Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

“Mr. Dye?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Would you hold on for Mr. Ramsey Lynch?”

I told her yes and then Lynch was talking, his voice as smooth and as buttery as his brother’s, but deeper, more confident, and with much less contentiousness in the tone. It was a good voice for a liar and I automatically assumed that he was one of the best.

“Welcome to Swankerton, Mr. Dye,” Lynch said.

“Thank you.”

“I understand that you’re the man.”

“From whom?”

“From here and there.”

“That’s where, not who.”

“Well, Brother Gerald did mention you to me.”

“I thought he might.”

“He sent his best.”

“His best what?”

Lynch chuckled. It was a rich, warm, comfortable sound such as fat men make after they no longer mind being fat. “Regards, of course,” he said. “Gerry mentioned that he’d recommended you highly.”

“So I heard.”

“Surprised?”

“Probably not as much as I should be, but then Gerald was always full of surprises.”

Lynch chuckled again, happily. “Even as a kid. Never knew what he’d do next. But the real reason I called is that we’re having a little policy meeting this afternoon, and I kind of thought you might like to sit in.”

“What kind of policy?”

“Civic policy, Mr. Dye. Seems that there may be sort of a hassle going on during the next couple of months so we thought we’d lay out some ground rules.”

“Your ground and your rules,” I said.

Lynch thought that was funny, too, but not as much as before, and his chuckle was reduced to three or four sharp, deep barks.

“Well, what do you say?”

“All right. What time?”

“About an hour from now. Around five.”

“Where?” I said.

“My place, but don’t worry about it. We’ll send someone for you. Room eight-nineteen, isn’t it?”

I looked at the telephone to make sure. “Eight-nineteen,” I said.

“Look forward to it,” Lynch said before he said goodbye and we hung up.

I stood there by the phone for a few moments and then picked it up and asked the operator for Victor Orcutt. Carol Thackerty answered in what was called, for God knows what reason, the Eddie Rickenbacker suite. Maybe he had once slept there when they were still calling it the Theodore Bilbo suite.

“Is your room all right?” Orcutt said when he came on.

“It’s fine. The chief adversary just called.”

“Lynch.” He didn’t make it a question. He just said Lynch to confirm a fact and to give his mind time to hop around and sort out all of the implications.

“He wants to meet me at five this afternoon. Or maybe they call it evening down here.”

“Evening,” Orcutt said.

“I agreed.”

“Good.”

“He said he wants to lay out some ground rules.”

“There aren’t any,” Orcutt said.

“I know. It’s probably just a mutual sizing-up session. He said that some others will be there.”

“What else?”

“I think Gerald Vicker wants his brother to settle a grudge for him and the brother wants to find out how much trouble that could be.”

“That’s one,” Orcutt said. “Two is he might try to buy you off. How much would that take?”

“You’re forgetting my loyalty to the old firm.”

“You’re teasing again. I do like that. We’ll wait until you get back and then we’ll all have dinner together at a simply marvelous place that I know.”

“I’ll call when I can,” I said and hung up, reflecting that I was going to have to watch Orcutt’s perfectly marvelous places. Although my taste buds relished the rich fare, my stomach still expected rank fish and gummy rice. When it didn’t get the expected, it rebelled, just as it had done twice the night before in San Francisco.

Eight-nineteen in the Sycamore Hotel was a corner room with a view of Marseille Boulevard and Snow Street, the latter being the principal downtown thoroughfare, which I assumed was named after somebody called Snow and not for the weather. I judged the hotel to be at least sixty or seventy years old, built in a vaguely European style so that the floors formed a high hollow square. The corridors on each floor ran around the hollow square, and nothing kept the drunks from tumbling down to the lobby other than waist-level iron railings. The hotel ceiling, nine floors above the lobby, was covered with frosted glass which during the day provided the interior with a soft, filtered light that made the profusion of potted plants look even greener than they were.

It was a well-designed hotel with comfortably furnished, spacious rooms whose high ceilings boasted fans that supplemented the central air-conditioning. Unless you were well bundled up when they were both going full blast, the chances for catching pneumonia must have been excellent. The bath in 819 was large enough to have done for a single room in an ordinary motel, its fixtures were fairly new and even included a bidet. Someone had spent a lot of money and thought on the Sycamore’s geriatric care.

I hung up the suits and topcoat that Carmingler had provided, regretting that I would have to buy some new clothing to go with the temperature. I unbuttoned the vest of the suit I was wearing, the blue one with the faint gray stripe, and hung it in the closet.

After that I stood by the window, sipped a drink of cool water and Scotch, and watched the citizens of Swankerton go about their business. Across the street was the First National Bank. Next to it was Elene’s Boutique, then Osterman’s Bar & Grill which offered fine food, and then a Rexall drugstore, a Kress’s five and ten, a five-story department store called Mitchell and Farnes, and another bar and grill called The Easy Alibi, which was a little cute for the main drag.

Down Marseille Boulevard was the Liberty National Bank, twenty-four stories tall and the city’s only skyscraper; another department store called Biendorfer’s, a pancake and waffle shop, and another drug store which seemed to be the member of a local chain called Mouton’s.

The citizens looked just like their town. There was nothing in their dress or gait or color that would distinguish them from those who lived in Pittsburgh, or Atlanta, or Pierre, South Dakota. Some shuffled, some walked briskly, even in the heat, and some just ambled along as if they had nowhere important to go and nothing much to do when they got there. Although I was eight stories up, the citizens seemed to lack animation. There was none of Hong Kong’s squealing vibrancy and I found that I missed it. But then there weren’t many places in the States that I’d ever really liked, not the way I’d once loved Shanghai, and there was no real reason why Swankerton should prove an exception.

I turned from the window and tried the most comfortable appearing chair in the room, which was even more restful than it looked. I sank into it and stared at the slowly spinning ceiling fan that made an oily click after every third revolution. I could have thought about what I was doing in Swankerton, but I already knew that. I was there because I had nothing better to do and I wanted to find out why someone was willing to pay me $50,000 to do it. The fee, of course, was exorbitant. Far too high for two months’ work unless I was supposed to kill a few persons, but I was no good at that. If I had liked coincidences, I could have puzzled over the one that had Gerald Vicker recommending me to do a job of sorts in a town where his brother was obviously Señor Number One Garçon, as Tante Katerine would have had it. But since this was obviously no coincidence, a phenomenon in which I had little or no faith anyhow, there was no need to puzzle over it any more than one puzzles over being dealt a pat hand. When it comes along, you don’t fret about it, you play it.