormed his way back onto Citron's lap. Citron stroked him under the chin and the cat purred. Citron smiled at Meade and said, “They buried you in Singapore.”

  Meade looked at him and grinned. “Been checking me out, huh?”

  Citron nodded. “They offered a reward for you, seventeen thousand five hundred dollars, but when nothing happened, they found themselves a body, buried it, and claimed it was you.”

  “Not much of a reward,” Meade said.

  “No.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “I forgot to ask.” Citron smiled. “They gave you two paragraphs in the New York Times”

  “No kidding. I’d sort of like to read that.” “You only made the first edition.”

  Meade shrugged. “Better’n nothing. How many guys get that?” He turned to Haere. “You want what I got, right? And no matter what price I set, you’re gonna try and jew me down. I don’t blame you. I’d do the same thing. And maybe I might come down a notch. I’m not saying I will, I’m just saying maybe. But first I’m gonna give you a smell. If you like it, we can start talking serious money. If you don’t, I’ll go peddle it somewhere else. Fair enough?”

  Haere nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” Meade said. “About six months back, Washington fought a secret mini-war down in Central America there. Four guys got killed on one side, five on the other. The war was over a ton or two of cocaine and thirty-five to fifty million bucks in cash money. When the shooting was over and the smoke blew away, one side found out it had been suckered. I can give you time, place, dates, and names. All you gotta do is come up with four hundred thousand in cash.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, Draper Haere said, “One question.”

  “Maybe I’ll answer it; maybe I won’t.”

  “Whose money was it—the thirty-five to fifty million?”

  “Didn’t I say? Uncle Sam's.”

  “Cash?” Citron said.

  “Cash.”

  “How much of this did you tell Jack Replogle in Singapore?”

  “Not a hell of a lot more than I just told you. I gave him some names is all, and he forked over ten thousand without a blink and thought he’d made the buy of the year. But Replogle was one smart son of a bitch, although I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “He's also dead,” Haere said.

  Meade shrugged. “What more do you need?” he asked. “I mean, I could sit around here all day selling you on the quality of my goods. But I don’t have to. You were there. You saw him get it. Hell, you almost got it yourself. I don’t know how you could want a better fuckin’ testimonial than that.”

  “Now we get to the key question,” Haere said. “Just who are they?”

  Meade only smiled and slowly shook his head. Haere rose. “Let's have another beer,” he said, collected the empty cans, and headed for the refrigerator. While Haere was getting the beer, Meade studied Citron.

  “You look like somebody,” he said. “Somebody I used to know.”

  “Who?”

  Meade gave his head a small irritated shake. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  Haere came back with three more cans of beer, which he handed around. As he held out the can to Meade, he said, “You might as well forget about four hundred thousand, or three fifty, or even three hundred. We might—and I’m stressing might—well, we just might come up with one hundred, and then we’d only buy it in twenty-five-thousand-dollar chunks. If you started running dry or making it up toward the end, we wouldn’t pay. That's our offer and it's take it or leave it.”

  Meade popped open his can, drank from it, wiped his mouth, belched softly, frowned, and said, “Cash?”

  “That’ll be a problem.”

  “Checks don’t do me any good.”

  “Okay. Cash.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know,” Haere said. “I’ll have to check around. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  Haere looked at Citron. “What about your place?”

  “That should do,” Citron said. Meade frowned. “Who else?” “Who else what?” Haere said. “Who else will be in on it—when we talk, I mean?” “Nobody else. Just you, me, and—uh—” For a moment Haere couldn’t remember the alias he had given Citron. Meade grinned coldly. “Mitch here.” “That's right,” Haere said with a small smile. “Mitch.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The first black, the tall lean one with the cast in his right eye, stumbled and seemed to trip over his own feet. With hands outstretched he fell hard against Morgan Citron and knocked him backward across the hood of the rented Cadillac limousine. The second black, the squat one with the build of a fat fireplug, bustled over and helped the tall lean one raise Citron back up onto his feet. They brushed him off, apologizing for their clumsiness in soft liquid French, and as they brushed he could feel their expert hands explore for hidden weapons.

  The rented limousine, its uniformed driver still behind the wheel, was parked in front of the Eastern Airlines terminal at Los Angeles International Airport. Behind the limousine was the black Ford LTD sedan Velveeta Keats had rented from Budget in Malibu with her Visa card. The limousine-rental people had preferred American Express.

  “A single apology is sufficient,” Citron said in French as the two blacks still tried to rid him of some imaginary dust. “Too many tend to make me suspicious.”

  “Did I not say it?” the fireplug demanded of the cockeyed beanpole. “Does he not possess a perfect Parisian accent?”

  “It is as you claimed,” the beanpole agreed, turned, and said, “Rien,” to the fifty-three-year-old man with the narrow sun-baked face who stood waiting ten feet away.

  “Rien,” the man said to Citron. “That means ‘nothing.’ It also means you’re not gonna pull a knife or a gun on me. I’m Keats. B. S. Keats, B for Byron, S for Shelley. My mama married beneath her raisin’ and I seem to have taken after Pap. He was a cracker, damn near white trash. That my limo?”

  “That's it,” Citron said.

  “That my Ford?” Keats said, giving the black LTD a nod.

  “Right.”

  “You parlez-vous better’n I do,” Keats said. “Tell Jacques and Cecilio to follow us.”

  Citron told the two blacks what Keats wanted. Jacques, the beanpole, smiled. “We know. We understand far more than he thinks.”

  “That's what I thought,” Citron said and gave him the keys to the Ford.

  Before the uniformed driver could make it around the limousine, Keats had the door open and was climbing into the rear seat. Citron followed. Back behind the wheel, the driver turned and said, “Where to, Mr. Citron?”

  “Nowhere,” Keats said. “Just sit tight until my niggers get the luggage. You can also roll up that divider and turn on the air conditioner.”

  “We can’t park here too long, sir. The airport cops are very strict.”

  “You get a ticket, I’ll pay for it,” Keats said. “Now roll up that divider.”

  The driver started the engine and pushed buttons that r
aised the divider glass and turned on the airconditioning. Keats tooktwo plump cigars from his pocket and offered Citron one. Citron shook his head.

  “Mind if I do?” Keats said.

  “Not at all.”

  Keats lit his cigar carefully with a kitchen match that he took from the pocket of his tan cashmere jacket. Beneath the jacket was a pale-yellow polo shirt that was worn outside a pair oflinen slacks the colorof milk chocolate. On his feet were brown-and-white saddle shoes with red rubber soles. Yellow socks matched his shirt. Citron thought the saddle shoes made Keats look vaguely collegiate.

  Keats got his cigar going, blew out some smoke, and turned his faded blue eyes on Citron. “Where’d you learn your French?”

  “In France.”

  “You live there?”

  “I was born there.”

  “I reckon I could speak it if I was born there. The reason we didn’t take the bag on the plane is because it's got the niggers’ pieces in it. Cecilio carries a thirty-eight. Old Jacques likes a magnum.”

  “Somebody going to kill you?”

  “A few folks’d like to see me dead. What d’you think of ‘em— Cecilio and Jacques?”

  “They seem competent.”

  “They’re Haitian. Boat people. Guess how much Cecilio made year before last?”

  “When he was still in Haiti?”

  Keats nodded.

  “I have no idea.”

  “He made two hundred and sixty-eight dollars—the whole fuckin’ year. You know how much I’m payin’ them a week?”

  “Two hundred and sixty-eight dollars.”

  Keats smiled. His teeth were almost an oyster white, and his smile stayed in place several seconds longer than necessary, as if he sometimes forgot it was there. His thinning hair was so sunbleached it was hard to tell whether it was blond or gray, and he combed it straight down over his forehead in short ragged bangs. The faded blue eyes squinted even in the shade, as if wary of any sudden light, and the long nose that poked out and up was separated from the thin bitter mouth by a well-clipped mustache. Beneath all that was a pointed chin with a scar that meandered across it like a white river.

  “That was a pretty good guess—two hundred and sixty-eightdollars—but a softy's guess. I pay ‘em one thousand bucks a week. Each. Now guess how much loyalty that buys.”