Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“Known who?” Durant said.

“Why, Jack Ruby,” Silk said as though addressing some small and not very bright children.

“They needed a cleanup man,” Durant said in a soft, thoughtful voice, staring at Wu.

Artie Wu ran it through his mind. “Yeah, they would do it like that, wouldn’t they? That’s how they work. They operated from one assumption: that Kennedy was supposed to get shot. After that it was just routine. They had to keep Oswald from talking. You say Francini and Consentino knew Ruby in Havana?”

“In ’58,” Silk said. “He was in jail there for a while.”

“The perfect sap,” Durant said.

“So Imperlino sends in Francini and Consentino,” Wu said, “and they remember this dope they’d known back in Havana and they work him over good and get him all fired up and he takes Oswald out in a burst of glorious patriotism on live TV.”

“They paid him,” Silk said.

Wu looked at her. “Is that what the Congressman thought?”

She nodded. “They paid Jack Ruby fifty thousand dollars.”

“Could he prove it — the Congressman?”

Silk shook her head.

“How much could he prove?” Durant said.

“He could place Consentino and Francini in Dallas. That was all he could prove — about that, I mean. But then when they got old and were thinking about taking immunity and getting themselves off the hook, then the Congressman could almost prove that Imperlino went to Chicago and then to Miami and killed them both.”

“How could he almost prove it?”

“He knew that Imperlino sometimes used an alias. Always when he traveled. He used it that time when he went down to Miami after Ivory died. The alias was T. Northwood. Terence Northwood. The Congressman was checking the airline records when he got killed. Afterwards, that’s what I was doing. We almost had it. I mean, it was supposed to be in the mail this morning, but the mail never came, did it?”

“And the airline records would prove what?”

“That Imperlino was in Chicago and Miami right when Francini and Consentino got killed,” Silk said.

Wu shook his head. “That’s pretty sketchy.”

“He was a cop,” Silk said. “Or had been. You have to remember that. What he was really after was who gave Imperlino his town. Pelican Bay.”

“Did he ever find out?”

Silk shrugged. “It was just ‘they’ again. When Imperlino bought the newspaper in Pelican Bay, nobody objected. When he needed the environmental-impact approval for that hotel he’s going to build, it went through in record time. When he needed the Coastal Commission’s approval here in California, that sailed through. The fix was in. That’s what the Congressman always said. The fix was in.”

“So now only Imperlino knows the real story?” Wu said.

“Imperlino and Simms,” Silk said. “They were at college together — did you know that?”

“We knew,” Durant said.

“The Congressman was trying to find out about Simms when he got killed. Simms’d been with the CIA, you know, but he turned bad or something. It wasn’t quite clear. All the Congressman knew was that suddenly Simms showed up in Pelican Bay with a lot of money and went in with Imperlino. Simms ran things while Imperlino played hermit in that house of his in Bel Air.”

“Who killed the Congressman?” Wu said.

Silk looked at him. “His wife.”

“You don’t believe that,” Durant said.

“No, I don’t believe that. I was outside in the car. I heard the shots. Then I waited and a car drove off. I couldn’t see who was in it. Then I went in and there they were. Dead. He’d left his briefcase in the car — with all the stuff he had, his evidence. Most of it, anyway. So I panicked, I reckon. I thought they might have seen me. So then I tried to finish what he started. But I didn’t get very far. Can I call my sister now?”

“Not yet,” Durant said.

“How much longer?”

“A day,” Durant said. “Maybe two at the most.”

“Then it’ll be over?” she said.

Durant nodded. “Then it’ll be over.” He looked at Wu. “You’d better call our friend up in Santa Barbara. Tell him to get down here with his mop.”

“Who?” Silk said. “Am I supposed to know who?”

“A guy with three names,” Wu said. “Whittaker Lowell James.”

“What does he do?” she said.

“Well,” Durant said, “I suppose what he does best is to go around with his mop and tidy things up.”

At two o’clock the following morning, a Tuesday, the twenty-first of June, Durant lay in his bed, his hands behind his head, staring up into the dark and listening to the sobs that came from the spare bedroom. He had been listening to them now for almost an hour.

Finally, Durant got up and went down the short hall and into the bedroom, where he switched on a dim night-light. Silk Armitage was curled up in one of the twin beds crying into her pillow.

Durant stared at her for a moment and then went over to the bed and sat down on its edge. He put his hand out and tentatively, even hesitantly began to smooth the blond hair back from her eyes.

“I’m so... so damned scared,” she said.

“It’s almost over.”

“I... I don’t know how it feels anymore, not to be scared.”

“Just a little while more — two days at the most.”

As he continued to stroke her hair, the sobbing subsided. She twisted around in the bed, snuggling up close to him. And then came the feelings that Durant thought he had forgotten how to feel. It was desire — and something else. A feeling of protectiveness that was very close to pity. Too close, probably. Durant stopped analyzing and let it happen, if, in fact, it was going to happen. It came on stronger then, almost purely sexual now, moving down to his groin, where it took over completely.

Durant’s hand moved from Silk’s head down over her body. She was wearing one of his shirts, and his hand went under the shirt and moved over her breasts and then down between her thighs. She sighed and curled up closer around him. He sat there for a moment and then he bent over and kissed her, wondering if he had forgotten how to do it. But he hadn’t, and the kiss went on, open mouthed and pleasantly moist, and full of mutual sexual promise that had Durant wondering whether he could live up to what he was advertising.

When the kiss was over he picked her up.

“I think we’re going to need more room,” he said.

She nodded and smiled, but said nothing. He carried her down the short hall into his bedroom and gently put her down in the bed. He stood there for a moment, looking down at her. She smiled up at him.

“Did you change your mind?” she said.

“No,” he said. And then he got into the bed and they made love, and if it wasn’t perfect, it was still much better than Durant had expected.

When Durant awoke the next morning, Silk Armitage was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, her chin in her hands, studying him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Morning.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you a virgin? I mean, were you?”

Durant smiled. “Yeah, I suppose I was. In a way.”

“I’m not complaining,” she said, “but I think you could do with a little practice.”

“So do I.”

“Now?”

Durant smiled again. “Sure,” he said. “Now.”

They brought in Otherguy Overby to baby-sit Silk Armitage, who was still in the shower when he arrived.

“Ploughman’s all set?” Durant said.

“Yeah, he’s set. You know, he’s a pretty interesting guy.”

Durant nodded. “I thought you two would get along.”

“What about the girl?”

“No phone calls in or out,” Durant said. “And nobody leaves and nobody comes in. Absolutely nobody except either Artie or me.”