Singapore Wink

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Authors: Ross Thomas
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five-thirty that morning and slumped into a chair. He bummed a cigarette from Trippet, puffed on it moodily, and then held his hands out in front of him. He stared at them for long moments.
    â€œGoddamn, you’re good, Knofer,” he said softly. “You’re really good.”
    In his late thirties, the doctor was a rake of a man with extraordinarily small bones and a face that wore a look of what seemed to be perpetual exasperation. He also found it difficult to communicate without cursing.
    â€œIt was a bitch,” he said to us finally, and ground out his cigarette on the floor. “A real bitch. I saved the kid’s hands, but he won’t even be able to blow his nose or wipe his ass by himself for a long time to come. What was it, a gang fight?”
    â€œWe don’t know really,” Trippet said. “All we know is that he said that someone slammed a car door on his hands. Twice.”
    â€œSomebody sure had a hard-on for him,” Doctor Knofer said. “Have you talked to the police?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said.
    â€œThe hospital’s been in touch. They’ll probably be around to see you tomorrow.” He yawned and looked at his watch. “Jesus, it’s five-thirty and I’ve got another one at ten. Who gets the goddamned bill?”
    â€œWe do,” I said.
    â€œFor everything?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œI’ll fix it with that broad in admittance,” he said. “She was getting ants up her fanny about who was going to pay.” He held out his hands before him and stared at them again. “A real bitch,” he said, “but goddamn, Knofer, you’re good.”
    â€œWhen can we see him?” Trippet asked.
    â€œTomorrow,” the doctor said. “Around two. Cheer him up, will you? Tell him his hands will be okay. He’s a goddamned good kid.”
    When the doctor had gone, I turned to Trippet. “I’ve decided to see the man in Washington.”
    He nodded, as if he hadn’t expected me to say anything else. “Your new friends are most persuasive.”
    â€œIt’s not that,” I said. “It’s not that at all. Angelo Sacchetti has been on my back for two years. You know all about it. You’ve seen me freeze a couple of times. Now they say he’s alive. I think I’ve got to find him unless I want to carry him around with me for the rest of my life.”
    Trippet was silent for almost a full minute. “I think,” he said slowly, “that it’s out of our hands now. I think it’s time to let the police handle it.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œYou agree?” Trippet asked. He sounded surprised.
    â€œWhy not?” I said. “I don’t want to go to Washington, not now, not even in cherry blossom time. But the police have nothing to do with my going. If they can find the goons who smashed Sydney’s hands, I’m all for it. But I already know who’s ultimately responsible, and he’s in Washington, and there’s no way in God’s world that they can ever pin it on him. But I have something that Charles Cole wants, or thinks he wants, and he also has something that I want and that something’s Angelo Sacchetti. And perhaps eventually they’ll all pay for Sydney’s hands.”
    â€œWhich, if not victory, is yet revenge,” Trippet murmured.
    â€œYours?”
    He shook his head. “Milton’s.”
    â€œThen you’re both wrong,” I said. “It’s not revenge I’m after. They just owe me something. They owe me for Sydney—that’s first—and they also owe me for two years of the sweats and the shakes. I’d like to collect.”
    â€œHow?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I won’t know until I see Cole in Washington and maybe I won’t even know then.”
    Trippet chewed on his lower lip for a while and then said: “They must want you most

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