Росс Томас: The Singapore Wink

Callese stopped talking and stared at me some more with his powder-dry eyes. He had a slice of a mouth that turned abruptly down at the corners, even when he was talking. Two deep creases ran down from his nose to form parentheses around the mouth and a thin, white scar wandered from his right eye, down his cheek, and back to the lobe of his ear.

“Am I supposed to know the godson?” I asked.

Callese smiled; at least I assumed it was a smile. The corners of his mouth turned up instead of down although he kept his lips together as if he felt that his teeth weren’t much to look at.

“You know him,” Callese said.

“Does he have a name?”

“Angelo Sacchetti.”

“What about him?” I said.

“You know him then?”

“I knew him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

I put my feet back up on the desk, lit a cigarette, and tossed the match at the butt that Callese had ground out on the floor.

“How much have you dug up on me, Mr. Callese?”

The man in the spats made his shoulders move in an expressive Italian shrug. “We checked here and there. We learned a little.”

“Then you must have learned that I killed Angelo Sacchetti two years ago in Singapore harbor.”

It was no news to either of them. Callese took out his gold case and lit another of his oval cigarettes. Palmisano yawned, scratched himself in the crotch, and turned to resume his inspection of the Cadillac. I glanced at my watch and waited for one of them to say something interesting. After a few moments Callese sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“Two years ago, huh?” he said.

I nodded. “Two years ago.”

Callese decided to inspect the ceiling. “How’d it happen?”

“You know how it happened,” I said. “If you’ve done any checking at all, you found that out.”

He gave me a wave of his left hand. It was a disdainful, rejecting motion. “Newspaper stuff,” he said. “Secondhand information, just like your cars out there. I’m not much on secondhand anything, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“Just tell his godfather that he’s dead,” I said. “Tell him he can leave everything to the Sons of Italy.”

“You got something against Italians maybe?” Palmisano said, turning towards me.

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“How, Mr. Cauthorne?” Callese said. “How’d it happen?”

“It was a pirate picture,” I said and my voice seemed to belong to somebody else. “We were shooting second unit. I was stunt coordinator and Sacchetti was number two. The scene called for a cutlass duel on a Chinese junk. The junk was anchored out in the harbor where there happens to be a tricky current. Sacchetti and I were on the stern of the junk, hacking away at each other. Sacchetti was supposed to jump to the rail, grab a line, and lean out over the water while parrying. He didn’t parry when he should have and my cutlass sliced the rope. He fell overboard and never came up. He drowned.”

Callese had listened carefully and when I was through, he nodded. “You know Angelo well?”

“I knew him. I’d worked a few pictures with him before. He was a top fencer, but better with the épée and foil than he was with the cutlass or saber. He rode well, I remember.”

“Could he swim?” Callese asked.

“He could swim.”

“But when the rope was cut, he didn’t come up.” It wasn’t a question the way he said it.

“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

“Angelo could swim good,” Palmisano said. “I taught him.” The big man was watching me as I put my feet back on the floor, rose, and started to reach into my inside jacket pocket for my wallet. I never made it. Palmisano was suddenly right next to me. His big right hand clamped on my wrist and jerked it down, over and behind my back where he could easily snap it if that turned out to be a good idea.

“Tell him to get his goddamned hand off me,” I told Callese in what turned out to be an almost conversational tone.

“Let him go,” Callese snapped.

Palmisano shrugged and released my arm. “He could have been going for it,” he said.

I stared at Callese. “When did you let him out of the attic?”

“He’s been away for a while,” he said. “Now he looks after me. It’s his first job in a long time and he wants to make good at it. What were you reaching for, Mr. Cauthorne, your wallet?”

“That’s right,” I said. “It has a card in it.”

“What card?”

“A card with a name on it. It’s the name of the man who can arrange for you to see the film that was shot when Sacchetti went over. If you want to see how he died, it’s all there in living color.”

“No,” Callese said. “I don’t think so.” He paused for a moment. “What — uh — what happened to you, Mr. Cauthorne, after Angelo didn’t come up?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I mean did the cops investigate?”

“Yes. The Singapore police. They ruled it an accident.”

“Was anyone else interested?”

“There was a man from the embassy. He asked a few questions, and then, back in the States, there were Sacchetti’s creditors. He seemed to have had a lot of them.”

Callese nodded his head, apparently satisfied. Then he stared at me again. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t seem to be following your questions too well.”

Callese let his eyes wander around the showroom and then shrugged. “I mean, no more movie work?”

“I retired,” I said.

“Because of what happened to Sacchetti?”

“That might have had something to do with it.”

Callese’s shoulders moved again in another expressive shrug. “So now you’re selling used cars.” He made it sound worse than it was, but perhaps not much worse. Certainly no worse than running an abortion mill.

There was a silence for a while. I picked up a paper clip from the desk and straightened it out. Then I began to bend it back into its original shape which is more difficult than it sounds. Both Palmisano and Callese watched me with what seemed to be interest. Then Callese cleared his throat.

“The godfather,” he said.

“There is a godfather?”

“He’ll want to see you. In Washington.”

“Why?”

“So he can pay you twenty-five thousand dollars.”

I went on bending the paper clip. “For what?”

“For finding his godson.”

“There’s nothing left to find.”

Callese reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, took out a plain white envelope, and tossed it over on the desk. I opened it and took out three photographs. One of them had been taken with an old Polaroid and was beginning to yellow. Another seemed to be a blowup from a 35 mm. camera, and the last was square in shape, possibly the product of a Rolleiflex. The subject in each picture wore dark glasses and sported a new mustache and the hair was longer, but there was no mistaking the profile in the Polaroid shot. It belonged to Angelo Sacchetti who had always been proud of that profile. I put the pictures back in the envelope and handed it to Callese.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s Sacchetti,” I said.

“He’s alive.”

“So it seems.”

“The godfather would like you to find him.”

“Who took the pictures?”

“Different people. The godfather has lots of contacts.”

“Then tell him to get the contacts to find his godson.”

“That won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a delicate matter.”

“Tell him to use some delicate persons.”

Callese sighed and lighted another cigarette. “Look, Mr. Cauthorne. I can tell you just three things. First, Angelo Sacchetti is alive. Second, there’s twenty-five thousand in it for you when you find him. And third, the godfather wants to talk to you in Washington.”