Cast a Yellow Shadow (18 page)

“Two, maybe three,” Padillo said.

“They gonna put up a fuss?”

“You can count on it.”

“After we find out where it's at, how soon we go in?”

“As soon as whoever brings her there leaves,” Padillo said.

“Where you want us to take em, once we get 'em out?”

“My place, Hard,” Betty said. “I get Doctor Lambert down to look at his wife.”

“You wanta meet these boys who gonna work with me?”

“What do you think?” Padillo asked.

“They might be wanting a little advance.”

“All right. Let's meet tomorrow afternoon on Seventh Street. That okay?”

“Two o'clock Sunday?” Hardman said.

“Fine.”

“One thing,” I said to Hardman, “no hot cars.”

“You ain't making it no easier.”

“No cops,” I said.

“I couldn't see too good, but looks like a couple of them are camped outside right now,” Hardman said. “They for you or somebody else?”

“They just want to make sure Padillo gets home all right.”

“They don't look like metros.”

“They aren't; they're FBI,” I said.

“They ain't in on this, is they?”

“No. They'll be out of the picture by Monday.”

“I sure don't want no Federals,” Hardman said. “They nothin but bad times.”

“They'll be out,” I said.

He turned to Sylvia. “Missy, you bein awful quiet over there.”

She smiled. “It's going so fast. I suppose I'm really not used to it.”

“You be all right,” he said. “The Hard-man'll take care of you.”

“There's one other thing, Hardman,” Padillo said.

“What's that?”

“Sylvia is going to drive out to the trade mission on Massachusetts, get out of her car, and go in. If they don't bring her out in thirty minutes, I want you to go in and get her.”

“Uh-huh,” Hardman said. “Now that's where the power is?”

“That's right.”

“That's where all those African ofays are?”

“Yes.”

“Price have to go up on that.” He held up a big hand. “Not me now. I go in after her and all. But the other three might get a little dicey unless there's a bonus.”

“There'll be one, if you have to go in.”

“They got a back way out of that place—alley entrance maybe?”

“I don't know,” I said. “You'd better check it out.”

“I'll do that tomorrow,” he said.

“Like another drink?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “It's two-thirty now. I gotta start roundin up these folks. We best be goin.” They rose and I got up and brought them their coats.

“Nice meetin you, Missy,” Hardman said to Sylvia.

“Thank you.”

“Don't you worry about nothin.”

“I'll try not to.”

Hardman and Betty were at the door when the big man turned. “What you gonna use Mush for, baby?” he asked Padillo.

“I'm not sure yet.”

“He wants to learn that sidestep thing you did on him real bad.”

“I'll teach it to him.”

“How those three friends of yours workin out?”

“About like I expected.”

“Mush gonna be round them?”

“Probably.”

“He be a good man for that.”

“That's what I thought,” Padillo said.

Hardman turned to me. “We'll get Fredl out okay, Mac.”

“I believe it.”

“See you Sunday about two. Hell, it's already Sunday.” They left quickly.

I walked over to the bar and poured a drink for myself. “Care for a nightcap?”

“If that's a hint, I'll take it,” Padillo said. I poured him one.

“Sylvia?”

“No thank you.”

I handed Padillo his drink and said: “You cut it a little thin, didn't you?”

“On the half-hour thing?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think so. They'll move fast, once Sylvia gets in. They should have her out within fifteen minutes. If it's more than a half-hour, then they'll be thinking of doing something else.”

“I was just thinking about your two friends waiting patiently in that car downstairs,” I said. “If Hardman had been sent by your mythical Portuguese, he could have taken the elevator up, done you in leisurely, had a couple of drinks, and then gone home to bed. If they're protection, they don't add up to much.”

“Did you get a good look at them?” he asked.

“No.”

“They won't be the same ones who were at the bar earlier. We lost them in Georgetown.”

“We went out a back door,” Sylvia said.

“Who are they?”

“I'd like to make sure.” He finished his drink and stood up. “You care to join me?”

“Not really, but I will.”

“We'll be back shortly,” he told Sylvia as I opened the door.

We walked down the hall to the elevator and I punched the button.

“They're not FBIs?” I said.

He shook his head. “I lost them at the fourth bar we hit. We weren't followed here. I doubt that they'd sit outside waiting for me. They'd have made sure I was in your place. They're supposed to be protecting me, not just pulling a surveillance job. I'd say the FBI pair, or their relief, is waiting for me in the lobby of the Mayflower.”

“Who's out front?”

The elevator came and we got in. Padillo took his revolver out of his topcoat pocket and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

“Let's find out.”

The elevator stopped at the lobby and we got out and walked to the thick glass entrance doors. I could see the car across the street, about thirty feet to the left. The two men were still in it, their faces turned towards us, but obscured by their hats. They saw us coming through the apartment doors and the one nearest the street and nearest to us rolled down his window.

“When we get to the end of the sidewalk,” Padillo said, “shake hands with me, turn around, and go back to the lobby. I'll go the left. Walk to the lobby and turn around.”

We got to the end of the sidewalk and we shook hands. “I'll see you tomorrow,” Padillo said, more loudly than he normally would, and started walking slowly to his left. I moved quickly to the doors of the lobby and turned. I could see Padillo as he drew parallel with the car across the street. The car's engine started. Padillo dived for the lawn to his left and while he was in the air somebody shot at him. He rolled as he hit the ground and came up with the revolver in his hand. The man in the righthand seat of the car fired again, but the car was moving. The shot echoed as the sound waves bounced between the apartment buildings. The car was a grey Ford Galaxie and its tires squealed for what seemed to be seconds as they spun away from the curb. I watched its taillights blink when the driver hit the brakes to make the corner. The car skidded as it turned and then it was gone. Some lights came on in an apartment across the street. Padillo ran back to the lobby doors and we moved quickly to the elevator. It was still at the ground level and we got inside and I punched the button for my floor. Padillo was holding his left side and biting his lower lip.

“Hurt?” I asked.

“Like hell,” he said.

“You moved real pretty. What tipped you off?”

“You get a good look at them?”

“No.”

“I did when I was right across the street from them.”

“Recognize anyone?”

“Not the one at the wheel. Just the passenger.” The elevator stopped at my floor and we got out and walked quickly down the hall. I put the key in the lock and turned it.

“Who was it?”

“Our British cousin,” he said. “Philip Price.”

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.