Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

Padillo liked the idea. “Take a cab out there,” he urged Haynes. “You have any cash?”

“A few hundred.”

Padillo took out a wallet, looked inside, then handed Haynes a sheaf of tens and twenties. “Here’s a couple of hundred more.” He looked at McCorkle, who was already examining the contents of his own billfold. “How much’ve you got?” Padillo asked.

“Three hundred,” McCorkle said, rose and handed the bills to Haynes.

Mott took a small roll from a pants pocket, removed five $100 bills and gave them to Haynes. “A contribution from Tinker Burns.”

Haynes grinned his father’s grin. “Tinker pay you his retainer in cash?”

“He tried to.”

“You know the routine,” Padillo said.

Haynes nodded as he put the money away in a pants pocket. “Cash in advance. Use a phony name to register. I’ve always liked ‘Clarkson’ because it’s not too common and not too rare. On the registration form, give the car’s make but shift the model year up or down a year or two. Invent a license number. If they ask for a driver’s license, walk.”

“I’ll go with you,” Erika said. “That way you can register as Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Clarkson.”

There was a brief silence before Haynes said, “I like the name,” and turned to look at McCorkle. Padillo and Mott also looked at him. Erika didn’t.

McCorkle was busy removing the childproof wrapping from a piece of Nicorette gum. Haynes noticed it was taking him much longer than usual. McCorkle finally got the piece out, popped it into his mouth and gave it seven or eight ruminative chews as he studied the ceiling.

He then looked at his daughter, whose back was still to him, and said, “That’s not such a bad idea, Erika.”

The private room on the third floor of Sibley Hospital in far northwest Washington was guarded by Mr. Pabst and Mr. Schlitz. When Pabst noticed Padillo and McCorkle coming out of an elevator, he nudged Schlitz, and the two big men rose from folding metal chairs to plant themselves in front of the room’s door.

“No visitors,” Pabst warned when McCorkle and Padillo were close enough to hear him.

The would-be visitors came to a stop. Padillo stared at Pabst for several seconds, then said, “Tell him we’re here.”

“I just told you. No visitors.”

“Tell him,” said Padillo, somehow managing to turn the two softly spoken words into pure menace.

Pabst studied the fire extinguisher to Padillo’s right. “If he don’t wanta see you, you don’t go in.”

Padillo, still staring at Pabst, said nothing. McCorkle gave Schlitz a friendly grin and a nod, which weren’t returned. Pabst shot a furtive glance at Padillo, then darted into the hospital room and came out less than fifteen seconds later to announce: “Harry says it’s okay.”

Inside the room, McCorkle and Padillo found Harry Warnock lying in bed on his back. An intravenous drip solution had been inserted into a vein in his left arm.

McCorkle said,” You look like hell.”

“But far better than Horse Purchase” Warnock said. “The fucker nicked my liver and the quacks say I best lay off the booze for a few months. And ’tis this sad news that’s causing me to look so dismal.”

“Sad news indeed,” McCorkle said.

Warnock turned his head to look at Padillo, who had moved around to the other side of the bed. “You should’ve seen him, Michael.”

“Who?”

“McCorkle.”

“I heard.”

“One had to be there. Especially when he took his high hop to the right. I thought he’d never come down. A regular fucking Nureyev, he was.” Warnock paused, looked back at McCorkle and said, “How’s the client?”

“Fine.”

“All safe and sound?”

McCorkle nodded.

“I fucked up,” Warnock said. “I didn’t figure on the likes of Purchase and when he came through those elevator doors, he surprised the shit out of me. I thought he might be working a twofer — you and the client. All I could do was make him notice me first.” He paused, took a deep breath, winced, let it out slowly and said, “If I’d even suspected it was Purchase who’d be coming, I’d’ve been up in the room with two helpers and the client locked in the bath.” He looked at Padillo again. “Did Horse make a move on him?”

Padillo said he had.

“What made him miss?”

“The client,” Padillo said. “He’s something of a mimic.”

Warnock grinned. “Voices, right? Two voices talking behind the hotel room door. By God, I like that.”

“Tell us about Purchase, Harry,” Padillo said.

“You never heard of him?”

“Never.”

“I’d call that passing strange, Michael, except you’ve been out of it for years — or so they say.”

“They’re right.”

“Well, young Horse Purchase joined the Army at eighteen in nineteen sixty-three and after they measured his IQ, which was way up there, and noticed his fine eyesight, reflexes and coordination, they shipped him off to Special Forces — poor Mr. Kennedy’s pet outfit. Horse did six years, most of it in Vietnam, and enjoyed his work. He enjoyed it so much the Army thought it’d best get rid of him. And that it did in ’sixty-nine. Horse never married. Never drank. Never did dope. But he had his trade and his trade was his life so be decided to hire himself out.”

“Who to, Harry?” Padillo asked.

“Well, he sure as shit didn’t run any ad in Soldier of Fortune , did he? But the word got around as it always does and he was choosy. Horse’d only work for those who could come up with twenty-five thousand cash.”

“I heard fifty,” McCorkle said.

“That was later. Twenty years ago when Horse was just starting out, twenty-five thousand was worth what seventy-five is today.”

“You can hire a semi-pro in this town or Baltimore for two thousand,” Padillo said. “If it’s toward the end of the month and the rent’s due, the price drops to seventeen fifty. New York’s about the same, although I heard it’s slightly higher west of the Rockies.”

“And for those prices it’s careless work you’ll be getting, too,” Warnock said. “Horse was a pro, a dedicated craftsman, and ’tis very, very lucky I am to be alive today.”

McCorkle looked concerned. “Does it hurt much when your Irish starts hemorrhaging like that, Harry?”

Warnock grinned up at him, then looked at Padillo. “So it’s who hired Horse that you want to know, is it? Well, you should be asking yourself this, Michael: Who can lay out fifty or seventy-five thousand cash for the services the late Horse Purchase was so willing and even anxious to provide?”

“Major dope dealers,” Padillo said.

“To be sure. But who else?”

“The rich — private or corporate.”

“And three?”

“Governments.”

“Ah!”

“How’d you know Purchase, Harry?” McCorkle said.

“We met but once — late in my former life.”

“Your IRA days,” Padillo said.

Warnock ignored him and went on talking to McCorkle. “He and I once held some exploratory talks that went nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because Horse felt the risk too great and the reward too small. But we parted amicably.”

“You mentioned governments, Harry,” Padillo said.

“ You mentioned them, Michael. Not I.”

“Which governments?”

“How would I be knowing a wicked thing like that?”

“It’s your stock-in-trade.”

“Well, far be it from me to spread rumors — even about the likes of such a shit as Horse Purchase, God rest his soul. But I have heard a whisper or two about how he once did bits of piecework for the lads out at Langley.” Warnock paused to paint a coat of piety across his face. “But I don’t believe that for a minute, do you, Michael?”