Free The Seersucker Whipsaw by Ross Thomas

of the Scandinavian-type chairs that the decorator had decided would do nicely in Africa. “You get rid of Downer all right?”
    â€œHe’s gone,” I said. “He’s worried about us—thinks we may be coming down with either malaria, cultural shock, or both.”
    â€œHe was always a worrier.”
    â€œYou knew him in the war?”
    â€œI knew him.”
    â€œYou don’t like him?”
    Shartelle yawned. “It’s not that I don’t like him, Pete, it’s just that I don’t have any use for him. He means well, but I’d rather have somebody call me a son of a bitch than to say I mean well. Let’s forget him. When are we supposed to see Kramer, the old China hand?”
    â€œWe’re to call him. You want me to?”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Shartelle said. He picked up the phone and asked for the American Consulate. “That’s right,” he said. “The American Consulate.” He listened for a while and then held the phone away from his head and stared at it. Then he put it back to his ear and said: “Try the United States Consulate then…. I know I asked for the American Consulate…. Now I’d like to talk to somebody at the United States Consulate…. No, I don’t want to talk to somebody in the United States, I want to talk to the United States Consulate.” He was pacing now, as far as the short cord would allow. He covered the mouth of the phone with his hand and turned to me: “He wants me to talk to his supervisor.”
    â€œI’ve heard that it usually takes fifteen minutes,” I said. “I’ll let you make all the calls.”
    There were three or four more minutes of palaver with the operator’s supervisor before the call went through. Shartelle identified himself, asked for Kramer, was told he was out dedicating a USIS library in Eastern Albertia, and was switched to somebody else. Shartelle’s eyebrows shot up at a question he was asked over the phone. “Why, yes, we’d be happy to see him…. Yes, that would be convenient. In half an hour. Fine.” He hung up and walked back over to the window to look at the harbor some more.
    â€œKramer’s gone for the day.”
    â€œI heard.”
    â€œBut we’ve got another appointment.”
    â€œIn half an hour,” I said as I changed into my coal and air suit.
    â€œWith the political affairs officer.”
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œClarence Coit.”
    â€œWho’s Clarence Coit?”
    â€œHe was very big in South America at one time. Made quite a reputation for himself.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    â€œSetting up coups for the CIA.”
    We went downstairs to the cocktail lounge and found an Australian bartender who claimed that he could mix a fair martini. He could. We finished two of them and wandered out through the lobby that looked like the lobby in almost any new hotel you find between Miami and Beirut. Lots of marble and murals and rugs and sand-filled butt receptacles. The Lebanese clerks still held down the front desk and the robed Albertians still toted the bags.
    William had parked the Humber in the circular drive under the shade of a tree. He saw us, started the car, and pulled up in front of the door. Shartelle started to get in the front seat.
    â€œMastah ride in back,” William said firmly.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œProper, Sah. Proper Mastah ride in back.”
    Shartelle got in the back with me. “You know where the United States Consulate is?” he asked.
    â€œAmerican Consulate, yes, Sah. Na far.”
    â€œLet’s go there.”
    It wasn’t far, only a half a mile or so. It looked as if it had been built just after World War II by some architect who was overly influenced by the southern California mission school of design. It rambled over an acre or so of shrubbery, flowers and lawn, protected from the Albertians by a high,