Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“This is McCorkle on Wisconsin and T,” I said. “We’re heading north.”

“This is Padillo. We’re on Connecticut and S Streets, heading north.”

“This is Tulip. We’re on Georgia and Kennedy Streets, heading south.”

“This Johnny Jay at Fourteenth and Columbia Road. We turnin on to Fourteenth and heading south.”

“Hold on,” I said and turned to Hardman. “They’re all coming in fine.”

“Tell ’em to keep talking and to meet us at Nebraska and Military Road in twenty minutes,” he said.

“That’s going to take some driving for a couple of them.”

“That’s what they paid to do.”

“Meet us at Nebraska and Military Road in twenty minutes. That will be four-forty p.m. Let me know if you’ve got it.”

“This is Padillo. I understand. We’re heading there now.”

“This is Johnny Jay. Shit, man, I’m gonna have to fly.”

“This is Tulip. I’ll be there.”

“They’ve got it,” I told Hardman.

“Tell ’em not to hang up.”

“Don’t hang up — keep the call going.”

We drove down Wisconsin and turned right on Nebraska. We hit a long red light at Connecticut, crossed and drove slowly down Nebraska until we got to Military Road. A white moving van drove past us, followed by a white pickup truck. Both had “Four-Square Moving Company” painted on their doors. Mush’s Buick turned out of a side street. He waved at us and I waved back.

Hardman reached for the phone. “All right,” he said. “We can knock off now. Take ’em back where you got em.” He signaled the operator and told her the call was through.

“They seemed to work fine,” I said.

“They’ll be fine tomorrow.”

He drove me back to my apartment. “Anything else tonight?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“See you in the morning then.”

“Where’ll you be if something comes up?”

“This phone or Betty’s.”

“O.K. See you tomorrow.”

I waited until Mush drove up and let Padillo out and we rode up the elevator together. Inside the apartment, Sylvia put a new bandage on Padillo, I mixed three drinks, and we turned on the television set and watched the six-thirty news. There was nothing about Van Zandt.

At seven Padillo telephoned Madga Shadid, Philip Price, and Jon Dymec. He gave them their final instructions in brief, concise sentences.

He came back to the couch and sat down next to Sylvia. “Did you call the police today?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“They have anything?”

“No. They’re still unable to locate the car that struck Dad.”

“Did they want you to do anything else?”

“No. When I was there I made arrangements to have him sent home.” She said it without faltering.

“Are your people expecting to hear from you?”

“I sent a cable to mother and charged it to this telephone. I have the charges,” she said to me. “I’ll repay you.”

“Forget it.”

“Do you still have that automatic?” Padillo asked her.

“Yes.”

“Take it with you tomorrow. Can you hide it some place — in your brassiere or something?”

She flushed slightly. “Or something. Will I need it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just want you to have it.”

The telephone rang and I answered it.

“You can talk to your wife, McCorkle.” It was Boggs.

“Fredl?”

“I’m on now, darling.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just getting so tired and I—”

They cut her off again. Boggs came back on. “Is Padillo there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is everything ready for tomorrow? You have the correct times?”

“We have everything,” I said.

“Well,” he said and his voice trailed off. For once he seemed at a loss for something to say. “I don’t suppose I should wish you good luck,” he said finally.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, well — goodnight then.”

I hung up the phone.

“Boggs,” I said.

“Fredl all right?”

“Yes. I suppose so. She’s tired.”

“What did Boggs want?”

“He wanted to know whether he should wish us good luck.”

The alarm rang at eight Tuesday morning and I turned it off and put my cigarette out in the big ceramic tray that was on the night table next to the bed. The tray had thirty-seven butts in it. I had counted them twenty minutes earlier. I had awakened at three and for a while just stared up into the darkness until I knew that sleep was at an end and that I had five hours to spend with myself. The prospect of my company was never less pleasing. I was a bore. I talked too much and listened too little. I was opinionated and self-indulgent. I had no insight, but plenty of self-pity. I had a tendency to blame others for the mistakes I made. I was growing old. I drank too much.

On that I lighted another cigarette and got up and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth again and drank a glass of water and stared into the mirror for a while. I didn’t see anyone I wanted to know so I went back into the bedroom and turned on the high-intensity lamp, picked up volume two of Mr. Pepys’s diary, and tried to get interested in how he was making out with the chambermaid. After fifteen minutes my mind wandered and I put the book aside. I lay in the bed and smoked another cigarette in fearless defiance of all rules of health and personal safety. I stared up at the ceiling with the light on and after a while I tried it with the light off. It didn’t make much difference.

The time passed that way, neither slower nor faster than usual, half in the dark, half in the light, and by the time the alarm rang, it was done and I had battled through another night without resorting to Dr. Sinatra’s prescription of whatever it takes — pills, prayer or a bottle of Jack Daniels.

I got dressed more slowly than usual because I felt a decade or two older than usual and went into the livingroom where Padillo was sitting on the couch drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette that he didn’t seem to enjoy. I said ‘uh’ and he came back with a snappy ‘guh’ and I went on into the kitchen and poured water on top of a teaspoon of instant coffee.

After the first cup, I tried a second.

“That belly gun,” Padillo said by way of greeting.

“Uh-huh.”

“You have any rounds for it?”

“No.”

“Here.” He took out a box of .38 shells and put six on the coffee table. I got up and went into the bedroom and got the gun out of my topcoat pocket. I came back and picked up the shells from the table, flipped the cylinder open, and loaded it, just like they used to do at the Criterion Theater on Saturday afternoon.

“You don’t think I’ll need any more than six?”

“If you need more than six, it really won’t matter.”

Sylvia Underhill came in and said good morning and asked if we would like her to prepare some breakfast and we said no. She was wearing ivory pumps and a woolen suit of periwinkle blue that had a nubby weave. She smiled at both of us, but Padillo got a little extra in his, and I started wondering when someone would smile at me like that again. She looked pretty and smart and very young — not at all as if she were going out to badger the members of a trade mission.

After her breakfast and more coffee for Padillo and me, we went over what each of us was supposed to do. I grew more nervous each time we went over it, but Padillo and Sylvia discussed the steps as if they were planning Fun Night at the Elks’ Club. We went over it until I came down with a fit of yawning and then we stopped.

“White night?” Padillo asked.

“Close to it.”

He looked at his watch. “Magda should be here shortly.”