The Singapore Wink

Chapter II

It was no news to either of them. Callese took out his gold case and lit another of his oval cigarettes. Palmisano yawned, scratched himself in the crotch, and turned to resume his inspection of the Cadillac. I glanced at my watch and waited for one of them to say something interesting. After a few moments Callese sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“Two years ago, huh?” he said.

I nodded. “Two years ago.”

Callese decided to inspect the ceiling. “How’d it happen?”

“You know how it happened,” I said. “If you’ve done any checking at all, you found that out.”

He gave me a wave of his left hand. It was a disdainful, rejecting motion. “Newspaper stuff,” he said. “Secondhand information, just like your cars out there. I’m not much on secondhand anything, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“Just tell his godfather that he’s dead,” I said. “Tell him he can leave everything to the Sons of Italy.”

“You got something against Italians maybe?” Palmisano said, turning towards me.

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“How, Mr. Cauthorne?” Callese said. “How’d it happen?”

“It was a pirate picture,” I said and my voice seemed to belong to somebody else. “We were shooting second unit. I was stunt coordinator and Sacchetti was number two. The scene called for a cutlass duel on a Chinese junk. The junk was anchored out in the harbor where there happens to be a tricky current. Sacchetti and I were on the stern of the junk, hacking away at each other. Sacchetti was supposed to jump to the rail, grab a line, and lean out over the water while parrying. He didn’t parry when he should have and my cutlass sliced the rope. He fell overboard and never came up. He drowned.”

Callese had listened carefully and when I was through, he nodded. “You know Angelo well?”

“I knew him. I’d worked a few pictures with him before. He was a top fencer, but better with the épée and foil than he was with the cutlass or saber. He rode well, I remember.”

“Could he swim?” Callese asked.

“He could swim.”

“But when the rope was cut, he didn’t come up.” It wasn’t a question the way he said it.

“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

“Angelo could swim good,” Palmisano said. “I taught him.” The big man was watching me as I put my feet back on the floor, rose, and started to reach into my inside jacket pocket for my wallet. I never made it. Palmisano was suddenly right next to me. His big right hand clamped on my wrist and jerked it down, over and behind my back where he could easily snap it if that turned out to be a good idea.

“Tell him to get his goddamned hand off me,” I told Callese in what turned out to be an almost conversational tone.

“Let him go,” Callese snapped.

Palmisano shrugged and released my arm. “He could have been going for it,” he said.

I stared at Callese. “When did you let him out of the attic?”

“He’s been away for a while,” he said. “Now he looks after me. It’s his first job in a long time and he wants to make good at it. What were you reaching for, Mr. Cauthorne, your wallet?”

“That’s right,” I said. “It has a card in it.”

“What card?”

“A card with a name on it. It’s the name of the man who can arrange for you to see the film that was shot when Sacchetti went over. If you want to see how he died, it’s all there in living color.”

“No,” Callese said. “I don’t think so.” He paused for a moment. “What — uh — what happened to you, Mr. Cauthorne, after Angelo didn’t come up?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I mean did the cops investigate?”

“Yes. The Singapore police. They ruled it an accident.”

“Was anyone else interested?”

“There was a man from the embassy. He asked a few questions, and then, back in the States, there were Sacchetti’s creditors. He seemed to have had a lot of them.”

Callese nodded his head, apparently satisfied. Then he stared at me again. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t seem to be following your questions too well.”

Callese let his eyes wander around the showroom and then shrugged. “I mean, no more movie work?”

“I retired,” I said.

“Because of what happened to Sacchetti?”

“That might have had something to do with it.”

Callese’s shoulders moved again in another expressive shrug. “So now you’re selling used cars.” He made it sound worse than it was, but perhaps not much worse. Certainly no worse than running an abortion mill.

There was a silence for a while. I picked up a paper clip from the desk and straightened it out. Then I began to bend it back into its original shape which is more difficult than it sounds. Both Palmisano and Callese watched me with what seemed to be interest. Then Callese cleared his throat.

“The godfather,” he said.

“There is a godfather?”

“He’ll want to see you. In Washington.”

“Why?”

“So he can pay you twenty-five thousand dollars.”

I went on bending the paper clip. “For what?”

“For finding his godson.”

“There’s nothing left to find.”

Callese reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, took out a plain white envelope, and tossed it over on the desk. I opened it and took out three photographs. One of them had been taken with an old Polaroid and was beginning to yellow. Another seemed to be a blowup from a 35 mm. camera, and the last was square in shape, possibly the product of a Rolleiflex. The subject in each picture wore dark glasses and sported a new mustache and the hair was longer, but there was no mistaking the profile in the Polaroid shot. It belonged to Angelo Sacchetti who had always been proud of that profile. I put the pictures back in the envelope and handed it to Callese.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s Sacchetti,” I said.

“He’s alive.”

“So it seems.”

“The godfather would like you to find him.”

“Who took the pictures?”

“Different people. The godfather has lots of contacts.”

“Then tell him to get the contacts to find his godson.”

“That won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a delicate matter.”

“Tell him to use some delicate persons.”

Callese sighed and lighted another cigarette. “Look, Mr. Cauthorne. I can tell you just three things. First, Angelo Sacchetti is alive. Second, there’s twenty-five thousand in it for you when you find him. And third, the godfather wants to talk to you in Washington.”

“Then there’s more to the story?” I said.

“There’s more. But the godfather’s got to tell it to you. Look at it this way, you find Angelo and you clear your name.”

“Of what?”

“The accident rap.”

“I can live with that.”

“Why don’t you just talk to the godfather?”

“In Washington,” I said.

“That’s right. In Washington.”

“He’ll tell me what it’s all about?”

“Everything.” Callese rose and stood there as though it were all settled. “You’ll go then.” There was no question in his tone.

“No,” I said.

“Think about it,” he said.

“All right. I’ll think about it and when I’m through doing that I’ll still say no.”

“Tomorrow,” Callese said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time.” He started for the office door, paused, and looked around again. “You got a nice little business here, Mr. Cauthorne. I hope it makes a lot of money.” He nodded as if satisfied with a good day’s work, turned, and walked across the showroom towards the street door. Palmisano started after him, but stopped and spun around quickly to me.

“What’s your final price on the Caddy?”

“To you, six grand.”

He smiled, apparently considering it a perfectly splendid bargain. “I used to have one just like it except it was green. Real dark green. What do you drive?”

“A Volkswagen,” I said, but he was already walking across the showroom for another close look at the Cadillac and I don’t think he listened. I don’t think he really cared.