Cast a Yellow Shadow

Twenty-One

We drove back through the slow Sunday afternoon traffic to my apartment, where we put the car into the basement garage and took the elevator up to the floor where I lived. I rang the chimes and when there was no response I unlocked the door and opened it as far as the chain would permit.

“It’s all right, Sylvia,” I said. “You can let us in.”

I closed the door so she could take the chain off and we went in. She had cleaned things up: The pillows were fluffed, the ashtrays were empty, the dirty dishes and cups were out of sight, presumably in the dishwasher. I didn’t look, but I was sure that the beds had been made. She was earning her keep.

“How did your meetings go?” she asked.

“All right,” Padillo said. “They understand what they have to do.”

“Is it the same as we talked about?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I would,” I said. Padillo said he would, too.

She brought two cups in and we sat in the livingroom and drank them. I had always liked Sundays in that apartment with Fredl. They were quiet, lazy days littered with The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Washington Star and built around long, large breakfasts with endless cups of coffee. If we got up early enough, I would turn on the radio to a semi-country music station that played a full hour of uninterrupted fundamentalist hymns. Fredl got so that she could harmonize fairly well with “Farther Along” and “Wreck on the Highway.” Later, I would switch to WGMS and she would read me the cattier comments from the Washington papers’ society columns and add her own observations about those whose names were making news. On fine afternoons she sometimes would drag me out for a good German walk or, if it were raining, we might go to the Circle Theater and watch a double feature of bad old movies and eat a half-gallon of buttered popcorn. There were other variations of Sunday, equally prosaic, equally unplanned. Sometimes we just read or wandered around the National Gallery. Once in a while we would take the air-shuttle up to New York and walk around Manhattan, have a couple of drinks and early dinner, and fly back. Sundays were ours, unshared, and we had grown fond of them. I found myself not caring much for this particular Sunday. I found myself missing my wife and worrying about where she was and what she was doing and how she felt. I found myself feeling useless and futile and not overly bright.

“When do I get to hit somebody?” I asked Padillo.

“Edgy?”

“It’s growing. Maybe I should bite on a bullet.”

“There’s no cure,” he said.

“What do you do?”

“To keep from screaming?”

“Yes.”

“I make silent yells.”

“Does it help?”

“Not much.”

“It doesn’t sound as if it would.”

“But it takes a while to figure out how to do it.”

“What’s scheduled for the rest of the afternoon — or is this free time?”

“Nothing scheduled.”

I rose. “I think I’ll take a nap. A nightmare would be better than this.”

Padillo looked at me and frowned. “You’re still calling it. You can bring in the law.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I think we’ve gone too far. I’m not even sure they’d believe us. I’m not even sure that I do.”

“You can still do it up until tomorrow,” he said. “After that it’ll probably be too late.”

“If I’d called in the cops, Fredl would be dead now. This way she’s still alive. But the odds seem to be shifting. It’s getting complicated and tricky and too many people are in on it. Why not get a few more? Why not just call the FBI, tell them to put some of their bright young men on Darragh and Boggs, find out where Fredl is, and go in and get her? That sounds simple. It sounds easy. Just a phone call. It sounds so easy that there must be something wrong with it.”

“Not much,” Padillo said. “First they’d have to take you in and you’d have to answer a few questions. You could tell them about Darragh and Boggs and Van Zandt. That would be a little tricky, because they have diplomatic immunity, but the FBI could check it all out — in maybe twenty-four hours or so. Then you could tell them about Magda and Price and Dymec and they could check that out — whether they’re double agents or not. My ex-employers would be glad to let them know within a week or so. Then there’s Hardman and Mush and that crowd. You could tell the cops about Hard-man. They know a lot already, but you could tell them more. Hardman and Mush wouldn’t mind, except that they might get a little miffed at you. Not much. Just enough so that you’d keep looking over your shoulder for a long time to come. And during all this, Fredl is sitting out there with a kill order on her that’s probably set on an hour-to-hour basis with a deadline for sometime around Tuesday afternoon. But you’re right. You might be able to get her out with help. And then both of you would be around for a week to enjoy the reunion.”

“Who would it be?”

“You can almost take your choice,” Padillo said. “I’d bet first on the Africans and then on Dymec and Price. Hard-man’s people would get a high rating, too. You know too much and you’re in too deep, Mac.”

“They would remember,” Sylvia said. “Darragh and Boggs — all of them. I know what kind of memories they have.”

I sighed. “I said it was too simple. All my ideas are too simple, but that’s because I’ve tried to live an uncomplicated life in a world full of nuts. I should know better. I thought that selling food and drink would be simple, but I should have known better about that, too. You have a full house and you turn somebody away and they turn out to be the parents of Jesus Christ.” I got up and headed for the bedroom. “Pound on the door around six,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be tired of my nightmare by then.”

The bed was still too large, but I surprised myself and fell off to sleep quickly. I dreamed about Fredl as I expected, but it was a pleasant dream. We were in a canoe floating down a crystal stream on a warm June day and I was enjoying myself because I didn’t have to paddle too hard. We were having a fine time and I was sorry when the knocking on the door woke me up.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth and went back into the livingroom. My watch said it was eight o’clock and only Sylvia was there. She was sitting on the couch, her feet tucked up under her.

“Where’s Padillo?”

“He went back to the hotel. He has to meet someone there at nine.”

“Mush.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“May I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. Why did you let me sleep so long?”

“He said it would help you pass the time. He called it fast time.”

We sat there talking about not very much for an hour or so. Sylvia made some sandwiches and we ate those and then the phone rang. It was nine-thirty.

I said hello and it was Boggs. “We have decided to give Dymec the letter,” he said. “It was not a unanimous decision. I was against it.”

“It’s a good thing you lost. Is my wife there?”

“Yes. But don’t try to make any more stipulations, Mc-Corkle.”

“I didn’t make them. Dymec made them. He’s getting nervous. I don’t think he trusts you very much and I didn’t do anything to discourage him because I don’t trust you at all. Put my wife on.”

“If anything happens to that letter—”

“I know,” I said. “You’ve made your case often enough.”

“I’ll make it again. Nothing must happen to that letter.”

“Tell Dymec that. He’ll have it.”

“I’ve told him.”

“When will he get it?”

“Tuesday.”

“All right. Let me talk to my wife.”

“You’ll talk to her when I’m quite through. The person who has this letter could conceivably sell it for a large sum. If this Dymec has any such idea, I suggest that you dissuade him.”

“He wants the letter because he doesn’t trust you. We want it because we don’t trust you. You don’t want us to have it because you don’t trust us. I’m the new boy on the block and I don’t know too much about this kind of business, but it seems to be built on mutual distrust and unless each side has its own leverage, then the whole deal’s likely to go up in smoke. That letter is our leverage — and Dymec’s leverage.”

“Let nothing happen to it,” Boggs said. “Here is your wife.”

“Fredl?”

“I’m here, darling. I’m all right and please try not to—”

They cut her off. I was supposed to tip her off that we would try to break her out on Tuesday. I couldn’t see how I could tip her off with only a word or two. It didn’t leave much room for the secret code. I replaced the phone, then picked it up again, and dialed a number. I gave the operator Padillo’s room and he answered.

“I just heard from Boggs,” I said. “He’ll give Dymec the letter.”

“Did you talk to Fredl?”

“Yes.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, but I can’t tip her off. They don’t give me enough time.”

“What did Boggs have to say?”

“We lied to each other about mutual trust. Dymec seems to be playing the letter straight with them.”

“I thought he would,” Padillo said. “It gives him a handle in case they get cute after it’s over.”

“What now?” I said.

“Mush just left. He’s getting the Winchester for Dymec.”

“You know what you’re going to do yet?”

“Most of it,” he said. “It depends on Price and Dymec and Magda. It still depends on who decides to jump where. I think I know.”

“Anything more for tonight?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll call the trio and tell them it’s set. That’ll give them the rest of the night and most of tomorrow to decide whose throat should be cut.”

“I’ll keep Sylvia here,” I said.

“That’s best. Say goodnight to her for me.”

“I will. I’ll be down at the bar around ten tomorrow. That early enough?”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and turned to Sylvia. She was looking at me with her lips slightly parted, her brown eyes wide as if she thought that she might have been remembered in the will, but wasn’t really expecting too much.

“Padillo said to tell you goodnight.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that it would be best for you to stay here tonight.”

“That isn’t much, is it?” she said.

“I wouldn’t expect more.”

“No, I suppose I really shouldn’t.”

There wasn’t a great deal else for me to say so I went over to the bar and mixed a Scotch-and-water. Sylvia said she didn’t want one.

“You know him very well, don’t you?”

“Padillo?”

“Yes.”

“I know him fairly well.”

“Doesn’t he ever need anyone?”

“Like you?”

“Yes. Like me, damn it.”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“I did ask him.”

“What did he say?”

She was silent for a moment and when she spoke she seemed to be speaking to her hands which rested in her lap. “He said he didn’t have any more time to be lonely — that his time for being lonely had run out years ago.”

“What else did he say?”

“Something I’m not sure I understand.”

“What?”

“He said that he casts a yellow shadow. What does that mean?”

“It’s what the Arabs say, I think. It means he carries a lot of luck around. All bad.”

“Does he?”

“For others. For those who get too close.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” she said.

“That’s funny,” I said. “Neither does Padillo.”