Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas Page A

course, was carefully obliterated. It’s their opinion that if you personally were to find Angelo Sacchetti alive, your psychological discomforts would disappear. Otherwise, they may grow worse.”
    I finished my drink and put the glass on a table. “So the deal is that in exchange for finding Angelo for you, I cure myself. That’s the surface deal, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
    â€œA great deal more,” Cole said.
    â€œWhy don’t you use your own people to find Angelo?”
    â€œI don’t think that would do.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause my dear godson is blackmailing me.”
    â€œSome of the boys could take care of that, couldn’t they?”
    Cole put his glass down, made a steeple of his fingers again, and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Cauthorne. You see, if the persons I would ordinarily call on in such a situation were to find out what Angelo is blackmailing me with, I’m afraid that I would remain alive—at the most—for only twenty-four hours.”
    CHAPTER VIII
    Before Cole could continue, the sliding door opened again and Joe, the bodyguard, wheeled in the dinner which he served on a small table with the same efficient movements that he had used to mix the drinks. I decided that he must be handy to have around. Dinner was a thick filet, a superb salad, and a baked potato. A bottle of burgundy was equally excellent.
    â€œIt’s what you usually have at home, isn’t it, Mr. Cauthorne?” Cole said after Joe had gone.
    â€œYour chef is better than mine.”
    â€œWell, let’s enjoy our dinner and then we can continue our discussion afterwards—over the brandy, as you suggested earlier.”
    â€œIt was growing interesting,” I said.
    â€œIt will get even more so,” Cole said and started to carve up his steak.
    We ate almost in silence and when we were through Joe promptly appeared and cleared away the dishes and served the brandy and coffee. When he had gone once more, Cole offered me a cigar which I refused, carefully lighted one for himself, took a sip of his brandy, and said, “Now, where were we?”
    â€œAngelo Sacchetti was blackmailing you.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI assume that you’ve been paying.”
    â€œI have indeed, Mr. Cauthorne. In the past eighteen months I have paid only slightly less than a million dollars.”
    I smiled for what must have been the first time that evening. “Then you’re in real trouble.”
    â€œYou seem inordinately pleased.”
    â€œWouldn’t you be in my position?”
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact, I suppose I would. My enemy’s troubles are my good fortune and all that sort of thing. You do consider me your enemy?”
    â€œLet’s just say I doubt that we’ll ever be close friends.”
    Cole drew on his cigar and then slowly blew the smoke out. I noticed that he inhaled it. “You’ve heard,” he said, “that they call me Charlie the Fix. Do you have any idea of what the nickname implies?”
    â€œSome,” I said. “The corruption of public officials and civil servants probably. A few bribes here and there. A little subornation of perjury, I suppose, plus the discreet use of a sizable political slush fund.”
    Cole smiled slightly. “I see,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if deciding about how much he could safely tell. “I came to Washington in 1936—the year you were born, I believe. And despite my rather excellent education, I was, as they say, grass green. I needed a mentor, someone to guide me through the bureaucratic and political maze. I told them that I needed this and they quickly found just the man.”
    â€œYou’ve been using ‘they’ and ‘them,’” I said. “I’ve asked who they are before, but I’ve never got a satisfactory answer. Who are