Free Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas Page B

fingers, and looked at me pleasantly enough, almost as if he were the friendly family counselor who had helped many a young man out of similar difficulty. Charles Cole, I noticed as I returned his friendly gaze, was not a tall man, but neither was he short. He had an oval face and wore his hair long at the sides, perhaps to compensate for his ears which stuck out a trifle, and perhaps to compensate also for the top of his head whose pink skin glistened in the light from the fire and from the two reading lamps that stood by each of the leather chairs. His eyebrows were grey as was his hair, but the carefully trimmed military mustache that he wore beneath a straight thin nose was pure white. The mouth, now forming a slight smile, gave way to a firm chin which was just threatening to grow another one beneath it. His eyes were brown and large, or perhaps magnified by the thick black-framed glasses that he wore, and they either twinkled or sparkled behind the lenses. I was never sure.
    â€œThey say,” I said, just to be saying something, “that they call you Charlie the Fix.”
    He laughed at that as if it were genuinely funny. “Do they indeed?” he said. “And who, may I ask, is they—my old friend Christopher Small? I thought he might mention me in passing.”
    â€œHe said you went to school together—a long time ago.”
    â€œThat’s right, we did,” Cole said. “And it was a long time ago. I’ve made it a point to see most of his films. Some of them were quite ghastly, but he’s done fairly well for himself.”
    I glanced around the room. There were some more chairs and a couple of comfortable-looking sofas, all leather. Books lined two of the walls and from where I sat it looked as if someone might have read them all at one time or another. There was a pair of refectory tables, nicely carved, and at the far end of the library, placed so that it would catch the light from the French windows, was a large partners’ desk that would have dominated any lesser room. In Cole’s library it fitted perfectly.
    â€œBoth of you seem to have done fairly well,” I said.
    â€œExpensive trappings are sometimes useful to impress the impressionable,” Cole said. “I would be disappointed in you, Mr. Cauthorne, if you were overly impressed.”
    â€œThen why the treatment?”
    One of his eyebrows cocked itself into a questioning arc. “Treatment?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “The block-long Cadillac, the Ivy League messenger boy, the suite in the old, but quite comfortable hotel, the bodyguard at the front door, and dinner in the library in front of the crackling fire. I’d call it the treatment.”
    Cole chuckled. “How could you tell that Joe was a bodyguard? You’re right about Ruffo, of course. Yale law school is something that one can scarcely disguise, but I thought Joe’s camouflage rather good.”
    â€œYou forget one thing,” I said. “As a one-time stuntman I studied movement. I’d say that Joe would be very handy to have around in a neighborhood brawl, providing this neighborhood ever has a brawl.”
    Cole chuckled again. “And you’re observant, too. I like that, Mr. Cauthorne, I really do.”
    The sliding door disappeared silently into the wall again and Joe wheeled in a well-stocked bar. He pushed it over to near where we sat and looked at Cole expectantly. “The usual, Mr. Cole?” he asked.
    â€œThe usual is a very dry martini which Joe does quite well, Mr. Cauthorne. Would you care to join me?”
    â€œA martini would be fine.”
    â€œAny particular kind of gin, Mr. Cauthorne?” Joe
    â€œAny kind,” I said.
    â€œOn the rocks or straight up?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    Joe nodded and quickly mixed the drinks with the deft, economical movements of an experienced bartender. He served me first and then handed Cole his drink.