Ross Thomas: Ah, Treachery!

“How much, all in all?”

“A gross of $1,548. Less Federal withholding and Social Security, a net of $1,022.30.”

“What about state income tax?”

“Wyoming doesn’t have any.”

“I think I’ll retire there,” the General said and asked, “Then what?”

“Then she said there was no way in God’s world she could come up with that much cash on Christmas Eve with the banks closed. So I told her that since this was, in essence, a matter of national security, it was also her beloved nation’s responsibility. Whereupon—”

“By God, I do like the occasional ‘whereupon,’ ” the General said.

“Whereupon, I gave her two thousand cash money, eased her back into her bedroom and fucked her cross-eyed.”

The General chuckled. “And Twodees?”

“He’d cleared out of Sheridan by noon Christmas Day.”

The General’s expression went from merry to grim. “That, I don’t like. He didn’t set up a howl. He didn’t lose his temper. He didn’t even beat the shit out of you the way he did me that time. He just packed his bags and caught the noon bus.”

“He flew out,” Colonel Millwed said. “He flew to Denver and disappeared for about a week until he surfaced in L.A.”

“How’d you find out Altford might’ve hired him?”

“Our guy in VOMIT.”

“Ah,” the General said contentedly, finished his drink, put the glass on a table and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, cigar now in his right hand. “What we need, Ralphie, is a direct line to Ms. Altford. Any notions?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t want maybes, goddamnit. I want specificity and hope.”

“It’s better you don’t know just yet. Sir.”

“Since ignorance is not only bliss but also an alibi?”

The Colonel nodded.

“What else?”

“Comes now General Vernon Winfield. Class of ’forty-eight. DSC from Korea. He was in Vietnam when you were.”

“The deserter.”

“He didn’t desert.”

“Might as well have,” the General said. “The son of a bitch said it was a dumb war and unwinnable. He was right, of course, but he shouldn’t have said it. Not then. Not in ’sixty-eight with the whole fucking country about to explode. And who does he say it to? To that pissant wire service guy and zap, out it goes all over the world. Looking back, that’s when I think we really lost it. Right then and there.”

“It was lost in ’fifty-four at Dien Bien Phu.”

“Shit, Ralphie, you weren’t even born then.” The General sighed, drew on his cigar, blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “So what about General Winfield?”

“He’s close to Millicent Altford.”

“How close is close?”

“They were sweeties back in the early ’fifties and I hear they still hold hands now and then — or whatever it is they do at sixty-five or thereabouts.”

“I don’t know about you, kid,” General Hudson said, “but at sixty-five I plan to be fucking good-looking women.”

“I’m sure you will be, sir.”

“So what’ve we got on Winfield other than that he lost Vietnam and cofounded VOMIT?”

“Nothing.”

“Another wrong answer.”

“I can try to dig up something,” Colonel Millwed said. “But if nothing’s buried, I’ll have to fabricate it and that can get expensive.”

“Tell me something, Ralphie,” the General said. “You really want that star by the time you’re forty?”

The Colonel only nodded.

“And do you want to retire at fifty, like I’m planning to, with a nice little pension and maybe a useful contact or two in whatever’s left by then of our military-industrial complex?”

“That very thought has occurred to me.”

“Then you’d better listen carefully to your orders, Colonel. One: You will remain on TDY until further notice. Two: You will get us some nasty on Vernon Winfield, even if you have to fabricate said nasty. Three: You will then coerce Winfield into using his liaison with Millicent Altford to feed us a running line on Twodees. And four, you will, at the appropriate time, fix Twodees.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why fix him now? He was more of a threat to us last year than now.”

“You apparently haven’t yet noticed, Colonel, that in two weeks or so we’ll have a new administration. In less than a year this new administration will find itself in deep political shit. New administrations always do. It will then cast about for a suitable diversion. What Twodees knows and possibly can prove could serve this new White House bunch as just such a diversion of the minor witch-hunt variety. Unfortunately, Colonel, it’ll be you and me they burn at the stake.”

After ten seconds of thought, the Colonel finally agreed with a reluctant nod.

“But with Twodees fixed,” the General continued, “this new bunch need never hear of you or me except, of course, in a most salutary manner. And when it does find itself in need of a scapegoat or two, it can go hunt up somebody far more deserving.”

There was a lengthy silence until Colonel Millwed said, “I think,” then paused and began again. “I think I’ll farm out the fix on Twodees.”

The man with the clipboard and the manila envelope didn’t look like a messenger to Edd Partain. But because of California’s stubborn recession, Partain wasn’t at all sure how Los Angeles messengers should look.

The few he occasionally had dealt with in Sheridan had all been old guys, World War Two vets mostly, with ancient pickups, raging thirsts and a desperate need to supplement their Social Security checks.

But the one who stood in the apartment doorway at 7:19 that morning seemed to regard himself as more emissary than messenger. He appeared to be 36 or so, topped Partain’s six-two by a couple of inches and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. Everything about him — his weathered good looks and size, his superior attitude and expensive clothes — irritated Partain and made him, at 41, feel old and jaundiced and secondhand shabby.

Partain was barefoot and wearing worn jeans and a ripped white T-shirt when he had opened the door to silence the chime-ringing. The smiling messenger stood there, resplendent in a navy-blue cashmere blazer with gold buttons, pale cream shirt, tan cavalry twill pants and, on sockless feet, cordovan loafers. But now the smile had vanished and the messenger wore an earnest, if puzzled, frown and beneath that an assortment of other lines and creases that Partain attributed to idleness, dissipation and too much time at the beach.

“I guess I haven’t made myself clear,” the messenger said in a friendly bass.

“Sure you have,” Partain said. “You said she has to sign for the envelope. I said I won’t wake her up but’ll be glad to sign for it. You say that’s against the rules. I’m about to say: Come back later.”

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“I’m the family’s new best friend.”

“Well, look, friend, I’m just trying to do my job and—”

“Like hell,” Jessica Carver said as she entered the foyer. Partain turned to find her wearing only a very long white T-shirt she obviously had slept in.

“Claims he’s a messenger,” Partain said.

“He’s Dave,” she said. “Does Dave look like a messenger?”

“Goddamnit, Jessie. We have to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” she said and turned to Partain. “Get rid of him.”

“Could be messy,” he said.

“So?” she said and vanished into the living room.

Partain was still watching her leave when he said, “Sorry, Dave,” and turned around just as the false messenger cocked a big right fist and sent it toward Partain’s heart. But because of the fist-cocking business, Partain easily slipped the blow, went in close and slammed the heel of his left palm against Dave’s right eye.