Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

“We always need more,” he said.

“Just for China?”

He shook his head. “For everywhere.”

“You’re more than a central bank then?”

“Let’s just say that we have branch offices in a lot of places.”

“And what do they do?”

“Whatever’s necessary.”

“Who runs it?”

“Section Two?”

“Yes.”

“I do.”

“Then you’re not in the army?”

“I’m on detached service.”

“Those two generals we played poker with last week seemed to know what you do.”

“No,” the colonel said. “They think I’m CIA. I don’t discourage it.”

“You’re telling me a lot.”

“Not really.”

“All right,” I said. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. You’ll get a letter of acceptance from the university next week.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all. Your check will come every month from a foundation. When you’ve decided that you’ve had enough school, somebody’ll be around to see you.”

“But not until then?” I said.

“No. Anything else?”

“I’d be a fool to say no.”

The colonel looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said. “You would be, wouldn’t you? But if you were a fool, you’d never have been asked.”

Beverly Gay and I were married that September in the living room of Major and Mrs. Albert Schiller. Colonel Gay reluctantly gave the bride away and Gorman Smalldane flew in from New York to be best man and to give his legal consent as my guardian. I was still under twenty-one and in Texas the man then had to be of age before he could marry without consent. The woman had to be eighteen. If they had consent, the man could be sixteen, the girl fourteen. They may have changed the law by now, but I doubt it.

I got married because of the usual reason: I was in love with a girl who loved me. The colonel had been a stickler for form. “Goddamn it, Dye, you’re going to have to ask for her hand. You’re going to have to convince me. She’s the only daughter I’ve got and by Jesus Christ you’re going to play by the book.”

“My prospects are excellent,” I said.

“I know what your prospects are.”

“My income is assured for the next several years.”

“I know what your income will be down to a dime.”

“What about dowry?” I said.

The colonel rose and began to pace the living room that was furnished with the junk of all the world. “I had it all figured out,” he said, as if to himself. “Three months with Beverly in San Antonio while I got rid of the bug and then back to work, and you turned up.” He spun around. “I’m not sure I want you as a son-in-law.”

“I’m not sure that I give a damn what you want.”

“It could hurt your career.”

“Marrying the boss’s daughter? It’s the well-known path to success.”

“You’re both too young,” he said, paused, and then smoothed his gray hair back with a thin, hard hand. “No. That’s not right either. You re not too young. You’re too old for her. It’s like marrying her off to the town rake.” He turned toward me quickly. “How many girls have you laid?”

“How should I know?” I said. “I never kept score. Did you?”

He ignored the question and paced some more. It was the only time I ever saw him even slightly agitated. He whirled once more and aimed his right forefinger at me like a district attorney who’s long on style and short on evidence. “Goddamn it, do you love her?”

“Do you expect me to say no?”

Gay resumed his pacing for a while and then stopped and faced me again. He stood quite still and looked at me carefully, as if he hoped that what he saw wasn’t as unsavory as it seemed. When he spoke, his tone was low, soft, and controlled. It sounded almost dangerous. It may have been. “Something might happen to me,” he said. “If it does, take care of her. I mean good care. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“If something happens to me and you’re in Section Two by then, get out. If you’re not yet in, don’t go. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

He raised his voice slightly and nodded toward the dining room. “She’s in there, you know. Ear to the keyhole.”

“There’s no door,” I said.

“It didn’t go right,” he said. “I was lousy as the forbidding father.”

Beverly came in from the dining room. “I thought you were fine.”

The colonel shook his head. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “It should have been a Sunday afternoon. All bad domestic scenes should take place on Sunday afternoon, the worst time of the week. Agreements for divorce. Accusations of infidelity. If a husband’s going to beat his wife, he should do it on Sunday afternoon.” He turned toward me. “You weren’t right either. You should have been more nervous.”

“What the hell for?” I said.

“Because, goddamn it, I deserve my slice of American banality. I’ve never had my share.”

“It doesn’t happen that way,” Beverly said.

“I know it doesn’t happen that way,” the colonel said. “I know that as well as I know that you’re not a virgin and probably haven’t been one since two weeks after you met the cocksman here.”

“Three weeks,” she said. “I held out.”

“Three weeks. I’d just like something tried and trite, something banal in my own borrowed living room. Something that looks like it stepped out of an ad or MGM. I’m thirsty for the insipid.”

“How about a martini?” Beverly said.

“If he wants something insipid, champagne would be better,” I said.

The colonel sighed. “We don’t have any champagne, we’ve run out of vermouth, and it’s not even Sunday afternoon.” He grinned at Beverly. “What the hell,” he said. “Just make it a hooker of gin.”

It was a small, if not quiet wedding. Ruby cried throughout and Major Schiller pinched Beverly three times, once during the ceremony, which caused her to jump and say “ouch” when she should have been saying, “I, Beverly.” The major got a little drunk and played the piano and sang. The colonel looked morose throughout while his daughter looked as if she were about to succumb to a fit of giggles. The groom was hungover and testy. Smalldane, twenty or thirty pounds heavier than when I’d seen him last, performed as best man with more gusto than was really necessary, but he seemed to enjoy his role. A fat army chaplain, a major who claimed to be a Baptist, mumbled the ceremony so that I had to ask him “What?” twice. Afterwards, he drank eleven glasses of champagne and wept a little, perhaps for his own sins as well as for ours.

When it was over the colonel dragged me into the kitchen and produced two items. The first was a set of keys to a new Chevrolet. He did it brusquely, as if embarrassed by his own generosity, or perhaps because he thought he was playing it a shade close to the hearty father. He made up for that with the second item, a .38 Colt automatic. “Keep it handy,” he said.

“You mean carry it?”

A pained look spread across his face. It was the look of a man who has just discovered that he has a lout for a son-in-law. “Just handy. Around the house.”

I nodded and because I didn’t know what to do with it, I shoved it into a hip pocket and later transferred it to a suitcase.

Gorman Smalldane was equally furtive. He also chose the kitchen, which seemed to be the favorite clandestine meeting place for wedding guests. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. “Your wedding present,” he said.

I thanked him and started to put it into a pocket.

“Go ahead, open it,” he said.

I opened it and found a bundle of what seemed to be shares of common stock.