Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

Orcutt made some small talk, mostly about Ernie’s, while we waited for the drinks to arrive. After they came, he took a sip of his hot chocolate and said, “I like to drink it quickly before that slimy skim forms on top.” We waited silently while he drank it in small, rapid sips, much like a bird drinks, except that he didn’t have to raise his head to let the chocolate flow down his throat. He said, “Ah,” when he finished and I assumed that he had gotten it all down without running into any of the slimy skim that forms on top.

“Now then,” he said to me, “there are a few items that I’ve had prepared in anticipation of your joining us, Mr. Dye.”

“You must have been confident,” I said.

“Not altogether. It’s just that I always like everything ready. I simply detest last-minute scrambling about doing things that could have been done at a normal pace. Carol, would you please give me Mr. Dye’s envelope?”

She reached into her large, almost briefcase-sized purse and took out an oblong manila envelope which she handed to him. Orcutt peeked inside it and then motioned for me to join him on the couch. I took my brandy with me.

“First,” he said, “your Social Security card. In case you don’t remember, it’s your right number.” I glanced at the card and Orcutt was correct: it was the right number. “Strange about the Social Security card,” he said. “It’s almost worthless as identification, but the number itself is becoming increasingly important. It’s replaced the individual serial number in the armed forces, in fact. I think it’s safe to predict that one of these days — quite soon, really — the number will be used to maintain a full dossier on every citizen of this country. What do you think, Mr. Dye?”

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” I said.

“No,” Orcutt said, “I didn’t think you would. Next, here is a driver’s license issued by the Commonwealth of Virginia just before they began to require a photograph to be attached to each license. We would have secured a District of Columbia license for you, but there they require color photographs on their licenses, which presented an almost insurmountable problem.”

He handed me the license and I read the information on it. It would expire in six months, but everything was accurate except that it had me living in Alexandria.

“Now here,” Orcutt said, “are three credit cards, American Express, Gulf Oil, and Carte Blanche. They’re legitimate, so use them wisely.” He smiled after he said it to show that it was a joke, but with that smile of his, I couldn’t believe him.

“This,” he said, handing me another card, “is your Blue Cross and Blue Shield identification card. Also legitimate. We’ve already paid the premiums. And this is a card from Sibley Hospital in Washington which notes that your blood type is AB. Quite rare, really.”

“I know,” I said.

“We had the devil’s own time getting that one because it was so difficult to learn what your blood type is. We — or I should say Homer — finally got it from the State Department’s medical division. He’s quite good at things such as that. A real ferret.”

“How did State have it?” I said.

“You took a physical there eleven years ago,” Necessary said. “Remember it?”

“I do now,” I said.

Orcutt poked around in the envelope some more. “And here,” he said, “is an Alexandria library card, your voter’s registration, and a membership card in the Gaslight Club in Washington. That takes care of your identification problem.”

“Why Washington?” I said.

“Because the man who supplies us with several of these items of identification operates from there. If you’d like a totally new identity, complete with an honorable discharge from the Army, he’ll sell you a package that contains a Social Security number, a driver’s license, the aforementioned discharge, a library card, and a voter’s registration certificate for one hundred and fifty dollars. Credit cards cost fifty dollars each, but he strongly advises against them. They’re too much of a temptation. By the way, your credit cards are issued in the name of Victor Orcutt Associates.”

“Very thorough,” I said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Orcutt said. “Now here is a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars with which you’ll open a personal checking account at the First National Bank in Swankerton. And this is a letter of credit from my St. Louis bank. I believe it’s for — yes — twenty thousand. I hope you don’t have to use all of it, but you may. And since you have nothing to carry these various items in, here’s a wallet that should contain five hundred dollars cash.” He looked inside and counted rapidly. “Yes, it does.” Then he turned to Carol Thackerty and frowned. “I specified pin seal,” he said.

“They didn’t have any,” she said.

Orcutt looked at the wallet with distaste. “I suppose this will do, but it’s certainly not what I had in mind, Mr. Dye.”

“It’s fine,” I said and started to put all the cards into their proper compartments.

“I’ve saved the most important until last,” Orcutt said. “It’s the culmination of more than a month of intensive work on the part of myself, Miss Thackerty, and Homer.” He handed me five folded sheets of what seemed to be ordinary typing paper. When I unfolded them I saw that it was a long list of typewritten names that were divided into two sections and labeled “Advocates” and “Adversaries,” which I thought to be a little fancy. The adversaries ran four pages; the advocates only one. After each name were four or five single-spaced lines of biographical data which included such personal information as sexual inclinations and preferences; drinking habits; financial peccadilloes; emotional hang-ups; social and political position; chronic illnesses; mental aberrations; family background; educational attainments; current and past professions or businesses; estimated net worth; outstanding loans and debts; youthful indiscretions; and previous arrests, if any.

It was condensed and abbreviated enough to make Who’s Who seem garrulous. But it was all perfectly readable and I skimmed through it quickly, then folded it and stuffed it away in an inside coat pocket.

“It was a two-man job,” I said.

“Why two? Why not six or nine or even twenty?” Orcutt said and permitted me another inspection of his nothing smile.

“First, the information is useful for only two things: coercion or blackmail. A committee doesn’t do that. Second, one of them is a doctor; the medical terms give that away. So do the personal physical details. The other one is a trained researcher, probably a newspaperman, but somebody who knows where to look and who has a keen sense of the relevant.”

Homer Necessary put his empty brandy glass down and squirmed in his chair. When he couldn’t keep quiet any longer, he leaned toward me, his arms resting on his knees. “Maybe we dug it all up by ourselves, Dye. Maybe we just looked here and there, asked around, and then put it down on paper.”

“Maybe,” I said, “if you had a couple of years, instead of a couple of months. But you didn’t.”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Dye,” Orcutt said. “Two persons did compile the information. One is Dr. Warner Colfax. He owns a rather large clinic — the Colfax Clinic, to be precise. In addition to the regular medical services that its sixty-bed hospital provides, it’s also a drying-out haven for drunks and narcotics addicts — those who can afford it, at any rate. Then, too, it’s a place that the aged can comfortably spend their remaining golden years, providing that they, or their children, can come up with fifteen hundred dollars a month; and it’s also a place of comfort and care for those who suffer minor mental aberrations.”