Partain had started wearing the vest the day after the drive-by shooting of Jack the doorman. The manufacturer called it the “Executive Protector” and cautioned that it protected only the chest, stomach, back and waist, leaving vulnerable the head, neck and throat. Both groin and buttocks were also defenseless. Kneecaps were equally expendable.
Only Jessica Carver knew that Partain had begun wearing the vest. The first night they had gone to bed, she had watched him take it off without comment. The second time she’d asked him to leave it on.
Partain heard the clicking high heels to his right, turned and saw Millicent Altford approaching the car, carrying a large plastic sack. “Your new outfit,” she announced.
Partain pulled the long-sleeve gray sweatshirt down over his head and the refastened Executive Protector vest. The front of the sweatshirt read, “I Love L.A.” The hieroglyphic for “love” was the standard red heart. The second garment she handed him was a blue and gold UCLA warm-up jacket.
“I suppose there was nothing less—”
“Cute?”
“I was going to say embarrassing.”
“Put it on,” she said. “They’re about to call our flight.”
As she watched him slip on the UCLA jacket, she said, “You’ve got a nice build.”
He ignored the compliment and asked, “What do I do with my shirt, tie and coat?”
“I’ll take care of ’em,” she said. He handed them over and watched with dismay as she dropped all three into a nearby trash container.
“That coat could’ve been rewoven,” he said when she returned.
“I told you we’ll buy you new stuff in Washington. A nice topcoat from Burberrys. Some suits and a couple of jackets and pants from Brooks Brothers or Neiman’s.”
“You ever been inside a J. C. Penney’s?”
“Not in forty-two years,” she said.
They were almost the last to board the United 747 and were seated in the front two seats on the port side of the first-class cabin. Altford said she preferred the window seat. Partain didn’t care where he sat. He had buckled his seat belt and was glancing through an airline magazine when Altford nudged his elbow and said, “Somebody you know?”
Partain looked up and found Emory Kite standing in the aisle, staring down at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed. Then the mouth snapped shut and the eyes narrowed.
“You feel all right?” Partain asked, unable to put any real concern into his question.
“Flying,” the small man said. “Flying always puts me off my feed.” He turned toward his seat across from Partain, then turned back. “Washington, huh?”
“Just for the night,” Partain said. “After that, it’s on to either Paris or London.”
Kite nodded, sat down in the window seat and buckled himself in automatically, staring all the while at Partain, who eventually noticed it and replied with a small smile and a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, “Okay, what now?”
“I’ve never been to Paris,” Kite said.
“You’ll love it,” Partain said and returned to his magazine.
Kite nodded glumly, then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. That’s where I’ll go when all this crap’s over, he decided. I’ll go to Paris and check into some fancy hotel, eat me some fancy French food and fuck me some fancy French whores. He was still leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips when the flight attendant asked if he would like something to drink.
“Champagne,” Emory Kite said, opening his eyes. “French champagne.”
Chapter 29
They obviously knew Millicent Altford at the Mayflower Hotel. The doorman welcomed her by name and he himself whisked her rented Chrysler sedan away. An assistant manager checked her in, offering a two-room suite for the price of a single and also a special reduced rate for the room of what he called her “companion.”
“Mr. Partain’s my security executive,” Altford said, her tone icy, “and I want his room right next to mine.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Altford,” the assistant manager said.
Because Altford said she needed an hour to herself and because Partain had nothing to unpack, he inspected her rooms first, then his own, washed his face and hands and went down to the lobby, where he bought toothpaste, a toothbrush, a razor, blades, shaving cream and what the salesclerk swore was an odorless aftershave lotion.
He had just turned from the drugs and sundries counter when the male voice behind him said, “For somebody in the back-watching trade, Twodees, you sure don’t give a damn about your own.”
Partain turned and said, “Ever hear of the shoemaker’s barefoot children, Colonel?”
“Yeah, but now that I’ve bumped into you—”
“You didn’t bump into me.”
Colonel Ralph Waldo Millwed shrugged and smiled, displaying most of his remarkably even gray teeth. “Let’s call it an unexpected coincidence.”
“All coincidences are unexpected,” Partain said.
“Then let’s go and have a drink in the T and C and discuss it some more.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because there’s a possibility, maybe even a probability, that we need to discuss.”
“The last thing we discussed was why the sun shouldn’t set on my head in Sheridan.”
“Ancient history, Twodees. Olden times. Let’s talk.”
“All right,” Partain said. “Why not?”
In the Mayflower’s Town and Country bar they sat at a table at a decent remove from a pair of middle-aged lobbyists who were carrying on a desultory debate about whether they should go home or call up a couple of whores. When the drinks came, vodka on the rocks for the Colonel and bourbon and water for Partain, Millwed leaned forward and rested his tweed elbows on the small round table. “I’m not gonna beat around the bush, Twodees.”
“Sure you are. But since I’m a slow drinker, take all the time you need.”
The Colonel leaned back to give Partain a cool thoughtful inspection. Along with his brownish-green tweed jacket, Millwed now wore a black suede vest with brass buttons, a very pale yellow shirt, striped green and brown tie and brown flannel pants. He looked prosperous, natty and, in Partain’s judgment, as duplicitous as ever.
“I like your UCLA jacket,” the Colonel said.
“No, you don’t.”
“How’s L.A. been treating you?”
“I was born there.”
“I thought Bakersfield.”
Partain shrugged. “A suburb.”
“Grew up poor like me, I expect.”
“Not like you, Ralph. My old man drove a truck.”
“Mine was a bookkeeper.”
“I guess you could call a CPA a bookkeeper.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Is this the pitch?”
“This is the pitch,” Millwed said. “How’d you like to have your record expunged, go back on active duty as a light-colonel and retire on a full twenty-year pension after a year of soft duty at, say, Fort Sam?”
“I’d like it.”
“Thought so. And as sort of a hardship bonus there’d be a quarter of a million in the bank of your choice anywhere in the world.”
“I’d like that, too.”
“Knew you would.”
Partain glanced at his watch. “You said we wouldn’t beat around the bush.”
Millwed spread his hands, palms up. “I’ve made my presentation.”
“Not quite. You forgot the quid pro quo — the stuff you expect me to do.”
Millwed produced a fresh smile, broader and merrier than before.He leaned toward Partain, still smiling, and said, “You don’t have to do one fucking thing, Twodees. Not one.”