Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“No. What we have to do tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I bow out and get Dymec in.”

“Have you thought up a good reason?”

“It’s a reason. I wouldn’t call it good.”

“What do you call it?”

“The FBI.”

There was a knock on the door again and this time it was Herr Horst and a waiter. Herr Horst served the auslese which we retailed for thirty dollars a bottle, but it was wasted on me. “Try Herr Padillo,” I told him. “My palate’s gone.”

Padillo sampled the wine, pronounced it fit, and Horst skillfully filled our glasses. The waiter served. I don’t remember what it was, except that it was hot and the butter was too hard. “Tell Horst that he’s serving the butter too hard when you get around to it,” I told Padillo.

“We sell much of this?” he asked, holding up his glass of wine.

“Not at thirty dollars a bottle.”

“What’s it cost us?”

“Nineteen seventy-five a bottle — by the case.”

“It’s worth it.”

“What do we do with the FBI?”

“We use them to bring Dymec in.”

“Where do you send off for your ideas?”

“There’s no address; just a box number.”

I nodded, drank the rest of my wine, shoved my plate back, and lighted a cigarette. It was my fifty-seventh for the day. My mouth had a strange, dark yellow taste. “We were speaking of the FBI — Mr. Hoover and all those polite young accountants and lawyers who work for him. They’re on our side now?”

“They will be. For a couple of days anyhow. I’m going to demand protection.”

“Protection from whom?”

“I can think of a number of people.”

“So can I, but which ones?”

“We’ll make it the gun-running crowd.”

“A fast set all right. This the African branch?”

“Right.”

“And they’re after you for what — faulty firing pins or sand in the cosmolene?”

“They don’t use cosmolene any more. They’ve come up with some kind of graphite paste. It comes off easier.”

“That’s interesting. Probably as interesting as the reason you have for the FBI, provided you have one.”

“I’m going to tell them about Angola.”

“Ah.”

Padillo leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. “You know much about Angola?”

“It’s Portuguese real estate on the West Coast of Africa. Below the Equator. It’s not getting along too well with the Congo.”

“That’s why I sidetracked the shipment of arms. The already-paid-for shipment.”

“Of course.”

“They were intended for the mercenaries being trained in Angola and scheduled for the Congo.”

“That would never do.”

“That’s what I thought. I also thought it wouldn’t help diplomatic relations between Portugal and the Congo.”

“Already strained.”

“Exactly,” Padillo said.

“Can you string it out?”

“For a few days.”

“Who’s supposed to be after you?”

“A Portuguese who paid for the guns and trains mercenaries and sends them to the Congo. He’s real enough. I almost did some business with him.”

“And the FBI’s to give you protection against him?”

“His agent — or agents.”

“Why?”

“Because in exchange for the protection, I’ll tell them about my other arms deals: the ones that did pan out.”

“So when Van Zandt asks why you can’t do the job, you say the FBI is too interested in you.”

“And for proof, all he has to do is look behind me. They’ll be there.”

“But we have an alternative proposal.”

“Dymec. And they can only get Dymec through me and they’ll have to guarantee Fredl’s safety.”

“Some guarantee.”

“I can’t think of anything better. We’ll demand that you have to talk to Fredl every night between tomorrow and Tuesday. They’ll have to allow that or the deal’s off.”

“We don’t have much of a bargaining position.”

“No, we don’t.”

“If the FBI’s too close, they’re going to tie us in with the assassination attempt. I don’t want them around.”

“I think we can have them around just long enough to convince the Africans that they’re there. That’s all we need.”

“You’re going for the seventy-five thousand dollars?”

“Yes. We’ll need it for the trio.”

“How do the other two fit in — Price and Shadid?”

“One of them will work with Dymec; the other will work with us when we go after Fredl.”

“When we find out where she is.”

“We’ll find out,” Padillo said.

I nodded. “We’d better.”

We agreed to meet at ten the next morning and Padillo said he’d like to stay around and watch the place operate. I walked out the front door and turned right. It was almost eleven o’clock. I turned left on Connecticut Avenue and walked up the west side of the street. There weren’t too many people abroad and the October weather was cool and dry. The wind blew some litter about the sidewalk. A man in a World War II Eisenhower jacket said he was hungry and I gave him a quarter and wished him luck. He staggered away. I walked on, up Connecticut, towards Dupont Circle. I thought about things I wanted to tell Fredl so that she would laugh and I could listen to her.

But there wasn’t any Fredl and there wasn’t any laughter and there wasn’t anything I could do about it except walk up Connecticut Avenue towards Dupont Circle and listen to the city sounds and the grinding of my teeth. There was no place to go but home; no one to talk to but myself; nothing to do but wait because if I didn’t wait, Fredl would exist no more and without her it wasn’t much worthwhile. None of it.

I saw them step out of the entrance of the office building. There were three of them. They looked young, about twenty-two or even less. There was some light from a street lamp and I could see their long brown and blonde hair. They wore short zipped-up jackets and tight pants. They had their hands in the pockets of their jackets as they stopped me, one in front, the other two on either side.

“Here’s a citizen,” the one in front of me said. He was bigger than the other two.

“He’s a citizen, all right, Gilly.”

Gilly seemed to think that was funny. He laughed and I could see his teeth. He didn’t brush them often. Not often enough.

“Excuse me,” I said and started around Gilly. He took a hand out of his pocket and placed it against my left shoulder and shoved me back. It wasn’t a hard shove.

“You in a hurry?”

“That’s right.”

“Go ahead and take him, Gilly, he’s about your size.” This came from the one on my left. He had a small tight mouth and thyroid eyes and a phony drawl.

“You’re out late,” Gilly said.

“I work late.”

“Where do you work, citizen?”

“That’s all, son. Get out of my way.”

“You’re going to fight me, friend.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“You’re going to fight me,” Gilly insisted.

I decided to take out the one with the drawl first. He would be the knife carrier. I hit him with my right fist as hard as I could in the stomach. He whoofed and sat down and threw up. I turned to Gilly and the one who was still standing. Gilly knew enough to throw a left and I tried to go under it but it caught me on the shoulder. The smaller came burrowing in and I kicked him in the kneecap and he danced around holding it. I took the switchblade out of my pocket, flicked it open, and moved towards Gilly. He backed off. He backed until he ran against the building and couldn’t go any farther. I took hold of him by the jacket and held the knife up so he could see the blade.

“Which eye do you want to lose, son?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head frantically from side to side. “Don’t cut me, mister. For God’s sake, don’t cut me!” Then he started to cry. I didn’t blame him. I let him go. He moved down the side of the building, his back to the wall, and then he ran. The other two ran after him. None of it made any sense; none of it had any purpose. It was just Washington on a Friday night. Maybe it was any city on a Friday night.