Cast a Yellow Shadow by Ross Thomas

debt.”
    â€œAnd I in yours, my young friend. Do not forget your promise this time.”
    â€œI could not,” Padillo said.
    The maid opened the door for us and I asked her to call a taxi.
    â€œGoodbye, Mr. McCorkle,” Senora Romanones said. “I like your suit.” I turned to say goodbye and the light caught her just right. She was wearing a simple blue dress and her face was shadowed so that lines had disappeared. It was a remarkably well-boned face with full lips and eyes that seemed almost Eurasian. She had been stunning at one time. Then the light started to change, and she began to pull the doors together. They closed before the illusion of young beauty vanished.
    We waited outside for the cab. “She’s getting old,” Padillo said. “It’s funny, but she’s one person who never seemed to age during all the years I’ve known her.”
    â€œDoes she know all the people she says she knows?”
    â€œShe knows everybody.”
    â€œMaybe that’s why she’s getting old.”

SIX
    I told the cab driver that we wanted to go to Mac’s Place and for once I wasn’t asked the address. That brightened the morning. We took Connecticut Avenue all the way and Padillo had a fine time trying to spot a familiar landmark. He didn’t find too many. “There used to be a church there,” he said at the corner of Connecticut and N. “It was ugly as sin, but it had a lot of style.”
    â€œFirst Presbyterian. There was some talk about having it classified as a national monument or something, but nothing came of it. The offer was too high for the elders to ignore.”
    â€œPredestination, I suppose.”
    â€œSomething like that. Maybe God intended it to be a parking lot.”
    I told the driver to let us off across the street from the saloon. “You can drink it all in,” I told Padillo. We got out and he gave it a long appraising stare. “Nice,” he said. “Real nice.”
    It was a two-story building of vaguely Federal lines that had been built a century before. It was constructed of brick that I’d had sandblasted to its original texture. Black shutters flanked the windows which were criss-crossed with moulding that held small diamond-shaped panes of glass. A grey and black canopy ran from the door across the sidewalk to the street. The name, “Mac’s Place,” was white on black at the end of the canopy in appropriately discreet letters.
    We crossed the street and went through the two-inch thick slab door. “We’re still saving on electricity,” Padillo said when we were inside.
    It was dim all right, but not so dim that the thirsty couldn’t find their way to the bar that ran down the length of the left-hand side of the room. It was a good bar to sit at or to lean on. There were the usual tables and chairs and carpeted floor, but the tables were far enough apart so that the diners could wave their elbows around and talk above a whisper without being overheard.
    â€œWhat’s upstairs?” Padillo asked.
    â€œPrivate dining rooms. They’ll hold from six to twenty people.”
    â€œThat’s a good touch.”
    â€œIt’s paying off.”
    â€œWhat’s the nut?”
    I told him.
    â€œWhat did you do last week?”
    â€œAbout fifteen hundred above it, but it was an exceptional week.”
    â€œIs Horst here yet?”
    We walked over to the day bartender. I introduced him to Padillo and then asked him to find Horst. The thin, ascetic man marched quickly in from the kitchen where he probably had been holding fingernail inspection. He blinked and almost lost a step when he saw Padillo, but recovered quickly.
    â€œHerr Padillo, it is very good to see you,” he said in German.
    â€œIt’s nice to be back, Herr Horst. Things go well for you?”
    â€œVery well, thank you. And with you?”
    â€œQuite well, thanks.”
    â€œHerr