“That’s right,” he said. “Maybe your new partner doesn’t know that I’ve never worked on the cheap, Franz, but you do.”
“I’ve heard that about you, Padillo,” Gitner said. “That and a lot of other things. Maybe now I can find out if some of them are true.”
I was standing by Padillo now as he looked down at Amos Gitner. He looked at him steadily for several moments before he shifted his gaze to Kragstein.
“Maybe you’d better tell him, Franz,” he said. “Somebody should.”
“Tell him what?”
“That’s he’s not all that good.”
Kragstein did something with his mouth so that his teeth showed through the thicket of his beard. It could have been a smile. “I think he is,” he said.
“You’re talking about technique, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you forgot something.”
“What?”
“Brains,” Padillo said. “He hasn’t got enough.”
8
OUTSIDE I waved at a Diamond cab but he sailed on by after looking us over carefully. It may have been that he didn’t care for the cut of my forest green cavalry twill suit, the double-breasted one that caused kindly friends to ask whether I hadn’t lost a few pounds. Or it may have been that the black scowl on Padillo’s face bothered him. It would have bothered me.
“Smile, for Christ’s sake,” I said, “or start walking.”
Padillo pulled his lips back and showed his teeth. “It hurts,” he said.
“It was just like in the movies,” I said, waving at a Yellow cab whose driver nodded cheerfully at me as he drove on past.
“How?”
“A Western,” I said. “Old Gunfighter, living on nothing but his reputation, drifts into End-of-the-line, New Mexico, slapping the alkali dust from his chaps—”
“End-of-the-line’s good.”
“And runs into none other than Big Rancher’s only son who’s craving to get out from under Daddy’s shadow and make it on his own.”
“So Only Son challenges Old Gunfighter to a showdown.”
“You’ve seen it,” I said as an Independent cab rolled to a stop in front of us.
“I never could sit through to the end,” Padillo said as he climbed in. “How does it turn out?”
“Sad,” I said and told the driver that we wanted to go to the Hay-Adams Hotel.
“You know how I’d end it?” Padillo said.
“How?”
“I’d have Old Gunfighter wait for a moonless night and then sneak quietly out of town.”
“You may be the last of the romantics, Mike.”
“How’d you know I wanted to go to the Hay-Adams?”
“Wanda Gothar’s message. I figured it out. I think.”
“‘In or out by four in six-two-one.’”
“That means you’re supposed to make up your mind by four o’clock today. She’s in room six-twenty-one. I can also do large sums in my head.”
“You’re a comfort.”
“What’re you going to tell her?”
“That I’m in.”
“How do you think she really took her brother’s death?”
“Hard,” he said and then looked at me. “You’re actually curious, aren’t you?”
“I get that way about people who’re killed in my own living room,” I said and hoped that the cabdriver was enjoying the conversation.
“So now you want to see act two?”
“Only if it doesn’t drag.”
“For some reason,” Padillo said, “I don’t think it will.”
The Hay-Adams is a middle-aged hotel on Sixteenth Street right across from Lafayette Square where they recently went to a lot of trouble to build some new sidewalks and trash baskets for the crowds who gathered under the trees to say nasty things about the war in Indochina, pollution, the economy, and the man who lived in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue across the street from the square. The crowds and what they said must not have bothered the man much because up until then he hadn’t done a great deal about the things that they complained about.
We took an elevator up to the sixth floor. Padillo knocked twice on 621 and Wanda Gothar’s voice asked, “Who is it?” before she
“I’ve heard that about you, Padillo,” Gitner said. “That and a lot of other things. Maybe now I can find out if some of them are true.”
I was standing by Padillo now as he looked down at Amos Gitner. He looked at him steadily for several moments before he shifted his gaze to Kragstein.
“Maybe you’d better tell him, Franz,” he said. “Somebody should.”
“Tell him what?”
“That’s he’s not all that good.”
Kragstein did something with his mouth so that his teeth showed through the thicket of his beard. It could have been a smile. “I think he is,” he said.
“You’re talking about technique, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you forgot something.”
“What?”
“Brains,” Padillo said. “He hasn’t got enough.”
8
OUTSIDE I waved at a Diamond cab but he sailed on by after looking us over carefully. It may have been that he didn’t care for the cut of my forest green cavalry twill suit, the double-breasted one that caused kindly friends to ask whether I hadn’t lost a few pounds. Or it may have been that the black scowl on Padillo’s face bothered him. It would have bothered me.
“Smile, for Christ’s sake,” I said, “or start walking.”
Padillo pulled his lips back and showed his teeth. “It hurts,” he said.
“It was just like in the movies,” I said, waving at a Yellow cab whose driver nodded cheerfully at me as he drove on past.
“How?”
“A Western,” I said. “Old Gunfighter, living on nothing but his reputation, drifts into End-of-the-line, New Mexico, slapping the alkali dust from his chaps—”
“End-of-the-line’s good.”
“And runs into none other than Big Rancher’s only son who’s craving to get out from under Daddy’s shadow and make it on his own.”
“So Only Son challenges Old Gunfighter to a showdown.”
“You’ve seen it,” I said as an Independent cab rolled to a stop in front of us.
“I never could sit through to the end,” Padillo said as he climbed in. “How does it turn out?”
“Sad,” I said and told the driver that we wanted to go to the Hay-Adams Hotel.
“You know how I’d end it?” Padillo said.
“How?”
“I’d have Old Gunfighter wait for a moonless night and then sneak quietly out of town.”
“You may be the last of the romantics, Mike.”
“How’d you know I wanted to go to the Hay-Adams?”
“Wanda Gothar’s message. I figured it out. I think.”
“‘In or out by four in six-two-one.’”
“That means you’re supposed to make up your mind by four o’clock today. She’s in room six-twenty-one. I can also do large sums in my head.”
“You’re a comfort.”
“What’re you going to tell her?”
“That I’m in.”
“How do you think she really took her brother’s death?”
“Hard,” he said and then looked at me. “You’re actually curious, aren’t you?”
“I get that way about people who’re killed in my own living room,” I said and hoped that the cabdriver was enjoying the conversation.
“So now you want to see act two?”
“Only if it doesn’t drag.”
“For some reason,” Padillo said, “I don’t think it will.”
The Hay-Adams is a middle-aged hotel on Sixteenth Street right across from Lafayette Square where they recently went to a lot of trouble to build some new sidewalks and trash baskets for the crowds who gathered under the trees to say nasty things about the war in Indochina, pollution, the economy, and the man who lived in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue across the street from the square. The crowds and what they said must not have bothered the man much because up until then he hadn’t done a great deal about the things that they complained about.
We took an elevator up to the sixth floor. Padillo knocked twice on 621 and Wanda Gothar’s voice asked, “Who is it?” before she
Similar Books
