Not My Thing

For some minutes, Jamison sat still, knowing he had been completely outsmarted, then with a shrug he said, ‘You don’t expect me to raise five million dollars at once, do you?’

‘I’ll give you ten days from tomorrow,’ Kling said, getting to his feet. ‘If I don’t hear from my Swiss bank by the eighteenth of this month, then I go visit the DA.’

‘You’ll get the money,’ Jamison grated. ‘In return, I will be rid of my wife?’

‘Of course. That’s no problem. Pay up, and I guarantee you’ll be rid of her.’

With an airy wave of his hand, Kling walked out onto the terrace and disappeared into the darkness.

***

The Good Eatery restaurant offered the best value for money in the city.

With glistening eyes, Frederick Whitelaw surveyed the mountain of spaghetti, smothered in tomato and onion sauce, that had been set before him. He smiled contentedly as he fingered Chief of Police Terrell’s ten-dollar bill. He had ordered chicken drumsticks in a curry sauce to follow.

As he began to attack the spaghetti, the restaurant door opened and Sydney Drysdale wandered in. He had completed his column, and had decided to have a light snack before returning home to watch a TV programme that interested him, and then go out again for his usual three course dinner.

He looked around hopefully to see if there was anyone interesting in the restaurant from whom he could get an item of news for his next day’s column. He spotted Frederick Whitelaw, cramming his mouth with spaghetti.

This lad, Drysdale reminded himself, was the son of one of the influential men in the city. Even kids get to hear things, so he waddled over to the fat boy’s table.

‘Hello, Freddy,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘That looks good.’

‘It is good,’ the fat boy mumbled, and forked more spaghetti into his eager mouth.

‘Don’t you usually eat at home, Freddy?’ Drysdale asked casually. ‘Are you celebrating or something?’

‘I sure am.’ The fat boy smirked. ‘The Chief of Police gave me ten bucks so I thought I’d give me a decent meal instead of the junk my mum gives me.’

Drysdale became immediately alert.

‘Is that right? Now why did the Chief of Police give you ten bucks?’

‘That’s a secret, Mr Drysdale.’ The fat boy looked sly. ‘I had some information, and he parted with the money.’

‘He’s a nice, kind man,’ Drysdale said, his smile oily. ‘But ten dollars isn’t a fortune. I also buy secrets, Freddy. Do you want to do a deal?’

The fat boy finished his spaghetti and sat back with a calculating expression on his face.

‘That depends, Mr Drysdale,’ he said after a moment of thought. ‘I could sell you my secret for three hundred dollars.’

‘Like father, like son,’ Drydale sighed. ‘This must be a big secret.’

‘It sure is. It’s the biggest and the most sensational secret you’ve ever heard.’

At this moment an elderly waitress arrived and took Drysdale’s order for grilled sardines on toast. She removed the fat boy’s plate and slapped down the chicken drumsticks, the curry sauce and a pile of French fried.

‘You have a healthy appetite,’ Drysdale said wistfully. ‘It’s great to be young. I’d go to one hundred bucks, but I would want to know what the secret is about.’

‘Three hundred, Mr Drysdale,’ the fat boy said firmly as he piled the French fried onto his plate. ‘I’ll tell you this. It is to do with Mr Sherman Jamison.’

Drysdale reacted as if he had been stung by a wasp.

‘Mr Jamison?’

‘That’s right.’ The fat boy cut off a bit of chicken, smothered it in curry sauce and conveyed it to his mouth. He nodded his approval. ‘This is good.’

‘What about Mr Jamison?’ Drysdale asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Well, not exactly him, but Mrs Jamison.’

‘You went to the Chief of Police and told him about this, Freddy?’

‘That’s right. I felt I should. I was reporting a major crime.’

Drysdale began to breathe heavily.

‘What major crime?’

The fat boy attacked the pile of French fried.

‘It’s a secret. The Chief told me to keep my mouth shut, but for three hundred dollars my mouth need not remain shut.’

Drysdale didn’t hesitate. After all, this wasn’t his money. His editor expected him to spend money to get news. He took out his wallet and produced three one-hundred-dollar bills which he folded.

‘So, Freddy, tell me the secret.’

The fat boy eyed the money, then attacked another drumstick.

‘Not until I have the money in my pocket,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘My old man told me always to get the money first. My old man is smart.’

‘Look, Freddy, if you’re conning me…’

‘Aw, forget it! I’ll tell you something, Mr Drysdale. I’m fat and look stupid, but I ain’t! I could get a thousand dollars just by getting on the phone and talking to the Washington Post, but I don’t want to be bothered. Do you want to do a deal?’

Drysdale pushed the folded bills across the table. The fat boy snapped them up and stowed them away in his pocket.

‘What about Mrs Jamison?’ Drysdale demanded.