Ross Thomas: Ah, Treachery!

General Vernon Winfield left his house the next morning at 7:15 A.M., carrying a black leather overnight bag. He walked briskly to Connecticut Avenue, turned south and continued the pace that was now aided by a mostly downhill grade.

The January weather, for a change, was fair but cold with little wind. The General wore his camel hair topcoat, his Borsalino hat and fur-lined leather gloves. He had settled into the rhythm of his pace and, without a glance, passed the narrow four-story building that housed the Acropolis Restaurant and VOMIT.

After reaching the Dupont Circle Metro station, he hurried down into a waiting red-line car, congratulating himself on either phenomenal or lucky timing. Winfield resurfaced near Union Station, soon reached and crossed the Capitol grounds, waited patiently for a green light at Second and Pennsylvania Avenue, then headed east until he came to Fourth Street, where he turned south again, ignoring the modest birthplace of J. Edgar Hoover.

Two and a half blocks later, on the east side of Fourth, he climbed five concrete steps, opened and went through a three-foot-high wrought-iron gate and six paces later reached a door that he guessed to be one hundred years old. He shifted the black overnight bag to his left hand, set it down, stripped off his right glove and used bare knuckles to knock on the old door.

It was opened almost immediately by an exceptionally pretty young brown-haired woman who obviously was just leaving. She wore a sheared beaver coat, pink mittens and a large brown leather purse slung over her right shoulder.

“You here to see Kitey?” she said.

The General nodded, smiling slightly.

“Well, he’s upstairs in the shower and I’ve gotta beat it so why don’t you just go in and sit down and make yourself uncomfortable on anything you pick.” She examined him more carefully, as if pricing his topcoat and hat. “You like fun?”

“Fun?” the General said.

“You know. Fun and games.” She used her teeth to yank off her right pink mitten, plunged the bare hand into her oversized purse, came up with a business card and handed it to Winfield. He looked down and saw that the card read “Connie.” Underneath that was a telephone number.

“Anytime,” she said, tugging on the mitten, “after six.”

Then she was gone, hurrying through the wrought-iron gate and bounding down the five steps. The General put her card in a topcoat pocket, picked up the overnight bag and entered the front parlor of Emory Kite.

He removed his hat, topcoat and remaining glove, placing them all on what he decided was a remarkably ugly love seat. After glancing around the rest of the Victorian room, the General grimaced slightly and sat down on the red velvet sofa, the black overnight case on his knees.

Winfield didn’t rise when he heard someone clatter down the stairs. Emory Kite entered the parlor, wearing pants, shirt and leather-heeled loafers. He started at the sight of the General, recovered nicely and asked, “Connie gone?”

“She said she couldn’t wait.”

“Uh-huh,” Kite said with a suspicious frown that he quickly erased with a grin. “Gave you her card, I bet.”

The General smiled slightly and nodded.

“I don’t mean to step out of line, General, but if you’re ever in the mood for a little of the strange, you can’t do any better’n Connie. Five hundred a night and cheap at the price. Nice girl, too. Went to college, got herself a pretty fair job at Interior, doesn’t do drugs and loves to travel.”

“Interesting,” the General said.

“Want some coffee? I told her to make a pot.”

“Yes, I would, thank you, Mr. Kite.”

“Be right back.”

Kite returned from the kitchen in less than two minutes with two mugs of coffee. He handed one mug to the General, then held his own with both hands as he sat down in a big armchair that was low enough for his feet to rest on the floor. Kite noisily sipped his coffee, peering over the mug’s rim at Winfield. “This ain’t no social call, is it?”

“No, Mr. Kite, it’s not. I’m in need of your services yet again.”

Kite’s left hand gave his earlobe a tug that seemed to make the corners of his mouth curl down. “Whatcha got in mind?”

“I’d like you to replace what you once removed — or had removed.”

Kite gave the left earlobe another tug and this time his eyes widened in either real or pretended surprise. “You mean in L.A.?”

“In Los Angeles, yes.”

“And you want it put back exactly where it was?”

“That’s not necessary. Once inside, you can leave it almost anywhere.”

“I’m not going in if anybody’s there.”

“I assure you no one will be there.”

“And my end?”

“The same as before. And as before, you’ll take care of your own expenses.”

“Why?” Kite said with what Winfield took to be an honestly puzzled frown. “I mean, you needed it then but now you don’t. How come?”

“I needed it desperately then,” Winfield said. “But I no longer do. I now consider it a loan that must be repaid anonymously. But this time no one is to be injured and, above all, no one is to be killed.”

Kite pointed his sharp chin at the black overnight bag that still rested on the General’s knees. “That it?” Kite asked.

The General nodded.

Kite put his mug down and rose. “Then maybe we oughta count it.”

“Yes, I think we should.”

The General rose, holding the overnight bag by its handle, and looked around the room. He noticed a marble-top table that was placed against the far wall. The marble’s color was mauve streaked by cream and each of the table’s six ornately carved mahogany legs ended in the inevitable ball and claw.

“That table do?” the General asked.

Kite looked. “Sure. I’ll just move the lamp over some.”

He crossed to the table and moved a shaded brass lamp to the rear left side. The General went over to place the overnight bag on the marble. “It’s unlocked,” he said.

“All hundreds?”

“Of course.”

“One-point-two million?”

“Exactly, Mr. Kite.”

Kite nodded, unsnapped the bag’s fasteners and lifted the lid,revealing neat, tightly packed rows of banded $100 bills. Kite stared at the money fondly, perhaps even lovingly, and was still staring at it when General Winfield cleared his throat and said, “Emory.”

“Yeah?”

“Close the lid.”

Kite froze, then thawed quickly enough to ask, “Why?” But he didn’t really wait for an answer. Instead, he slammed down the lid, spun around and lunged at the General, but slowed, then stopped altogether after Winfield shot him in the forehead with a .22-caliber revolver.

The rented two-bedroom third-floor apartment of Nick Patrokis was at 1911 R Street, N.W., and only a two-minute walk from VOMIT, providing the Connecticut Avenue lights were with him. The apartment had once been occupied by his uncle, the restaurateur, who years ago had moved to the farther reaches of Maryland out Massachusetts Avenue just beyond the District line.

After moving, the uncle had continued to pay the rent on the apartment because it was cheaper than paying the hotel and motel bills of his extended family, whose members dropped in on him with alarming regularity from Athens and London and Sydney and Rome and Brussels. With the founding of VOMIT, the uncle subleased the apartment to his nephew, Nicholas, and by letter, telephone, fax and word of mouth, informed members of his family that if they were planning to visit him in Washington, he could recommend a Holiday Inn out on New York Avenue that was cheap, clean and only a bit dangerous.

At 8:08 that morning, shortly after General Winfield shot Emory Kite, Nick Patrokis awoke in his bedroom, looked left and found a naked Shawnee Viar sitting cross-legged on the bed, studying him with what he thought looked suspiciously like adoration.