Read Online The Seersucker Whipsaw by Ross Thomas - Free Book Online

Shartelle spotted a Bank of America sign. “That outfit doesn’t miss any tricks, does it?”
    â€œMoney’s money,” Downer said wisely.
    With a flourish William pulled into the sweeping curved driveway of the Prince Albert Hotel. It was new and its architectural style would win no awards. It was built of poured concrete slabs painted white. The windows were recessed and tinted blue. It was built on the bay and I supposed that one had something of a view from the farther side.
    â€œYou wait here, William,” Downer told the driver as the robed bellhops took our bags. A smiling Lebanese checked us in and snapped his finger for some more robed bellhops to carry our luggage. The elevators were automatic, but they had operators anyhow. Part of the unemployment solution, I decided. Shartelle and I were given adjoining double rooms and Downer followed me into mine.
    The air-conditioning was on full blast and Downer seemed to shiver a little in his sweat-soaked suit. “You better keep the lid on Shartelle, Pete,” Downer said.
    I tipped the bellhop who gave me a string of “thank you, sahs,” and left without showing me where the bathroom was. Maybe he didn’t know. I looked for it myself and saw that it contained the standard equipment, even soap, and came back into the room, opened my suitcase, and said: “Why? He’s running the show. I’m just supercargo.”
    â€œHe doesn’t understand these people like you and I do.”
    â€œLike you do,” I said. “I don’t understand anybody.”
    â€œHe can screw us up with the Consulate.”
    â€œKramer’s an American, isn’t he?”
    â€œSure he’s an American.”
    â€œShartelle understands Americans. He might not understand Albertians, but he understands Americans. I don’t think he’ll screw us up.”
    â€œYou don’t know him. He goes off half-cocked sometimes and if he goes off half-cocked down here, we can get screwed good.”
    â€œI just met him about four days ago, so—as you say—I don’t know him too well. But he doesn’t give me the impression of going off half-cocked anywhere.”
    â€œI knew him during the war,” Downer said. “I knew him in Europe. I could tell you some times he goofed it up plenty.”
    I didn’t say anything. I took my shirts and underwear and socks out of my suitcase and put them in the bureau drawer. I hung four suits in the closet. I laid eight ties in another drawer. I put my toothpaste, brush and razor in the bathroom. I wore my hair short—short enough not to need a brush or comb. I had no pajamas, no styptic pencil, no aftershave lotion, no roll-on deodorant, no mouthwash. If I smelled, to hell with it.
    â€œHe goofed plenty,” Downer said.
    â€œDuring the war,” I said.
    â€œRight. During the war.”
    I went back into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I turned it to hot and then took one of the tropical suits—made out of air and coal, I think, and guaranteed not to wrinkle—and put it in the bathroom to steam out its wrinkles. Then I sat down in a chair and looked at Downer who was shivering on the bed.
    â€œAre you cold or do you have malaria?” I asked.
    â€œGoddamned air-conditioning,” he said. “I take my Are.Ian. Did you start taking yours before you got here?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’ll catch malaria. Here, take these.” He tossed me a phial of pills.
    â€œLike Atabrine?”
    â€œNo, they don’t turn you yellow.”
    I went into the bathroom where it must have been 120 degrees and got a glass of water. I popped a pill in and swallowed. “One a day?”
    â€œBetter take two. They don’t hurt you any.”
    â€œDoesn’t affect the manhood, huh?”
    â€œThat shouldn’t bother you while you’re down here, Pete—not unless you want to change your