Ross Thomas - Ah, Treachery!

“Where’s the substitute one-point-two million now?” Partain said. “Not back in your safe, I hope.”

“No.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“In Santa Paula?”

She nodded. “Wanta go take a look at it?”

Partain thought about whether he did or not. “I don’t know. You want me to?”

“I need a just-in-case witness.”

“Just in case of what?”

“In case something happens to me.”

Partain picked up the check. “Let’s go.”

As they drove toward the bank on Main Street, Partain noticed that a sign on the front door of a Santa Paula newspaper said, “Closed.” On Main Street itself, at least nine stores stood vacant. A few optimistic entrepreneurs had rented other stores to try their luck at selling used furniture, secondhand books, Army surplus and palm readings.

Partain also noticed that while two Main Street banks had either failed or moved, the independent Farmers & Mechanics Bank was still in business. It had been founded in 1909 and Partain decided its plain granite facade and six fat round stone pillars were curiously reassuring. He was almost certain they had had a lot to do with the bank’s survival.

The safe-deposit boxes were in the bank’s basement. Millicent Altford and a young woman who was an assistant cashier used separate keys in the box’s two locks. After the young woman left, Altford pulled at a big steel box-drawer that had a hinged lid. She had it halfway out when she looked at Partain and said, “Mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, pulled the steel box the rest of the way out and carried it over to a semi-enclosed waist-high counter. He guessed the steel box itself weighed nine or ten pounds, but now contained something that made it weigh close to thirty-one or thirty-two pounds. Because it had once been his business to know how much U.S. currency weighed, Partain wasn’t at all surprised by the box’s weight. Nor was he surprised when Altford raised the box’s lid to reveal what he assumed were 240 wrapper-bound packets of $100 bills, each packet containing fifty bills.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

“Want to count it?”

“No.”

After she closed the lid, Partain said, “Who else knows about it?”

“Nobody.”

“Your daughter know?”

She shook her head.

Partain picked up the box and shoved it back into its slot. “What about your boyfriend and fellow trustee, the General?”

“I hope to God he doesn’t,” Altford said as she turned the key in the safe-deposit box lock.

The General cashed the $5,000 check at his bank and handed the money to Patrokis. They then drove to the Madison in the General’s car, which he turned over to the hotel’s doorman. In the Madison coffee shop, Winfield ordered the croque-monsieur and a bowl of potato and leek soup. Patrokis demanded and got a hot fudge sundae.

“So what’s the report from the coast?” Patrokis asked after licking the last of the hot fudge from his spoon.

“Major Partain seems to be exactly what was needed.”

“He’s not a major anymore.”

“Yes, well, I’ve looked into that a bit and, as far as I’m concerned, he’s still Major Partain.”

“But he’s no sleuth, no private detective.”

“She wasn’t looking for one,” the General said. “She was looking for someone to guard her back.”

“At that he’s good,” Patrokis said, then paused and asked, “You really did check him out?”

“I made some superficial inquiries,” Winfield said, ate the last of his ham and cheese sandwich, chewed, swallowed and said, “You two met in Vietnam.” It wasn’t a question.

“He pulled me out of a hole.”

“Really? What sort of hole?”

“A mental one.”

“Ah,” the General said and looked at his watch. “What time is our meeting with the Salvadoran Captain?”

“Four-thirty.”

“We’d best be on our way, then.”

After the Madison doorman whistled up the General’s new red BMW convertible, he was rewarded with a $10 tip. Once they were in the car and heading west on M Street toward Connecticut Avenue, Patrokis said, “You gave him ten bucks.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I saw you.”

“The dollar is now worth twenty-three percent of what it was worth in nineteen-sixty-five. So in effect, I gave him $2.30. In nineteen-sixty-five, I probably would’ve tipped him $2 or, in today’s money, $8.69. Therefore, instead of being too generous, I was, in fact, rather parsimonious.”

“God, I hate money nuts,” Patrokis said.

The General turned right at Connecticut and Columbia Road and drove until he found a parking lot within walking distance of Mint-wood Place. He entrusted his car to a young Guatemalan who wore a strange derby of sorts that seemed three sizes too small.

The address on Mintwood Place was a typical three-story brick row house that had been converted into small apartments. The Salvadoran Captain’s apartment was 321, which turned out to be at the rear of the third floor.

Patrokis knocked at the door twice before a man’s voice from inside the apartment demanded in Spanish to know who was there.

“El Greco y un amigo,” Patrokis said.

The door opened just enough to let one dark brown eye peer at them. It then opened wide enough to let them slip through and into the apartment. The Salvadoran Captain was not yet 30 and not very tall, no more than five-six, but he still had a military bearing even in T-shirt, jeans and running shoes, which, after all, the General decided, was the civilian uniform of the times.

The Captain didn’t ask them to sit and looked embarrassed because of his rudeness. He looked embarrassed enough for Patrokis to ask, again in Spanish, “What’s happening, friend?”

“I fear there has been a misunderstanding,” the Captain replied in Spanish.

The General also used Spanish to ask, “Of what kind, please?”

The Captain stared at him and said, “You are called?”

“Winfield.”

“He’s the General I mentioned,” Patrokis said.

The Captain came to attention and stayed that way even after Winfield said, “Retired.”

“I regret what we discussed is no longer possible,” the Captain said to Patrokis.

Patrokis nodded and took the roll of $5,000 in $100 bills from a pocket. There was now a rubber band around the roll and Patrokis snapped it absently. The Captain stared at the money.

“You are certain?” Patrokis asked.

“I am certain.”

“May I ask why?”

“It is not possible,” the Captain said again.

“But why is it not possible?”

“If a thing is not possible it is impossible.”

“Perhaps the money is insufficient?” General Winfield asked.

“It is not a question of money.”

“We need those two names,” Patrokis said. “We will pay five thousand dollars for the names.”

“There are no names,” the Captain said.

“There were this morning.”

“I was mistaken this morning.”

“You don’t look like a man who makes mistakes,” the General said.

The Captain said nothing and looked away.

“Let’s go,” Patrokis said in English and turned toward the door.

“If you change your mind,” the General said, “please telephone my friend.”

“I will not be changing my mind, sir.”

The General nodded his understanding and glanced around the room, noting the new television set and the old couch. He also noticed the picture of the Virgin and the dining table below it. Beyond the table was a small kitchen. To the left of the couch was a closed door that he assumed led to a bath and a bedroom. On the floor was an eight-by-ten rug of indeterminate age and color. There were two floor lamps, one of them next to the old couch, the other beside a worn easy chair that looked even older than the couch.