Philip Kerr - The Shot

He handed Tom his business card. Tom took it and glanced at the name and the L.A. address, which was somewhere near Sunset Strip. But it was the job title that intrigued Tom. The card described Ralston as a strategist.

‘These days I’m working for the government. In a strategic and advisory capacity. Helping them to solve problems, preparing working papers for discussion groups, that kind of thing. I give those cards out, and unlike you, most people ask, “What’s a fucking strategist?” And I say that a strategist is a kind of trouble-shooter.’

‘Like me,’ said Tom.

‘Hmm?’

His eyes following the ball, Ralston didn’t even acknowledge the joke. He was concentrating on the game and on himself. Reflecting that clearly these were subjects Ralston enjoyed, Tom offered up an equally provocative description of those he guessed were probably Ralston’s associates.

‘You’re working for the agency of bright ideas and brainwaves. Also known as E Street, right?’ Tom was referring to the Washington headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.

‘The trouble with a lot of so-called bright ideas is that they simply are not very practical. Not to say hare-brained. Oh, good shot.’ Ralston began to applaud.

‘God save us from people with bright ideas.’ Tom noted that Ralston had not contradicted his suggestion that he was working for the CIA. ‘That’s what I always say.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Ralston. He handed Tom his copy of the previous day’s New York Times which had been folded so that he could read an account of Fidel Castro’s trip to New York, to address the General Assembly of the United Nations.

Tom glanced over the story, with which he was already familiar from his own paper. Alleging that they were being overcharged, the Cuban delegation had moved out of the Shelburne Hotel to stay with their oppressed black brothers in the Theresa, a run-down flophouse in Harlem that not even the poorest African diplomat would have considered suitable. The Times reported the mess the Cubans were accused of making in their rooms during their brief sojourn in the Shelburne: cigar burns in the rugs, chicken feathers in the rooms, raw meat left in a refrigerator. It was almost as if the newspaper was suggesting that some voodoo-communist rite had been performed there — a Marxist-Zombie created to wreak havoc on the capitalist world. Meanwhile, at the Theresa, the reporting fixed on the squalor and the number of prostitutes who frequented the place. A library picture of Castro, smoking a large cigar, appeared next to a shot of the neglected Harlem hotel front.

Ralston sighed loudly. ‘But even if I told you, you simply would not believe the kind of hare-brained schemes the people at Quarters Eye have thought up to deal with our friend in the paper.’

Tom knew that Quarters Eye, on Ohio Drive in Washington, was another part of the CIA — the part that dealt with Cuba.

‘Blind eye would be a better name for that place. You simply would not believe it. They’ve come up with everything from an exploding cigar to a dirty toilet seat.’

‘Catch a man when he’s got his pants down, huh?’ said Tom. ‘I’ve done a bit of that myself. A target stays steady when he’s taking a dump.’

The crowd roared its approval as one of the Cuban players in the green shirts pulled off a spectacular catch.

‘Shooting’s one thing. Dumb ideas are another. There is too much unnecessary complication around these days,’ observed Ralston. ‘Too much gorp on the front of the Cadillac, so to speak. You know what I mean?’

‘I think so.’

‘Those bombs on the front of the fifty-three model.’

‘Dagmars.’

‘Devoid of utility and impossible to repair. You’ve got to keep things simple. That’s what I’m talking about. Look at the Volkswagen. Look at the Porsche. Look at you.’

‘Me?’

‘What you did down in Argentina? No cigar. No bullshit. It was just match-grade, boat-tailed, high-quality loads at one hundred yards. Am I right?’

It was Ralston’s turn to remain uncontradicted.

‘Simple,’ he continued. ‘Of course, I’m not for a minute suggesting that it was an easy takedown. From what I heard it was a shot to take gold at the Pan American Games. No, the point I’m making is that what you do, what you are good at, is as reliable a method of pest control as it’s always been, since way back when. Since Tim Murphy brought down General Simon Fraser at three hundred yards during the battle of Saratoga.’

Tom was impressed. The exploits of famous snipers were something that had been drummed into him twenty years earlier, during his training at Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps Scout and Sniper School, in Greens Farm, San Diego. But he would not have said that the man sitting next to him showed any signs of having been in the military. The mob, maybe, but not the army.

‘That’s why I’m talking to you now,’ said Ralston. ‘The people I represent. People in government. They would like you to prepare a feasibility study for a job covering the gentleman in the Times .’

A little uncomfortably, Tom glanced around him.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about these people,’ said Ralston. ‘I bet there is not a man here who wouldn’t like to see the Maximum Leader turn up his toes. Besides, nobody’s speaking English except you and me.’

‘A feasibility study, huh?’

‘Can it be done, Mister Jefferson? If so, how? And for how much? And if the Maximum Leader, then what chance his bearded brother, Raul, at the same time? You could say that’s my own quiniela exacta , so to speak. There’s not much odds in picking the winner if you can’t pick the runner up too, eh? Naturally, we will cover the cost of your wager.’

Ralston handed Tom the paperback novel. Seeing Tom merely stare at it, he said: ‘You should never judge a book by its cover.’

Perceiving that the book hid something of value, Tom placed it on his lap and, surreptitiously riffling the pages, discovered that it contained five one-hundred bills. Turning the book over, he glanced at the copy on the back. Appropriately enough the story seemed to be set on some fictional island in the Caribbean.

‘I’m looking forward to reading this,’ he said.

‘Excellent. But don’t take too long. I’m eager to tell my friends what you think about it.’

‘I’m a fast reader, Mister Ralston. I can probably give you a reader’s report within a few days.’

‘Shall we say a week?’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you know the University Inn, in Coral Gables?’

‘I know it. The place on campus,’ said Tom. ‘Next to the Riviera Golf Course.’

‘You can leave a message for me there. Do I take it that as well as being a hunter, you are also a golfer?’

‘What else is there to do in Miami?’

‘No doubt I could offer you some surprises. However, I myself play at the Biltmore.’

‘That’s a better course. Plenty of creeks to fuck around with your game. The Riviera’s okay. I mean it’s well trapped, but there are no water hazards, and in Florida, well, that’s like a circus without any clowns.’

‘You must like losing balls. Where do you play?’

‘Miami Shores. One of the toughest courses in Florida, I reckon.’

‘Who’s the pro there?’

‘Jim MacLaughlin.’

‘And what’s your handicap?’

‘Eight.’

‘What a coincidence. So’s mine. We must play sometime.’

‘Yes, but where? It ought to be on neutral ground.’

‘Ever play Coral Ridge, in Fort Lauderdale?’

‘No.’

‘Neither did I. But Lou Worsham, the pro there, he’s a friend of mine. I’ll arrange something with him.’

Tom smiled to himself. Ralston was obviously the kind of man who dropped names like bad golfers dropped shots. He wondered which one of the quartet of men he had met in Vegas had been the friend who’d told Ralston about the contract in Buenos Aires. Not Ilani, that was for sure: the Israeli didn’t look like the type. But that left any one of the other three: Davidson, Dalitz, or Rosenstiel. He guessed Dalitz. Dalitz had more connections than GEC.