Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“Well, let’s see, what does she have?” Durant said. “She has some airline records concerning a couple of trips that a Mr. T. Northwood took to Miami and Chicago. The T is for Terence. Terence Northwood. To start with, she has that.”

“Well, now, that is interesting,” Simms said.

“We thought you’d think so,” Wu said. “By the way how is your old roomie?”

“How nice of you to ask, Artie,” Simms said. “He’s fine.”

“Good. You know, it might be nice if you brought him along tomorrow when we pick up the money.”

“Tomorrow?” Simms said, “That soon?”

Durant nodded. “That soon. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“You know something,” Simms said, “I’m beginning to believe you’re serious.”

“That’s very perceptive of you,” Durant said.

Simms examined Durant more closely. “You’ve changed, Quincy haven’t you? You’re more — well — determined, I suppose.”

“Very determined.”

“Interesting. Well, of course, I can’t make this decision myself.”

Wu rose, picked up Durant’s glass and his own, and moved over to the bar. “We’ll drink some more of your booze, Reg, while you go call good old Vince. You might tell him he has twenty minutes to make up his mind. It’s the usual setup. Nothing original. If we’re not heard from by then, the girl, files and all, go public. She should make quite a splash.”

Simms rose. “Yes, well, do enjoy your drinks and I’ll be back shortly.”

He was back in less than ten minutes. “Would you like to haggle a bit over the price?”

“No,” Durant said. “The price is firm.”

Simms sighed. “That’s what we were both afraid of. It’s something romantic to do with poor Eddie McBride and all that, I suppose.”

“You’re close,” Durant said.

“Well, we do insist on picking the place.”

“Okay,” Wu said.

“It’s a beach house here in Pelican Bay, quite remote. It was used as an office while all the houses on either side of it were being razed.”

“Whom does it belong to now?” Durant said.

“The city, but I have access. I’ve also drawn you a rather rough map.” He handed it to Durant, who looked at it, nodded, and put it away.

“Well, then,” Simms said. “Until ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“Will Imperlino be there?” Wu said.

“Indeed, yes.”

Wu rose, and so did Durant. “Just one more thing, Reg,” Durant said.

“What?”

“I bring the girl in and Artie waits outside. If anything tricky happens, Artie runs. But he’ll come after you — sometime. You know how Artie is. Mean. Think of it, waking up nights and realizing that somewhere out there the last of the Manchus is waiting.” Durant made himself shudder. “Jesus.”

Simms smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Do that,” Durant said.

At four minutes until ten the next morning, which was a Wednesday, the twenty-second of June, the big Chrysler station wagon, Artie Wu at the wheel, stopped along the deserted, closed road approximately fifty yards from the gray, two-story frame house that looked as if it properly belonged on Cape Cod rather than on a strip of Southern California beach.

Spaced at regular intervals on either side of the house were the remains of the foundations where other beach homes had once stood. Parked in the gray house’s driveway was a late-model Ford LTD sedan.

“It looks as though they’re already here,” Durant said, glancing carefully around. “How does it look to you?”

Artie Wu studied the house for a moment. “Like a setup,” he said, and then looked at his watch. “You ready?”

“What time is it?”

“You’ve got a minute or two.”

“Let’s be early,” Durant said.

Inside what had once been used as the living room of the gray house, Vincent Imperlino watched as Reginald Simms tied the strong, waxed black thread around the trigger guard of the .38 Colt automatic. He then took an ordinary thumbtack and used it to suspend the pistol in the well of the old battered desk that faced the door through which Durant would come.

“It’s one of those dirty little tricks that they taught us,” Simms said, now down behind and almost underneath the desk. He stuck the pin into the wood, wrapped the thread securely around it, and then let the pistol dangle. He rose, brushing his hands.

“It hangs upside down, of course, but still quite handy.”

“Do you think we’ll actually need it?” Imperlino said.

“One can take comfort in a hidden advantage whether one uses it or not.”

“Is that what they taught you too?”

“No,” Simms said. “I do think I just made that up.”

Artie Wu got out of the station wagon, opened the rear door, and stripped back the blanket. The rear seats had been lowered to form a deck space. Stretched out on the hard surface was Silk Armitage, her hands tied behind her back, her mouth taped, her eyes wide and very frightened.

Wu pulled her up into a sitting position and then lifted her out of the car and set her on her feet next to Durant, who glanced at her once and then looked around again.

“They sure as hell chose one deserted spot,” he said.

Wu, also looking around, nodded his agreement. “The next few minutes are going to be pretty interesting.”

“Uh-huh,” Durant said. He took Silk by the elbow. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”

Wu watched as Durant walked Silk Armitage down the cracked cement of the abandoned road, up the driveway, and into the condemned house. When they were out of sight, Artie Wu lit a cigar.

Just before he went into the house, Durant took the .38 revolver out of his pocket. He held it in his right hand down by his side. His left hand was on Silk Armitage’s elbow.

The door to the house was already open, so Durant went in, Silk Armitage slightly in front of him. Reginald Simms came out of the living room and stood in the small reception hall. Like Durant, he casually held a pistol in his hand down by his side, an automatic, which to Durant looked like the Beretta that Chuck West had had the day before.

“Well, Quincy,” Simms said. “I see that neither of us trusts the other very much.”

“Hardly at all.”

“We’re in here,” Simms said, indicating the open door that led into the living room.

“You first,” Durant said.

Simms smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

Simms went into the room and Durant guided Silk in, following closely behind her. He glanced around the room quickly. The tall, not quite heavy man who sat in the straight wooden chair in the corner would be Imperlino. There were a couple of other chairs, cast-off wooden ones, but except for them, and the one behind the old, scarred desk, that was all the furniture the room contained, except for the two suitcases on the floor, apparently brand new and about the size of large overnight bags.

“Well, I think everyone knows who everyone else is,” Simms said. “So any introductions would probably be unnecessary as well as tactless.”

“Let her sit down,” Imperlino said.

Durant guided Silk to one of the wooden chairs. She sat down in it, her eyes even wider and more frightened than before. She looked at Imperlino and then at Simms and finally at Durant. She stared at him for a long time and then closed her eyes wearily and slumped back in the chair. After a moment she opened them and stared out the window at the ocean, which seemed crisply blue and sparkling under the warm June sun.

“Let’s get to the money,” Durant said.

“The two cases there,” Simms said.

Durant went over to the cases, knelt down, and opened one of them. He kept his pistol in his right hand. The case was filled with fifty- and one-hundred-dollar bills, bound in neat bundles by heavy red rubber bands. Durant pawed through the stacks with his left hand, taking some of the packets out from the bottom and riffling through the bills.