Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas Read Free Book Online

kicked out of four prep schools and three colleges. The only thing he ever liked was sports and that’s how he wound up out here.”
    â€œHis godfather put the word in?”
    â€œRight,” Small said.
    â€œDoes the godfather have a name?”
    â€œIt used to be Carlos Colanero. Now it’s Charles Cole, and in certain circles it’s even Charlie the Fix.”
    â€œYou seem to know a lot,” I said.
    Small gestured at the framed pictures on the wall behind him. “With a few drinks in them they sometimes talk a lot—to one of their own kind.”
    â€œWhy does Cole want me to find Angelo?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Small said. “Angelo hung around sometimes, but not much. Then he was dead for a couple of years and nobody seemed to go into mourning. Now you say he’s alive.”
    â€œAnd they want me to find him.”
    â€œNot they. Charles Cole does, and when you meet him you’ll have gone about as high as you can go.”
    â€œYou think I’ll meet him then?” I said.
    There was still another pause. Finally Small said, “Cole does and Cole usually gets his way.”
    â€œAny advice?”
    â€œSure. Change your name and disappear. This isn’t just a search for the missing heir. It’s some kind of big mess or they wouldn’t send Callese out on an errand-boy’s job and he wouldn’t go on one. Somehow, they’ve got you all wrapped up in it.”
    I thought about that for a moment while Small watched me intently. “I think I’ll say no,” I said.
    â€œThey don’t understand what it means.”
    â€œThere isn’t much they can do.”
    â€œThere’s just one thing,” Small said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey can make you wish you’d said yes.”
    CHAPTER V
    Someone had done a thorough job. All four tires on both the Jaguar and the Ford were slashed, the canvas tops were in shreds, and two empty gallon cans of Karo syrup stood on the floor at the rear of the two cars near their open gasoline tanks. The Cadillac was untouched.
    Trippet was walking around the Ford when I arrived the next morning, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets as he gave instructions to Sydney Durant, one of our long-haired young employees who looked as if he were about to cry. I could tell that Trippet was upset, too; otherwise he would never have had his hands in his pockets.
    â€œWe had some night visitors,” he said.
    â€œSo I see. How bad?”
    â€œThe tires and the tops obviously, but those can easily be replaced. I was hoping that we could drain the tanks, but they jumped the ignition on both cars and let them idle until the syrup had the opportunity to do its work. Syrup is worse than sugar, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t,” I said.
    â€œBastards,” Sydney said.
    â€œTake a look inside,” Trippet said.
    â€œThe upholstery?”
    â€œQuite.”
    I looked. A razor or a sharp knife had been used to slash the soft leather that covered the seats of both cars. Someone had taken his time. After neat vertical cuts had been made every two inches or so, they were followed by similarly spaced horizontal slits. It was as fine a job of professional vandalism as one could hope to see.
    â€œWhat about the office?” I said.
    â€œNothing touched, nor was the Cadillac.”
    â€œNo, they wouldn’t touch the Cadillac.”
    Trippet looked at me quizzically and then turned to Sydney. “Be a good chap and go fetch Jack and Ramón and push these into the back.”
    Sydney shoved a long blond hank of hair from his eyes, glowered out at the street as if he expected to find the vandals with their noses pressed against the plate-glass windows, and then muttered something about what he was going to do when he caught up with the sons of bitches.
    â€œWe’ll help,” I told him. “But let’s get these two off the floor first They’re