“The should’s the hard part,” Durant said. “Can presents no problem.”
Simms smiled, apparently quite cheerful now. “You’ll never do it, Quincy. Never.”
“I might enjoy it.”
“Nonsense. You’d never kill your own brother. Half brother actually, of course.”
The gun wavered in Durant’s hand as pure shock hit him like a cruel, totally unexpected blow. He automatically rejected the idea in self-defense, then accepted it, rejected it again, and then accepted it forever as a lifetime of speculation about his identity ended. And suddenly, Durant realized that he hadn’t wanted it to end. And he was thinking about this, puzzling about it, when Artie Wu walked quietly into the room.
“I was just telling Quincy, Artie,” Simms said, “about us being brothers. You do look shocked, Quincy. But think about it. Why do you think I nursemaided you all these years after you first popped up on our green sheet down in Mexico that time? I got you out of jail and then into the Peace Corps and later kept you in tow and mostly out of trouble. Mother made me promise, of course. Incidentally, her maiden name was Quincy. It was one of those dreadful deathbed scenes — you know what I mean.”
As if to make his point, Simms’s right hand performed a graceful flourish, an actor’s practiced gesture actually, which ended with the hand resting casually on his right knee, almost beneath the desk. Simms moved the hand cautiously until he had it wrapped around the butt of the automatic that was suspended out of sight beneath the desk top.
Simms tightened his finger and began, “You see, Quincy,” in a conversational tone that ended when Artie Wu took his gun out of his pocket and shot Reginald Simms at close range once in the throat and twice in the chest, just about where the heart is. The bullets slammed Simms back in his chair, but then he slumped forward on to the desk and after a moment slipped awkwardly to the floor.
Wu moved over to the desk, reached under it, jerked the hidden automatic free, and slid it across the desk toward Durant, who still stood in the center of the room, silent and stunned.
“You don’t need a brother,” Artie Wu said. “You got me.”
Chapter 39
Finally, Durant moved. He walked around the desk and stared down at the body of Reginald Simms. Well, brother, he thought, and wondered why he kept staring down at him.
Artie Wu had put his revolver back into a pocket of his resplendent silk suit. From its hip pocket he now brought out a small silver flask. He uncapped it and handed it to Durant.
Still staring down at Simms, Durant swallowed some of the brandy. He then moved over to Silk Armitage, put the flask down, carefully removed the tape that covered her mouth, and untied her hands. After that he silently handed her the flask. She took a small swallow.
“Oh, my God, I was scared!” she said. “Were you?”
Durant nodded. “You okay now?”
“I think so.” She looked quickly at Simms and then even more quickly looked away. “He really your brother?”
Durant shrugged.
Silk put out her hand as though to comfort him with a touch. But she stopped and instead said, “I’m sorry, I really can’t help it, but I’m just obliged to go to the bathroom.”
“Try down the hall,” Artie Wu said.
After she had gone, Durant continued to sip at the brandy while he stared down at Simms. But finally he turned to Wu and said, “You knew, didn’t you, Artie?”
Wu nodded.
“How long?”
“About eight years. It was when we were in Bangkok that first time. Reg came through on some fruitcake mission. If anything happened to him, I was to tell you. Well, nothing happened.”
“Who was he?”
“Who?”
“Daddy,” Durant said, grating up the word.
“What do you care?” Artie Wu said. “Make him up. Pick anybody you like. Somebody swell, the way I did.”
“Who was he, Artie?”
Wu sighed. “He doesn’t know.”
“You mean about me?”
Wu nodded. “She was a widow — your mother, Simms’s. She got involved with a married man. When she found she was pregnant she went to San Francisco. Simms told me that she had you and a breakdown at about the same time, so you got left on the doorstep with the tag around your neck.”
“So who was he?”
Wu sighed again. “James.”
“Whittaker Lowell?”
“Whittaker Lowell.”
“Well, now.”
“Well, now, what?” Wu said.
“Well, now, isn’t that too fucking bad,” Durant said.
When Silk Armitage came back she hesitated at the entrance of the living room. “Do we have to wait in here?” she said.
“Yes,” Durant said.
She came in slowly, not looking at the two bodies. She went up to Durant and said, “Look, I’m sorry about your brother, but I’m not sure if there’s anything I can say.”
“No,” Durant said. “There’s really nothing to say.”
Silk went over to the window and stared out at the ocean. “How much longer?” she said.
Wu glanced at his watch. “Not much now.”
It wasn’t much longer, no more than a quarter of an hour, before they arrived right on time, the three of them. Oscar Ploughman came in first, followed by Otherguy Overby. Last in was Whittaker Lowell James, sprucely dressed, almost dapper, wearing his usual brusque, no-nonsense air.
Ploughman took it in quickly. He glanced first at Wu and Durant and Silk Armitage and then went over to the bodies. He gave Simms only a cursory look, but when he reached Imperlino he smiled happily with his big yellow teeth. “Well, Vince,” he said. “Hello, Vince.” Then he turned to Wu and Durant. “Who got him?”
“Simms,” Durant said.
Ploughman nodded. “Why?”
“Because Simms had been sent in to take him out.”
“No shit?” Ploughman said. “Who sent him?”
“Ask him,” Wu said, nodding at Whittaker Lowell James.
“What about it, Pop?” Ploughman said.
The man with three names ignored the Pop. Instead, he said, “As far as I know, Simms was acting on his own.”
“Who shot Simms, then?” Ploughman said.
“Let’s talk about money first,” Artie Wu said. “Then we can talk about who shot Simms.”
Ploughman nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, that makes sense. There is some money to talk about, huh? I mean, you guys weren’t just selling snowflakes?”
Durant nodded toward the two suitcases. “It’s in there.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Ploughman said.
“Why not?”
“Give me a hand, Otherguy,” Ploughman said. The two men knelt down by the suitcases and opened them. As Durant had done, they took some of the packets from the bottom and riffled through them.
While Ploughman and Overby inspected the cash, Durant inspected the man who was his father. Artie is right, Durant finally decided, children should be allowed to pick their own parents.
Ploughman looked up from the money at Durant, his big yellow smile gleaming. “Two million?”
Still staring at James, Durant nodded. “Two million,” he said.
“Four-way split?”
“Four-way split.”
As Ploughman and Overby closed up the suitcases, James said, “It was a very clever scheme, Quincy. Ingenious.”
“It was Artie’s idea.”
James nodded approvingly. “All very neatly done — and rather profitable, too, I should say.”
“Of course, it still leaves Silk around,” Durant said.
James smiled politely and bowed slightly to Silk. “I don’t think anyone bothered to introduce us, Miss Armitage. I’m Whittaker James.”
“The man with the mop,” Silk said.
“Yes,” James said with a small chuckle. “I suppose you might say that. And I’m sure that you and I can reach some mutually satisfactory accommodation.”