Cast a Yellow Shadow (11 page)

“Couple of blades and a couple of guns.” He drew two short-barreled pistols from each of his topcoat pockets and held them loosely in his hands. “They ain't new, but then they ain't old either.” He handed one to Padillo, butt first, and one to me in the same fashion. We both checked to see whether they were loaded. They weren't. I looked at the one he handed me. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Military & Police. The barrel was about an inch long and the butt-stock was rounded and fitted comfortably in my palm. The sights had been removed and if I wanted to shoot somebody from about four inches away, it was a perfect weapon.

Padillo examined his quickly and tucked it into his waistband. It seemed like an uncomfortable place, so I dropped mine into my jacket pocket where I could get to it in five or ten minutes if the occasion arose. A long time ago they had trained me in how to use firearms—all kinds. I had used them and when it was over, I lost interest in guns. I had retained even less interest in knives, which I had also gone to school to learn about.

Mush reached into his topcoat pocket again and produced two switchblades. He gave me the one with the imitation pearl handle. I flicked it open and ran my thumb down its edge, just like a kid in a hardware store. It was sharp. So was the point. I closed it and dropped it into the other pocket of my jacket.

Both Hardman and Mush watched Padillo examine his knife. It had a plain black case. He tried the spring a half dozen times, watching it carefully.

“Needs tightening,” he said. “It's a little slow.”

After he tried it for balance and heft he turned to Mush and handed it to him, handle first. “I want to figure out what I did wrong the other night. Try for right under my rib cage. Don't pull it.”

Mush just looked at him, and then looked at Hardman as if he needed counsel to make his plea. Hardman cleared his throat. “You want Mush to come at you with this knife?”

“That's right. I want him to go for just under my ribs.”

“Uh—Mush is pretty good—” He broke off and looked at me.

“They say he's pretty good,” I said to Padillo.

“If he's not, I might break his arm.”

Mush shook his head. “You want me to really try?”

“That's right,” Padillo said.

“Baby, I can't pull it once I'm started.”

“I know.”

“Okay. You ready?”

“Ready.”

There was no circling about, no feinting, no fancy footwork. Mush ducked and went in low, the knife flat, its blade horizontal with the floor. He seemed to move incredibly fast. Padillo was faster as he turned his left side to Mush, grasped the knife-holding arm, shoved it away from him, down and back. Mush yelled and flipped to the white carpet. I noticed he had forgotten to take off his shoes.

Padillo reached down and picked up the knife with his left hand and extended his right to Mush. He helped him up. “You're good,” Padillo told him.

“What's that trick, baby? Judo?”

“Juarez judo, if there is such a thing.”

“You could have kicked my brains out.”

“That's the idea.”

“How come that cat caught you up in Baltimore?” Mush asked.

Padillo closed the knife and slipped it into a trouser pocket. “You're lucky he did. He's better than you.”

Hardman said he would check to find out whether anyone had learned anything about Fredl. He didn't seem hopeful because they would have called if they had. Mush drove us down to the saloon in silence. When he stopped in front, he turned to Padillo and said: “You teach me that, huh?”

“What?”

“That sidestep move.”

“Sure, I'll teach it to you.” Then he said something in Arabic and Mush grinned delightedly. We got out and the car drove away. “What did you tell him?”

“Chapter four, the Koran: ‘Fight for the religion of God.'”

“What was the sideshow for? You didn't have to find out whether you could take him.”

“No, but he did. And so did Hardman. We were tossing around some pretty high numbers with my three friends. Hardman wasn't included in for any. I don't know how strong your friendship bonds are, but I'd feel better if he got a cut.”

“We're spending the seventeen thousand pounds we got from Underhill on the trio?”

“We'll give them five thousand pounds each. If it makes any difference, it's going for what Underhill wanted. That leaves two thousand pounds for Hardman. Think that's enough?”

“We might have to sweeten it a little.”

“I'll take care of it,” Padillo said. “I'm going to have to get some funds transferred from Switzerland anyway.”

We went through the thick slab door into the restaurant. Business was better than usual for a Friday night, and we moved over to the crowded bar so that Padillo could shake hands with Karl, the bartender.

“You're looking good, Mike,” Karl said. “Horst told me you were back.”

“So are you, kid. What're you driving?”

“Pre-war Lincoln Continental. Mac found it for me.”

“Pretty car. I hear you've chosen Congress as your new hobby.”

“It's a howl,” Karl said.

“And not as dangerous as woodworking.”

“You get the Congressman home O.K. last night?” I asked.

Karl nodded. “I got him to the committee, too, this morning, and then the son-of-a-bitch doublecrossed me and voted wrong.”

“How's it look for the redwoods?”

“Not good,” he said glumly.

Herr Horst marched up and made us welcome. “You had a call, Herr McCorkle. The person would not leave his name or number. He said to tell you that he was an African acquaintance and that he would call back.”

“Send some dinner back to the office for Padillo and me,” I said.

“Anything in particular?”

“Use your own judgment. But I'd like a bottle of good wine. What about you?” I asked Padillo.

“Sounds fine.”

“Do we have any of that Count Schoenborn 1959 left?”

“Indeed. The
Erbacher Marcobrunn Trockenbeerenauslese.
”

I nodded and Herr Horst said that he personally would take care of ordering our dinner.

Padillo told Karl that he'd see him later and we went back to the office where I could wait for a phone call and talk to my African friend and perhaps listen to my wife scream again.

ELEVEN

After fifteen minutes of waiting the telephone rang and I picked it up.

“This is McCorkle.”

“Yes, Mr. McCorkle. Your wife is well and you may talk to her in a few minutes. First, I must tell you of a change in plans. The project that Mr. Padillo is to carry out has been moved to an earlier time: to this coming Tuesday, rather than Friday.”

“All right,” I said.

“Secondly, the gentleman who is the subject of Mr. Pa-dillo's assignment has expressed a strong interest in meeting him. And you, too.”

“Is he in Washington?”

“He flew in this afternoon, earlier than expected. But his appearance before the New York group has also been moved up to Thursday, so it was necessary for us to advance our plans.”

“I'd like to talk to my wife.”

“Do you understand the changes in times?”

“Yes. When do you want to meet?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where?”

“At our trade mission. It's on Massachusetts Avenue.” He gave me the address.

“All right. What time?”

“Three p.m. Please be punctual.”

“Let me talk to my wife.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Freal?”

“I'm on, darling.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm all right. A little tired.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Not badly—just twisted my arm. It wasn't bad.”

“And you're all right?”

“Yes, I'm—”

And that was the end of the conversation. I put the phone back and sat down behind the desk. Then I picked it up again and dialed a single number. “Send back a double vodka martini,” I said. I looked at Padillo. He nodded. “Make it two doubles.”

“Fredl all right?”

“She didn't scream. She said she was all right, but tired. A little tired, she said.”

“Was it the same guy on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“They've advanced the date that you're supposed to shoot Van Zandt. They've set it for this coming Tuesday and we're supposed to meet with them and Van Zandt.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at three o'clock at their trade mission out on Massachusetts.”

“You know where it is?”

“I've got the address. I've probably passed it a dozen times, but I don't recall it.”

“What does Van Zandt want?”

“He wants to meet the man who's going to kill him.”

Padillo rose from the couch and started to pace the small room. There wasn't much space for it—five good steps, and then he had to turn and head back.

“You're not making much headway,” I said.

“It's called thinking.”

“I'd join you, except that there's not enough room.”

There was a knock on the door and I said come in and one of the waiters entered and set the martinis down on the desk. I thanked him and he left.

“Maybe the vodka will help,” I said.

“Nothing like a two- or three-martini idea.”

“I've had some fine ones on four.”

Padillo lighted a cigarette. He inhaled, coughed, and blew most of it out. “You think filters help?”

“I have no idea.”

“I quit smoking in Africa.”

“For how long?”

“Two days; a little over two days. Three-and-a-half hours over two days to be exact.”

“What happened?”

“I admitted I had no will power. It was a great relief.”

“I'd say your will power can lick my will power.”

“I don't think it would be much of a match.”

Padillo quit pacing and sat down on the couch again and absently rolled his cigarette in his fingers. I looked at my martini and then at the desk blotter and then at the filing cabinet. They seemed to be the most interesting objects in the room.

“How did Fredl sound?” Padillo asked.

“I don't know; tired like she said, I suppose.”

“You're looking a little frayed.”

“I probably look like she feels. I'm worried. It's a new feeling; I never worried about anyone like this before. Maybe it's because I married late. Maybe it's like this when women have babies and men become fathers. For all I know it's part of a giant plot. The world against McCorkle.”

“If you'd make it the world against Padillo, I'd go along. It's very tricky, you know.”

“What—the world? I agree.”

“No. What we have to do tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I bow out and get Dymec in.”

“Have you thought up a good reason?”

“It's a reason. I wouldn't call it good.”

“What do you call it?”

“The FBI.”

There was a knock on the door again and this time it was Herr Horst and a waiter. Herr Horst served the
auslese
which we retailed for thirty dollars a bottle, but it was wasted on me. “Try Herr Padillo,” I told him. “My palate's gone.”

Padillo sampled the wine, pronounced it fit, and Horst skillfully filled our glasses. The waiter served. I don't remember what it was, except that it was hot and the butter was too hard. “Tell Horst that he's serving the butter too hard when you get around to it,” I told Padillo.

“We sell much of this?” he asked, holding up his glass of wine.

“Not at thirty dollars a bottle.”

“What's it cost us?”

“Nineteen seventy-five a bottle—by the case.”

“It's worth it.”

“What do we do with the FBI?”

“We use them to bring Dymec in.”

“Where do you send off for your ideas?”

“There's no address; just a box number.”

I nodded, drank the rest of my wine, shoved my plate back, and lighted a cigarette. It was my fifty-seventh for the day. My mouth had a strange, dark yellow taste. “We were speaking of the FBI—Mr. Hoover and all those polite young accountants and lawyers who work for him. They're on our side now?”

“They will be. For a couple of days anyhow. I'm going to demand protection.”

“Protection from whom?”

“I can think of a number of people.”

“So can I, but which ones?”

“We'll make it the gun-running crowd.”

“A fast set all right. This the African branch?”

“Right.”

“And they're after you for what—faulty firing pins or sand in the cosmolene?”

“They don't use cosmolene any more. They've come up with some kind of graphite paste. It comes off easier.”

“That's interesting. Probably as interesting as the reason you have for the FBI, provided you have one.”

“I'm going to tell them about Angola.”

“Ah.”

Padillo leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. “You know much about Angola?”

“It's Portuguese real estate on the West Coast of Africa. Below the Equator. It's not getting along too well with the Congo.”

“That's why I sidetracked the shipment of arms. The already-paid-for shipment.”

“Of course.”

“They were intended for the mercenaries being trained in Angola and scheduled for the Congo.”

“That would never do.”

“That's what I thought. I also thought it wouldn't help diplomatic relations between Portugal and the Congo.”

“Already strained.”

“Exactly,” Padillo said.

“Can you string it out?”

“For a few days.”

“Who's supposed to be after you?”

“A Portuguese who paid for the guns and trains mercenaries and sends them to the Congo. He's real enough. I almost did some business with him.”