Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

“It’s all real cozy, isn’t it?” Necessary said to me. “I like it. I like it a hell of a lot.” He turned to Orcutt. “Couldn’t we sort of drop a hint to the Senator and—”

“Shut up, Homer,” Orcutt said. “Mr. Dye, you must have had some reason for telling me this. I wouldn’t quite classify you as the town gossip.”

I nodded. “I had a reason and the reason is Gerald Vicker. If the Senator recommended him to you then I have to assume that Vicker’s got his hooks in the Senator. I don’t much mind the others. Their information’s as good as anybody’s and sometimes a hell of a lot better. At least that’s what my organization — sorry — ex-organization thought. But Vicker’s something else. Vicker and I go back a long way. When did you first get in touch with him?”

Orcutt looked at Carol Thackerty. “August third,” she said.

“How much did you pay him?”

“Twelve thousand dollars,” she said, turning her head from the window.

“When did you get his first report?”

“August tenth,” Orcutt said.

“What was it?”

“A six-page, single-spaced precis of you,” he said.

“Detailed?”

“Extremely.”

“Did it say where I was at the time?”

“In jail.”

“Did it say when I would get out?”

“To the day. It also said that you would be brought back to San Francisco, that you would be debriefed for from ten to twelve days in Letterman General, and that you would then be at liberty — I think that was the term he used. In fact, Vicker was most complimentary — even effusive — except for one thing.”

“What?”

“Well, he said that you might be a little nervous.”

“He didn’t say nervous. Not Vicker.”

“He said chicken,” Necessary said and grinned at me. “Are you chicken, Dye?”

I looked at him, studying his brown and blue eyes. The right one was brown; the left one blue. “I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

Orcutt had been admiring the toes of his shoes again. He looked up quickly. “Does that mean that you’ve decided to accept my proposition, Mr. Dye?”

“You mean to corrupt you a city?”

Orcutt smiled the only way he knew how. “That was a little rich, wasn’t it?”

“A little.”

“Corn,” Carol Thackerty said. “Pure corn. You can never resist it, can you, Victor?”

“Shut up, Carol,” he said. It seemed that Victor Orcutt spent a lot of time telling people to shut up.

“Well, Mr. Dye?” he said.

“If you’ll answer a question or two.”

“All right.”

“What qualifications did you specify other than a certain degree of anonymity?”

“You mean to the four firms that I dealt with?”

“Yes.”

Orcutt nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that you’d be interested in that. I was really quite specific. The candidate should be unattached, not too old, possessed of some social graces, presentable, and willing to undergo a slight risk. Availability was another consideration, of course, because our lead time is just slipping away. He should also have a certain amount of experience in clandestine activities, either for government or for private industry. Preferably he should belong to some minority group, but I had to give up on that one. He should have rather deep insight into human nature, be slightly skeptical but not so much that it clouds his judgment, and above all he must be intelligent. Not book smart, mind you, but quickish, cleverish, sharpish—”

“Shrewdish?” I offered.

“You’re teasing again. I do like that. But to continue. He should also be articulate. Not a salesman, mind you, but sincere and well spoken.”

“And you think I’m all that?”

“No one is, Mr. Dye. But you possess a majority of the qualifications. Ones that Homer, Miss Thackerty, and even I lack. You will, shall I say, round out our team. Now that you’re virtually one of us, I can tell you about our project.”

The city that Victor Orcutt wanted me to corrupt had a population of a little more than two hundred thousand and was located on the Gulf Coast somewhere between Mobile and Galveston. It was called Swankerton but the local wits had long ago changed that to Chancre Town, which, Orcutt said, had some basis of fact.

He went on for quite a while and I half-listened, knowing that a recitation of facts and names and statistics was no substitute for personal appraisal. Necessary was on his fourth Scotch without visible effect and Carol Thackerty, still looking bored, kept her vigil at the window. I liked to look at her. Her profile offered a high calm forehead, a straight nose, not at all thin, just delicate, or some might even say aristocratic. She had a good chin, rounded and firm, which swept gracefully back to her long, slender neck.

Victor Orcutt had stopped talking and was looking at me as if he expected a remark or a question. I decided on a question. “What’s the deadline?”

“The first Tuesday in November.”

“This year?”

“This year.”

“It’s not enough. You can’t even shake down city hall for the Heart Fund in two months.”

“We’ll have to,” Orcutt said. “There’s absolutely no lead time, Mr. Dye. The persons whom I’m dealing with in Swankerton have been dilatory. They now recognize full well that they started late. Very late. That’s why I was able to demand my fee and that’s why I’m able to offer you fifty thousand dollars for two months’ work.”

“That’s too much money for two months’ work,” I said. “But I won’t argue about it. It just means that I’ll have to do something that I don’t want to do. Something tricky probably. But the real reason I’m taking it is because Gerald Vicker wants me to. And the only reason he wants me to is because he thinks something nasty might happen to me. So do you, or you wouldn’t make the ante so high. Vicker worries me. He worries me enough so that I’ll go along until I learn what it’s all about.”

“This seems to be a long-standing feud between you and Vicker, Mr. Dye,” Orcutt said.

“It’s more of a vendetta than a feud and it goes back about six years.”

“What happened?”

“He used to work for the same people I did. I got him fired.”

“Jealousy? Rivalry?”

“No. It was because he killed someone.”

“Who?”

“The wrong man.”

We talked some more about Swankerton and then Homer Necessary announced that he was hungry. “Just a minute, Homer,” Orcutt said and turned to me. “Your decision is firm, Mr. Dye? You will go to Swankerton with us?”

I looked at Orcutt, took a breath, then sighed and said, “When do we leave?”

He rose and clapped his hands together in pleasure. I thought for a moment that he might even do us a little dance. “Tomorrow morning. There’s a direct flight, but we still have so many things to discuss. You’ll join us for dinner?”

“Fine,” I said.

“But not here. I just can’t abide hotel food. Any hotel. Homer, go down and get the car. Carol, call Ernie’s and make a reservation for four. A good table, mind you. Do you know Ernie’s, Mr. Dye? It’s on Montgomery.”

I told him no.

“It’s marvelous. Simply marvelous.”

Victor Orcutt did the ordering and everything was as good as he said it would be. We had the Tortue au Sherry; Dover Sole Ernie’s with a bottle of Chablis Bougros; Tournedos Rossini with some more wine, this time Pommard Les Epenots. There was a Belgian endive salad followed by a crêpe soufflé, coffee, and cognac. It was all simply marvelous and it only cost Victor Orcutt $162.00.