Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“What am I supposed to do with her?”

“Tell her some stories,” Durant said.

“Does she know why I’m here?”

Durant nodded. “She knows. You just make sure she doesn’t change her mind.”

Durant picked up Wu shortly before noon at the house on Ninth Street in Santa Monica. Wu started to get into Durant’s Mercedes, but paused, bent down, and stared in at Durant, who was already behind the wheel.

“What happened to you?” Wu said.

“What do you mean?”

Wu examined him some more. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the chipper air, the confident smile, the flashing eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you got laid.”

“Unngh,” Durant said.

“What does ‘unngh’ mean?”

“It means I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We’ll celebrate,” Wu said, settling his big body into the seat next to Durant. “I’ll buy us lunch at El Charro’s.”

“Jesus,” Durant said, “not again.”

“Sure,” Wu said. “Why not?”

“You know what you are, Artie?”

“What?”

“A closet Mexican.”

“Yeah,” Wu said, nodding comfortably at the suggestion. “I probably am.”

Durant, who had finished his guacamole salad, watched as Artie Wu polished off the last morsel of the enormous $4.25 platter of tamales, enchiladas, burritos, frijoles refritos, rice, and salad.

Wu leaned back with a sigh, patted his big belly, and said, “Jesus, that was good.”

Durant lit a cigarette. “She doesn’t know all of it,” he said, and dropped his match into the ashtray.

Wu nodded. “I wonder if the Congressman did?”

“I’m not all that sure that he did either. But what he did know might have made a hell of a tabloid headline.”

“You mean, CIA ORDERED MOB TO SNUFF OSWALD, something like that?”

“I’d read it,” Durant said.

“Yeah, so would I, but it would be just a one-day story unless you could prove who gave Simms his orders.”

“Everybody seems convinced that the Congressman knew that.”

“By everybody you mean Imperlino and Simms.”

Durant nodded. “And now they’re apparently convinced that she knew everything the Congressman did — and maybe even more.”

Wu smiled and stuck one of his long, slim cigars into his mouth. “Let’s not disillusion them.”

“No, let’s do something else,” Durant said, also smiling. “Let’s go be rotten to Reggie.”

Chuck West didn’t like the way they looked or the way they talked or the way they smiled.

Wu and Durant were standing in West’s office on the fifteenth floor of the Ransom Tower. West had invited them into his office, but he hadn’t asked them to sit down. Instead, he was explaining why it would be impossible for them to see Mr. Simms. Mr. Simms, it seemed, was tied up in conference.

Artie Wu puffed on his cigar. “Tied up in conference,” he said, savoring the phrase. “Well, we’re old friends so we’ll just wait.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” West said. “The conference could go on all afternoon.”

Durant smiled. “We’ll wait all afternoon.”

West dropped his polite pretense, which was seldom, if ever, very firmly in place. He pointed to the door. “Out,” he said. “Now.”

“Us?” Artie Wu said, apparently surprised, if not shocked.

“You.”

Wu smiled. “No.”

West nodded thoughtfully. “I think I’ll arrange for someone to show you to the elevator — or maybe down the stairs, just to see how high you bounce.”

West started toward his desk, but Wu stepped in front of him. They were both about the same height, but Durant gave Wu the advantage of at least thirty pounds. On the other hand, West was younger by at least seven or eight years. Durant watched carefully because it promised to be rather interesting.

Artie Wu put his cigar back into his face. Then he examined West carefully, admiring the beautiful hair and the tan and the marvelously cut suede jacket, the beige shirt and dark brown knit tie. Wu nodded, as if well satisfied with his inspection, and hit West very hard in the stomach. Twice.

The whoof came as West bent over and his hands went to his stomach. But his right hand started inside his jacket. Wu caught it, held it, reached inside the jacket with his other hand, and brought out a small automatic pistol.

He looked at it and turned to Durant. “Jesus,” he said, “a real Beretta.”

“Nice,” Durant said.

West straightened up, glaring at Wu.

“Now, then,” Wu said, waving the Beretta a little. “Let’s go surprise Reggie.”

West used the plastic card to open the steel sliding door into Simms’s office. With a nod of his head Wu indicated that West should go first. West went in, followed by Wu and then Durant.

Simms looked up from his spindly-legged desk. A smile, very warm and very white, appeared on his face. “Well, Artie,” he said. “And Quincy, too. What a pleasant surprise.”

“We didn’t want to disturb you when we heard you were busy, Reg,” Wu said, “but your Mr. West insisted.”

“I didn’t—”

Simms interrupted. “That’s all, Charles.”

“Are you sure, sir? I mean—”

“No. That’s all.”

“Here, kid,” Wu said, and handed him the Beretta. West glared again at Wu and left. Simms was up now, the white, almost shy smile still there. Durant studied him, trying to analyze how the older man made him feel. Durant discovered a mild, almost detached dislike, but no hatred, and that surprised him. He wasn’t at all sure whether it was a pleasant surprise or not.

“Well,” Simms said, “this calls for a bit of a celebration. Do sit down.” He indicated two chairs in front of his desk. As Wu and Durant sat down, Simms asked, “Now, what can I get you?”

“You still drinking Armagnac?” Durant said.

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll begin with some of that.”

Simms went to his bar and poured three glasses from what seemed to be a very old bottle. He brought the glasses back on a small silver tray and served Durant first, then Wu.

Simms lifted his own glass and said, “Well, to prosperity.”

He sipped his drink, watched as Durant and Wu tasted theirs, and then went back behind his desk and resumed his seat.

“I heard you were in town, of course.”

Durant smiled, but said nothing. Wu puffed on his cigar and tried some more of the Armagnac.

“Here on business — or just passing through?” Simms said.

Durant smiled again and said, “Two million dollars.”

Simms nodded, almost encouragingly. “An interesting sum.”

“We want it,” Durant said.

“Of course you do. And doubtless deserve it.”

Durant sipped his drink. “We’ve got the girl.”

“Well, now.”

“You can have her for two million.”

“Indeed.”

“She’s got some interesting information, Reg,” Wu said, “about you and Imperlino and Dallas and Jack Ruby and all that good shit. The Congressman seems to have been an awfully fine snoop. But then, he used to be a cop, didn’t he? And a pretty fair one, I hear.”

“Clever,” Simms said, nodding his appreciation. “Not only clever, but also cunning, and totally out of character.”

Durant nodded agreeably. “It does make us feel a little rotten, but we’ll probably get over it.”

“The money should help,” Wu said.

“Of course, I believe you have the girl.”

“Well, if you don’t,” Wu said, “we can always bring you an ear.”

“That’s not quite what I meant. You have the girl, of course, but what does she have that’s so dreadfully expensive?”

Durant finished his drink and put the glass on Simms’s desk. Simms picked it up and put it on the silver tray. Durant lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up in the air.