EIGHTEEN

I was watching Sylvia Underhill tape a new bandage to Pa dillo’s side when the phone rang. I answered it and a male voice asked for Mr. Michael Padillo. I passed him the phone and he talked briefly, mostly in monosyllables, and then hung up.

“That was one of our friends from the FBI,” he said. “They’re getting tired of sitting around the lobby of the hotel, so they called Iker and asked him what to do. He suggested that they call here. I told them to go home.”

“How does that feel?” Sylvia asked.

Padillo looked down at the bandage. It was a neat job. “Much better, thank you.”

He picked up his shirt and started putting it on. He only winced slightly when he poked his left arm through the sleeve.

“You may as well stay here tonight,” I said. “If Price is looking for you—” I let the sentence trail off.

“He won’t be looking any more tonight.”

“Do you think he knows that you saw him?”

“I doubt it. He was counting on surprise and didn’t know I was curious about who was in the car. He’ll show tomorrow when we split the money—if we get it from Boggs.”

“He said he’d have it.”

“I’ll call the trio tomorrow and set the meeting for eleven at Seventh Street,” Padillo said. “Price will be there, tweedy as hell, and looking as if he’s just come from communion.”

“Only one more thing,” I said.

“Why did he take a shot at me?” Padillo said.

“That occurred to me.”

“Somebody must have told him to.”

“Who?”

“I could give you a list.”

“You have no idea?”

Padillo shook his head. “None.”

I stood up and looked at my watch. “It’s now three-thirty of a Sunday morning. There are extra toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. You can argue about who gets the couch if you want to, or work out your own sleeping arrangements. I’m no gentleman. I’m using my own bed.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Padillo said. Sylvia suddenly became busy putting the adhesive tape and the gauze back in the first aid kit.

I walked over to the bar and poured myself a drink. “I’ll say good night. The alarm will be set for eight. With luck, I won’t hear it.”

I went into the bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette and sipped the Scotch. I set the alarm and put out the cigarette. It had been a long, hard day. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. When I opened them again the alarm was ringing and I realized I had to get up and start all over again.

It hardly seemed worthwhile.

I stood in the shower for ten minutes and let the hot water beat on my neck. Then I turned it off. I didn’t try the cold although they say it opens your pores. I didn’t care whether mine were open or closed. Shaving was a problem, but I got through it without cutting anything important, and after I brushed my teeth, I congratulated myself again on the fact that they were all mine. There were a couple of nice gold crowns, far back, but essentially they were the original equipment. I combed my hair, which seemed to take less and less time each day, and then there was nothing else to do but get dressed and meet the new day which would probably be worse than yesterday but better than tomorrow.

Padillo was dressed and sitting on the couch holding a cup of coffee and a cigarette when I crossed the livingroom towards the kitchen.

“The water’s hot,” he said.

“Uh.”

I poured some on top of the coffee, put in a spoonful of sugar, and stirred. I picked up the cup and saucer and went back into the livingroom and sat down carefully. I tried the coffee.

“They’ve got it foolproof,” I said. “It’s impossible to make a good cup.”

“Uh.”

“She still asleep?”

“I think so.”

“How’s your side?”

“Stiff.”

“How was the couch?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

I didn’t have any more questions. Padillo got up and walked into the kitchen and made himself another cup of coffee. The door chimes rang as he came back into the living-room. I got up and opened the door. It was the thin man who had let us into the trade mission, still wearing his black suit and his grave manner.

“Mr. Boggs asked that I deliver this,” he said and handed me a brown paper sack, the kind that you bring the week’s groceries home in. I took it, unfolded the top, and looked inside. There was a lot of money inside.

“Do you want me to sign anything?” I said.

The thin man permitted himself a smile. “That won’t be necessary. Mr. Boggs said he himself would deliver the remainder.”

“Thank Mr. Boggs for me.”

“Yes, sir,” the thin man said and turned to leave. I closed the door.

“What is it?” Padillo asked.

“Money. A whole lot of money.”

I walked over to the couch and handed him the sack. “They didn’t have time to get it wrapped.”

He took the sack and dumped the money on the coffee table. It was in fifty and one hundred-dollar bills and it seemed to give off a nice glow.

“You want to count it?” Padillo said.

“It’s a little early for me; I doubt if I could get past nineteen.”

Padillo leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes tightly. His left hand moved to his side. “Ouch,” he said.

“You didn’t put much feeling into that.”

“There should be $37,500 there.”

“All right. I’ll count it.”

The fifties were in packets of one thousand dollars. There were fifteen of them. The hundreds were wrapped up in two-thousand-dollar packets, eleven in all. There was some loose change consisting of two one-hundred-dollar bills and six fifties that made up the remaining five hundred.

“It’s all here,” I said. “You want me to divide it into three tidy piles?”

Padillo sat up and his face was pale beneath his deep tan. “Half in one pile, split the remainder. It’s a two-one-one cut remember.”

I did some mental arithmetic. “The bills are the wrong size. A fourth would be $9,375.”

“Do the best you can,” Padillo said, his eyes still closed.

I went back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee while Padillo pulled the telephone over and started dialing. He had only to speak a few words to complete each call. By the time I got back into the livingroom he was finishing his last one. He put the phone away.

“That was Price,” he said.

“How’d he sound?”

“Sleepy, but greedy.”

“And the other two?”

“They’ll be there at eleven.”

I indicated the money on the table. “What shall we do with it?”

“Have you got a briefcase?”

“I’ll get it.” I went into the bedroom and pulled an attaché case out of the closet. Someone had given it to me years ago and for a while I had tried to think of someway of using it, but had finally given up and just put it away. It was a black leather case with solid silver fittings. If I’d been in some other line of work, I could have carried my lunch in it. I handed the case to Padillo.

“You have any rubberbands?”

“Fredl saves them. She puts them on the kitchen doorknob.” I got three off the knob, gave them to Padillo, and he snapped them around the stacks of money and put the bills into the briefcase and closed it.

“I lost the key,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The door chimes rang again and I looked at Padillo. “It’s your house,” he said.

“But it’s your popularity.”

I crossed the room and opened the door. The man who stood there wore a plaid sports jacket, an open blue flannel shirt, dark grey slacks and three vertical creases in his forehead. It was a sign he was thinking. His name was Stan Burm-ser and he had once been able to tell Padillo where he should go in Europe and what he should do when he got there. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year. It had been in Bonn and even then he had been wearing the three vertical creases in his forehead. He seemed to think a lot.

“Hello, Burmser,” I said.

He smiled and the creases disappeared. The smile was as friendly as a fifth letter from the finance company. “I’m looking for Padillo.”

“Your search is ended.” I stepped back and held the door open. “A Mr. Burmser to see you.”

Padillo didn’t get up nor did he say anything. He watched Burmser cross the room and stand in front of him. Burmser had his hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he stared at Padillo for what seemed to be long moments.

“We got a report two days ago that you were back,” Burmser said.

Padillo nodded. “Still got your trade-off with the FBI. The one-way trade.”

“They make mistakes sometimes.”

“And you just dropped by at nine o’clock in the morning to make sure. You’ll be late for Sunday School.”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Funny, you don’t look it.”

“You still have those tired old jokes.”

“One gets fond of them.”

“I’ve got a new one. It was too good to keep. That’s why I came over myself.”

“I’m ready.”

“You’re marked, Padillo. You’re in the book.”

“That’s not new. I’ve been in somebody or other’s book for years.”

“Not in this one. The British have got you down and they’ve got it assigned.”

“They wouldn’t tell you about it if they did.”

“You’re not the only one who’s doubled a few.”

“I suppose not.”

“And that’s what’s so funny.”

“I bet you’re coming to the punch-line now.”

Burmser’s grin got wider. “That’s right. I am. They handed the assignment to someone you yourself doubled. They handed it to Philip Price.”

“What have they got against me?” Padillo asked. He could have been asking if the bus stopped here, or across the street.

“I don’t know; I don’t really care.”

“Then why travel all the way in from McLean to tell me about it?”

“I live in Cleveland Park.”

“It must be pretty there in the fall.”

“Price is good. You doubled him; you should know how good he is.”

“He also works for you.”

“That’s right, he does.”

“You could call him off.”

“I could, but the British would have too many questions for him if he didn’t carry out his assignment. It might bust him wide open. He’s been fairly useful to us. We’d like him to continue that way.”

“And I’m not,” Padillo said.

Burmser quit smiling. “You’re nothing to us, Padillo. We’ve wiped you off. There isn’t a trace of you left. You never existed as far as we’re concerned.”

“How far back did you go?”

“All the way.”

Padillo smiled. “That’s a lot of territory and a lot of years. Why tell me about it?”

“I was told to.”

“I must have a friend left some place in the organization.”

“One is all.”

Padillo shrugged. “All right, Burmser, you got to play Old Blind Pew and pass out the black spot this morning. Anything else?”

“Just this: We never heard of you. If you’re in trouble, you’re alone. There won’t be any phone calls, no hush-ups. The fix won’t be put in anywhere. You’ve wanted out for a long time, Padillo, and now you are. As far as we’re concerned you’re a Mexican or a Spaniard who’s in this country illegally, but we’re not even sure about that, because we never heard of you. You’re nothing.” Burmser was breathing a little hard when he was through.

Padillo turned to me: “You think I should tell the shop steward about this?”

“Ask him about what happens to all the money you’ve contributed to the pension plan.”

Burmser smiled his final-notice smile. “You’re breaking me up. But, gentlemen, I’ve enjoyed it.” He turned and headed for the door. When he was there he stopped with his hand on the knob. “You were pretty good at one time, Padillo. Pretty good or lucky. Now you’d better be both.”

“Tell the old gang hello for me,” Padillo said.

Burmser looked at Padillo. “They never heard of you,” he said. He opened the door and left.

“He enjoyed himself,” I said.

“But he cleared Price up.”

“I’d say that Price told the British that you were actually going to shoot Van Zandt and they told him to take you out.”

“So it seems.”

“What’s Price after, a pat on the head?”

“A bonus.”

“From whom?”

“The British. He tells them that I’m planning the attempt, they tell him to take me out, and he does. They’ll give him a bonus.”

“What then?”

“He hooks up with Dymec to do the assassination for real.”

“Now you can tell me that this is all in keeping with the master plan. The one you have written down on the back of a match book.”

“More or less.” He walked into the kitchen with the cup and saucer. When he came back, I asked him: “What’s the less part?”

“I hadn’t planned on making a hero out of Price. But now we’re going to have to.”