Hardman sniffed. “Now what kind of fool question is that?”
“I should have known. May I use your phone?”
Betty pointed it out. I dialed a number and it rang for a long time. Nobody answered. The phone was the pushbutton kind so I tried again on the chance that I had misdialed or mispunched. I was calling my wife and I was having a husband's normal reactions when his wife fails to answer the telephone at one-forty-five in the morning. I let it ring nine times and then hung up.
My wife was a correspondent for a Frankfurt paper, the one with the thoughtful editorials. It was her second assignment in the States. I had met her in Bonn and she knew about Padillo and the odd jobs he had once done for the quietly inefficient rival of the CIA. My wife's name was Fredl and before she married me it was Fraulein Doktor Fredl Arndt. The Doktor had been earned in Political Science at the University of Bonn and some of her tony friends addressed me as Herr Doktor McCorkle, which I bore well enough. After a little more than a year of marriage I found myself very much in love with my wife. I even liked her.
I called the saloon and got Karl. “Has my wife called?”
“Not tonight.”
“The Congressman still there?”
“He's closing up the place with coffee and brandy. The tab is now $24.85 and he's still looking for two votes a precinct. If he had had them, he could have made the runoff.”
“Maybe you can help him look. If my wife calls, tell her I'll be home shortly.”
“Where're you at?”
“Right before the at,” I said. Karl had no German accent, but he had learned his English from the endless procession of Pfc's who came out of the huge Frankfurt PX during the postwar years. As a seven-year-old orphan, he had bought their cigarettes to sell on the black market.
“Never end a sentence with a preposition,” he recited.
“Not never; just seldom. I'm at a friend's. I have to run an errand so if Fredl calls, tell her I'll be home shortly.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Hardman raised his six feet, four inches of large bone and hard muscle from a chair, skirted around Betty as if she would bite, and walked over to mix another drink. He was as close to a racketeer as Washington had to offer, I suppose. He was far up in the Negro numbers hierarchy, ran a thriving bookie operation, and had a crew of boosters out lifting whatever they fancied from the city's better department stores and specialty shops. He wore three- or four-hundred dollar suits and eighty-five dollar shoes and drove around town in a bronze Cadillac convertible talking to friends and acquaintances over his radio-telephone. He was a folk hero to the Negro youth in Washington and the police let him alone most of the time because he wasn't too greedy and paid his dues where it counted.
Oddly enough I had met him through Fredl, who had once done a feature on Negro society in Washington. Hard-man ranked high in one clique of that mysteriously stratified social realm. After the story appeared in the Frankfurt paper, Fredl sent him a copy. The story was in German, but Hardman had had it translated and then dropped around the saloon carrying a couple of dozen long-stemmed roses for my wife. He had been a regular customer since and I patronized his bookie operation. Hardman liked to show the translation of the feature to friends and point out that he should be regarded as a celebrity of international note.
Holding three drinks in one giant hand, he moved over to Betty and served her and then handed one to me.
“Did my partner come off a ship?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Which one?”
“Flyin a Liberian flag and believe it or not was out of Monrovia. She's called the
Frances Jane
and was carryin cocoa mostly.”
“Mush wasn't picking up a pound of cocoa.”
“Well, it was a little more'n a pound.”
“How'd it happen?”
“Mush was waitin to meet somebody off that boat and was just hangin around waitin for him when the two of them jumped him. Next thing he knows he's lyin down and this friend of yours has done stepped in and was mixin with both of them. He doin fine till they start with the knives. One of them gets your friend in the ribs and by then Mush is back up and saps one of them and then they both take off. Your friend's down and out so Mush goes through his pockets and comes up with your address and calls me. I tell him to hang around to see if he can make his meet and if he don't connect in ten minutes, to come back to Washington and bring the white boy with him. He bled some on Mush's car.”
“Tell him to send me a bill.”
“Shit, man, I didn't mean it like that.”
“I didn't think you did.”
“Mush'll be back in a little while. He'll take you and your buddy down to the hotel.”
“Fine.”
I got up and walked back into the bedroom. Padillo was still lying quietly in the bed. I stood there looking at him, holding my drink and smoking a cigarette. He stirred and opened his eyes. He saw me, nodded carefully, and then moved his eyes around the room.
“Nice bed,” he said.
“Have a good nap?”
“Pleasant. How bad am I?”
“You'll be O.K. Where've you been?”
He smiled slightly, licked his lips, and sighed. “Out of town,” he said.
Hardman and I helped Padillo to dress. He had a white shirt that had been washed but not ironed, a pair of khaki pants in the same condition, a Navy pea jacket, and black shoes with white cotton socks.
“Who's your new tailor?” I asked.
Padillo glanced down at his clothes. “Little informal, huh?”
“Betty washed 'em out in her machine,” Hardman said. “Blood hadn't dried too much, so it came out easy. Didn't get a chance to iron em.”
“Who's Betty?”
“You've been sleeping in her bed,” I said.
“Thank her for me.”
“She's in the next room. You can thank her yourself.”
“Can you walk?” Hardman said.
“Is there a drink in the next room along with Betty?”
“Sure.”
“I can walk.”
He could, although he moved slowly. I carried the forbidden shoes. Padillo paused at the door and put one hand on the jamb to brace himself. Then he walked on into the livingroom. “Thanks for the use of your bed, Betty,” he said to the tall brown girl.
“You're welcome. How you feel?”
“A little rocky, but I think it's mostly dope. Who bandaged me?”
“Doctor.”
“He give me a shot?”
“Uh-huh. Should be bout worn off.”
“Just about is.”
“Man wants a drink,” Hardman said. “What you like?”
“Scotch, if you have it,” Padillo said.
Hardman poured a generous drink and handed it to Padillo. “How's yours, Mac?”
“It's okay.”
“Mush'll be here any minute,” Hardman said. “He'll take you down to the hotel.”
“Where am I staying?” Padillo asked.
“At your suite in the Mayflower.”
“My suite?”
“I booked it in your name and it's paid for monthly out of your share of the profits. It's smallâbut quietly elegant. You can take it off your income tax if you ever get around to filing it.”
“How's Fredl?”
“We got married.”
“You're lucky.”
Hardman looked at his watch. “Mush'll be here any minute,” he said again.
“Thanks for all your helpâyours and Betty's,” Padillo said.
Hardman waved a big hand. “You saved us having a big razzoo in Baltimore. What you mess in that for?”
Padillo shook his head slowly. “I didn't see your friend. I just turned a corner and there they were. I thought they were after me. Whichever one had the knife knew how to use it.”
“You off that boat?” Hardman said.
“Which one?”
“The
Frances Jane
.”
“I was a passenger.”
“Didn't run across a little old Englishman, name of Landeed, about fifty or fifty-five, with crossed eyes?”
“I remember him.”
“He get off the boat?”
“Not in Baltimore,” Padillo said. “His appendix burst four days out of Monrovia. They stored him away in the ship's freezer.”
Hardman frowned and swore. He put heart into it. The chimes rang and Betty went to open the door and admitted a tall Negro dressed in a crow-black suit, white shirt, and dark maroon tie. He wore sunglasses at two-thirty in the morning.
“Hello, Mush,” I said.
He nodded at me and the nod took in Betty and Hardman. He crossed over to Padillo. “How you feeling?” His voice was precise and soft.
“Fine,” Padillo said.
“This is Mustapha Ali,” Hardman told Padillo. “He's the cat that brought you down from Baltimore. He's a Black Muslim, but you can call him Mush. Everybody else does.”
Padillo looked at Mush. “Are you really a Muslim?”
“I am,” the man said gravely.
Padillo said something in Arabic. Mush looked surprised, but responded quickly in the same language. He seemed pleased.
“What you talkin, Mush?” Hardman asked.
“Arabic.”
“Where you learn Arabic?”
“Records, man, records. I'll need it when I get to Mecca.”
“You the goddamndest cat I ever seen,” Hardman said.
“Where'd you learn Arabic?” Mush asked Padillo.
“From a friend.”
“You speak it real good.”
“I've had some practice lately.”
“We'd better get you to the hotel,” I told Padillo. He nodded and stood up slowly.
“Thanks very much for all your help,” he said to Betty. She said it was nothing and Hardman said he would see me tomorrow at lunch. I nodded, thanked Betty, and followed Padillo out to Mush's car. It was a new Buick, a big one, and had a telephone in the front and a five-inch Sony television in the back.
“I want to stop by my place on the way to the hotel,” I said to Mush. “It won't take long.”
He nodded and we drove in silence. Padillo stared out the window. “Washington's changed,” he said once. “What happened to the streetcars?”
“Took 'em off in 'sixty-one,” Mush said.
Fredl and I lived in one of those new brick and glass apartments that have blossomed just south of Dupont Circle in a neighborhood that once was made up of three- and four-story rooming houses that catered to students, waiters, car washers, pensioners, and professional tire changers. Speculators tore down the rooming houses, covered the ground with asphalt, and called them parking lots for a while. When enough parking lots were put together, the speculators would apply for a government-insured loan, build an apartment house, and call it The Melanie or The Daphne after a wife or a girl friend. The rents for a two-bedroom apartment in those places were based on the supposition that both husband and wife were not only richly employed, but lucky in the stockmarket.
Nobody ever seemed to care what had happened to the students, waiters, car washers, pensioners and the professional tire changers.
Mush parked the car in the circular driveway where it said no parking and we rode the elevator up to the eighth floor.
“Fredl will be glad to see you,” I told Padillo. “She might even invite you to dinner.” I opened the door. The light from one large lamp burned in the livingroom, but the lamp had been knocked to the floor and the shade was lying a foot or so away. I went over and picked up the lamp, put it on the table, and replaced the shade. I looked in the bedrooms, but that seemed a foolish thing to do. She wasn't there. I walked back into the living room and Padillo was standing near the record player, holding a piece of paper in his right hand. Mush stood by the door.
“A note,” I said.
“A note,” he agreed.
“But not from Fredl.”
“No. It's from whoever took her away.”
“A ransom note,” I said. I didn't want to read it.
“Sort of.”
“How much do they want?”
Padillo saw that I didn't want to read the note. He put it down on the coffee table.
“Not much,” he said. “Just me.”
THREE
I sat down in my favorite chair and looked at the carpet. Then I watched Padillo turn to Mush and say: “You may as well go on back. This will take a while.” I looked at Mush. He nodded his head. “Anything you want me to do?” he asked. He sounded interested.
“Nothing right now,” Padillo said.
He nodded his head again. “You know where to get in touch.”
“I know,” Padillo said.
Mush turned quickly and left. He closed the door and the lock barely made a noise as it clicked into place. I looked around the livingroom. The pictures were still on the walls, some that Fredl had brought from Germany, some I had brought, and some that we had decided on together in Washington and New York. The books were still in the bookcase that covered one wall. The furniture, an odd assortment, but comfortable, was still in place. Only a lamp had been upset. I liked the room. It had a couple of personalities in it. There was a small bar in one corner that was a facet of one of those personalities. I got up and walked over to it.
“Scotch?” I asked Padillo.
“Scotch.”
“What's the note say?”
“You'd better read it.”
“All right. I'll read it.”
I handed him the Scotch. He picked up the note and handed it to me. It was typed, single-spaced, undated, and unsigned.
Dear Mr. McCorkle:
We have taken Mrs. McCorkle into our custody. By this time you will have heard from your colleague, Mr. Michael Padillo, who was due to arrive in Baltimore this evening aboard the
Frances Jane.
When Mr. Padillo has performed the assignment which we have requested of him, we shall release Mrs. McCorkle quite unharmed.
We must caution you, however, not to inform the police or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or any other law enforcement agency. If you do so, or should Mr. Padillo fail to carry out his assignment, we regretfully, but of necessity, will dispose of Mrs. McCorkle.