said.
Conversation ended and we sat there in the maple- and chintz-furnished living room of the apartment that was located in what they used to call New York’s teeming lower East Side and examined the hooked rugs on the floor and the pastoral prints on the walls and the thoughts that slid through our minds and then we jumped, almost in unison, when the phone rang. Padillo got it before it rang twice and after he said hello he nodded at us so that we would know that it was Wanda. He said, “Hold on,” into the phone and gestured toward the room where the king and Scales had been when I arrived. “There’s an extension in there,” he said. “Get on it.”
The phone was next to the bed and I picked it up and said nothing.
“McCorkle’s on,” Padillo said.
“Why?” Wanda Gothar said.
“Because he’s in now. All the way.”
“You said Plomondon.”
“He thought Gitner was a little rich.”
“And McCorkle doesn’t?”
“He doesn’t know Gitner that well.”
“He can’t handle Gitner,” she said. “I’m not even sure that you can.”
“We may get the chance to settle that question in about fifteen minutes. Kragstein wants us out of here by then or they’re coming in.”
“Take care of it,” she said. She had no questions, no comments, not even any advice. Just the automatic admonition which assumed that Padillo would know how to do it just like he’d know how to pick up a quart of ice cream on the way home from work.
“How long have we got in New York?” he said.
“Two more days.”
“Then?”
“San Francisco.”
“That’s not just dumb,” he said “that’s inexcusable.”
“The oil companies don’t need any excuse,” she said. “That’s where the signing takes place. They won’t change it. I tried.”
“Why don’t you quote them the odds against us making a cross-country trip like that with the opposition we’ve got.”
“I did,” she said. “They seemed delighted.”
“You mean they don’t want the deal?”
“They’ll take it, but if something happened to Kassim, they think they could make another one that could be even better.”
“All right,” Padillo said. “I’ll give you a number where you can get me for the next two days.” He rattled one off without hesitation and I was fairly certain that Wanda Gothar didn’t need to write it down. They both had memories like that—the kind that could recall the combinations on their high school lockers.
“I’ll call you from San Francisco,” she said.
“Where are you now?”
“Where the power is,” she said. “Dallas.”
“Call me this time tomorrow.”
“All right,” she said. “By the way, Mr. McCorkle?”
“Yes?” I said.
“Shall I be seeing you in San Francisco?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“It’s such a beautiful city. Do you like it?”
“My opinion doesn’t count much. I was born there.”
“Really? Then I hope you’re not planning to die there.”
She broke the connection before I could say something that would show off my incisive wit so I hung up the phone and spent a few moments admiring the spinster’s bedroom. It was really a boudoir in the classic French sense of the word which meant that it was a place to sulk in if the diamonds in the bracelet weren’t big enough or if the monthly check was a couple of days late. Although the living room might be chintz and maple, the bedroom was all sex and sin with lots of mirrors and a big round bed with a fur spread that looked like seal, but could have been sable, and careful lighting and a chaise longue big enough for two in case the bed got boring. It could have been the bedroom of a top-dollar call girl, or of a spinster who yearned to be one. Either way I had to feel sorry for her.
When I came out of the bedroom the first thing I saw was the king as he knelt by his chair, his hands clasped in front of him, his head up, his eyes closed, and his lips moving silently, presumably in prayer. Scales was watching him
Conversation ended and we sat there in the maple- and chintz-furnished living room of the apartment that was located in what they used to call New York’s teeming lower East Side and examined the hooked rugs on the floor and the pastoral prints on the walls and the thoughts that slid through our minds and then we jumped, almost in unison, when the phone rang. Padillo got it before it rang twice and after he said hello he nodded at us so that we would know that it was Wanda. He said, “Hold on,” into the phone and gestured toward the room where the king and Scales had been when I arrived. “There’s an extension in there,” he said. “Get on it.”
The phone was next to the bed and I picked it up and said nothing.
“McCorkle’s on,” Padillo said.
“Why?” Wanda Gothar said.
“Because he’s in now. All the way.”
“You said Plomondon.”
“He thought Gitner was a little rich.”
“And McCorkle doesn’t?”
“He doesn’t know Gitner that well.”
“He can’t handle Gitner,” she said. “I’m not even sure that you can.”
“We may get the chance to settle that question in about fifteen minutes. Kragstein wants us out of here by then or they’re coming in.”
“Take care of it,” she said. She had no questions, no comments, not even any advice. Just the automatic admonition which assumed that Padillo would know how to do it just like he’d know how to pick up a quart of ice cream on the way home from work.
“How long have we got in New York?” he said.
“Two more days.”
“Then?”
“San Francisco.”
“That’s not just dumb,” he said “that’s inexcusable.”
“The oil companies don’t need any excuse,” she said. “That’s where the signing takes place. They won’t change it. I tried.”
“Why don’t you quote them the odds against us making a cross-country trip like that with the opposition we’ve got.”
“I did,” she said. “They seemed delighted.”
“You mean they don’t want the deal?”
“They’ll take it, but if something happened to Kassim, they think they could make another one that could be even better.”
“All right,” Padillo said. “I’ll give you a number where you can get me for the next two days.” He rattled one off without hesitation and I was fairly certain that Wanda Gothar didn’t need to write it down. They both had memories like that—the kind that could recall the combinations on their high school lockers.
“I’ll call you from San Francisco,” she said.
“Where are you now?”
“Where the power is,” she said. “Dallas.”
“Call me this time tomorrow.”
“All right,” she said. “By the way, Mr. McCorkle?”
“Yes?” I said.
“Shall I be seeing you in San Francisco?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“It’s such a beautiful city. Do you like it?”
“My opinion doesn’t count much. I was born there.”
“Really? Then I hope you’re not planning to die there.”
She broke the connection before I could say something that would show off my incisive wit so I hung up the phone and spent a few moments admiring the spinster’s bedroom. It was really a boudoir in the classic French sense of the word which meant that it was a place to sulk in if the diamonds in the bracelet weren’t big enough or if the monthly check was a couple of days late. Although the living room might be chintz and maple, the bedroom was all sex and sin with lots of mirrors and a big round bed with a fur spread that looked like seal, but could have been sable, and careful lighting and a chaise longue big enough for two in case the bed got boring. It could have been the bedroom of a top-dollar call girl, or of a spinster who yearned to be one. Either way I had to feel sorry for her.
When I came out of the bedroom the first thing I saw was the king as he knelt by his chair, his hands clasped in front of him, his head up, his eyes closed, and his lips moving silently, presumably in prayer. Scales was watching him
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