Ross Thomas - The Seersucker Whipsaw

“I am not drunk, Pete, but I intend to get that way.”

“He sang all the way from Ubondo,” Claude said “He taught me words to some very naughty songs.”

Shartelle looked around. “How’s this place, Miss Anne? My, but you are a fetching sight in that skimpy little bathing suit.”

“Why, thank you, Mistah Clint,” Anne said and curtsied, which I thought she did very well considering that she was almost naked. “This is a wonderful place. Pete and I are going to stay here for the rest of our lives.”

“How is M. Arceneaux?” Claude asked. “A little tiddled?”

“Just a little,” Anne said. “But it doesn’t seem to interfere with his cooking.”

Shartelle went back to the LaSalle and fetched the bags. “Boy,” he said, “there’s a case of some very fine brandy in the rear seat if you feel like getting it.”

I brought the brandy and deposited it in my cabin. Shartelle and Claude disappeared into theirs, emerging a few minutes later in bathing suits. Shartelle slapped Claude on her rear. “Ain’t she a fine figure of a woman, Pete!”

She was indeed. Dressed fully, Claude exuded sex. In a bikini, what the imagination had promised was completely delivered. She kissed Shartelle quickly on the cheek and ran towards the water. It was a delight to watch her run. Anne followed and they swam while Shartelle and I sat under the shade of a coconut tree and drank some more of the brandy.

“I reckon I’m going to marry that little old gal, Petey.”

“You asked her?”

“Sort of. Man of my age gets mighty cautious.”

“You’re old, all right.”

“Reckon I’m just purely in love.”

“An old shit like you. She say yes?”

“Kind of.”

“Lot of woman for an old man.”

“Now, I ain’t that old, boy.”

I took another sip of brandy and watched the two girls swim.

“How about you and Miss Anne?”

“I’m just purely in love,” I said.

“Gonna marry her?”

“Might.”

“Might?”

“Will.”

“None of my business, but Miss Anne sure seems like the right one.”

Shartelle was wearing trunks, but he retained his hat. He tipped it over his eyes, took a final sip of his brandy, and leaned back against the tree trunk. “Never been more content, Pete. Just sitting here watching two pretty, half-naked women cavorting in the water, drinking fine brandy, and knowing that you’ve just helped win another one. I do feel good.”

“No trouble?”

“When I left, it looked better’n ever.”

We drank, ate, swam, told stories and made love the rest of that day, all of Saturday, and part of Sunday. Then we sobered M. Arceneaux up enough to make out our bill. We had a final glass of brandy with him and headed back for Ubondo. I followed the big white LaSalle. Anne sat close to me with her head on my shoulder.

“It was so wonderful, Pete,” she said sleepily.

“It was perfect.”

“And we can really live in the house by the sea?”

“For the rest of our lives,” I said.

The guards at the gate of Chief Akomolo’s high-walled compound recognized the white LaSalle and waved us through on Monday night as Shartelle, Anne and I called to pay our respects to the man who looked to be the next Premier of the Federation of Albertia. Jenaro had been in touch with us throughout the day, as had Dr. Diokadu. The bellwether districts had come in early, and they pointed towards a bare majority for Akomolo’s party on the federal level, a sweep for Chief Dekko on the regional level.

We had given William and the rest of the staff the day off to vote and to round up all friends who could drop a ballot into boxes marked with the party’s crossed rake and hoe, a convenient symbol for those who couldn’t read. The other parties had symbols equally convenient. After our protocol visit with Chief Akomolo, we planned to have dinner at Claude’s and then we were all due at Jimmy Jenaro’s to wait for the final results.

Akomolo’s courtyard was filled with cars, people, and noise. Most of the crowd were market women dressed up in their best blue finery. They stood or squatted in the packed courtyard, giggled, gossiped, and sent up shrill cries of approval whenever a prominent Albertian entered the compound to pay his respects to Akomolo. They even cheered for us. Shartelle gave them the benediction of his cigar. The notables, as well as a raft of hangers-on, were gathered in a large downstairs room, gulping the Chief’s liquor and telling each other that they had known all along that he was destined to win. Whenever they could get Akomolo’s ear, they told him the same thing. The almost-Premier-elect was standing on the left side of the room as we entered. He was surrounded by a knot of well-wishers who all talked at once. He seemed to be half-listening, politely nodding his head from time to time. He looked tired and the tribal markings on his face appeared more deeply etched than ever.

The Chief smiled when he caught sight of Shartelle. It seemed to be his first smile of the evening and it was one of relief and delight. He moved towards us, both hands extended in greeting. “I’m so very pleased that you could come,” he said. “The reports are most encouraging.”

“It looks good, Chief,” Shartelle said. “Real good. I see you’ve got the usual bunch of courthouse grifters.”

Akomolo lowered his voice. “Jackals.”

“I bet they all knew from the beginning that you couldn’t possibly lose.”

Akomolo nodded. “To a man. But the market women in the courtyard are the best indication. They somehow sense the winner and flock to his house It is traditional. I am not at all sorry that they are here.”

By then the party had well-lubricated its collective vocal cords with Akomolo’s endless supply of liquor and was beginning to babble at a new and higher pitch. “Let’s go up to my study,” the Chief said. “We can’t possibly chat here.”

He turned to one of his aides to tell him that he would be available upstairs. We followed him up the one flight and arranged ourselves on the low couches. Chief Akomolo sat behind the desk, his hands already busy shuffling the pa pers that covered it. The ceiling fan still turned uselessly. I started to sweat.

“I wanted to take this occasion to thank you, Mr. Shartelle and Mr. Upshaw, for what you have done. I am not so naïve that I do not realize that you employed some — strategems, shall we say — that I might not have approved of had my approval been sought.”

Shartelle grinned his wicked grin. “Well, now, Chief, me and Pete just didn’t want to bother you with all the little details of the campaign. You had enough on your mind the way it was.”

Akomolo made a wry face. “I thought I knew something about the way politics works, Mr. Shartelle. But this campaign has broadened my education immensely. Some day I plan to do a paper on it — perhaps for your Foreign Affairs quarterly. Do you think they would be interested?”

“You’ll have to ask Pete about that, Chief.”

“They would jump at the chance to publish it,” I said.

“Well, I suppose it will have to wait a few months, but I think if it were well-done it might stand as a classic portrayal of the use of semi-sophisticated American political techniques in a newly-independent African nation. Perhaps Dr. Diokadu could help me with the research.”

“The only thing missing was television and radio,” Shartelle said.

The Chief smiled broadly. “Next time, friend Shartelle, I think I will have a bit more to say about the proper use of those two media.”

He quit smiling when they came in. There were seven of them, a Corporal in the Albertian Army and six Privates. They filled the small room. The Privates carried rifles — old Enfields. The Corporal held a sidearm — a.45 caliber Colt automatic. He aimed it at Akomolo.