Free The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas Page B

two.”
    â€œHe British?”
    â€œBritish.”
    â€œYou’re not going to … ” Grimes let his question trail off.
    Dunjee smiled. “I’ll be … oblique.”
    â€œWhat’d this guy do?”
    â€œAt the UN?”
    Grimes nodded again.
    â€œHe was a spy.”

9
    The Pimlico street number in Dunjee’s small Leathersmith address book had been written there more than ten years before, and he was no longer at all sure that either it or the phone number he had tried several times that afternoon was still valid.
    It was nearly three o’clock when he got out of the taxi in the rain, looked briefly up at the stern red brick example of 1913 architecture, hurried up its steps, and into the foyer. There was a double row of black buttons, and beside each button was a card with a name either written or printed on it. Dunjee noticed that most of the printed cards were engraved.
    In the slot beside the button that belonged to flat three-E was an engraved card that read “Hugh Scullard,” except that Hugh had been crossed out with green ink and above it had been printed “Pauline.”
    â€œWell, shit,” Dunjee said, a little surprised that he had said it aloud, and pressed the three-E button. When nothing happened, he pressed it again.
    He was about to press it a third time when a woman’s voice said over the tinny foyer speaker, “What do you want?”
    â€œIt’s Chubb Dunjee, Pauline.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œChubb Dunjee.”
    There was a brief silence until the woman’s voice said, “Do I owe you any money?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen come up.”
    The buzzer rang and Dunjee went through the door. There was a small elevator with a glass-and-wrought-iron cage and a sign that read, “Lift Out of Order.” Dunjee walked up four flights and knocked on the door of three-E.
    A deadbolt was turned back. Then a second one. The door opened the length of its three-inch chain. An eye peered out—red-rimmed, bloodshot, with a lump of sleep granules collected in one corner.
    Dunjee nodded and smiled at the eye. “Pauline.”
    â€œWell,” the woman said. “Congressman.”
    The door closed, the chain was removed, and the door was thrown open. “Come in,” the woman said. “It’s a mess. And so am I.”
    Dunjee went in, closed the door, looked around, and said, “What happened?”
    â€œWhat didn’t?” the woman said.
    Dunjee couldn’t decide whether Pauline Scullard was moving in or out. Cartons of books were stacked in one corner of the room almost to the ceiling. A gray cat sat half asleep on the highest carton. A rolled-up rug lay before the grate. Several paintings leaned against one wall. The furniture—a couch, some chairs, a few tables, some lamps—was huddled together at one end of the room near the tall windows, There were shades on the windows but no curtains. The shades were drawn.
    Pauline Scullard made a vague motion at the room. “I just haven’t been able to cope—or something.”
    Dunjee took off his raincoat, looked around for somewhere to put it, and decided on one of the book cartons. When he turned back, the woman was pouring liquor into a glass. She handed the glass to him and poured another one for herself.
    â€œDo sit down,” she said. “Someplace. Any place.”
    Dunjee chose the couch. The woman picked up some magazines from a chair, dropped them to the floor, and sat down, tugging at her miniskirt, locking her knees primly together, and pointing her feet to the left.
    â€œI have proper dresses. Three, I think. I wear them on Tuesdays and Fridays. Visiting days.”
    â€œVisiting days,” Dunjee said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œHugh?”
    â€œHugh.”
    â€œHugh’s not here.”
    â€œHow long have you been back?”
    â€œYou mean here—in this place? You