Len Deighton - XPD

‘Politics.’

‘With a capital P, Billy boy,’ said Stein. ‘I want you to realize that you could become a contract. From now on you watch your step; take it easy on the booze, and stay off the other stuff. Keep away from dark alleys and tell me immediately if you see anything unusual.’

‘I sure will, dad. You think I should carry a gun?’

‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea, Billy. Just until this business is over.’

‘A big guy you say-about forty?’

‘They won’t be sending that dude to blow anyone away. They will have specialists who just arrive in town, do their thing and scram.’

‘Jesus, dad. I never know when you’re kidding. Do you really think these Brits would… ’

‘Why take chances, Billy? That’s all I’m saying. Don’t take no chances.’

Billy took out a white comb and ran it quickly through his long dark hair. It was something he was prone to do in moments of stress and his father recognized this. ‘Maybe I’ll go down to Mexico,’ said Billy. ‘Why don’t you come too? That guy in Ensenada converted the locker space into an extra cabin-all hand-crafted oak; he’s a real craftsman… ’

‘He sure crafted the bill. Did you see what it’s costing us to run that damned boat?’

‘Pedro’s a wonderful old man,’ said Billy. ‘Long beard and that strong Mexican accent. Did you see the piece of movie I made of him rebuilding the boat? He could be a film star, or something.’

‘He could be a film star,’ said Stein bitterly, ‘except that he can’t afford to take a cut in salary.’

‘Come on, dad! It’s a good investment. With the extra cabin and shower we’ll be able to overnight in comfort. Drop anchor anywhere the fish are running, and stay as long as we like. No more hotel bills, see? Come down there with me this weekend.’

‘Just for the time being, Billy, it’s best that I see to a few thing here in town.’

‘Why do you keep looking at your watch?’

‘Breslow was supposed to be joining us for lunch. He said to go ahead if we arrived before him.’

‘Here in this greasy spoon? Not exactly his style, is it?’

‘Says he’s crazy about Chinese steamed pastries. I told him this was the best place in town to eat them. He wants to talk about copyrights, he says.’

‘I was wondering why you sat so that you can see the door,’ said Billy.

He had hardly spoken the words before his father began to get to his feet. It was something not accomplished without causing considerable disarray to the plates and dishes on the table, and some spilled sauce. Billy wiped up the mess with a handful of paper napkins while his father shook hands, and listened to Breslow apologizing for being so late. ‘And that is my daughter, Mary,’ said Breslow. He indicated the young lady who had so distracted the younger Stein. Her name was really Marie-Louise, for she was named after her mother, but here in southern California she preferred the anglicized version.

‘Mary Breslow,’ she said. Billy Stein thought it was the most beautiful name he had ever heard. He took her hand and lowered his head in one of those hand-kissing gestures that he had copied from an old movie.

In all the flurry of apologies and explanations Mary Breslow found a new opportunity to study Billy Stein and she liked what she saw. This tall handsome American was everything that California promised. His long dark hair was wavy and squeaky clean, his teeth white and perfect, and his suntan was the sort of dark golden brown that can never be acquired with indoor lamps. The faded denim work clothes, artfully threadbare in places, were tailored to emphasize his slim hips and muscular shoulders. Just in case anyone should mistake him for a manual worker, there was a monogrammed silk shirt, a paper-thin gold wrist-watch and the suede high boots. Already she had heard her parents talk about the Steins’ private plane and the big sailing boat they took down the Mexican coast. ‘You’re such a silly girl,’ her father was saying. ‘You must have guessed that this was Mr Stein and his son Billy. You should have looked round to find them and introduced yourself to them.’

She smiled and Billy smiled too. And they all moved away from the chaos of the Steins’ table to another booth. ‘Nothing to eat for me,’ said Breslow hurriedly. ‘But I would like a drink.’ He turned to the waitress. ‘A bloody mary, with plenty of Worcester sauce.’ Breslow straightened his tie and made sure that his jacket was buttoned. ‘May I speak with you for a moment, Charles?’ he said formally.

‘Why, sure.’ Stein recognized that Breslow’s restless movements and urgent need of a drink signified unusual circumstances. It was a conclusion endorsed by the speed with which Breslow consumed his bloody mary.

‘I want to show you something in my car,’ said Breslow.

‘Well, I’m sure the kids won’t mind waiting.’ He smiled at Breslow, for Billy Stein and Mary Breslow were already engaged in earnest conversation about discos in Acapulco.

Charles Stein followed Breslow outside into the street. The pavement was hot underfoot and, once they were out of the air-conditioned restaurant, the smog hurt Stein’s eyes so that he had to wipe them with his silk handkerchief. Breslow led the way down the ramp of the underground garage across the street and said nothing until he came to where his pale blue Mercedes Benz 450 SEL was parked. Stein looked at the car with surprise: the whole right side was smashed in. The doors were both jammed tight into the warped framework of the body and the glass smashed. At the front of the car the right wing had been ripped away to expose the whole of the wheel. Inside the car, the seats were glittering with broken glass, and a bent chromium strip had tangled into the headrest so that the upholstery was ripped through to the interior padding.

‘They tried to kill me, Charles,’ said Breslow.

Stein looked at him before answering. Breslow held his hand to his brow as if reliving the experience. The hand began to tremble.

‘You’d better come back to the restaurant and sit down,’ said Stein. ‘Then we should get you to a doctor and have him check you over.’ Stein looked at the car again. ‘When did this happen?’

Breslow looked at his watch. ‘Not even thirty minutes ago. I took the Ventura Freeway all the way to the Golden State; the Hollywood Freeway was jammed today, I heard on the radio.’

‘It’s Friday, the 13th,’ said Stein. He kicked the tyre to check that it had maintained its pressure.

‘Surely you are not superstitious?’ said Breslow.

‘It can’t hurt,’ said Stein.

Breslow looked at his wristwatch to see if it really was the 13th. ‘They nearly killed me,’ he said again.

‘Well, it can happen to anyone, Max. Come back and have another bloody mary and think yourself lucky you weren’t killed. It must have been a truck, eh?’

Breslow took Stein’s arm. ‘You don’t understand, Charles. When I say they were trying to kill me, I mean exactly that. This wasn’t any ordinary traffic accident. This fellow was working with two other drivers: one boxed me in, and the other one edged me over into the emergency lane and then tried to crush me against the median wall. Behind me, I had a big panel truck hitting my rear fender as I tried to slow.’

‘Max. Are you sure you’re not imagining all this? Some of these guys go crazy on the freeway. It’s easy enough to mistake some drunken salesman or some hyped-up kid for something else.’ Stein took Breslow by the arm but Breslow’s gasp of pain made him release his grip.

‘I hurt my arm struggling with the steering wheel,’ said Breslow.

Stein ran his hand over the car damage. ‘Look at that!’

‘They weren’t kids or salesmen, Charles.’ Breslow trembled again. ‘You can see the size of the truck from the way my top is damaged.’ He fingered the torn metal of the Mercedes’ roof. ‘He left some red paint behind, look.’