“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t thought about that yet. I don’t think that I can.”
Fifteen
Karl didn’t flick an eye when I walked in with Sylvia Underbill on my arm. It was that kind of place. We took a broad view of everything.
“Padillo here yet?”
“He’s in back.”
“Call him and tell him I’m here. Which table?”
“Thirty-two, in the corner,” Karl said. “Drinks?”
“We’ll wait for Padillo.”
We followed one of the waiters over to the table that I had asked to be reserved after Padillo had called me from his hotel. The waiter helped Sylvia with her chair and hovered around a bit more than usual because she was with the owner. Padillo came out from the back and crossed the room quickly, counting the house as he came. We were full and those without reservations were lining up at the bar. The customers liked the bar for its generous drinks, its fast service and Karl’s knowledgeable gossip about Washington. He served a quick, bright line of chatter that just bordered on slander. It provided an interesting contrast to Herr Horst’s meticulously correct formality.
“How’d it go?” I asked after Padillo was seated and had said hello to Sylvia.
“I didn’t remember how well I can lie.”
“They went along?”
“Take a look at the bar — the third and fourth seats from the end.”
I waited a few moments and then looked around, as if for a waiter. Two men in their early thirties sat at the bar, half-turned to the room, trying to look unremarkable. They succeeded. Each had a bottle of beer and a half-full glass at his elbow. They didn’t seem thirsty or worried about the beer going flat.
“The two nursing the beers?” I asked.
“They picked me up at the hotel when I left.”
“Who are they?” Sylvia asked.
“They’re from the FBI.”
“They followed you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they think I’m in danger.”
“What happened when you got to the hotel?” I said.
“You think we could get a drink?” Padillo asked.
I held up a hand and waved it slightly. A waiter materialized. We ordered three vodka martinis.
“You recall that circular seat that the hotel has around the fountain in the middle of the lobby?” Padillo said.
“Yes.”
“When I arrived at six, Iker and Weinriter were sitting on it, waiting for me. They didn’t make it too obvious, but it was obvious enough. Darragh was sitting on the other side of the thing. He followed us to the elevator.”
“You should have invited him up.”
“He still looked unhappy.”
“Are you speaking of Lewis Darragh?” Sylvia said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You tell her,” I said. “I’ve been talking all evening about how clever you are.”
Padillo sketched it quickly — how we needed the FBI surveillance to convince Van Zandt that Dymec should be brought in as the substitute assassin.
“You told Weinriter and Iker about Angola?” I asked.
“I even drew them a map, an accurate one.”
“They look at your side?”
“Iker wanted to. He also wanted to know who the doctor was.”
“And they bought the whole thing?”
“Reluctantly. They still want to hear about the arms deals that did take place.”
“That’s next week, I take it.”
“Possibly the week after.”
The waiter brought the martinis. I told him we would order in ten minutes.
“Now that you have your Federal guardians, what do you plan to do with them?”
“I don’t know. It’s supposed to be a twenty-four hour surveillance.”
“They can’t keep that up forever.”
“I probably told the story too well. I’ll try to think up another one that will get them to fade out tomorrow.”
Herr Horst came over and Padillo introduced him to Sylvia Underhill. He recommended the tournedos and a wine from the Ahr and we agreed to try them after another martini. A waiter brought a telephone over and plugged it into the jack. “It’s for you, Mr. McCorkle,” he said.
I picked it up and said yes.
“We’ll accept the substitute, McCorkle.” It was Boggs’s voice. “But we want to talk to him.”
“When?”
“Tonight?”
“I’m not sure we can reach him tonight. I want to talk to my wife.”
“In a moment. It has to be tonight, is that clear?”
“Hold on.” I put my hand over the receiver. “It’s Boggs,” I told Padillo. “They’ll go along with Dymec, but they want to see him tonight. It’s tonight or never, according to him.”
“Set it up for Seventh Street at midnight. I can get Dymec.”
“It can be arranged for midnight,” I said into the phone. I gave him the Seventh Street address.
“Tell him he’d better start getting the money together,” Padillo said.
“Don’t forget the money,” I said. “If he’s not sure of the money, he’ll walk out.”
“That’s being taken care of,” Boggs said. “But the money’s to go to Padillo, right?”
“Right.”
“He’ll have it tomorrow.”
“Put my wife on.”
“I’ll see you at midnight, McCorkle. Here’s your wife.”
“Fredl?”
“I’m on, darling. I’m doing fine; it’s just a little tiring and I miss you so much.”
“It’ll be over soon; it’s near the end now.”
“It seems so long. It seems longer than forever. I hope—”
The telephone went dead and I placed it in its cradle and signaled a waiter to take it away, but Padillo told him to leave it for a moment.
“She all right?” Padillo asked.
“I guess so; I couldn’t tell. She didn’t scream anyway.”
“Has she screamed before?” Sylvia asked.
“Once. They made her scream to impress me. They succeeded.”
“They’re rotten!” she said and I was surprised by the intensity in her voice. “They kill and they hurt and they don’t leave you anything. Then they laugh about it. I’ve heard them laugh when someone was hurt. Their big, loud laughs.”
“Maybe they laugh because they’re afraid,” Padillo said quietly. “I’ve seen frightened people laugh.”
“Are you apologizing for them?” she demanded.
“I don’t apologize for anyone,” he said. “I have trouble enough finding excuses for myself.”
He picked up the phone and dialed a number. It seemed to take a long time for it to answer. “This is Padillo. You have an appointment at midnight on Seventh Street with your future employers. McCorkle will be there. I can’t make it.” He listened for a while. “Just you and McCorkle. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He replaced the phone and the waiter took it away and plugged it in at another table where some customer probably wanted to call Honolulu. If he did, we added twenty per cent. The food came and it looked good, but I wasn’t hungry. Herr Horst went by and stopped to find out whether something was wrong and I assured him that it wasn’t.
“You can miss a meal,” Padillo said. “In fact, you could miss two or three.”
“You think I’ve filled out a bit?”
“It gives you dignity. You’re losing that lean, raffish look.”
“Care for some coffee?” I asked Sylvia.
“Please.”
“You try,” I told Padillo. “I want to see how well Horst has passed the word to the staff.”
Padillo looked up, nodded his head slightly, and a waiter was hovering at his elbow. It could have been Herr Horst’s instructions about the new active partner, or it could have been Padillo. I had seen him command attention like that in restaurants where he dined for the first time. If it were a trick, it was one I wanted to learn.