“I use them to think in,” I said.
Kragstein nodded approvingly, as if he believed me. “I myself find them conducive for business purposes.”
Before he could tell me how business was, the bartender came over, took a couple of cursory swipes at the table with a fairly clean rag, and asked us our pleasure. Kragstein’s was gin. Padillo and I asked for bottled beer. Gitner wanted a Coke, perhaps because he was driving. Nobody said much until the bartender returned with the drinks. He was a stocky, dark-complexioned man, possibly a Greek, and he wasn’t much impressed with his uptown trade. He served the drinks and then waited to see who would pay. They don’t run tabs in places like the Chatterbox.
I kept my hands on the table and so did Padillo and when the Greek started to whistle “Carolina Moon,” Kragstein got the idea and handed over a five. The bartender put 52.80 change on the table and went back to his regular customers. The same drinks in our place would have cost $1.35 more, but that’s how it is with a steep overhead, which some insist on calling atmosphere.
“Well, now,” Kragstein said as he peered about. “This is rather nice. But would it be possible to speak German or French?”
“Either one,” Padillo said, “although McCorkle’s German is better than his French.”
“Then we shall speak German,” Kragstein said in German and I was surprised that he spoke it with an American accent. His English was easy, but also slightly accented, although I hadn’t been able to determine what flavor.
“It was too bad about Walter, wasn’t it?” Kragstein said after he had taken a sip of his gin.
“Terrible,” Padillo said.
“And I believe that it happened in your apartment, Mr. McCorkle.”
“In the living room,” I said.
“A garrote?”
“Steel wire attached to a couple of plastic bicycle handlebar grips,” Padillo said, looking at Gitner. “It’s supposed to be fairly popular in Southeast Asia. You spent some time out there recently, didn’t you, Amos?”
“A few months,” Gitner said.
“Cambodia, wasn’t it?”
“There and a couple of other places.”
“Free-lance or contract?”
“Does it matter?”
“I heard it was contract.”
“Believe anything you like, Padillo, as long as it’s comforting.”
Gitner wasn’t a tall man, but he had nice moves. I hadn’t seen him smoke and if he drank nothing but Coca-Cola, his teeth might have a few fillings, but there was nothing wrong with his liver. He looked American—the way young, earnest Americans looked a decade or so ago before they discovered things that they thought were more important than close shaves, clean fingernails, tidy haircuts and J. Press suits. Gitner was something of an anachronism, I decided, a throwback to the fifties with his crew cut light brown hair, his quiet tweed jacket, his expensive gray flannel trousers, his buttondown white shirt, the marble-sized knot in his red silk tie, and his burnished cordovan oxfords. I tried to decide whom he reminded me of and it came as faint surprise when I realized that Gitner was a blond version of Padillo as he’d been not quite fifteen years ago when I’d first met him, before he’d let his sideburns reach his earlobes and before he’d cultivated the moustache that I thought made him look like the Dark Knight from Iberia, a little down on his luck perhaps, but ready for either fight or frolic. But that’s what I get for having been reared on Tennyson.
“I thought we should clear the air about a few things, Michael,” Kragstein said and waved his right hand around as if to demonstrate what he meant.
“Go ahead,” Padillo said.
“Am I to understand that you intend to lend your talents to Miss Gothar, now that her brother is dead?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Not out of sentiment, surely?”
“No.”
Kragstein nodded, as if reassured by Padillo’s answer. “Good,” he said and paused for another sip of gin. “We are, as you’ve probably gathered, interested in one Peter Paul Kassim.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And you, too, are interested in him.”
“Only in his health.”
“As are we.”
Padillo said nothing. Instead he borrowed a cigarette from me, lit it with his own matches, and blew some smoke up into the air, gazing around the bar as if wondering how much it would cost to buy in.
“Perhaps I should first assure you that we are in no manner responsible for Walter Gothar’s death. I hope you believe me.”
“Sure,” Padillo said. “But would it make any difference if I didn’t?”
“None,” Gitner said. “None at all.”
“Walter seemed a little worried about you, Amos. He thought you had him in your book.”
“Did he say that?”
“More or less.”
“He was wrong.”
“That won’t bother him now.”
Gitner tasted his Coca-Cola as if he expected it to have turned sour. From the look on his face, it may have. He put it down and shoved it away from him toward Kragstein. “Gothar wasn’t as good as he thought he was,” he said. “That’s why he’s dead.”
“He was pretty good,” Padillo said. “Personally, I thought he was too good to let somebody get behind him with a garrote.”
“Maybe it was his sister,” Gitner said. “It sounds like her.”
“Maybe,” Padillo said.
“I thought you had a thing going with her.”
“That was a few years back.”
“What happened?”
“Do you feel it’s vital that you know?”
Gitner smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. I felt that he may not have had any other kind. “You’re not letting me needle you, are you, Padillo?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. I just want to make sure that if something happens to Wanda, you won’t feel any great personal loss.”
“None,” Padillo said. “But whoever gets to her might have to go through me.”
Gitner nodded slowly, more to himself than to anyone else. “That could be interesting,” he said. “That could be real interesting.”
“Wanda has told you about Kassim, of course,” Kragstein said comfortably.
“She hasn’t told me anything except that she’s got a client that you’ve taken an order on.”
“I thought you said—”
Padillo interrupted him. “I said that I’d heard that you were interested in Kassim and that I’m concerned about his health. That’s all. The rest of it you assumed.”
“But this arrangement of yours with the Gothars. It would—”
“There’s no arrangement.”
“Are you trying to cut yourself in or out, Padillo?” Gitner said.
“I’m already in. The only question left is for how much and who’s going to pay it.”
Gitner and Kragstein traded glances, meaningful ones, I assumed. Kragstein decided to do the talking, probably because he was better at it. “We could always work out an accommodation, Michael.”
“What kind?”
“We’ve accepted this assignment on an incentive arrangement. The young man is to sign certain papers as soon as his brother dies. If he does not sign those papers, we receive a sizable bonus. Our fee is still adequate if he does sign the papers, but does not return to Llaquah. We receive virtually nothing if he does sign the papers and returns to Llaquah.”
“So you’re in a hurry,” Padillo said.
“That’s right,” Gitner said. “We’re in a hurry.”
“Who’s your client?”
“Does that matter?” Kragstein asked.
“It does to McCorkle.”
“Really? How?”
“He was hoping it would be the wicked uncle.”
“Kassim doesn’t have any uncles,” Gitner said.
“Cousins?” I said, trying to make my voice sound hopeful.