Missionary Stew by Ross Thomas Page B

anyway, Morgan?”
    “L.A.”
    “I know, but where in L.A.—Bel-Air, Beverly Hills?”
    “Malibu.”
    “Of course. Where else. Well, there you are on the beach in Malibu and there's just a whisper of something in Singapore and suddenly you’re on the phone.”
    “Am I the first?”
    “Well, yes and no.”
    “Who else?”
    “Your Langley chaps. A swarm of them all over the place.”
    “Just them?”
    “There’re others. One of the Langley lads described them as the crosstown rivals.”
    “The FBI.”
    “A gaggle of them, at least. Rather a rare bird in these parts. And the strangest thing of all, they’re not even speaking to each other.”
    “The CIA and the FBI?”
    “Precisely.”
    “How do you know?”
    “This is my town, Morgan. I’m paid to know.”
    “Did they come to you?”
    “Not at first. So I went calling on the station chief and politely asked if we could possibly assist them in their inquiries. I mentioned, in passing, of course, that we do have a certain amount of expertise in such matters and so forth and so on.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “He grew quite testy and said that it was none of my fucking business.”
    “My.”
    “So I decided to find out what their romp through my patch was really about. I think it took about an hour. Both were looking for this Drew Meade.” He paused. “Now the next thing I’m going to tell you, Morgan, I probably shouldn’t, but I was really quite miffed. Still am.”
    There was another brief silence. Citron broke it with, “Go on.”
    “Well, they offered a reward for this Meade chap.”
    “A reward?”
    “Yes.”
    “Publicly? I mean, did they send out fliers?”
    “Oh my, no. It was all rather sub rosa. They just passed the word around.”
    “How much?”
    “The reward? Seventeen thousand five hundred. American, ofcourse. Why the odd amount I have no idea. Perhaps they’ve fallen on hard times.”
    “When was all this?”
    “About two weeks ago.”
    “Did they find him?”
    “No, but we did. Or so they say.”
    “You’ve just lost me.”
    “There was an anonymous call. In poor Cantonese. One of my chaps took it. He was given an address down on the docks. When we got there, we found a body floating in the water. It was very badly decomposed. The fish had been at it, naturally. But the passport and the Maryland driver's license were perfectly preserved in a wallet all neatly wrapped up in an airtight plastic bag that was tucked away in a hip pocket that was buttoned. Now I ask you.”
    “Drew Meade, huh?”
    “Both the CIA and the FBI swore to it. Separately.”
    “But you don’t believe them?”
    “Hardly.”
    Citron's hand tightened on the phone. “What do you believe, Lionel?”
    There was another of Lo's long silences followed by yet another sigh. “I do owe you, don’t I, Morgan?”
    “A little.”
    “Well, what I believe is this. First of all, they bought themselves an Anglo body somewhere. Secondly, they soaked it in the ocean for a time. And thirdly, they salted it with the Meade passport and driver's license and the other pocket litter. That's what I believe.”
    “Why’d they go to all the bother?”
    “Why? Because they wanted him thought of as dead.”
    This time it was Citron who created the silence. At least five seconds went by before he said, “Whatever for?”
    Lo giggled and then said, “I really must go now, Morgan. Do keep in touch.”
    The phone went dead. Citron slowly replaced the handset and wondered how long he had talked to Lionel Lo. Then he remembered his new watch, looked at it, and found the conversation had lasted nine minutes. He wondered how much it had cost. After that he started wondering about Drew Meade.
    After five minutes of wondering and a glass of red wine, Citron called long-distance information, was given the number he asked for, and then dialed New York directly. He was calling what arguably was the World's Finest Newspaper. When the switchboard answered, Citron asked to be