Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

“On your call to New York, we have Mr. Smalldane for you.”

There was some more chatter while Smalldane’s secretary wanted to make sure that Mr. Dye was on the line and the long distance operator kept assuring her that I was. Smalldane came on in his usual style.

“What do you want with an old fart like me?”

“You’re not so old, Gorm,” I said.

“I’m sixty-five and don’t you ever write?”

“I’ve been in jail.”

“Good or bad?”

“Not bad. Not as bad as Bridge House.”

“How long?”

“Three months.”

He asked where and I told him.

“What for?”

“I made a mistake.”

“You still with the spooks?”

“They fired me.”

“Good. You need some money? You want a job?”

“I’m on a job.”

“In Swankerton? That’s a horseshit town.”

“So it seems.”

“You know what it hit yesterday. It hit seventy-nine and it’s going up again today.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I told you to hang on to it. Hell, with that two-for-one split you’d have been worth almost a quarter of a million today.”

“I was never intended to be worth a quarter of a million.”

Smalldane switched to Cantonese. “Truly, you were destined to collect the wastes of cockroaches and turtles.”

“It is unfortunate that old age is too often accompanied by the wisdom of a child.”

“Huh,” Smalldane said and was silent for a moment. “That’s what they seem to think around here. You know what I am now? I’m chairman of the goddamned board. They booted my ass right upstairs. You sure you don’t want a job? I think we can use someone in the mail-room.”

“Keep it open,” I said. “I may need it, but right now I need something else.”

“What?”

“You still run that executive check service for your clients?”

“Sure.”

“I need a few people checked out. I’ll even pay for it.”

“You got something going down there that might be fun?”

“I think so.”

“You want some help?”

“I just told you what I wanted.”

“Shit, I’ll take care of that. I mean do you want some sage advice and wise counsel? I’m bored stiff.”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

“I can be there in six hours,” Smalldane said.

“How long will it take you to run a check on these names?”

“Forty-eight. We’ve got the FBI beat by twelve hours, but that’s because old man Hoover’s not sure that computers are here to stay. There’s one thing about him though that I like.”

“What?”

“He’s older than I am.” Smalldane’s tone changed. “Okay, Lucifer, just read off the names and I’ll get the rundown to you in forty-eight hours. What do you want, a full check?”

“As much as you can get.”

“Just read ‘em off.”

“You’re taping?”

“I’m taping,” he said.

“First, Victor Orcutt, Los Angeles. President of Victor Orcutt Associates. Second, Homer Necessary.” I spelled it and gave the city where he was formerly the chief of police. “Third, Ramsey Lynch, Swankerton, that’s an alias. Real name is Montgomery Vicker. Spent some time in Atlanta. The Federal pen. Fourth, Cal — probably for Calvin — Loambaugh. I’ll spell it.” After I spelled it, I said. “He’s chief of police, Swankerton. Fifth and last, Miss Carol Thackerty, who’s from the same city that Necessary’s from.”

“You son of a bitch,” Carol said.

“What’s that — what’s that? You got a girl there, I can hear her.”

“Her name’s Carol Thackerty.”

“Well, you must have just screwed everything up royal,” Smalldane said.

“I’d already done that.”

“That’s all the names?”

“That’s all.”

“Forty-eight hours. I can either telex it to our New Orleans office and have somebody fly it over to you or I can call you back.”

“Call me back and then we’ll decide.”

“What do you have down there, Lu, something political?”

“Partly.”

“If you want an old fart’s help, let me know. I’m bored.”

“I will.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Fine,” I said and hung up.

Carol Thackerty was sitting cross-legged on the bed and smoking a cigarette when I turned to her. She smiled at me, but all it contained were some very white teeth. “The fucking you get’s not worth the fucking you get, is it?”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Most have. Who was that?”

“An old friend.”

“So you’re checking us out?”

“What you really mean is that I’m checking you out. You don’t give a damn about the others.”

She shrugged and it made her breasts jiggle in an interesting manner. “You almost said that you would.”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t trust Orcutt?”

“About as much as he trusts me. He didn’t pick my name out of the Yellow Pages.”

“I’d be interested in what it will say about me. Have you ever seen one of those government reports that they write about people who they’re thinking of hiring?”

“A few,” I said.

“They throw in everything. Rumor, speculation, lies, conjecture, intuitive leaps — what have you. They’re all neatly typed up on little green-lined forms, although the typing’s not always so neat. Sometimes it looks like hunt and peck.”

“Where did you see any?”

“I had a friend once who was going after a government job. Federal. It was a presidential appointment. The FBI ran a check on him and this FBI type passed it to someone who passed it to me. Or a copy of it.”

“How’d you know it was a green form?”

“I don’t remember. He must have told me. But I remember what it said. It’s a wonder he got the job. It said he drank too much and played around and owed a lot of money.”

“That’s called the raw, unevaluated report. It’s the FBI speciality. They don’t pass judgment, they just go out like a vacuum cleaner and sweep everything up and then dump it out.”

“I wonder if they have one on me?”

“Probably.”

“Carol Portia Thackerty, twenty-six, born July 22, 1944, daughter of Lieutenant and Mrs. Ernest Thackerty of San Francisco. Lieutenant Thackerty killed in action, June 8, 1944, Omaha Beach. Mother proprietor of a fancy house, Monterey, California, 1946–1955. Known narcotics user. Died of cancer, July 4, 1955, Monterey General Hospital. Carol Portia Thackerty educated in private schools. Tuition paid by aunt, Ceil Thackerty, sister of late Lieutenant Thackerty. Aunt died, September, 1961. Niece, Carol Portia Thackerty, worked way through college, first as a call girl, second as owner of small motel specializing in teenage whores until joining present firm of Victor Orcutt Associ ates. And that’s how a bad girl like me and so forth. Like it?”

“I didn’t ask,” I said.

“No. There’s that about you. You didn’t. Why?”

“I don’t care.”

“You mean that I was a whore or why I did it?”

“I don’t care about either. You wanted to go to college. You just didn’t want to go the hard way.”

“And you think I should have?”

“I don’t think anything. You haven’t got much of a white slave story, so the only thing I might be curious about is what you studied.”

“Home economics,” she said, rose, and started to put on her clothes.

I watched her dress. “You’ll find that Victor’s just what he says he is.”

“Probably,” I said.

“Then why all the bother?”

“It only took a phone call.”

“Why the topcoat?”

“The what?” I said.

“You were naked, but before you’d talk over the phone, you put on a topcoat.”

“I never answer the phone naked.”