Cast a Yellow Shadow

One

The call came while I was trying to persuade a lameduck Congressman to settle his tab before he burned his American Express card. The tab was $18.35 and the Congressman was drunk and had already made a pyre of the cards he held from Carte Blanche, Standard Oil, and the Diner’s Club. He had used a lot of matches as he sat there at the bar drinking Scotch and burning the cards in an ashtray. “Two votes a precinct,” he said for the dozenth time. “Just two lousy votes a precinct.”

“When they make you an ambassador, you’ll need all the credit you can get,” I said as Karl handed me the phone. The Congressman thought about that for a moment, frowned and shook his head, said something more about two votes a precinct, and set fire to the American Express card. I said hello into the phone.

“McCorkle?” It was a man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Hardman.” It was a soft bass voice with a lot of bulldog gravy and grits in it. Hardman, the way he said it, was two distinct words, an adjective and a noun, and both got equal billing.

“What can I do for you?”

“Make me a reservation for lunch tomorrow? Bout one-fifteen?”

“You don’t need a reservation.”

“Just socializin a little.”

“I’m off the ponies,” I said. “I haven’t made a bet in two days.”

“That’s what they been tellin me. Man, you trying to quit winner?”

“Just trying to quit. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I got me a little business over in Baltimore.” He paused. I waited. I prepared for a long wait. Hardman was from Alabama or Mississippi or Georgia or one of those states where they all talk alike and where it takes a long weekend to get to the point.

“You’ve got business in Baltimore and you want a reservation for one-fifteen tomorrow and you want to know why I haven’t made book with you in two days. What else?”

“Well, we was supposed to pick somethin up off a boat over there in Baltimore and there was a little trouble and this white boy got hurt. So Mush — you know Mush?”

I told him I knew Mush.

“So Mush was bout to get hisself hurt by a couple of mothers when this white boy steps in and sort of helps Mush out — know what I mean?”

“Perfectly.”

“Say wha?”

“Go on.”

“Well, one of these cats had a blade and he cuts the white boy a little, but not fore he’d stepped in and helped out for Mush — know what I mean?”

“Why call me?”

“Well, Mush brings the white boy back to Washington cause he’s hit his head and bleedin and passed out and all.”

“And you need some blood tonight?”

Hardman chuckled and it seemed to rumble over the phone. “Shit, baby, you somethin!”

“Why me?”

“Well, this white boy got nothin on him. No money—”

“Mush checked that out, I’d say.”

“No gold, no ID, no billfold, nothin. Just a little old scrap of paper with your address on it.”

“Has he got a description, or do all white folks look alike?”

“Bout five-eleven,” Hardman said, “maybe even six feet. Maybe. Short hair, little grey in it. Dark for an ofay. Looks like he been out in the sun a whole lot. Bout your age, only skinnier, but then, hell, who ain’t?”

I tried to make nothing out of my voice; no tone, no interest. “Where do you have him?”

“Where I’m at, pad over on Fairmont.” He gave me the address. “Figure you know him? He’s out cold.”

“I might,” I said. “I’ll be over. You get a doctor?”

“Done come and gone.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can catch a cab.”

“You won’t forget about that reservation?”

“It’s taken care of.” I hung up.

Karl, the bartender I had imported from Germany, was deep in conversation with the Congressman. I signaled him to come down to the other end of the bar.

“Take care of the Right Honorable,” I said. “Call him a cab — the company that specializes in drunks. If he doesn’t have any money, have him sign a tab and we’ll send him a bill.”

“He’s got a committee hearing tomorrow at nine in the Rayburn Building,” Karl said. “It’s on reforestation. It’s about the redwoods. I was planning on going anyhow so I’ll pick him up in the morning and make sure he gets there.”

Some people hang around police stations. Karl hung around Congress. He had been in the States for less than a year, but he could recite the names of the one hundred Senators and the four hundred and thirty-five Representatives in alphabetical order. He knew how they voted on every roll call. He knew when and where committees met and whether their sessions were open or closed. He could tell you the status of any major piece of legislation in either the Senate or the House and make you a ninety to ninety-five per cent accurate prediction on its chance for passage. He read the Congressional Record faithfully and snickered while he did it. He had worked for me before in a saloon I had once owned in Bonn, but the Bundestag had never amused him. He found Congress one long laugh.

“Just so he gets home,” I said, “although he looks as if he’ll fade before closing.” The Congressman was drooping a bit over his glass.

Karl gave him a judicious glance. “He’s good for two more and then I’ll get him some coffee. He’ll make it.”

I told him to close up, nodded good night to a handful of regular customers and a couple of waiters, walked east to Connecticut Avenue and turned right towards the Mayflower Hotel. There was one cab at the hotel stand and I climbed into its back seat and gave the driver the address. He turned to look at me.

“I don’t ever go over there after midnight,” he said.

“Don’t tell me. Tell the hack inspector.”

“My life’s worth more’n eighty cents.”

“We’ll make it an even dollar.”

I got a lecture on why George Wallace should be President on the way to the Fairmont Street address. It was an apartment building, fairly new, flanked by forty-or-fifty-year-old row houses. I paid the driver and told him he needn’t wait. He snorted, quickly locked all the doors, and sped off. Inside I found the apartment number and rang the bell. I could hear chimes inside. Hardman answered the door.

“Come in this house,” he said.

I went in. A voice from somewhere, a woman’s voice, yelled: “You tell him to take off his shoes, hear?”

I looked down. I was standing on a deep pile carpet that was pure white.

“She don’t want her white rug messed up,” Hardman said and indicated his own shoeless feet. I knelt down and took off my shoes. When I rose Hardman handed me a drink.

“Scotch-and-water O.K.?”

“Fine.” I looked around the livingroom. It was L-shaped and had an orange couch and some teak and leather chairs, a dining table, also of teak, and a lot of brightly colored pillows that were carefully scattered here and there to make it all look casual. There were some loud prints on the wall. A lot of thought seemed to have gone into the room, and the total effect came off fairly well and just escaped being flashy.

A tall brown girl in red slacks swayed into the room shaking down a thermometer. “You know Betty?” Hardman asked.

I said no. “Hello, Betty.”

“You’re McCorkle.” I nodded. “That man’s sick,” she said, “and there ain’t no use trying to talk to him now. He’s out for another hour. That’s what Doctor Lambert say. And he also say he can be moved all right when he wakes up. So if he’s a friend of yours, would you kindly move him when he does wake up? He’s got my bed and I don’t plan sleeping on no couch. That’s where Hard’s going to sleep.”

“Now, honey—”

“Don’t honey me, you no good son-of-a-bitch.” She didn’t raise her voice when she said it. She didn’t have to. “You bring in some cut-up drunk and dump him into my bed. Whyn’t you take him to the hospital? Or to your house, ’cept that fancy wife of yours wouldn’t have stood for it.” Betty turned to me, and waved a hand at Hardman. “Look at him. Six-feet, four-inches tall, dresses just so fine, goes around pronouncing his name ‘Hard-Man,’ and then lets some little five-foot tall tight twat lead him around by the nose. Get me a drink.” Betty collapsed on the couch and Hardman hastily mixed her a drink.

“How about the man in your bed, Betty?” I said. “May I see him?”

She shrugged and waved her hand at a door. “Right through there. He’s still out cold.”

I nodded and set the glass down on a table that had a coaster on it. I went through the door and looked at the man in the bed. It was a big, fancy bed, oval in shape, and it made the man look smaller than he was. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year and there were some new lines in his face and more grey in his hair than I remembered. His name was Michael Padillo and he spoke six or seven languages without accent, was handy with either a gun or a knife, and could make what has been called the best whiskey sour in Europe.

His other chief distinction was that a lot of people thought he was dead. A lot more hoped that he was.