R. MacAvoy - Tea with the Black Dragon

“It was on disk,” replied Fred Frisch. “She left it sitting in the secretary’s library and no one thought to look. Not even the secretary.” He handed the scroll of paper to the other, commenting, “It’s fascinating. She names dates, places and amounts of withdrawal. She’s got an orderly mind.”

Long read. He nodded in agreement.

“Liz and I were in all the same classes when we were frosh. I had this huge crush on her,” Fred blurted.

Mr. Long looked up from the page he was reading. “I see. She didn’t return the sentiment?”

“Naw. She was after bigger fish.”

“She told you so?”

Fred scratched his head. He blushed. “I never told her about it. No use.”

Long regarded him intently. “So that’s why you agreed to help me.”

The blond youth returned the stare. “No. No, I don’t think that’s why. I—I think I mean don’t you think I’d do it just because…”He broke off and began the ritual of powering down the equipment.

May land Long finished the letter in silence.

The guard patted each of Frisch’s pockets before standing aside. Then he approached Long, who stared down at the fat man from infinite heights. “Yo no tengo nada,” he said.

For five seconds they locked eyes. “Lo creo,” muttered the guard finally, and he ambled back to his desk and to romance.

The sky had returned crystalline while Frisch was working. A late night wind struck their faces and made streamers of their steaming breaths. Mr. Long inhaled deeply.

“I feel tremendously better, Fred. The cocoa was a saving grace.”

Fred Frisch strode ahead and reached the Citroen before Long. He stood with legs braced in front of the driver’s door. “Let me drive.”

Mr. Long shook his head. “This car is very complex.”

Frisch stood firm. “Remember me? I’m the quick study.”

“Don’t you trust my driving?” Long’s voice was lightly ironical.

Frisch’s answer was not. “No. You’re sick, and there’s enough danger in this whole business without me worrying about going into the median strip or ending my life plowing into the front grill of someone else’s Volkswagen.”

Long extended the keys to Frisch. “You’re right, of course.” He walked around the car.

Fred Frisch felt obscurely guilty as he studied the instrument board. The automatic hydraulic suspension levitated the body of the car as the engine caught; Fred had heard about the strange Citroen suspension, but this was his first experience driving it. At least the controls appeared familiar. He played out the clutch gently, experimenting.

Mr. Long loosened his grip on the dash. “You are a quick study,” he commented. “I expected rather a rougher start.”

Frisch shrugged. “Where do we go now?” he asked.

“We?”

“Of course we. You don’t think I can go back to sleep after all this, do you Mister Dragon?”

Long’s smile grew and deepened into laughter. “Fred! Have you such an appetite for adventure? But I forget— I’m talking to a young man. Let’s return to your apartment, for now. I must make a telephone call.”

“To call who?”

“I will tell you when we get there.”

Fred looked at the clock. “It’s just after four. You say Liz is safe until the banks open?”

“I hope so. Until Rasmussen and Threve believe they have the incriminating letter, they dare not kill the daughter.”

“But what about… Mrs. Macnamara?”

Mr. Long’s answer was slow in coming. “She is in terrible danger. The only reason they have for keeping her alive is that she can be used to pressure the daughter. If they believe this is not necessary, or if Martha refuses—has refused—to be so used, then they can be expected to kill her. And after they are done with her, they must kill her. She is a curious, sharp woman who has probably seen at least one of them face to face. How can they let her live?”

Fred’s face clouded over, remembering the blue dress and the graying hair, and how the little voice-operated race car made circles on the floor. It was the sort of happening he fostered in his shop. That’s what the shop was for: friendly computers. Friendly people.

“Can’t the police help?” he asked.

“How? Tell me how, Fred, and I will show up on the precinct house doorstep with you. I cannot find Rasmussen or Threve…”

“Threve I never heard of. What does he look like?”

“Like Satan himself, I gather. Elizabeth fears him more than she does Rasmussen. Other than that, I know only that he is rather short and dresses loudly. “I believe he drives a black Lincoln. At least I suspect such a car was involved with the kidnapping, and I didn’t see it parked at RasTech. With no more information than this, can the police find Martha Macnamara? That is, can they find her in time? I am sure they would eventually turn up the body.”

Frisch shuddered. “Jeez! Do you get hardened to things like this?”

“Do I?” inquired Long. “The longer one lives, the more one sees, it is true, but I don’t feel hardened. Quite the contrary, in my youth I was far more… brutal.”

“Then you’re in the wrong line of work,” insisted Fred. “No offense. I think a guy who could thrive in such a slimy world, with fraud and criminals, always a bit to the windward of the law… he’d have to be kind of a snake.”

Long leaned over curiously. “What are you talking about, Fred. Which world is this?”

“I mean the world of the private investigator. Or police investigator. Any detective.”

“Ah.” Mr. Long digested this, and began again to laugh, ignoring the lancing pain in his shoulder, “You believe I’m a private detective.”

“You’re not?” Fred’s eyes darted wildly from the road to the smiling, tired face beside him. “Then what—who are you? How’d you get involved in this?”

Mr. Long sighed. “Starting with what I am: my field was languages, but I am now retired. Who is equally easy to explain. I am a friend of Martha Macnamara’s. How? Easiest of all. I promised her I would find her daughter. So you see. You have been aiding a bumbling amateur to trespass and steal documents. Have you second thoughts?”

Fred was staunch. “Jeez, no. I’m glad. I mean, there’s something seamy about carrying the banner for money. But, Martha. Mrs. Macnamara. I’m really sorry. She seemed like a fine lady.”

“No eulogies yet, please,” growled Long. “I don’t believe her to be dead. Allow me that.”

The car glided to a stop in front of Frisch’s duplex. He left it double parked. Both men got out.

Fred felt the keys of the car being pried from his hand. Half-embarrassed at his earlier show of force, he let them go and fumbled for his door key.

With the front door open, he turned to perceive that Mr. Long was not with him, but was unlocking the Citroen from the driver’s side. Fred sprinted across the lawn.

“What’re you doing?” he protested. “Trying to chuck me?”

“Yes, Fred. That is exactly it,” Long admitted, gently fending the young man off. “I had hoped you would not be so quick.”

“You can’t do it. I won’t let you go alone!”

Long placed his right hand on Frisch’s shoulder. It was an affectionate, avuncular gesture and Frisch found he could not move at all. “You can hardly stop me, Fred.”

Fred fought against Long’s grip. Defeated, he tried words again. “If you leave me behind, I’ll call the police.”

The dark man turned his face away and the hand slipped off. “I can’t prevent that,” he admitted. “Not without harming or detaining you. And I won’t do that.” He slid into the seat.

Fred wedged himself between the door and frame. “But you need me. There are two baddies, and you have only one arm.”