Chinaman’s Chance
- Автор: Томас Росс
- Серия: Arthur Case Wu #1
- Год: 1978
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon & Schuster
- ISBN: 978-0-671-24070-7
- Жанр: Политические детективы
Электронная книга - «Chinaman’s Chance». Краткое содержание книги:
“Dallas,” Durant said. “We didn’t know about Dallas.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Piers said.
“Maybe it will when we talk to your sister-in-law,” Artie Wu said.
The cab driver shook Herb Conroy awake.
Conroy sat up and looked around. He knew he was going to be sick. So did the cab driver. “Where am I?” Conroy said.
“This where you live, Jack?” the driver said.
Conroy looked. Yes, this was where he lived. He tried to remember what had happened, but then decided that he didn’t want to remember. Not just yet.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked the driver.
“It’s all paid for, fella; just get out of the cab before you barf all over it. Here.” He handed Conroy an envelope. “They said for me to give you this.”
Conroy took the envelope and got out of the cab. He started toward the front door, wondering if he would make it before he got sick all over everything. He tore open the envelope. In it were five one-hundred-dollar bills and a card that read, Too bad, but thanks anyway. Overby.
Chapter 35
It was two o’clock that Monday afternoon when Eddie McBride, his search for Silk Armitage so far a failure, realized that he was hungry. Because McBride cared little about where or what he ate, he saw no reason why the Honorable Thief Cocktail Lounge wouldn’t do just fine.
Nobody in the Honorable Thief had seen Silk Armitage around either, and so after a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a glass of beer, McBride went outside and paused on the sidewalk, wishing that he had a toothpick and trying to figure out where he should go next. After a few moments of hesitancy, McBride decided that the place across the street, the Tex-Mex Bar & Grill, would probably do as well as any.
When the knock came at her back door, Silk Armitage thought about putting on her wig and the rest of her Madame Szabo disguise. But then she realized that that didn’t make any sense, not any longer, so she went to the door just as she was, dressed in the tailored jeans, the high, expensive boots, and the cream silk blouse that came from Paris. Silk Armitage was ready to travel.
Little Sandy Choi’s eyes went almost round when Silk opened the door.
“Hey, man, you’re not—”
“Hello, Sandy,” Silk said, using her Madame Szabo accent.
Sandy Choi, all of nine, ran his discovery through the abacus that was his mind, estimating its cash value. It might be worth four bits across the street at old Betty Mae Minklawn’s. Yeah, she’d pay four bits. At least that.
“What’ve you got, Sandy?” Silk said in her normal voice.
“A dollar,” Sandy said, holding out a sticky hand.
Silk took a dollar from a pocket of her jeans. “You go first,” she said. “Then we’ll see.”
“There’s a guy going in every place and asking everybody questions. He says he’s a reporter from the Washington something.”
“Post?” Silk said.
“Uh-huh, Post!”
“What kind of questions?”
“He wants to know if anybody’s seen Silk Armitage around.” Sandy Choi smiled winningly; said, “That’s you, ain’t it?”; snatched the dollar bill from Silk’s hand; and raced down the back-porch steps and into the alley.
After he ordered his draft beer, which he wasn’t going to drink, Eddie McBride decided to hit on the old blond broad who was talking to the female bartender. The old blond broad was Betty Mae Minklawn, who was in deep conversation with her friend and confidante Madge Perkinson.
McBride picked up his beer and moved down to the end of the bar, keeping a respectable two stools between him and Betty Mae. The two women looked at him, and McBride nodded and said, “Afternoon, ladies.”
Betty Mae liked good-looking young men, especially those who looked a bit the way Alan Ladd had looked back in the ’40s and ’50s, except that this one wasn’t quite that pretty and soft. So she said, “Afternoon” and touched a hand to her chrome yellow beehive hairdo, just to make sure it wasn’t messed up.
“My name’s Tony Max,” McBride said, “and I’m with The Washington Post.” He took out his identification with an easy, practiced movement and showed it to Betty Mae, who looked at it carefully, because it was kind of interesting, and passed it over to Madge.
When Madge handed the identification case back to McBride, Betty Mae said, “What in God’s name you doing way out here?”
“We’re looking for somebody.”
“You on a story?”
“That’s right.”
“Who you looking for?”
“We received a tip that Silk Armitage might be living around here some place. She’s dropped out of sight and we’d like to find out why.” Something happened to Betty Mae’s face, something that told McBride that he had scored. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew prim, almost disapproving. Cagey, McBride thought. She’s trying to look like she doesn’t know anything, but instead she looks just the opposite. Cagey.
“Silk Armitage, the singer?” Betty Mae said, trying to sound indifferent.
“That’s right.”
“What in the world would somebody like that be living around here for?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“She in trouble?”
“If she is, we’d like to help her.”
“You mean do a big story on her.”
“Yes, ma—” McBride had started to say “ma’am,” but he thought better of it. Instead, he gave her a smile, the one that he thought of as his whorehouse smile. Betty Mae seemed to like it.
“You think it’s a big enough story for them to make a picture out of it?”
“Well, you never can tell about that,” McBride said. “We’d have to find her first, of course. But if it turns out to be a big story, well, sure, they might make a picture out of it.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“She could play herself, couldn’t she?” Betty Mae turned to Madge Perkinson. “What do you think?”
Madge did some judicious mental casting before committing herself. “Well, I guess she could do it, but you know who could really do it?”
“Who?”
“Lace Armitage. Her sister.”
“God, yes!” Betty Mae said. “And think of the publicity.” She turned back to McBride. “Who do you think might play you?”
“Well, I haven’t even thought about it,” McBride said.
“You know who could play him?” Betty Mae said to Madge.
“Who?”
“Steve McQueen.”
Madge shook her head. “McQueen’s too old.”
“Yeah, well, maybe.” Betty Mae again faced McBride. “But I suppose when they make it, they’d have to have somebody play the part of whoever it was who gave the reporter the big tip, right?”
“You mean who told him where Silk Armitage was?”
“Uh-huh,” Betty Mae said. “They’d have to have somebody pretty good play that part. I mean, it wouldn’t be a big role or anything, but it’d be a hell of a cameo part for somebody.” Betty Mae gave her beehive another unconscious feel.
“Yeah, they’d have to do that, all right,” McBride said, and watched as Betty Mae and Madge exchanged glances full of secrets and significance.
“Maybe Mary Tyler Moore even?” Betty Mae said.
“She’d be great,” McBride said, and took out a ball-point pen and a small notebook that he had purchased on the advice of Otherguy Overby. “Where’s Silk Armitage?” he said.
“We didn’t say we know,” Betty Mae replied, her voice now coy.
“You know,” McBride said, and smiled. “By the way, I’d like to get your names to use in the story. You’re — uh?”