Росс Томас: Cast a Yellow Shadow

“Are we making money?”

“It’s not bad. We can go over the books later.”

“Who’s the crowd?”

“I jacked up the prices and they seem willing to pay for the service and the food. Not much tourist stuff except from the conventions. Some press, some Capitol Hill types, some military, some business and public relations operators, association executives, bored housewives, and a lot of repeat trade from customers we had in Bonn. That embassy crowd moves around together and they like to show off their German.”

“Can it run itself?”

“As long as Horst is around.”

Padillo nodded. “What’s the suite at the Mayflower for?”

“For you. It’s in your name. It was Fredl’s idea, although basically I’m thoughtful and kind, too. She didn’t take to the idea of the Rhine eels nibbling at you so when we got the postcard, she suggested the suite. It’s been a good idea because we’ve been able to help people out when the town’s jammed. It’s also a logical business expense. Even Internal Revenue agrees. And you had to have a Washington address.”

I suppose we talked about business because we didn’t want to talk about Fredl or what might happen to her, but the words I said to Padillo were said by rote, as if I were an economics professor lecturing to a dull freshman class on a warm spring day.

We had another cup of coffee and Padillo asked: “You usually get up this early?”

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Worried?”

“Near panic, but not there yet. Just near.”

He nodded. “I don’t blame you. It’s just as well we got up early; there’s a lot to be done.”

“Where do we start?”

“I’d say at the Mayflower. We have to go calling this morning and the lady we’re calling on used to be particular about the way people dressed.”

“How’s your side?”

“It’s sore,” he said. “But it isn’t deep. I’ll get some stuff and change the bandages this afternoon.”

I put the dishes in the sink and turned off the stove and we rode the elevator down to the lobby.

“It goes to the basement,” Padillo said. “What’s down there?”

“The garage.”

“Attendant on duty?”

“No. You park your own.”

“They probably went in and came out that way. With Fredl.”

“Probably.”

“What are you driving, something flashy?”

“A Stingray. Fredl remained loyal. She has a Volks.”

“Do you really need a car?”

“Not really, but I suffer from self-indulgence.”

“How do you get to work?”

“Walk.”

“How far is the Mayflower from here?”

“Walking distance, but considering your enfeebled condition, we’ll take a cab.”

We found a cab and crept the six blocks to the Mayflower, our driver snarling at the lousy driving of the stream of stern-faced government employees. The government employees snarled back. Eight-fifteen in the morning in Washington is not a happy time.

“Bastards gonna make me late for work,” our driver said as he pulled up front of the hotel.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

“Department of Agriculture.” He didn’t seem to expect a tip but I gave him a quarter anyway and he bulldozed his way out into traffic and started snarling at his fellow employees again.

I introduced Padillo to an assistant manager of the hotel. I didn’t make any excuses for the clothes or the three-day beard. If they didn’t like a bum for a guest, we would find another hotel. But the assistant manager didn’t blink and gave Padillo a warm welcome. I asked that breakfast for two be sent up and we caught the elevator.

It was a two-room suite, neither plain nor fancy. It looked as if it had had its share of parties and most of the exposed wooden surfaces were covered with glass or had been finished in drink- and cigarette-resistant plastic. Padillo walked over to the closet and opened it. There were several suits, a couple of jackets, some slacks, a sweater and a light top coat.

“She picked out the ones I like best,” he said.

“There are shirts and socks and stuff in a drawer. I think I remember a shaving kit, too.”

He found what he needed and disappeared into the bathroom. When he came out he was wearing a white oxford-cloth shirt with a black knit tie, a single breasted suit of a soft grey herringbone weave, and black pebble-grained plain-toed oxfords.

“With that tan you look as if you’re just back from Miami.”

“I was thinking of a mustache, but it would make me look too dashing.”

“You’ll do fine with our young matron crowd.”

Padillo looked around the room. There wasn’t much to see: a couch, a coffee table, three easy chairs, a television set, the usual writing desk with a glass top, two or three straight chairs, some lamps, a rug with a spastic floral pattern, and some pictures on the wall that pretended to represent the seasons in some bucolic land that the artist only half remembered. I also counted eight ashtrays.

“Home,” Padillo said.

“How long has it been now?”

“More than ten years.”

“And you get knifed the minute you step off the boat.”

“It wasn’t till then that I was sure I was really back home.”

There was a knock at the door and I told Padillo it was the breakfast. He opened the door, but it wasn’t breakfast; it was a pair of young men who looked friendly and confident and as if they’d like to be helpful. One of them smiled and asked for Mr. Padillo.

“I’m Mr. Padillo.”

“I’m Charles Weinriter and this is Lee Iker,” one of them said. He was the taller by an inch. “We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” They both produced the folding black books that contained their identification and passed them to Padillo just like it says to do in the regulations.

Padillo looked at his watch. Fredl must have placed it in his shaving kit. He hadn’t been wearing it earlier. “It took you about twenty minutes to get here from the time the hotel called,” he said. “That’s quite good considering the traffic.”

“We’d like to talk to you a few minutes, Mr. Padillo,” Weinriter said.

“I bet you would.”

“Would it be possible to do it alone?”

“No,” Padillo said and smiled. “No, it wouldn’t be possible at all. In fact, you can consider yourself lucky to talk to me in the presence of a witness. His name is Mr. McCorkle and he’s my partner.”

I was sitting in an easy chair with one foot dangling over an arm. I waved at them. “My pleasure.”

They nodded at me from the doorway, but they didn’t seem to be as friendly as before.

“Do you have any means of identification, Mr. Padillo?” Iker asked.

“No, I don’t,” Padillo said. “But come on in. Maybe we can work something out with a game of twenty questions.”

They came in. Padillo indicated the couch and they sat on it gingerly. Padillo eased himself into one of the arm chairs. His side still seemed to hurt.

“We’ve sent down for coffee,” he said and smiled another pleasant smile. “It should be here shortly.”

“You don’t have any identification?” Weinriter asked.

“None. Is that unusual? Of course, my partner here can identify me. If you can believe he’s who he says he is.”

“I have identity,” I said. “I know who I am.”

“I have an idea,” Padillo said. “I’ll be right back.” He went into the bathroom and came back holding an empty water glass. “Here,” he said to Iker and tossed him the glass. Iker’s reflexes were fast; he caught it.

“Don’t smudge the prints,” Padillo said. “If you run the prints on that glass through your computer downtown, you’ll find a full file on me. Incidentally, there’s a careful thumbprint on the bottom of the glass. It shouldn’t take long and that file on me goes back to when I was sixteen years old.”