Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 19

Late that same January afternoon, Millicent Altford sat cross-legged on the high hospital bed, wearing her red silk robe with the small golden dragons and watching a C-Span rerun of a call-in show that featured three Washington-based reporters. The reporters were listening with barely concealed dismay to a call from a retired Army master sergeant in Flagstaff, who was pressing them on whether the Trilateral Commission would exert as much evil influence on the incoming administration as it had on the outgoing one.

Altford missed the reporters’ response because Liz Ball, the night nurse, entered the corner room and asked, “You wanta talk to some sixteen-year-old college professor who claims he sits at the right hand of your guy in Little Rock?”

“He offer any proof?”

Ball shrugged. “What he showed me looks okay.”

“Send him in.”

Marvin Gipson was about what Altford expected: Medium height. Thirty or thirty-one. A runner’s lean frame. Tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses over smart blue eyes. Stubborn mouth beneath a know-it-all-nose. Bony chin atop a long, long neck and lots of light brown hair. He came wrapped in a tweed jacket, white button-down shirt, chinos, a tie that looked borrowed and penny loafers with a fresh shine, which, she suspected, he had sat still for when he changed planes at Stapleton International in Denver and found himself with time to kill.

Gipson smiled at her with his generation’s perfect teeth and said, “I’m Marvin Gipson, Ms. Altford, and probably your greatest fan.”

“Thank you kindly, Marvin, and would you please be good enough to hand me that phone over there?”

Gipson handed her the phone and she tapped out eleven numbers from memory. Once her call was answered, she said, “It’s Millie. Have you guys sent me a Marvin Gipson?” She listened to the reply, then asked, “What’s he look like?”

Staring at Gipson, she said “uh-huh” several times as the description came over the phone. Gipson at first stuck his hands in his pants pockets and jingled some keys. But after a frown from Altford, he removed his hands and, following a moment’s indecision, clasped them behind his back. They were still there when Altford said, “Thanks, Phil, just checking,” hung up the phone, examined Gipson thoughtfully, then slipped off the bed and glided toward the mini-refrigerator. Over her shoulder she asked, “Want a beer, Marvin?”

“A Diet Coke, if there is one,” he said.

Altford took a bottle of beer and a can of Diet Coke from the small refrigerator, handed him the soft drink and said, “Let’s sit over here.”

Once they were seated, he in an armchair, she on the dark blue couch, Altford drank beer from the bottle, leaned back and waited for Gipson to say what they had told him to say.

He dutifully swallowed some Coke first, placed the can on the coffee table, cleared his throat, smiled deferentially and said, “You’ve had such a long and varied career, I was wondering whether—”

Altford interrupted. “Phil tells me you teach at Sewanee. What d’you teach?”

“Political science and economics.”

“You on leave?”

“A year’s sabbatical. But the reason I’m here—”

“I know why you’re here, Marvin. You’re here because somebody dumped a dead body on my driveway and that’s got Little Rock worried. Not terrified. Just worried. You’re here to find out how bad it might be. If you decide it stinks out loud, you’ll fly back and recommend that they move my name to the bottom of the true-blue-and-faithful list, or maybe strike it off altogether.”

“They’re primarily concerned about your health, Ms. Altford. All of us are.”

“That’s bullshit. If they were really worried about my health, they’d’ve called Draper Haere here in L.A. and asked him to drop by and see whether I’m dying or playing possum. So it’s not my health they’re worried about. It’s about that dead guy on my driveway who was shacked up down in Mexico for a year with my daughter.”

“A Mr. Laney, I believe,” Gipson said.

“Dave Laney.”

“Yes, well, I suppose if there is anything about Mr. Laney’s past activities that could somehow, you know—”

“Pose a problem?” Altford said.

Gipson gave her a grateful nod. “Exactly.”

“I didn’t shack up with Laney, my daughter did. Or is her mistake reason enough for Little Rock to dispatch a member of its watch-and-ward squad?”

“Mr. Laney’s reputation does trouble us,” Gipson said. “It makes us wonder whether he somehow could’ve been involved in your fund-raising activities last year.”

“He sent me a check once.”

Gipson leaned forward. “For how much?”

“Twenty-five bucks, I think. But that was about four years ago, not last year.”

Gipson leaned back, more disappointed than relieved. “Then he wasn’t involved in your fund-raising in any way?”

“He was in Mexico, for Christ sake. In Guadalajara. Why would you guys even think I’d let him handle anything — especially money?”

“I didn’t say that, Ms. Altford.”

She drank from the green bottle again, gave him a long stare and said, “You think he might’ve been my Mexican laundry, don’t you?”

“We really don’t know what to think.”

“Then think about this: I raised a lot of money for Little Rock — a whole hell of a lot — and Little Rock was ever so grateful and said so. After the election, the mentioners started mentioning my name for some kind of appointive job. Nothing grand, of course. Maybe ambassador to Togo. Assistant Secretary of Commerce. Crappy jobs like that. But still it was kind of flattering even though nobody’s ever asked me if I’d accept anything. If they had asked, I’d’ve said no thanks. So here’s what you tell ’em when you get back to Little Rock, Professor.”

She placed the beer bottle on the coffee table and rose. Gipson started to rise but noticed her grim expression and decided to remain seated. She stared down at him for a moment or two before she spoke.

“One,” she said. “Tell ’em Millie’s not interested in any government job so don’t bother to offer her one. Two. Tell ’em Millie insists that Little Rock stop poking around in her personal affairs. And three, tell ’em Millie still knows all the plot numbers by heart.”

“Plot numbers?” Gipson said.

“At the political cemetery,” she said, as if explaining to a slow-witted child. “Where they bury the dead bodies.”

“Aw, hell,” Gipson said, then rose with a regretful sigh. “We’ve been a little clumsy, haven’t we?”

“About average,” said Millicent Altford.

General Winfield stood almost at attention that evening in the condominium living room as the cashiered Army Major circled him slowly, picked a microscopic bit of lint from the right shoulder of Winfield’s midnight-blue suit, then held it under the General’s nose for inspection before flicking it away.

“New suit?” Partain asked.

“Nine years old. What I buy lasts.”

Jessica Carver looked up from an ad-fat Paris Vogue and asked, “Where’d you and Ma decide to go?”

“She made a reservation at a place called Morton’s,” Winfield said. “I’d suggested Chasen’s but she informs me that that’s where all the ghosts dine.”

“Morton’s is noisy,” Jessica Carver said. “But the food’s okay.”

Winfield looked at his watch, then at Partain. “Anything I should know about the car?”

“It drives itself,” Partain said. “Jack the doorman’s bringing it up from the garage. If you have any questions, ask him.”

“He’s the actor?”

“Right. Tom, the day doorman, is the surfer.”

Winfield turned to Jessica Carver. “Are you sure you two won’t join us?”

“For God’s sake, Vernon,” she said. “You’re heading for a hot date, not a family reunion.”

Partain escorted the General to the foyer, then reentered the living room to find Jessica Carver at the big window, staring out at the lights. Without turning, she said, “What’s on the menu tonight — Salisbury steak?”

“We’re going out,” he said.

“No kidding? Where?”

“Westwood.”

“Want me to call a cab?”

“We’ll walk,” Partain said.

“Walk?” she said, turning from the window.

“Why not?”

“Ever hear of drive-by shootings? Don’t misunderstand me. I like to walk. But I don’t want to be a slow-moving target for some teenage crackhead.”

“We’ll walk to Westwood and take a cab back.”

“Who’s buying?” she said.

“I am.”

“The meal and the cab?”

Partain stared at her without expression.

“Sorry,” she said. “I must’ve spent a year too long with Dave.”

As he and Jessica Carver came out of the Eden’s front entrance, Partain noticed the shimmer in the air near the exhaust of the black stretched Lincoln limousine. It was parked at the curb across Wilshire Boulevard in front of a 21-story condominium building someone had named the Castillian.

Partain turned to Jack the doorman and asked, “How long’s the limo been there?”

“Maybe forty-five minutes. An hour.”

“With its engine running?”

“It’s cold out.”

“It’s fifty-five, maybe even sixty.”

“That’s cold,” Jack said.

“Why don’t they park it in the Castillian’s drive?”

“Maybe because it’s a long wait and the driver doesn’t want to block the driveway. Some limo drivers are thoughtful that way. Maybe one out of a hundred.”

“Don’t the cops bother them?”

“The cops’ve got other stuff to do. Besides, what if the limo’s waiting for the girlfriend of the indy prod at Paramount who’s almost promised to look at the TV series treatment the cop wrote?”

“Could you call us a cab?” Partain said.

“Sure,” Jack said and turned away as Jessica Carver gave Partain a questioning look.

“Let’s wait inside,” Partain said and took Carver by her left elbow as Jack headed for the outside phone. Just before they reached the Eden’s glass doors, Partain glanced back at the limousine and noticed a lowered rear window and the dull glint of something metallic. He gave Jessica Carver a hard shove that sent her sprawling to his right. Partain dropped to the concrete, rolling from there to his left.

The gunshot came then and Partain automatically classified the weapon as a .30-caliber sporting rifle, possibly an old Schultz & Larsen M 65. He tried to press himself to the concrete as he waited for the second bullet’s impact — or for someone’s groan or cry. He fully expected the second shot but hoped desperately for the sound of the limo’s revving engine and the getaway screech of its rear tires clawing at the pavement.

But he heard nothing and, after a moment, sat up and looked across the street. The limousine was gone. He looked then for Jessica Carver and found her crouched six feet away in almost a caricature of a sprinter’s starting stance. Her mouth was open, her eyes were wide and her head was turned toward Partain. But she was staring at something beyond him.

Partain turned to find Jack the doorman lying faceup near the outside phone in death’s familiar position of a rag doll, carelessly dropped. Jack’s eyes and mouth were open. Partain decided it had been either a head shot, expertly aimed, or a shot gone wild. The relief came then, flooding through him and drowning the brief guilt he had always felt whenever it had been he who lived and someone else who died.

The black limousine turned right off Wilshire and eventually chose Santa Monica Boulevard as its path to the southbound 405 freeway. It was not until the limousine was in the freeway’s number three lane and rolling south at a sedate 59 miles per hour that the Latino driver spoke to his passenger in the rear.

“You missed,” he said, his accent making it sound something like, “Chew meesed.”

“Did I?” said Emory Kite from the backseat.