Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 28

Partain entered Millicent Altford’s hospital room and found her sitting in an armchair, wearing a smoke-gray silk suit, her long legs tucked back to the left and crossed at the ankles. On her feet were black suede pumps with two-inch heels that matched her purse. Next to her feet was a worn black leather suitcase with silver fittings that looked both old and expensive.

Before Partain could say anything, she said, “I called you five minutes ago but Jessie said you were on your way.”

He nodded at the suitcase. “Leaving for good?”

“Leaving for Washington.”

“Why?”

“Because around seven-thirty this morning I got a call from the counsel of a three-man House subcommittee that’s been looking into campaign financing and paying particular attention to soft money and bundling — my specialties. This guy said I could chat now or be subpoenaed later.”

“I thought your guy won,” Partain said.

“He did but some of my congressional friends didn’t. One of them used to be chairman of this same subcommittee. He was an old CIO leftie out of the Packinghouse Workers when he first got elected in ’fifty-four during the Eisenhower years.”

“Christ. How old is he anyway?”

“Seventy-seven. But he wanted one last term. Well, they all want that, but he had stiff competition in the primary. An ex-flower child turned New Democrat and middle-aged twit. So I sent my old pal a small bundle.”

“How big’s a small bundle?” Partain said.

“A hundred thousand. My guy loses by three hundred and twenty-six votes. So guess who’s on this campaign finance subcommittee?”

“The middle-aged twit,” Partain said. “What’s he want — revenge?”

She shrugged. “That — or maybe he just wants to get on C-Span. The car downstairs?”

“You want me to drive you to the airport?”

She stared at him. “We’re not too swift this morning, are we? Hard night?” Without waiting for answers, she rose and said, “I’ll use real short sentences. You and I’re driving to the airport. LAX. There we’ll stick the car into long-term parking. Don’t worry about the fifteen bucks a day or whatever it is they charge. Then we’ll get on a plane. Please note the ‘we.’ We then fly nonstop first-class to Dulles. There we rent a car, drive into Washington and check into the Mayflower.”

“I’m not packed,” Partain said, just to watch her reaction.

“What’s to pack? You’ve got on a nice blue suit, a clean white shirt and a navy and maroon tie. You look a little like some Secret Service agent with six kids to feed. When we get to Washington, we’ll buy you a topcoat and a suit that fits. That one looks a couple of sizes too small.”

“Maybe I’d better let the General know,” he said.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “He and Jessie are flying into Washington tonight. Coach.”

Millicent Altford came out of the hospital, followed by Partain, who carried her suitcase. The Lexus coupe was parked just west of the entrance. Partain unlocked both doors with a touch of the electronic key. Altford got in on the passenger side, which was nearer the hospital entrance. Partain went around the car’s front, opened the driver’s door and flicked the button that unlocked the trunk.

Partain had almost reached the trunk when a Yellow Cab pulled into the drive and slowed to a crawl. Partain’s back was to the cab when the semiautomatic’s silencer nosed out of the car’s lowered rear window. It coughed twice, almost apologetically, and two rounds slammed into Partain’s back just between his shoulder blades. The cab sped off down the circular drive, turned right onto Olympic Boulevard and raced west.

Partain dropped the suitcase first, then fell forward, landing on his hands and knees. Millicent Altford, looking into the rearview mirror, saw him fall. She was out of the car and kneeling beside him in seconds, but by then he was down on his elbows.

“How bad?” she said.

“Shot... twice.”

“I’ll get a doctor.”

“No,” he said and slowly got back up on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath. “In Wyoming,” he said, then stopped to suck in more air.”In Wyoming... I sold... guns and ammo.”

“You need a doctor,” she said.

He took another deep breath and used it to say, “And bulletproof vests.”

She grinned suddenly. “You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”

Partain only nodded.

Her grin went away. “Then where the hell’s mine?”

The Yellow Cab turned right at the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and several blocks later descended into an underground garage. The cabdriver was the same Mexican who had driven the getaway limousine, and his accent was still just as thick when he said, “You don’t miss this time.”

“I never miss,” said Emory Kite.

The Mexican parked the Yellow Cab three levels down in what apparently was a permanently reserved slot. Next to it was the Lincoln limousine. The Mexican got out, opened the left rear door of the cab for Kite, led him around the rear of it to the Lincoln, then unlocked and opened the limo’s rear passenger door. As Kite climbed in, the driver asked, “Where to, jefe?”

“LAX.”

“What airline?”

“United.”

“Back to Washington, huh?”

“New York,” Kite lied.

The Mexican driver opened his door, got in, buckled up, started the engine, then asked one more question. “Why the fuck anybody ever want to go to New York?”

“For the money,” said Emory Kite.

The Lexus coupe was parked on the second level of the long-term-parking lot across from United Airlines. Partain, leaning forward slightly, sat in the passenger seat, bare to the waist. His coat, shirt, tie and Kevlar vest were in his lap. He examined the two holes in his jacket, poking his little finger through both of them. He removed the two .25-caliber rounds from the car’s flip-open cup holder, noted their slightly blunted tips and put them away in his right pants pocket.

Partain had started wearing the vest the day after the drive-by shooting of Jack the doorman. The manufacturer called it the “Executive Protector” and cautioned that it protected only the chest, stomach, back and waist, leaving vulnerable the head, neck and throat. Both groin and buttocks were also defenseless. Kneecaps were equally expendable.

Only Jessica Carver knew that Partain had begun wearing the vest. The first night they had gone to bed, she had watched him take it off without comment. The second time she’d asked him to leave it on.

Partain heard the clicking high heels to his right, turned and saw Millicent Altford approaching the car, carrying a large plastic sack. “Your new outfit,” she announced.

Partain pulled the long-sleeve gray sweatshirt down over his head and the refastened Executive Protector vest. The front of the sweatshirt read, “I Love L.A.” The hieroglyphic for “love” was the standard red heart. The second garment she handed him was a blue and gold UCLA warm-up jacket.

“I suppose there was nothing less—”

“Cute?”

“I was going to say embarrassing.”

“Put it on,” she said. “They’re about to call our flight.”

As she watched him slip on the UCLA jacket, she said, “You’ve got a nice build.”

He ignored the compliment and asked, “What do I do with my shirt, tie and coat?”

“I’ll take care of ’em,” she said. He handed them over and watched with dismay as she dropped all three into a nearby trash container.

“That coat could’ve been rewoven,” he said when she returned.

“I told you we’ll buy you new stuff in Washington. A nice topcoat from Burberrys. Some suits and a couple of jackets and pants from Brooks Brothers or Neiman’s.”

“You ever been inside a J. C. Penney’s?”

“Not in forty-two years,” she said.

They were almost the last to board the United 747 and were seated in the front two seats on the port side of the first-class cabin. Altford said she preferred the window seat. Partain didn’t care where he sat. He had buckled his seat belt and was glancing through an airline magazine when Altford nudged his elbow and said, “Somebody you know?”

Partain looked up and found Emory Kite standing in the aisle, staring down at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed. Then the mouth snapped shut and the eyes narrowed.

“You feel all right?” Partain asked, unable to put any real concern into his question.

“Flying,” the small man said. “Flying always puts me off my feed.” He turned toward his seat across from Partain, then turned back. “Washington, huh?”

“Just for the night,” Partain said. “After that, it’s on to either Paris or London.”

Kite nodded, sat down in the window seat and buckled himself in automatically, staring all the while at Partain, who eventually noticed it and replied with a small smile and a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, “Okay, what now?”

“I’ve never been to Paris,” Kite said.

“You’ll love it,” Partain said and returned to his magazine.

Kite nodded glumly, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. That’s where I’ll go when all this crap’s over, he decided. I’ll go to Paris and check into some fancy hotel, eat me some fancy French food and fuck me some fancy French whores. He was still leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips when the flight attendant asked if he would like something to drink.

“Champagne,” Emory Kite said, opening his eyes. “French champagne.”