Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

“No fucking way, Artie,” Overby said, and his right hand darted around toward the small of his back where he kept his snub-nosed revolver. But then his hand stopped. No, that wasn’t the play, Overby realized. That was just the check before the raise, the bump. They’re gonna sandbag somebody, Overby told himself with pleasure. So he smiled slightly; said, “No fucking way” again, but without much vehemence; folded his arms; and leaned against the wall, watchful and very much interested.

Ploughman frowned again, although this time it was more of a scowl than a frown. “Well, I’d sort of hate to lose Brother Overby here, on account of him and me’ve been talking about maybe going in together on a couple of small items after we get this mess here squared away. Which sort of reminds me, Durant. You know how to set up a Swiss bank account?”

“Sure,” Durant said. “You want us to set one up for you?”

“Would that mean you’d have to take my cut?”

“Well, it’s a little hard to open an account without any money.”

Ploughman rubbed his big chin. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Lemme think about it. Right now we’ve gotta figure out who we’re gonna give ’em.”

There was another lengthy silence that lasted almost thirty seconds until it was finally broken by Durant.

“Let’s give them Whittaker Lowell James,” he said, a small crooked smile on his face, his eyes fixed steadily on the older man.

Artie Wu stared at Durant. Then he smiled a big, broad, happy smile. “By God, I like it. I do.”

Ploughman chuckled. “These two guys are pretty funny, right, Pop?”

“Yes,” James said. “Very amusing.”

“He’s perfect, Chief,” Durant went on. “Think of the headlines, EX-DIPLOMAT SLAYS CIA TURNCOAT, MOB CHIEF. What do you think he’d get — a year, eighteen months?”

Ploughman again rubbed his big chin, staring at James. “If that,” he said. There was a pause and then he said, “You know what, Pop, I think they’re serious. I mean, they really want to set you up.”

“Yes,” James said, his voice calm, his gaze level. “So it would seem.”

“The best thing about it,” Durant said, “is that he can’t talk. If he denies it, then he has to explain, and if he explains, then he has to explain everything, and he can’t afford to do that, right, Whit?”

“There are reasons for not talking, which, I think, Quincy, you’d have a most difficult time understanding.”

“You know,” Ploughman said, “the more I think about this, the better I like it. Hell, Pop here comes off sort of a half-ass hero, I get the credit for making the collar, and Imperlino’s buddies have all that honor shit of theirs taken care of.” He turned to Overby. “What do you think, Otherguy?”

Overby smiled — a small, careful, crafty smile — as he stared at Whittaker Lowell James. “I say give ’em the old man.”

Ploughman looked at Artie Wu. “Well?”

Artie Wu blew another fat smoke ring up at the ceiling. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s give them Whit.”

“Well, I know how you feel, Durant,” Ploughman said. “But what about the little lady here?”

“It’s up to her,” Durant said. “The whole thing.”

Ploughman frowned again. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” Durant replied. “She has the yes or no vote. Whittaker Lowell James is probably as much responsible for the death of Congressman Ranshaw as anyone alive. You could probably never prove it, Chief, but it’s almost a cinch bet that he and some of his R Street cronies sent Simms into Pelican Bay to silence the Congressman and then, at the right time, take out Imperlino. But I think Simms’s loyalties got a little mixed up there toward the end. And when he showed signs of waffling, Artie and I were brought in — to find Silk and somehow stop Simms. If we found Silk, then Whittaker knew he could put a clamp on her one way or another. So you see, to him the whole thing was just one more rather big job for his mop.”

“Why?” Ploughman said. “He’s not with the government anymore.”

Durant smiled. “He’ll always be with the government,” he said, staring at James. “The real government, right, Whit?”

“Are you almost through, Quincy?” James said in a bored voice.

“Almost,” Durant said, and turned to Silk. “You can either let him loose and then try to get your story told, or you can put him away and then keep silent. You can’t have it both ways. Because if you decide to put him away, then you become part of it — this conspiracy. But if you let him go free and then try to get your story told, he’ll shut you up — and don’t ever, ever kid yourself that he can’t.”

“You’re babbling now, Quincy,” James said.

“Probably,” Durant said. “But there he is, lady, the Them and the They that the Congressman was always telling you about. You call it.”

Silk Armitage, the product of the Black Mountain Folk School in the Arkansas Ozarks and millionaire socialist singer of songs, stared for a long time at Whittaker Lowell James, the product of St. Paul’s, Yale, and years of quietly accumulated power. James returned her stare, on his lips a small, amused, almost aloof smile, the kind that a man wears when he has total confidence in himself and a kindly fate.

The long silence lengthened as Silk Armitage bit her lower lip and stared at Whittaker Lowell James. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, but firm.

“Give them the old man,” she said.

Chief Oscar Ploughman whistled and hummed “Harbor Lights” as he drove his black unmarked Plymouth sedan down Seashore Drive on his way to Police Headquarters with his distinguished-looking, gray-haired prisoner safely handcuffed in the seat beside him. When Ploughman reached the small circle that boasted the twenty-one-foot-high statue that was the last pelican in Pelican Bay, he gave it a small salute and said, “How the hell are ya, Freddie?”

Whittaker Lowell James stared straight ahead and didn’t bother to ask who Freddie was.

The evening of that same Wednesday, late, when the sun was going down, Quincy Durant and Silk Armitage walked barefoot in the sand along the beach at Paradise Cove. They had walked from Durant’s house up to Little Point Dume and now they were walking back. Silk wore white shorts and a soft blue sweater. Durant had on his sawed-off jeans and the faded sweat shirt that read DENVER ATHLETIC CLUB.

They had been walking in silence for nearly five minutes when Silk said, “That old man.”

“What about him?”

“Was he evil?”

“Evil. That’s not a word I use very much.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t suppose he was evil. Or is.”

“What he did, he did because he thought he was right.”

Durant shook his head. “He didn’t just think it; he knew it.”

“But he wasn’t, was he?”

“Well, he’s in jail,” Durant said.

“But that doesn’t mean we were right.”

“No,” Durant said, “it means that we got away with it.”

“And that’s what counts.”

“Usually.”

“You know something?” she said.

“What?”

“I should feel awful, but I don’t.”

“You just won one.”

“Did I?”

“You’d better think of it that way.”

They walked on in silence until they passed the pier and were approaching Durant’s house. She wondered if he would ask her in again. They had spent most of the afternoon and early evening there in bed. Then she knew that he wouldn’t. She wasn’t quite sure how she knew.

“What happens now?” she said.

“I’m not sure.”

“Will you go to Switzerland?”