Cast a Yellow Shadow (21 page)

“It possibly might,” Padillo said.

“How you got it planned now?” Hardman asked.

“There's one thing about those figures you were reeling off,” I said.

“What?” Hardman said.

“There's no cut for you.”

“We get around to that later.”

Padillo leaned forward from his chair behind the desk and rested his arms on the blotter. I noticed that he had dusted it off. “It works like this,” he said. “You'll be outside the trade mission on Massachusetts Avenue by eleven-thirty on Tuesday morning. You'll be parked so that you have a clear view of the house. If there's a rear entrance, whoever's in the big truck will cover that. At precisely eleven-thirty a young white girl will go into the trade mission. She'll be driving a new green Chevrolet with D.C. plates. At eleven-thirty you'll start your four-way conference call. I assume that Hardman's going to be in the pickup so he'll originate the call. If that girl's not out of that place by noon, you go and bring her out.”

He waited. There were no questions. Hardman cleared his throat and said: “I've told 'em about that part, baby. I also mentioned that there'd be a bonus in it if they gotta go in.”

“That's right,” Padillo said.

“Who's gonna be drivin my car?” Hardman said.

“McCorkle. The woman you met at Betty's will be with him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“McCorkle will be parked a couple of blocks away from the mission on a side street. When that girl is brought out of the mission, both the pickup and the moving van will follow whatever car they take her in to wherever they take her. McCorkle will be following a block or two behind. You'll be telling him where you're going by means of the conference call.”

Padillo paused and lighted a cigarette and offered them around. Nobody took one. “When the car that has the girl arrives at wherever it's going, you'll wait until they take her in—I'm guessing it will be they—and come out and leave. Then McCorkle here and the woman will move up to the door—”

“You don't know what kind of door yet?” Tulip asked.

“We don't even know what section of town it'll be in,” Padillo said. “But the woman and McCorkle will move up to the door of whatever it is. They'll be looking as much as possible like new tenants who are accompanied by their movers—you four.”

“Uh-huh,” Hardman said.

“The woman will ring the bell or knock on the door or whatever. When it's opened, you move up behind them fast because that's when you go in.”

“They gonna let us in like that?” Nineball asked. “Just cause she asks them to?”

“She's not gonna ask them, baby,” Hardman said. “You ain't seen this little old gal. She's gonna have a gun aimed right at that mother's belly. Right, Mac?”

“Right,” I said.

“When you're inside,” Padillo went on, “your main job will be to get Mrs. McCorkle and the girl out safely and fast.”

“You talking about that little old gal we followed there now,” Hardman said. “You ain't talking about the one who's handling the gun.”

“No. Mrs. McCorkle and Sylvia Underhill are the ones who have to get out fast. The other one can usually take care of herself.”

“And in this house, that we don't know where it is, will be where the trouble is?” Johnny Jay said.

“That's right. That'll be the trouble.”

“Whatta we do with the women after it's over?” Nineball asked.

“Take 'em to Betty's,” Hardman said. “Then you hang around a while outside, make sure nobody's comin in after em.”

Hardman looked around the room. “You got any questions, you better ask them now.” They looked back at him, their faces impassive. Hardman rose. “O.K., I'll be in touch with you later this afternoon,” he told them. “You got things to do so you might as well get doing them.”

They got up and nodded at us as they filed out of the room. Hardman watched them leave, then turned to Padillo and me.

“They O.K.?” he asked.

“They look fine,” I said.

Padillo nodded.

“Where you gonna be, baby, while all this fun's going on?”

“At the hotel,” Padillo said.

“You mentioned Mush yesterday.”

“He's going to be with me—if that's O.K.”

“Sure,” Hardman said. “I told him to expect something. You know exactly what you gonna need him for yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Uh-huh. Mush come pretty high.”

“If he's as good as he thinks he is, I'll pay it.”

“You wanta make your own deal with him?”

“It's up to you. What's your cut?”

Hardman studied the floor for a moment. “Just make the whole package fifteen thousand. I'll take whatever's left over.”

“Then I'll make my own deal with Mush. I'd like to see him tonight.”

“Where at?” Hardman said.

“My hotel—he's been there before.”

“What time about?”

“About nine.”

“He be there.”

Hardman rose from his chair and moved to the door. “You reckon this'll about do it?”

Padillo nodded. “Keep in touch.”

“I aim to.”

“The money will be ready in the morning,” I said.

He waved his huge hand. “I'll pick it up around noon and come by for lunch.”

“It'll be on the house.”

Hardman laughed. “I was countin on that.” He waved goodbye and left and his 240-odd pounds seemed to shake the building as he bounded down the steps.

Padillo stared at the desk blotter until Hardman's footsteps couldn't be heard any more and then he said: “You trust him, huh?”

“What am I supposed to say: ‘With my life?'”

“I don't know. We've been talking some awfully big money and he's putting in an awfully small chit.”

“Maybe he's got something else in mind.”

Padillo quit staring at the desk blotter and looked at me. “Maybe,” he said. “If he does, you're going to have fun on Tuesday when you have to decide whether you like the way his mind works.”

TWENTY-ONE

We drove back through the slow Sunday afternoon traffic to my apartment, where we put the car into the basement garage and took the elevator up to the floor where I lived. I rang the chimes and when there was no response I unlocked the door and opened it as far as the chain would permit.

“It's all right, Sylvia,” I said. “You can let us in.”

I closed the door so she could take the chain off and we went in. She had cleaned things up: The pillows were fluffed, the ashtrays were empty, the dirty dishes and cups were out of sight, presumably in the dishwasher. I didn't look, but I was sure that the beds had been made. She was earning her keep.

“How did your meetings go?” she asked.

“All right,” Padillo said. “They understand what they have to do.”

“Is it the same as we talked about?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I would,” I said. Padillo said he would, too.

She brought two cups in and we sat in the livingroom and drank them. I had always liked Sundays in that apartment with Fredl. They were quiet, lazy days littered with
The New York Times, The Washington Post,
and
The Washington Star
and built around long, large breakfasts with endless cups of coffee. If we got up early enough, I would turn on the radio to a semi-country music station that played a full hour of uninterrupted fundamentalist hymns. Fredl got so that she could harmonize fairly well with “Farther Along” and “Wreck on the Highway.” Later, I would switch to WGMS and she would read me the cattier comments from the Washington papers' society columns and add her own observations about those whose names were making news. On fine afternoons she sometimes would drag me out for a good German walk or, if it were raining, we might go to the Circle Theater and watch a double feature of bad old movies and eat a half-gallon of buttered popcorn. There were other variations of Sunday, equally prosaic, equally unplanned. Sometimes we just read or wandered around the National Gallery. Once in a while we would take the air-shuttle up to New York and walk around Manhattan, have a couple of drinks and early dinner, and fly back. Sundays were ours, unshared, and we had grown fond of them. I found myself not caring much for this particular Sunday. I found myself missing my wife and worrying about where she was and what she was doing and how she felt. I found myself feeling useless and futile and not overly bright.

“When do I get to hit somebody?” I asked Padillo.

“Edgy?”

“It's growing. Maybe I should bite on a bullet.”

“There's no cure,” he said.

“What do you do?”

“To keep from screaming?”

“Yes.”

“I make silent yells.”

“Does it help?”

“Not much.”

“It doesn't sound as if it would.”

“But it takes a while to figure out how to do it.”

“What's scheduled for the rest of the afternoon—or is this free time?”

“Nothing scheduled.”

I rose. “I think I'll take a nap. A nightmare would be better than this.”

Padillo looked at me and frowned. “You're still calling it. You can bring in the law.”

“I've thought about it, but I think we've gone too far. I'm not even sure they'd believe us. I'm not even sure that I do.”

“You can still do it up until tomorrow,” he said. “After that it'll probably be too late.”

“If I'd called in the cops, Fredl would be dead now. This way she's still alive. But the odds seem to be shifting. It's getting complicated and tricky and too many people are in on it. Why not get a few more? Why not just call the FBI, tell them to put some of their bright young men on Darragh and Boggs, find out where Fredl is, and go in and get her? That sounds simple. It sounds easy. Just a phone call. It sounds so easy that there must be something wrong with it.”

“Not much,” Padillo said. “First they'd have to take you in and you'd have to answer a few questions. You could tell them about Darragh and Boggs and Van Zandt. That would be a little tricky, because they have diplomatic immunity, but the FBI could check it all out—in maybe twenty-four hours or so. Then you could tell them about Magda and Price and Dymec and they could check that out—whether they're double agents or not. My ex-employers would be glad to let them know within a week or so. Then there's Hardman and Mush and that crowd. You could tell the cops about Hard-man. They know a lot already, but you could tell them more. Hardman and Mush wouldn't mind, except that they might get a little miffed at you. Not much. Just enough so that you'd keep looking over your shoulder for a long time to come. And during all this, Fredl is sitting out there with a kill order on her that's probably set on an hour-to-hour basis with a deadline for sometime around Tuesday afternoon. But you're right. You might be able to get her out with help. And then both of you would be around for a week to enjoy the reunion.”

“Who would it be?”

“You can almost take your choice,” Padillo said. “I'd bet first on the Africans and then on Dymec and Price. Hard-man's people would get a high rating, too. You know too much and you're in too deep, Mac.”

“They would remember,” Sylvia said. “Darragh and Boggs—all of them. I know what kind of memories they have.”

I sighed. “I said it was too simple. All my ideas are too simple, but that's because I've tried to live an uncomplicated life in a world full of nuts. I should know better. I thought that selling food and drink would be simple, but I should have known better about that, too. You have a full house and you turn somebody away and they turn out to be the parents of Jesus Christ.” I got up and headed for the bedroom. “Pound on the door around six,” I said. “Maybe I'll be tired of my nightmare by then.”

The bed was still too large, but I surprised myself and fell off to sleep quickly. I dreamed about Fredl as I expected, but it was a pleasant dream. We were in a canoe floating down a crystal stream on a warm June day and I was enjoying myself because I didn't have to paddle too hard. We were having a fine time and I was sorry when the knocking on the door woke me up.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth and went back into the livingroom. My watch said it was eight o'clock and only Sylvia was there. She was sitting on the couch, her feet tucked up under her.

“Where's Padillo?”

“He went back to the hotel. He has to meet someone there at nine.”

“Mush.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“I don't think so.”

“May I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“He said it would help you pass the time. He called it fast time.”

We sat there talking about not very much for an hour or so. Sylvia made some sandwiches and we ate those and then the phone rang. It was nine-thirty.

I said hello and it was Boggs. “We have decided to give Dymec the letter,” he said. “It was not a unanimous decision. I was against it.”

“It's a good thing you lost. Is my wife there?”

“Yes. But don't try to make any more stipulations, Mc-Corkle.”

“I didn't make them. Dymec made them. He's getting nervous. I don't think he trusts you very much and I didn't do anything to discourage him because I don't trust you at all. Put my wife on.”

“If anything happens to that letter—”

“I know,” I said. “You've made your case often enough.”

“I'll make it again. Nothing must happen to that letter.”

“Tell Dymec that. He'll have it.”

“I've told him.”

“When will he get it?”

“Tuesday.”

“All right. Let me talk to my wife.”

“You'll talk to her when I'm quite through. The person who has this letter could conceivably sell it for a large sum. If this Dymec has any such idea, I suggest that you dissuade him.”