Ross Thomas - The Seersucker Whipsaw

“Call ’em off, Shartelle.” The man had a Massachusetts accent.

“Call what off, sir?”

“Your goddamned helicopters.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Don’t call me boy, you white bastard! I’m Calhoun from Renesslaer. Call ’em off!” He was furious.

Shartelle chuckled. “Now would that be Franchot Tone Calhoun? I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Madame Duquesne, on my right. Miss Kidd. My associate, Mr. Upshaw. And Chief Jenaro, Minister of Information for the Western Region, and, I might add, the gentleman to whom your request should be directed.” Shartelle settled back in the leather seat, stuck his twisty, black cigar in his mouth, and grinned wickedly.

Jenaro caught Calhoun by the arm and spun him around. There was no big white smile below his wraparound shades. “Now, boy, what can I do for you?” Jenaro’s accent came out pure Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio.

The young American Negro twisted away from Jenaro’s hand. “Call off those ’copters. We’ve got a right to the sky.”

“Can’t call ’em off. No radio contact.”

Franchot Tone Calhoun stood quivering for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Then he turned and ran off through the crowd.

By that time the South African was turning the blimp around and herding it off towards the horizon. Every time the blimp’s pilot would attempt to maneuver, the South African would bring his rotors within inches of the outer skin. The crowd made one continuing roar.

“What if he ripped the outer covering, Pete?” Anne asked.

“I don’t know, but I think nothing. They must have it sectionalized by now. But I don’t blame the blimp driver. That South African is crazy enough to do it.”

The skywriter gave up, wiggled his wings in resignation, and flew off. The blimp pooped along the sky towards the horizon. It showed no evidence of turning back towards the race course.

The two helicopters flew low over the race track and the crowd screamed, “Ako! Ako!” Then the pilots did a few up, down and sideways tricks in unison before settling back to the ground. The crowd mobbed them.

Jenaro grinned some more. “The word will go forth from this place, Pete, of how Ako’s machines drove the evil ones from the skies.”

“I trust you’re giving those two boys a bonus,” Shartelle said.

“Bonus, hell. They charged me 250 pounds each in advance before they’d even get off the ground. I’ve got to go round up my poison squad and send them out.” He waved a goodbye and melted into the crowd.

Shartelle shook his head in admiration. “There goes one smart nigger,” he said. It seemed to be the highest compliment he could pay.

The green flags which were stuck in the map of Albertia that hung on the wall of the wide-eaved house continued to sprout, replacing the yellow ones that indicated doubtful districts. By the Thursday before the Monday election there were enough of them to indicate that Chief Akomolo would be asked to form the government.

Shartelle liked to stand in the room and squint at the map, puffing on his cigar, a contented smile on his face. Occasionally one of Jenaro’s three telephone men would hang up, grin at Shartelle or me, and change another flag from yellow to green. On rare occasions, a red flag would be changed to yellow, signifying that one of the districts formerly wired by Fulawa or Kologo had gone doubtful for them.

“I’d say we’ve done all the mischief we can, Pete,” Shartelle said that Thursday afternoon as we slumped in the chairs in the living room, drinking iced tea and eating some delicate sandwiches that Claude had taught Samuel to make. Samuel called them “small chop.”

“Now when you get to this point in a campaign, you hold your celebration. You don’t wait until you’ve won, because there’s too many folks around slapping you on the back and wondering whether you could find a job for their twenty-four-year-old nephew who just got out of the state penitentiary. And you don’t celebrate if you lose, of course, so the only thing to do is pitch your party when you’ve done all you can and it looks like you just might sneak in.”

“You got an idea?”

“Well, I’ve been talking it over with the Widow Claude and she knows a kind of retreat over in the next country where it’s French and all. Some old boy she knows runs a kind of resort there on a lagoon — they got lagoons in Africa?”

“Beats me.”

“Well, the widow says it’s on a nice beach and they got nice little cottages and the food, according to her, is magnifique, so I figure it ought to be right eatable. Now if Miss Anne could talk the Peace Corps out of her services for a weekend, why I thought we’d all go over to this resort and sort of relax. I might even get drunk, if I feel good enough, and I’m feeling fine right now. How’s that sound?”

“Great.”

Shartelle took a swallow of his tea. “Sometimes you can sense them, Pete. Sometimes you just know when you’ve won a close one, and that’s the feeling I’ve got now. And I do like it! You got that feeling?”

“I think so. My antennae aren’t as keen as yours. But I’ll be damned if I can think of anything else I can do.”

Shartelle put his tea down and stretched. “You’ve done well, Pete. Better’n anybody I’ve ever worked with. Maybe we can take on another one some of these days.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Anne and I arrived at the resort over in the next country, as Shartelle put it, around noon the next day. It was called Le Holiday Inn, but I didn’t think anyone in the States was going to sue. It was owned and operated by a round little Frenchman called Jean Arceneaux and he seemed to enjoy the wine from his cellar as well as the food on his table. He was half smashed when we checked in, but Claude had previously assured us that he would be.

Le Holiday Inn was located on a small bay that backed around in an S-curve. The tide kept the white sand beach cleaned off and the water was as fresh as the sea. There were six small, one-room cabins, each with its own tiled bathroom — containing a bidet, which M. Arceneaux pointed to with pride. The cabins were shaded by coconut palms and the beach started almost at their doorways. thatched pavilion with walls that went halfway up served as a dining room. When it rained, bamboo-slatted blinds were rolled down. M. Arceneaux lived in a small house to which the resort’s kitchen was attached. We were the only customers.

Shartelle and Claude were to have left two or three hours after we did. Shartelle had wanted to make a final swing through Ubondo’s so-called downtown section. “I just want to nose around a bit, Pete. Me and the Widow Claude will take the LaSalle.”

At Le Holiday Inn, M. Arceneaux wanted somebody to drink with before lunch so I obliged. Anne kept pace. M. Arceneaux was not only a noteworthy drinker, he was also a talker. We discussed De Gaulle and M. Arceneaux gave an excellent impersonation. We talked about his liver for a while, and he assured us that the trouble lay in the bad water in the area. He was now confining himself to wine. I remarked that the wine seemed to be running low. A waiter produced another bottle immediately. We drank that and talked about French wine for a while which we agreed was the best in the world. Anne said that she thought California wines were improving, but M. Arceneaux disputed her contention and delivered a fifteen-minute monologue on the history, technique and future of the French wine industry. It was a fascinating, graphic description and Anne agreed that the California wine growers might as well close up shop. We decided to try another bottle of the rare vintage which M. Arceneaux had been saving for just such a special occasion. We drank it solemnly and agreed that it justified his faith. Then we ate. We began with snails and ended with salad. The entree was what M. Arceneaux described as “boeuf Holiday Inn.” It was one of the best steaks I’ve ever had. We voted to help ourselves to another bottle of the rare wine, which went especially well with the beef. After lunch, M. Arceneaux presented us with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He announced that he planned to retire for his usual nap, and moved off towards his house, weaving only slightly.