with what I took to be benign approval and Padillo, a failed Catholic of sorts himself, was checking the action on his automatic and looking as though he didn’t have too much faith in that either.
I stood there in the doorway of the bedroom for a while, shifting from one foot to the other until the king got through with his prayers. He signaled their conclusion by saying “Amen” aloud in a ringing, fervent voice and Padillo looked up at me and said, “Did you bring anything to shoot with?”
“The office thirty-eight,” I said and wondered if it were a good time to tell him that I’d forgotten to pack the bullets. Either he was a mind reader or he was resigned to my careless ways because he reached into his coat pocket and tossed me a box of .38 shells. “In case you run short,” he said and I thought that he should get some sort of prize for tact.
I took the revolver out of the attaché case and loaded it and then dropped it into the right-hand pocket of my jacket so that it was sure to ruin the drape. Padillo rose from his chair and crossed to a window and peered out through the cheery patterned drapes that were dyed rust and lemon and what looked for all the world like British Racing Green. Padillo looked through the drapes for a moment and then turned, crossed to the phone, and dialed a number.
“It’s Padillo,” he said and then listened for almost a minute, his eyes squeezed shut as he massaged the bridge of his nose.
When he said, “I’ve been awfully tied up down in Washington,” I knew it was a woman because it was the same thing that he told women in Washington, except that when he was there he was always being tied up in New York.
“Some friends of mine are in town and we need a place to stay for a couple of days,” he said. “No,” he said, “all men.” There was another pause while he listened and massaged his nose some more and then he said, “No, I don’t want you to go to all that trouble … Yes, I know that’s what you pay them for.” He looked at his watch and said, “We should be there within an hour … All right … Thanks very much.”
He hung up the phone and then looked at us, one at a time, as if trying to decide whether we were really worth some private sacrifice that he had to make. “It’s a cooperative apartment in the Sixties just off Fifth,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is get there.”
“I don’t mean to carp, Mr. Padillo,” Scales said, “but won’t another apartment be just as vulnerable as this one?”
“It’s not exactly an apartment,” Padillo said. “It’s the entire floor of a building and the person who owns it has something that makes it secure enough for the Secret Service to give it a top rating.”
“What does this person have?” Kassim said.
“The best protection there is,” Padillo said. “About eighty million dollars.”
12
IT WAS dark on the roof of the apartment building, but seven stories below a street lamp flooded the entrance with a pool of yellow light that had a sickly, jaundiced look about it. I peered over the three-foot-high brick wall that ran along the front of the building. The king and Emory Scales knelt beside me, but they weren’t looking down. They were looking to their left at the eight-foot-wide black void that they were going to have to leap across in about three minutes if Padillo’s plan worked.
Eight feet is a very long way to jump if you’re a little plump and a little out of shape, like the king, or over fifty with the coordination not what it once was, like Emory Scales, or a sedentary creature of slothful habits whose conception of giddy height is a four-foot bar stool—like me.
It was a typical Padillo plan, devoid of frippery, stark in its simplicity, and commendable for its cunning, but if no one seemed much inclined to talk about its risk, that was understandable, too. I wasn’t quite sure that the danger was evenly distributed. Kassim, Scales and I had to summon up some
I stood there in the doorway of the bedroom for a while, shifting from one foot to the other until the king got through with his prayers. He signaled their conclusion by saying “Amen” aloud in a ringing, fervent voice and Padillo looked up at me and said, “Did you bring anything to shoot with?”
“The office thirty-eight,” I said and wondered if it were a good time to tell him that I’d forgotten to pack the bullets. Either he was a mind reader or he was resigned to my careless ways because he reached into his coat pocket and tossed me a box of .38 shells. “In case you run short,” he said and I thought that he should get some sort of prize for tact.
I took the revolver out of the attaché case and loaded it and then dropped it into the right-hand pocket of my jacket so that it was sure to ruin the drape. Padillo rose from his chair and crossed to a window and peered out through the cheery patterned drapes that were dyed rust and lemon and what looked for all the world like British Racing Green. Padillo looked through the drapes for a moment and then turned, crossed to the phone, and dialed a number.
“It’s Padillo,” he said and then listened for almost a minute, his eyes squeezed shut as he massaged the bridge of his nose.
When he said, “I’ve been awfully tied up down in Washington,” I knew it was a woman because it was the same thing that he told women in Washington, except that when he was there he was always being tied up in New York.
“Some friends of mine are in town and we need a place to stay for a couple of days,” he said. “No,” he said, “all men.” There was another pause while he listened and massaged his nose some more and then he said, “No, I don’t want you to go to all that trouble … Yes, I know that’s what you pay them for.” He looked at his watch and said, “We should be there within an hour … All right … Thanks very much.”
He hung up the phone and then looked at us, one at a time, as if trying to decide whether we were really worth some private sacrifice that he had to make. “It’s a cooperative apartment in the Sixties just off Fifth,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is get there.”
“I don’t mean to carp, Mr. Padillo,” Scales said, “but won’t another apartment be just as vulnerable as this one?”
“It’s not exactly an apartment,” Padillo said. “It’s the entire floor of a building and the person who owns it has something that makes it secure enough for the Secret Service to give it a top rating.”
“What does this person have?” Kassim said.
“The best protection there is,” Padillo said. “About eighty million dollars.”
12
IT WAS dark on the roof of the apartment building, but seven stories below a street lamp flooded the entrance with a pool of yellow light that had a sickly, jaundiced look about it. I peered over the three-foot-high brick wall that ran along the front of the building. The king and Emory Scales knelt beside me, but they weren’t looking down. They were looking to their left at the eight-foot-wide black void that they were going to have to leap across in about three minutes if Padillo’s plan worked.
Eight feet is a very long way to jump if you’re a little plump and a little out of shape, like the king, or over fifty with the coordination not what it once was, like Emory Scales, or a sedentary creature of slothful habits whose conception of giddy height is a four-foot bar stool—like me.
It was a typical Padillo plan, devoid of frippery, stark in its simplicity, and commendable for its cunning, but if no one seemed much inclined to talk about its risk, that was understandable, too. I wasn’t quite sure that the danger was evenly distributed. Kassim, Scales and I had to summon up some
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