Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

Padillo ignored the question and said, “He should’ve left by now.”

“It’s only a little after nine and the meeting’s not till ten.”

“Keyes isn’t one to arrive last at any meeting,” Padillo said. “Especially this one.”

They were parked on California Street two houses east of the Georgian one that belonged to Hamilton and Muriel Keyes. They assumed that when Keyes left he would probably head west — away from them — then south. Otherwise, he would have to cope with California Street when it suddenly turned one-way.

“He’s in there, sipping his second cup of coffee out of a gold-rimmed Haviland cup,” McCorkle said. “And we’re trapped in this clapped-out roadster with a slit top that lets in wind with a chill factor of fifteen degrees. And what have we got to drink? Cold Roy Rogers coffee in plastic cups.”

“Howard Johnson coffee,” Padillo said.

“I haven’t had a cup of Ho-Jo coffee in twenty years and, by my troth, it hasn’t improved any.”

“I’d almost forgotten,” Padillo said.

“What?”

“What a sunbeam you are in the morning.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Open the window.”

“It’s thirty-three degrees.”

“And life is a series of hard choices.”

“I’ll chew instead,” McCorkle said and produced a packet of Nicorette gum.

“Here he comes.”

“So he does,” McCorkle said, putting away the Nicorette.

The automatic overhead door of the Keyeses’ three-car garage was nearly all the way up. A moment later a dark blue Buick sedan, with Keyes at the wheel, backed out onto the turnaround slab. Keyes then drove down the driveway and turned west, away from Padillo’s coupe.

“Which car does she drive?” McCorkle asked as the garage door came back down.

“The Mercedes sedan.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it.”

“When — the night you forgot to tell me who she was?”

“I didn’t forget,” Padillo said, started the engine and drove less than seventy-five yards before turning into the Keyes driveway. He stopped his car a foot away from the overhead door, blocking it nicely. He and McCorkle got out, walked to the front door and pushed a bell that rang some chimes. A moment later the door was opened by the Salvadoran maid.

Padillo snapped out a sentence in rapid Spanish that was much too fast for McCorkle. The only words he got were “la Señora” and “los Señores Padillo y McCorkle.” But the maid understood perfectly, especially the imperious tone, which caused her to duck her head, open the door wider and invite them inside to wait while she informed la Señora.

“The help must’ve loved you back at the old hacienda, mi jefe,” McCorkle said.

“It was a verbal shortcut.”

“Which scared the hell out of her.”

“She heard worse in El Salvador.”

“How do you know where she’s from?”

Before Padillo could reply, the maid returned, still scurrying and bobbing a little, to announce that la Señora would join them presently in the room of reception.

Padillo gave her his most charming smile, thanked her graciously and inquired if her longing for San Salvador remained acute. She replied that it had lessened a little in recent months. Padillo said he hoped she would soon be able to return for a visit in safety. She thanked him and said he was very kind.

By then they were in the living room that was filled with antiques. The maid left and Padillo and McCorkle sat on what seemed to be the two sturdiest chairs. A few minutes later Muriel Keyes entered, wearing fawn slacks, sandals, a silk blouse the color of bitter chocolate and a nervous smile.

Padillo rose quickly, McCorkle more slowly. Muriel Keyes chose to ignore McCorkle, except for a brief glance, and smiled at Padillo. “Michael, how nice.”

“Muriel.”

After she offered him her cheek to brush with his lips, he said, “I think you met my partner, Mr. McCorkle, when you were playing Reba Skelton, noted calligraphier.”

“Fast! Accurate! Prompt!” McCorkle said.

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked Padillo.

“Not really.”

She turned to McCorkle and said, “I apologize, Mr. McCorkle. It was very stupid of me.”

“You were really very good,” he said.

“But obviously not good enough.” She looked at Padillo. “What gave it away?”

“You shuffled in but loped out. That Lamphier lope, once seen, is hard to forget.”

“I was so damned frightened.”

“Not as much as I was,” McCorkle said.

“Please sit down,” she said. “Could I offer you some coffee? It’s probably still too early for a drink.”

“Coffee’ll be fine, Muriel,” Padillo said as he sat down. “Especially since we’re going to be here a while.”

“Oh?” she said, going to the near wall to press an ivory button.

“There’s something we’d like you to read,” McCorkle said as he resumed his seat.

“Read? Read what?”

Before either of them could reply, the maid, who must’ve been hovering just outside the living room door, entered to find out what she would be asked to fetch or carry. Muriel Keyes, using serviceable, if halting, Spanish, asked for coffee and rolls.

When the maid left, Muriel Keyes turned back to McCorkle and said, “You said you wanted me to read something?”

Padillo said, “A memo from the late Gilbert Undean.” He paused. “You did know him, didn’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

“Seen him recently?”

“Yes. He came to see my husband last — Friday, I think. Rather late.”

McCorkle and Padillo said nothing. After the silence had gone on for thirty seconds, she said, “Why would Mr. Undean send you a memorandum, Michael?”

“He didn’t send it to me.”

“Then who did?”

“Tinker Burns sent it — indirectly. Tinker’s the one your lawyer hired in Paris to do some work for you here.”

“What kind of work was that?”

“Find out whether Steady Haynes had mentioned you in his memoirs. You’re still interested in the memoirs, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as I was. I think that particular — what should I call it — problem?—”

“Problem’s good,” McCorkle said.

“I think that particular problem’s been resolved”

“Sorry, Muriel,” Padillo said. “It’s just beginning.”

Granville Haynes, driving the old Cadillac, was nearing McCorkle’s Connecticut Avenue apartment building at 9:45 A.M. when Erika said, “I’ll be your slave for a year if you can work me into that meeting.”

Haynes smiled. “I would if I could.”

“But I’ll get a full play-by-play later?”

“Everything.”

“God, that’ll be interesting,” she said and leaned over to kiss him good-bye just as he stopped in front of the old gray’building’s no-standing zone. The car behind honked immediately.

“Stick by the phone,” he said as she got out and turned to give the honker the finger, which produced yet another honk. Just as she closed the door, Haynes raised his voice to say, “And keep your doors locked.” She nodded that she understood and hurried toward the building.

Haynes continued down Connecticut, went around Dupont Circle and found a parking place in front of 1633 Connecticut next door to where the razed Junkanoo nightclub had once stood.

He dropped some coins into the meter, looked at his watch and saw that he had five minutes. He pulled the collar of his new topcoat up around his chin, stuck his hands down into its pockets and rediscovered McCorkle’s pistol. It felt cold to the touch and he saw no need to wrap his right hand around its butt.

Although he was exactly on time, Haynes was the last to arrive at the 10 A.M. meeting in the former senator’s office. Haynes thought the place had the leathery smell of a shoe store — or the way shoe stores smelled before they started selling so many athletic shoes.