The Seersucker Whipsaw

Chapter 14

Shartelle did not go into the whipsaw operation that evening, explaining that he wanted “to study about it some more.” Diokadu and Jenaro left, the former looking somewhat nervously at his list of things to do today and tomorrow. Jenaro roared off in his XK-E, apparently unconcerned.

“Those boys will do,” Shartelle said. “They caught the spirit.”

“I’ll give you that the speech tomorrow.”

“Time enough, Petey. We’ve had a pretty full day.”

“It’s getting fuller,” I said. “We’re having some more company.”

A medium-sized man dressed in a white shirt, white walking shorts, calf-high white socks and black oxfords had turned into our driveway and was strolling towards the house. He carried a walking stick of twisted black wood that he used to knock a few pebbles out of his path. Shartelle and I went out on the porch to meet him.

He gave us a calm, speculative appraisal from eyes that had squinted into a lot of sun. As he drew near, I saw that the eyes were cool green.

“Evening,” he said.

“Evening,” Shartelle replied.

“I’m your neighbor,” the man said. “Live just around the curve there. Thought I’d pay a social call. Downer said you were due.”

“I’m Clint Shartelle and this is Pete Upshaw.”

“John Cheatwood.”

“Won’t you come in and sit a spell, Mr. Cheatwood?”

“Thanks very much.”

He dropped into one of the chairs in the living room, and held his black stick across his bare knees. He was about forty-five, I judged, fit-looking, lean, with a good strong face that appeared to have seen much of what the world has to offer.

“Mr. Upshaw and I were just about to have a drink, Mr. Cheatwood. I hope you’ll join us.”

“Thank you.”

Shartelle yelled for the steward and after the drink-mixing ritual we leaned back in our chairs and waited for our neighbor to start the small talk if small talk were in order.

“Your first trip to Africa?” he asked.

“Very first,” Shartelle said.

“Downer said you’d be running the political show for Akomolo.”

“We’re just advisers.”

Cheatwood took a swallow of his drink. “It’s giving us a bit of a headache,” he said.

“How’s that?”

“Quite likely be a bit of fuss between now and the election. Elections seem to stir them up and they sometimes get out of hand. But I think we’ll manage well enough.”

“Who’s we?” I asked.

“Beg your pardon,” Cheatwood said with an apologetic smile. “I should have mentioned it. The police here in the western region. I’m the Captain in charge.”

Shartelle regarded our visitor with new interest. “You going to be in charge of the poll-watching, Captain?”

“Not really. Our job will be to collect the ballot boxes, make sure that they’re properly sealed, and transport them to a safe place for counting. We’re keeping the place a secret. The various parties will have monitors — or poll-watchers, if you prefer — at the voting spots.”

“You expecting trouble?”

Cheatwood nodded his head. “A goodly amount, I’d say. Chaps down here always get excited over elections. They get carried away. And then there’re the hooligans.”

“Hooligans?”

“Quite. Each party has roving bands of paid thugs. They heckle the opposition, break up meetings, try to intimidate voters. Sometimes we have to break a few heads and put some in jail. Chief Akomolo’s party, I should add, has its full cadre of hooligans. I suppose it’s becoming part of the election apparatus. Tradition, perhaps.”

“How do you handle them?” I asked.

Cheatwood warmed to his subject. He was a professional and he liked talking about it. “We have our roving squads, you see, and we’re in constant touch with them by radio. These are specially-trained chaps. They have larger wicker shields and rather hefty sticks. They’ve been trained in mob dispersal and control. I’d say a dozen or so of them can break up just about any riot we can expect. They’re extremely fit — none under six feet, by the way, and they enjoy their work.”

“Where you expecting the most trouble?” Shartelle asked.

“Here in Ubondo — that’s going to be a major trouble spot. Barkandu will be another, but that’s out of my jurisdiction. In almost any of the small-to-medium towns you can expect an occasional flare-up. Not to worry, though. We’ll keep it in hand.”

“How do you see the election, Captain Cheatwood?”

He took another swallow of his drink. “That’s what Downer asked me. I’m a policeman, not a bloody politician, but I’d say that you gentlemen have your work cut out for you.”

“That’s what we’ve been told.”

Cheatwood set his drink down on a table. “I’ve been here fifteen years now. Came down from Ghana and before that I was in East Africa. Started out in Palestine during the trouble — just a boy then. But I’ve been through a few of these times when a country is approaching independence. And they all get just a bit violent. A few heads get cracked, some innocent and some not-so-innocent chaps get killed. My job is not to stop all that — which would be impossible — but to keep it to a minimum. If we do that, we think we’ve done a fair job of work.”

“You said you think we have our work cut out for us,” I said. “Anything else you might add to that?”

“Well, a policeman hears all sorts of rumors. The hottest one buzzing around now is that Akomolo is spending half the Regional Treasury to buy the election with the help of your CIA. That one’s making the rounds at the university. You could call it a typical one.”

“But not true,” Shartelle said.

Cheatwood waved his stick in a gesture of dismissal. “Of course not. For one thing, if the Premier’s crowd wanted to tap the till, they wouldn’t go through the Treasury. Too many checks. They’d go through the Regional Development Corporation: set up their own company and then award it a contract to build a school or hospital for twice what it should cost. The intellectual community at the university has a great deal to learn about finance, I’m afraid.”

“And you’re saying that the National Progressive Party doesn’t?”

Cheatwood smiled. “If there are any tricks to fund-raising, I would say that the Albertian politicians mastered them long ago. But that’s not my worry. I have another.”

“What’s that?” Shartelle asked the question as he got up to mix the drinks. He picked up Cheatwood’s glass.

“Very light, please.” He waited until Shartelle handed him the drink. “My worry is that I don’t like surprises. Surprises are splendid, say around Christmas or on one’s birthday, but they are a terrible nuisance if one’s a copper.” He stopped to taste his new drink. “And if one were a politician, I dare say.”

“They can be bothersome,” Shartelle said.

“Damn it all,” Cheatwood said, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this roundabout palaver.”

“Captain Cheatwood, I’d say you were getting around to making a proposition. Now I don’t care much for pretty talk, so if you got one, why don’t you just say it right out loud?”

Cheatwood placed his drink on the table again and leaned forward in the chair, his arms resting on his knees, his hands holding the twisted ebony stick. “I’ll make it as plain as I possibly can, Mr. Shartelle. I gathered from your colleague, Mr. Downer, when he was here, that your job will be to produce some political innovations. He didn’t know what they were, although he pretended to. He does talk a bit, I should add. Now I’m not concerned about your campaign strategy. My only concern is that should you employ some devices — and God knows what they would be — I would appreciate it very much if you would give me a general description of their nature. I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strict confidence. I would also assure you that I am not setting myself up as a censor. It’s merely that if your tactics are going to provoke a riot, I’d like a bit of warning so that I could plan the proper use of my chaps.”

“We’re not revolutionists, Captain,” I said.

He shook his head slowly. “I’m not going to lecture you on the nature of the Albertians, Mr. Upshaw. During the fifteen years I’ve spent here, I think I’ve come to know them. And believe it or not, I like them. I just want to keep things as peaceful as possible during the next six weeks. Now then, I said that it is my opinion that neither policemen nor politicians are overly fond of surprises. If you agree to give me a bit of advance notice concerning your plans, then I — in turn — will give you the gen on what we hear. And we hear a good bit, I should add.”

“Just one question, Captain. Are you making this same proposition to the other two major candidates?”

“No, Mr. Shartelle, I’m not. I am employed by the government of Western Albertia and my concern is for the affairs of this region. After independence, I doubt that I shall be about long, but I plan to leave with an unblemished record. If that sounds a trifle stuffy, forgive me. It’s a policeman’s way of thinking.”

Shartelle nodded “I tell you what,” he said slowly. “We’ll brief you on what we’re going to do and where. You keep us informed. And we’ll both respect each other’s confidence. Now which of us should make the T.L. first?”

“The what?”

“The Trade Last. It’s an American expression that I haven’t heard in years. Probably hasn’t been used in years. But forget it; I’ll go first.”

It took about five minutes for Shartelle to give Cheatwood a rundown on the plans for the helicopters, buttons, drums, newspaper, and speaking schedule. He didn’t mention the whipsaw operation.

Cheatwood listened well without fidgeting. His face was almost oblong, with a large chin that looked as if it would be painful to shave. His green eyes were fixed on Shartelle and while he listened, he sat as still as any man I’d ever seen.

“Now that we’ve taken you into the bosom of our family, Captain, maybe you can provide us with a little information that would prove useful.”

Cheatwood leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He held the ebony stick up before him and stared at it.

“The Army,” he said. “I have a few informers in its ranks, but none at the officer level. I did have some at the officer’s level, but they were white. The last white officer received his discharge seven weeks ago. It came quite unexpectedly. But keep an eye on it, Mr. Shartelle.”

“You talking about a coup, a takeover?”

“Not likely. The Army, especially since it is the first government organization to completely Albertianize itself, has gained a certain amount of political strength. It could toss that strength to the winner — or to someone who looked as if he were going to lose. There would be a high price to pay, of course.”

“Interesting,” Shartelle said.

“Yes, isn’t it? As soon as I hear anything definite, I’ll get in touch. Cheatwood rose and Shartelle and I got up, too. “By the way,” he said, “you don’t know of any CIA involvement in this thing, do you?”

“They don’t confide in us,” Shartelle said.

“No, I suppose not. But these rumors at the university are damned persistent. I might check out a few sources in the eastern and northern regions; our Old Boy network is still alive — if gasping its last.”

Shartelle grinned. “I’ve never worked a campaign hand-in-glove with the police before,” he said. “Should be most interesting.”

Cheatwood walked to the door, turned, and leaned on his stick. “You know, something just struck me.”

“What?”

“I’m the last white in either the police or the Army.”

“Think you’ll be around long?”

“Not long, but as I said, the record will be clean.”

“Unblemished,” Shartelle said.

Cheatwood chuckled softly. “There’s something else that’s unique about me, you know.”

“What?”

“I’m the last white in Albertia who can shoot an Albertian in line of duty.” He chuckled again, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “My God, what a way to wind up.”