He undid the clasp and looked inside and said “my, my” and stuck the envelope in the wide pocket of his camel’s hair polo coat.
“Can’t stay for lunch, baby,” he said. “Too many things moving.”
“Got time for a drink?”
“Make time for that.”
I picked up the phone and ordered three martinis. “You want Scotch?” I asked Hardman.
He shook his head. “Martini’s fine.”
“Phones going in O.K.?” Padillo asked him.
“Man’s working on ’em right now.”
“When will he be through?”
Hardman looked at his watch. “Couple of hours — about three’d put us on the safe side.”
“Can we set up a trial conference call for four?”
“Don’t see why not. Lemme think. That’d be my car, Mush’s, and the pickup and the van.”
“Right.”
“Mush and I’ll pick you up where?”
Padillo looked at me. I shrugged. “Mac’s apartment,” he said. “We’ll be outside at four.”
“Be there,” Hardman assured us.
The drinks came and Hardman told us what he had been doing. The pickup and the van had been painted; he’d got four white sets of coveralls; the phones were going in, and Tulip, Johnny Jay, and Nineball were staying sober. We went over the time that he should pick Magda and me up the next morning and he said that he had it all straight.
We finished the drinks and followed Hardman out into the restaurant. He left and we moved over to the bar and watched the customers get rid of their weekend hangovers. I said hello to some regulars and introduced Padillo. We stayed at the restaurant until three-thirty and then went to my apartment. I opened the door with a key and then waited for Sylvia to take the chain off the lock.
“Quiet day?” I said.
“Very quiet,” she said.
“Nervous?” Padillo asked.
“Only a little.”
“We have to go out for a while but then we’ll come back and keep you company the rest of the day,” he said.
At four Padillo and I went downstairs and waited for Hard-man and Mush. They were on time and I got into Hardman’s Cadillac and Padillo went in Mush’s Buick. We drove to the corner and the Buick turned right. Hardman turned left. He picked up the telephone that hung from his dashboard and signaled the operator. He drove with his left hand and held the phone to his ear with his right.
“This is YR 4-7896. I want to set up a conference call with the following numbers.” He read off three more numbers with the YR prefix. “That’s right, operator, soon as possible.”
He hung up the phone and we drove on, heading towards Georgetown.
“We going any place in particular?” I asked.
“Just cruisin,” he said. “Any place special you wanna go?”
I couldn’t think of any place and told him so.
We were on Wisconsin Avenue heading north towards Nebraska when the telephone buzzed. Hardman picked it up and said: “This is YR 4-7896. Thanks, operator.” He handed the phone to me. “She says the call’s ready. Tell ’em who you are and where you are.”
“This is McCorkle on Wisconsin and T,” I said. “We’re heading north.”
“This is Padillo. We’re on Connecticut and S Streets, heading north.”
“This is Tulip. We’re on Georgia and Kennedy Streets, heading south.”
“This Johnny Jay at Fourteenth and Columbia Road. We turnin on to Fourteenth and heading south.”
“Hold on,” I said and turned to Hardman. “They’re all coming in fine.”
“Tell ’em to keep talking and to meet us at Nebraska and Military Road in twenty minutes,” he said.
“That’s going to take some driving for a couple of them.”
“That’s what they paid to do.”
“Meet us at Nebraska and Military Road in twenty minutes. That will be four-forty p.m. Let me know if you’ve got it.”
“This is Padillo. I understand. We’re heading there now.”
“This is Johnny Jay. Shit, man, I’m gonna have to fly.”
“This is Tulip. I’ll be there.”
“They’ve got it,” I told Hardman.
“Tell ’em not to hang up.”
“Don’t hang up — keep the call going.”
We drove down Wisconsin and turned right on Nebraska. We hit a long red light at Connecticut, crossed and drove slowly down Nebraska until we got to Military Road. A white moving van drove past us, followed by a white pickup truck. Both had “Four-Square Moving Company” painted on their doors. Mush’s Buick turned out of a side street. He waved at us and I waved back.
Hardman reached for the phone. “All right,” he said. “We can knock off now. Take ’em back where you got em.” He signaled the operator and told her the call was through.
“They seemed to work fine,” I said.
“They’ll be fine tomorrow.”
He drove me back to my apartment. “Anything else tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“See you in the morning then.”
“Where’ll you be if something comes up?”
“This phone or Betty’s.”
“O.K. See you tomorrow.”
I waited until Mush drove up and let Padillo out and we rode up the elevator together. Inside the apartment, Sylvia put a new bandage on Padillo, I mixed three drinks, and we turned on the television set and watched the six-thirty news. There was nothing about Van Zandt.
At seven Padillo telephoned Madga Shadid, Philip Price, and Jon Dymec. He gave them their final instructions in brief, concise sentences.
He came back to the couch and sat down next to Sylvia. “Did you call the police today?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“They have anything?”
“No. They’re still unable to locate the car that struck Dad.”
“Did they want you to do anything else?”
“No. When I was there I made arrangements to have him sent home.” She said it without faltering.
“Are your people expecting to hear from you?”
“I sent a cable to mother and charged it to this telephone. I have the charges,” she said to me. “I’ll repay you.”
“Forget it.”
“Do you still have that automatic?” Padillo asked her.
“Yes.”
“Take it with you tomorrow. Can you hide it some place — in your brassiere or something?”
She flushed slightly. “Or something. Will I need it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just want you to have it.”
The telephone rang and I answered it.
“You can talk to your wife, McCorkle.” It was Boggs.
“Fredl?”
“I’m on now, darling.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just getting so tired and I—”
They cut her off again. Boggs came back on. “Is Padillo there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is everything ready for tomorrow? You have the correct times?”
“We have everything,” I said.
“Well,” he said and his voice trailed off. For once he seemed at a loss for something to say. “I don’t suppose I should wish you good luck,” he said finally.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, well — goodnight then.”
I hung up the phone.
“Boggs,” I said.
“Fredl all right?”
“Yes. I suppose so. She’s tired.”
“What did Boggs want?”
“He wanted to know whether he should wish us good luck.”
Twenty-Three
The alarm rang at eight Tuesday morning and I turned it off and put my cigarette out in the big ceramic tray that was on the night table next to the bed. The tray had thirty-seven butts in it. I had counted them twenty minutes earlier. I had awakened at three and for a while just stared up into the darkness until I knew that sleep was at an end and that I had five hours to spend with myself. The prospect of my company was never less pleasing. I was a bore. I talked too much and listened too little. I was opinionated and self-indulgent. I had no insight, but plenty of self-pity. I had a tendency to blame others for the mistakes I made. I was growing old. I drank too much.