Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas

“Dinner in twenty minutes, Joe,” Cole said.
    â€œYes, Mr. Cole,” Joe said and trundled the movable bar across the thick carpet and through the sliding door which again closed silently behind him.
    â€œWell, Mr. Cauthorne,” Cole said, “shall we drink to something?”
    â€œHow about to crime?”
    Cole chuckled again. I decided that it was a fairly pleasant sound. “Very well, sir, to crime.”
    We drank and I lit a cigarette and then waited for Cole to get to the point, providing that there was one. I didn’t have to wait long.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Cauthorne, I debated with myself for almost six weeks about whether to invite you to Washington.”
    â€œIf your other guests receive invitations like the one I got, you must be rather lonely.”
    Cole frowned and shook his head. “Yes, I heard about that—your young employees and the vandalism. I’ve already taken measures to compensate you for everything. It was most unfortunate.”
    â€œIt would have been even more unfortunate if the kid had lost a hand. How much is a hand worth in your book?”
    Cole brushed his mustache with the knuckles of his left hand and then sighed. “The old methods are slow in dying, especially among the older generation. But progress is being made, I assure you, and once again I must apologize for the totally unnecessary methods of persuasion that were employed.”
    â€œI don’t know if they’re as outdated as you claim,” I said. “They got me here.”
    Cole took another sip of his drink. “Did they really, Mr. Cauthorne? Was it the violence, and the threat of further violence, that convinced you to come, or was it the news that Angelo Sacchetti is still alive?”
    â€œI wondered when you would get around to him,” I said. “I was betting on after dinner—over the brandy.”
    â€œI’ve had considerable research done on you, Mr. Cauthorne.” He made a vague gesture towards the draped windows. “Over there, in my desk, is a rather thick file—or dossier, if you prefer. It’s all about you. I’ve been given to understand that you suffer from a mild psychological disturbance which stems from the time that Angelo disappeared in Singapore.”
    â€œA lot of people know that,” I said.
    â€œTrue. But also in that file—or dossier—are copies of the notes made by the analyst that you consulted for—I believe it was nine months. A Dr. Fisher.”
    â€œFisher didn’t give them to you.”
    â€œNo,” Cole said, smiling slightly. “He didn’t. He doesn’t even know that I have them. As I said, they are copies.”
    â€œThen you do know a lot about me.”
    â€œMore, perhaps, than you know about yourself.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI must say, Mr. Cauthorne, you are taking all this extremely well.”
    â€œYou want something from me, Mr. Cole. I’m just waiting to find out what it is so I can say no.”
    â€œWell, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just go a step at a time. From your analyst’s notes, I gather that you suffer from mild, periodic seizures during which you experience trembling, excessive perspiration, and a recurring hallucinatory experience which has Angelo falling into the sea and winking at you as he falls. That’s not exactly Dr. Fisher’s description, but rather more of a layman’s translation of his notes.”
    â€œAs lay translations go,” I said, “it’s not bad.”
    â€œDr. Fisher’s notes imply that you blame yourself for Angelo’s alleged death and that this created a certain amount of deep-seated guilt which triggered the recurring hallucinatory experiences (again, I must say I’m paraphrasing the good doctor). I’ve taken the liberty, Mr. Cauthorne, to have two other qualified medical persons go over Dr. Fisher’s notes. Your name, of