Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

McBride, sitting on the floor, watched Gesini die. He heard the girl say something, but he couldn’t quite make out what. Something about if I’m hurt. I wonder why she’s asking that? McBride thought, and then lay down on the kitchen linoleum because he was tired and he hurt. He wondered again why the girl kept asking if he was hurt and then Eddie McBride died, as he had lived, just a bit puzzled.

Silk Armitage stood with the cheese-and-tomato sandwich still in her hand. She put it down on the kitchen table and then sank slowly into a chair. She licked her lips nervously, folded her hands almost primly before her on the table, closed her eyes, and began to sing softly. She would sing until she decided what to do.

She was still singing when Durant, Wu, and Overby came into the kitchen. She opened her eyes and stopped singing and said, “Who are you?”

Artie Wu looked up from his study of Eddie McBride’s body. “We’re your friendly local samurai,” he said, and went back to his study of McBride. “But a bit late, as usual.”

Durant took his eyes away from McBride and said, “Your sister sent us, Miss Armitage.” Durant handed Silk the letter that Lace Armitage had written. Silk looked at the letter for a long moment before she tore it open and began reading.

While she was reading it, Otherguy Overby knelt down by the dead body of Eddie McBride. His hard face softened, and he looked up at Artie Wu and said, “The kid and me, we’d been talking about going in together, partners, sort of; you know, like you guys.”

Wu nodded. Overby, still kneeling, stared at McBride for a long time. Then the tenderness in his face went away and the hardness came back. He stood up.

“Well, hell,” Otherguy Overby said. “It was only talk.”

Silk Armitage finished reading the letter and looked up at Durant. She’s going to cry in a moment, Durant thought. She’s either going to cry or go mad.

“I can’t do any more,” Silk Armitage said in a too reasonable tone that to Durant seemed to lie just this side of madness.

“You’d better let us take over,” he said.

Silk Armitage looked around the kitchen. For a moment her eyes rested on the two dead men. Then she smiled and said, almost brightly, “Yes, I think I’ve done just about everything I can, don’t you?”

And after that, she began to cry.

Chief Oscar Ploughman and Lt. Marion Lake beat the Los Angeles police to the house on Breadstone Avenue by nearly ten minutes, which was plenty of time for Ploughman to have a brief but extremely interesting and even profitable chat with Otherguy Overby.

Ploughman had been on his way to meet Lake when the shooting report came over the radio. When the two men entered the fortuneteller’s house, pistols drawn, they discovered Overby sitting calmly in the room where fortunes had been told, smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of beer that he had found in Silk Armitage’s refrigerator.

“Who’re you, fella?” Lt. Lake said.

“Overby,” he said, and jerked a thumb at the kitchen, which lay beyond the swinging door. “I’m with Durant and Wu, and there’re a couple of dead ones in there.”

Ploughman turned to Lt. Lake. “Take a look,” he said, “and take your time.” When Lake went through the swinging door, Ploughman turned on Overby. “And you, make it fast.”

“They’ve got the girl,” Overby said.

“She hurt?”

“No.”

“So?”

“They’re gonna move on Simms and Imperlino and they wanta know if you wanta be in or out. If in, then they told me to tell you that they might be able to make a little contribution to your political hope chest.”

Ploughman studied Overby for a while, perhaps ten seconds. “How little’s a little?”

“Not so little,” Overby said. “Half a million.”

“And where do you come in?”

“I run errands,” Overby said. “And stick with you — if you decide to sit in.”

“Cash contribution?”

“Is there any other kind?”

Ploughman nodded. “I’m in,” he said, and then went back to his study of Overby. After a moment he nodded and smiled his big, yellow smile as if pleased with himself. “San Francisco,” he said, “1965, the Intercontinental Assurances swindle. Maurice Overby. You were the bag man.”

Overby smiled. “They never proved it,” he said. “They never proved it because it was some other guy.”

Silk Armitage had finally stopped crying by the time they reached Durant’s yellow house on the beach. Inside, Silk looked around and said in a small, almost indistinct voice, “Why here? Why not over at Lace’s?”

“Because we’d like to talk to you first,” Durant said.

“Would you like something?” Wu said. “A drink — or maybe some coffee or tea?”

“Have you got anything to eat?” Silk said. “I know I shouldn’t be hungry now, but I just can’t help it.”

“What about a nice grilled cheese sandwich with maybe a few sliced stuffed olives sort of worked into the cheese?”

Silk smiled weakly at Wu. “Sounds good.”

“And tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful.”

Artie Wu went into the kitchen and Silk sat down on the couch. Durant chose the suede chair. Silk looked at Durant for a moment and then bit her lip, as if trying to decide how to phrase her question.

“I know who you are — I mean, from Lace’s letter. But I don’t understand what you want to do now.”

“We’d like to finish what Congressman Ranshaw started.”

“Did you know Floy — I mean, the Congressman?”

“No.”

“Are you with the government?”

“No.”

Silk shook her head, “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a rather personal matter for me,” Durant said. “As for Artie, he’s in it for—”

“Personal gain,” Wu called from the kitchen. “Don’t saddle me with anything more high-flown than that.”

“A grudge?” Silk asked.

“You can put it that way.”

“Against who?”

“Reginald Simms.”

When Silk continued to look puzzled, Durant told her as much as he thought she should know about his and Wu’s prior association with Simms. By the time he was finished, Wu came in from the kitchen with the sandwich and the cup of tea. Silk started to eat the sandwich with small, neat, hungry bites.

When she was finished she wiped her mouth delicately with the paper napkin and looked first at Wu and then at Durant. “And you want me to tell you what the Congressman knew?”

Durant nodded.

“You know about how far back Imperlino and Simms go?”

Again, Durant nodded.

“And about Castro and the attempts to poison him and all that?”

“Yes,” Durant said.

“And Dallas — do you know about Dallas?”

“We heard something about it,” Wu said.

“They were sent in, you know, by Simms, those two men.”

“Sam Consentino and Johnny Francini?” Durant said.

Silk nodded. “Simms got Imperlino to send them in.”

“But not to kill Kennedy?” Wu said.

Silk’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Oh, Lordy, no! Is that what you thought?”

“That’s what some people think,” Durant said. “At least, we think that’s what they think.”

She shook her head. “Consentino and Francini didn’t even get there until after Kennedy was dead.”

“Then why were they sent in?” Durant said.

“The Congressman said that nobody really understands how they work.”

“Who’s they?” Wu said.

Silk shrugged. “He just called it ‘them’ or ‘they’ — I reckon he always meant the people who really run things.”

“The CIA?” Wu said.

“They were just part of it. You see, right after Kennedy got shot, nobody really knew just what had happened. You remember all the confusion. But some of them thought they knew — so they acted. Or reacted. They got in touch with Simms and he got in touch with Imperlino. And Imperlino sent in Francini and Consentino because they’d known him in Havana back in ’58.”