Read Online Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas - Free Book Online Page B

waiting for me at the United desk at Los Angeles International, just as Salvatore Callese had promised it would be. It contained a round-trip, first-class ticket to Washington, ten one-hundred-dollar bills, fairly new, and a typed, unsigned note which read:
    â€œMr. Charles Cole’s car will meet you at Dulles International Airport.”
    The car that met me was now gliding down a four-lane highway that seemed almost deserted and my escort, the well-mannered Mr. Ruffo, explained that it was a direct access route to the airport which no other traffic was allowed to use. “Unfortunately,” he added, as if he really cared, “Dulles didn’t draw all the air traffic that its planners thought it would, but it has been picking up lately, I understand.”
    â€œThat’s most interesting,” I said, determined to match Ruffo’s politeness. “When do I get together with Mr. Cole? That’s Mr. Charles Cole, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” he said again, as if still convinced that I was the wise man from the West. “Mr. Cole thought it might be nice if you could join him at his home for dinner this evening.”
    â€œThat might be nice,” I said, “but it might be even nicer if I knew what the agenda was going to be.”
    Ruffo laughed in what I suppose was meant to be a well-bred, yet deprecatory way. “I’m afraid that is something that Mr. Cole will have to discuss with you.”
    â€œYou just run the pickup and delivery service.”
    â€œSomething like that, Mr. Cauthorne,” Ruffo said and laughed another laugh that matched his J. Press suit and his Eastern seaboard accent. “I suppose you could say that I do something like that.”
    Thirty-five minutes after we left Dulles Airport the chauffeur steered the oversized Cadillac into the semicircular driveway before the Sheraton-Carlton at 16th and K Streets and the doorman hopped to it when he saw the car. “Good evening, Mr. Ruffo,” he said as he opened the door and I noticed that Ruffo didn’t tip him. The doorman probably got one of those fairly new hundred-dollar bills every Christmas just to remind him to say, “Good evening, Mr. Ruffo” a half-dozen or so times a year.
    The chauffeur transferred the bag to the doorman who transferred it to a bellhop who seemed to think it was a privilege. Ruffo, slightly preceding me, demanded the key to my room from an alert clerk who handed it to the bellhop with the admonition to see to Mr. Cauthorne’s comforts.
    Then Ruffo turned to give me the benefit of an exceedingly white, exceedingly deferential smile. “I thought I’d give you an hour or so to get settled and relax,” he said. “I’ll call for you around—” He looked at his watch. “Say around seven-thirty. Will that be satisfactory?”
    â€œPerfectly.”
    â€œI had some Scotch and soda sent up to your rooms,” he said. “If there’s anything else you need, just ring for it.”
    â€œThat was very thoughtful of you,” I said.
    â€œNot at all. Just part of the pickup and delivery service.” He smiled again, that nice white smile, but he neglected to put any grin into it and I noticed that the olive skin, the neatly trimmed black hair, the dimpled chin, and the six feet or so of what appeared to be supple muscle failed for the first time to disguise the contempt that his dark brown eyes flicked over me for only a second. In the polite Mr. Ruffo’s social book I was nothing. Perhaps a little less than nothing.
    The bellhop followed me into the elevator with my bag where another septuagenarian fiddled with the controls and we wheezed up to the sixth floor.
    â€œSix-nineteen,” the bellhop said. He was a kindly looking little man who probably was fond of his grandchildren. “This way, sir.” I followed him down the corridor and he unlocked the door and ushered me into a two-room