Cast a Yellow Shadow

Twenty-Three

The alarm rang at eight Tuesday morning and I turned it off and put my cigarette out in the big ceramic tray that was on the night table next to the bed. The tray had thirty-seven butts in it. I had counted them twenty minutes earlier. I had awakened at three and for a while just stared up into the darkness until I knew that sleep was at an end and that I had five hours to spend with myself. The prospect of my company was never less pleasing. I was a bore. I talked too much and listened too little. I was opinionated and self-indulgent. I had no insight, but plenty of self-pity. I had a tendency to blame others for the mistakes I made. I was growing old. I drank too much.

On that I lighted another cigarette and got up and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth again and drank a glass of water and stared into the mirror for a while. I didn’t see anyone I wanted to know so I went back into the bedroom and turned on the high-intensity lamp, picked up volume two of Mr. Pepys’s diary, and tried to get interested in how he was making out with the chambermaid. After fifteen minutes my mind wandered and I put the book aside. I lay in the bed and smoked another cigarette in fearless defiance of all rules of health and personal safety. I stared up at the ceiling with the light on and after a while I tried it with the light off. It didn’t make much difference.

The time passed that way, neither slower nor faster than usual, half in the dark, half in the light, and by the time the alarm rang, it was done and I had battled through another night without resorting to Dr. Sinatra’s prescription of whatever it takes — pills, prayer or a bottle of Jack Daniels.

I got dressed more slowly than usual because I felt a decade or two older than usual and went into the livingroom where Padillo was sitting on the couch drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette that he didn’t seem to enjoy. I said ‘uh’ and he came back with a snappy ‘guh’ and I went on into the kitchen and poured water on top of a teaspoon of instant coffee.

After the first cup, I tried a second.

“That belly gun,” Padillo said by way of greeting.

“Uh-huh.”

“You have any rounds for it?”

“No.”

“Here.” He took out a box of .38 shells and put six on the coffee table. I got up and went into the bedroom and got the gun out of my topcoat pocket. I came back and picked up the shells from the table, flipped the cylinder open, and loaded it, just like they used to do at the Criterion Theater on Saturday afternoon.

“You don’t think I’ll need any more than six?”

“If you need more than six, it really won’t matter.”

Sylvia Underhill came in and said good morning and asked if we would like her to prepare some breakfast and we said no. She was wearing ivory pumps and a woolen suit of periwinkle blue that had a nubby weave. She smiled at both of us, but Padillo got a little extra in his, and I started wondering when someone would smile at me like that again. She looked pretty and smart and very young — not at all as if she were going out to badger the members of a trade mission.

After her breakfast and more coffee for Padillo and me, we went over what each of us was supposed to do. I grew more nervous each time we went over it, but Padillo and Sylvia discussed the steps as if they were planning Fun Night at the Elks’ Club. We went over it until I came down with a fit of yawning and then we stopped.

“White night?” Padillo asked.

“Close to it.”

He looked at his watch. “Magda should be here shortly.”

We waited some more. Sylvia was on the couch with her feet tucked up under her. She held a cup and saucer. She had held them for twenty minutes. Padillo was at the other end of the couch. He was slumped back, his head resting against the cushions, his feet stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He smoked cigarettes and blew rings at the ceiling. When he wasn’t smoking, his mouth went into a line so thin that he didn’t seem to have any lips. I sat in an easy chair, my favorite one, and gnawed on a hangnail because it gave me something to do and because it was the most constructive thing I had done all morning.

The chimes rang at ten-forty-five and I got up, crossed the room, and opened the door. It was Magda Shadid and she was dressed for anything that one might have enough money to take her to at that time of the morning. There was a dark grey coat that felt like cashmere when she turned so that it could fall into my hands. Underneath the coat she was wearing a white and grey dress whose pattern was made up of large inverted Vs. The dress seemed to have been applied with care, layer by layer, handrubbed possibly, and no one could say that it wouldn’t have been pleasant work.

“Mr. McCorkle,” she said sweetly. “You look so very tired this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello, Michael, how are you? Grim and morose as usual, I sec. And this must be — not Mrs. McCorkle, surely?”

“No,” Padillo said. “Magda Shadid, Sylvia Underhill.”

“How do you do,” Sylvia said.

“And what do you do for my very old friend Michael?”

“She leads and we follow,” I said.

Magda gracefully eased into one of the chairs, crossed her legs, and began to take off her gloves. She took them off carefully, and spent time loosening each finger.

“Then you know where Mrs. McCorkle is?” she said.

“Not yet, precious, but we will. Mac will explain it to you along the way.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Sylvia asked.

“I’d love some. Black, please, with loads of sugar.”

Sylvia rose and went into the kitchen.

“You always had an eye for the young ones, Michael, but I never knew you to make use of children.”

“She’s twenty-one,” Padillo said. “When you were twenty-one you were running three agents out of Munich, until you sold them piecemeal to Gehlen.”

“It was a hard winter. Besides, my sweet, I’m European. There’s such a difference.”

“Such,” Padillo agreed.

Sylvia came back in with the coffee. “That’s a stunning suit,” Magda told her. “Have you known Michael long?”

“Not long,” Sylvia said, “and the suit cost ten pounds six off the peg — that’s about thirty dollars.”

“Closer to twenty-nine,” Magda said. “I should warn you Michael has a way of using his friends — especially his old friends — that is sometimes quite disconcerting. Have you discovered this yet, Miss Underhill?”

“No, but then I don’t have all the years necessary to make me an old friend, do I?”

I gave that round to Sylvia on points and said: “When is Hardman due?”

“Any minute,” Padillo said.

“I take his Cadillac and Magda goes with me, right?” I said it for the benefit of Magda. We had gone over it a dozen times.

“That’s it.”

The telephone rang and I answered it. It was Hardman. “I’m about ten minutes away from your house, Mac, and I’m starting the conference call now.”

“Where’s Mush?”

“Right behind me.”

“And the trucks?”

“Big one’s already headin out there. Pickup’s right behind Mush.”

“We’ll be downstairs in ten minutes,” I said.

“See you.”

I hung up the phone and told them to get ready. I went into my bedroom and took a topcoat out of the closet. I put the revolver in its righthand pocket, picked up the knife from the dresser, snicked open the blade, felt the point to see if it was still sharp, closed it, and dropped it into the left-hand coat pocket. It would come in handy if someone had a string-wrapped package to open. We took the elevator down to the lobby where Magda, Padillo and I got off. Sylvia stayed on to continue down to the basement garage where her car was parked. Padillo turned just as he left the elevator and looked at her. She smiled — or tried to. He nodded his head. I couldn’t see whether he smiled or not.

“Take care, kid,” he said.

“You, too.”

The elevator door closed and the three of us walked through the plate-glass doors that opened on to the curved driveway. We waited only two or three minutes before Hardman’s Cadillac rolled up. It was a Coupe de Ville and long enough to satisfy anyone’s status cravings. Hardman was dressed in white coveralls with “Four-Square Movers” stitched in red thread across the back. The coveralls made him enormous. The Buick, driven by Mush, rolled up behind the Cadillac. The white pickup truck stopped at the curb. Tulip was driving.

“Keys in the car,” Hardman said to me. “Conference call’s gone through and everybody’s on.”

“O.K.,” I said. “You follow the girl’s Chevrolet. She should be coming out any minute.”

“We’ll be right behind her. Truck’s going to be in the alley.”

I opened the door for Magda and she got in. I walked around to the other side. Padillo was just getting into the Buick next to Mush. “Stay in touch,” he said.

“Don’t worry.”

I started the Cadillac, put the automatic gear into drive, checked the brakes, discovered I had power steering, and drove out into the street. Sylvia, driving the green Chevrolet, pulled out of the basement garage and the white pickup with Tulip at the wheel and Hardman beside him fell in behind her. I looked at my watch. It was eleven-fifteen. I picked up the phone and said hello. Padillo answered. He said: “Everybody check in.”

“I’m right behind the pickup,” I said. “We’re heading up Twentieth to Massachusetts.”

“This is Hardman. We right behind Missy’s Chewy. On Twentieth, heading for Massachusetts.”

“This Johnny Jay,” another voice came in. “Tulip’s drivin. We in the van and movin up Mass bout five minutes away from where we supposed to be.”

“All right,” Padillo said. “Hardman will serve as talker from now on. If he says move, you’ll move. It’s all yours, Hardman.”

The big man’s bass voice rumbled over the telephone. “I’ll give it to you as we go... turnin left on Massachusetts... now we’re at Sheridan Circle... we around the circle and straight on Mass... now we two blocks past the circle and about six blocks or so from where we’re goin...”

I drove with my left hand on the wheel and held the phone with my right. Magda leaned against the door and stared out through the windshield.

“Three blocks from where we’re goin,” Hardman said.

At the end of that block I turned right, then left into a driveway, backed up, and drove the Cadillac to the corner and parked it just in front of a stop sign. I could see Massachusetts Avenue traffic for two blocks each way. I cut the engine, lighted a cigarette, and kept listening to the telephone.

“Missy’s lookin for a place to park,” Hardman’s voice said. “She’s found one bout a block away... She’s parked O.K.... Now she’s gettin out and headin back for the place... Come in, Johnny Jay.”

“We right behind the house we supposed to be behind,” Johnny Jay’s voice said. “No action.”

“All right,” Hardman said. “It’s eleven-thirty now... Missy’s goin up to the door... She’s ringin the bell... Me and Tulip’s parked right in front across the street in a no-parkin zone... Man’s openin the door — thin white cat — she’s goin in. Now we don’t do nothin but wait. I’ll say somethin when somethin happens.”

I rested the telephone on my shoulder and rolled down the window and threw my cigarette out. I had to turn on the key to roll down the window. They were electric.

Magda stirred in the corner. “Now?” she asked. “Is this when I get my briefing?”

“Now,” I said. “The little blonde is from the same country as Van Zandt. Her father got run over in downtown Washington last week. Her father knew about Van Zandt’s plans to get himself killed. It doesn’t matter now how he found out. The little blonde’s job is to go into the trade mission, and threaten to spill the whole mess. We’re betting that they’ll move her someplace where they can keep her out of sight and out of hearing. We’re betting that they’ll move her to the same place where they’re holding my wife.”

“Padillo,” she said. “It’s got all the nastiness of something he’d propose — using someone else’s neck.”

“If she doesn’t come out in thirty minutes, we go in and get her.”

“We?”

“The four of them and me. You can wait in the car.”

“And if they move her, we follow them. Is that it?”

“That’s it,” I said.

“Then I go up to the door of wherever it is, knock politely, and when it’s opened, I aim a gun at whoever opens it and tell him to open it all the way.”

“I’ll be with you,” I said. “Our four friends will be close by.”

“Then we go in, rescue your wife and Michael’s little blonde thing and that’s it. The curtain descends with me counting the final share of my payment.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Simple,” she said. “Like everything he’s ever done. Complicated, but simple, with someone bound to get hurt.”

“Perhaps.”

“We’ll make a lovely couple going up to that door,” she said. “How do you know they don’t have orders to shoot all callers?”

“I don’t. You can always shoot first.”

“You sound awfully determined.”

“It’s my first wife.”

She looked at me and smiled slightly. “Determined — even for a first wife.”

“You did bring something to shoot with, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t much conversation after that. I lighted another cigarette and stared at the traffic. Magda curled in her corner of the big seat and tapped her fingers on her purse. After a while, she opened it, took out a compact and inspected her make-up. If she were going calling, she seemed to want to look nice.

“Hardman,” the telephone said. “It’s fifteen till and they comin out the front... Two and Missy... she between ’em... They all gettin in a car — Continental, dark blue... all three in the front seat... it’s backin out... turnin onto Massachusetts and headin away...”

“Which way?” It was Padillo’s voice.

“East... we’re right behind ’em... You got it, Johnny Jay?”

“Got it. We’re comin.”

“I’ll take first tail,” Hardman said. “Then we shift off and you take it.”

“O.K.,” Johnny Jay said. “We rollin on Mass now.”

“They comin your way, Mac.”

“All right,” I said. I started the car and pulled it up to the corner, and pulled down the sun visor. The blue Continental sped by, Boggs at the wheel, Sylvia in the center, Darragh on the other side. They didn’t seem to be doing much talking. The white pickup truck was about fifty feet behind them, Tulip driving. I fell in behind the pickup.

“Where you at, Johnny Jay?” Hardman asked.

“Six blocks this side of the circle,” he said.

“We’re four blocks. I want you to take over at Dupont.”

“I’m comin.”

At Dupont Circle, the Continental turned down Nineteenth. “He’s turnin on Nineteenth, Johnny Jay. I’m goin on to Connecticut.”

“I got him in sight.”

“You take the talkin then.”

I followed the pickup truck as it turned right on Connecticut at Dupont Circle.

“This mother’s movin,” Johnny Jay said. “We’re cross-in M Street... goin straight... Now we’re on R... turnin left on K... Red light at Eighteenth... Now we’re goin... Seventeenth... now Seventeenth and I... made the light... now Pennsylvania and we made that one too... Still on Seventeenth...”

Johnny Jay kept talking as Boggs led him down Seventeenth to the Tidal Basin, up Maine Avenue past what was left of Washington’s waterfront, and then up M Street into the new southwest section of the city.

“I don’t know where this mother’s goin, but he’s headin for home territory now,” Johnny Jay said. “We at M and Van Streets now, baby.”

“He goin past the Navy Yard?” Hardman asked.

“Look like he goin right past,” Johnny Jay said.

“He hit that Navy Yard he can’t turn right till he get to Eleventh. I’m goin to move up on him. You drop back.”

“I’m droppin,” Johnny Jay said.

We were moving down N Street in the southeast section as Hardman talked. At Half Street he turned left and then right on M. I was right behind the pickup and could see the Continental speeding down the double-laned boulevard on M that ran in front of the thirteen-block-long Navy Yard. At Eleventh Street, the Continental pulled over to the right lane, and turned right.

“He goin to Anacostia!” Hardman said. “Shit, man, nobody go there.”

Anacostia was across the river from the rest of Washington and it might as well have been in the next country. There wasn’t much to attract the tourist and the typical northwest Washington resident wasn’t quite sure how to get there if he were ever unlucky enough to have cause to go. It was an area of quiet streets that were turning into a ghetto, but it would take another five years or so for that. At present, it was a mixture, perhaps thirty per cent white and seventy per cent Negro.

“Stick close, gentlemen,” Hardman said, “cause I don’t know this area too well.”

“Who does?” Johnny Jay asked.

We crossed the Eleventh Street Bridge, and turned right. After that I got lost. We were in the briar patch. The Continental turned down a quiet residential street and I drove slowly around the corner and stopped. The pickup followed the Continental down half-a-block. The big white truck with Nineball driving and Johnny Jay beside him with the phone in his hand turned the corner and pulled in up front of me.

I couldn’t see the Continental. Hardman started talking again. “They parked in front of a house, two stories, brick, and they goin in. Missy’s between em. They knockin on the door, somebody openin it, can’t see who, and they’ve done gone in.”

“They get ten minutes,” I said.

“Can you see them, Mac?” It was Padillo’s voice.

“No. The truck’s blocking my view.”

We waited. Magda stirred and opened her purse and looked inside.

“The same two comin out now,” Hardman said. “They gettin in the car. They rollin it now.”

“O.K.,” I said. “The two of us will go up to the door; you be on the sidewalk.”

“Now?” Magda said.

“Now you start earning your money.”

She looked through the window of the car at the cracked concrete sidewalk, the narrow houses that needed paint, and the trees with the last of the year’s leaves clinging as if they had been hung out to dry and forgotten.

“You know,” she said as she pressed the handle of the door, “I think I’m going to earn every cent.”