“So you’re pretty sure there’s no chance he goes to use this thing and gets a fizzle?” said Thorpe.
“There’s always the exception in the physical universe,” said Llewellyn, “but I wouldn’t place too much reliance on it in this case. You have to remember, the first one of these we made, gun type, we didn’t even bother to test it. We just shipped it across the Pacific and dropped it. That’s how certain we were that it would work.”
“You’ve convinced me,” said Thorpe. “What are we talking about in terms of size?”
“Are you asking mass, the size of the weapon, or yield?” said Llewellyn.
“All three.”
“The warhead would be bigger than a bread basket. Unfortunately, we don’t have a picture. The only one we know of is a photograph of one of the missiles itself on a ramp aimed at Guantanamo. We know the warhead was situated in the midpart of the fuselage. How large or heavy we can’t be sure,” said Llewellyn. “You’d want to use a truck to move it. I’m guessing a small box truck would be more than adequate.”
“In other words, the kind you can rent anywhere,” said Thorpe.
“Right.”
“And yield?”
“That we do know. Think in terms of Little Boy,” said Llewellyn.
“You’re kidding. I thought you said this thing was field tactical for battlefield use.”
“It is. Back then I guess they thought bigger was better,” said Llewellyn. “No. It’s almost precisely the same. A smaller package no doubt, but it’s the same type, and the same yield as Little Boy, fourteen kilotons, and it would be very reliable. That’s what I was saying. We tested Fat Man, the implosion device, in the New Mexico desert to make sure it would work. But Little Boy, that was a gun type, a sure thing. The first test was the live performance over Hiroshima.”
TWENTY
Larry Templeton’s facial features have always reminded me of those statues of Lenin pulled down by the mobs at the close of the Soviet Union. His bald head and goatee, the forceful jaw and the deep-set eyes, make for a powerful image.
Seated behind his desk, as he is this morning when Harry and I are ushered into his office, we get only a slight sense of Templeton’s diminutive physical stature. This comes from his abbreviated upper body hidden partially behind stacks of case books and files on his desk. He lays down his pen on top of the papers he is working on and beckons us to enter.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please come in, have a seat.” He gestures with a broad sweep of his right arm toward the two client chairs opposite his desk. His other arm appears to be trapped under the desk.
“Looks like a den of iniquity.” Harry is not moving, blocking the way, taking it all in.
There is a thick Persian runner, leading from the door, under our feet. It matches the larger Persian carpet under the desk, which is oak, antique and massive, behind which Templeton sits on a specially built raised chair, like a rajah holding court. All that is missing is the turban.
In the corner near the windows, Larry has erected a carved wooden panel, teak, I would imagine, and very ornate. The framed prints on the walls have the definite exotic influence of the East, sheiks with large headdresses and sickle-shaped Sumerian swords.
Larry’s digs in the DA’s headquarters have never held the appearance of a government office. He has decorated them out of his own pocket since the beginning and has done so lavishly.
“Mr. Hinds, always good to see you. Mr. Madriani. How are you? Linda, you can go. Close the door on your way out.” Templeton dismisses the secretary who has ushered us in.
“Only thing wrong is it smells like Tammany Hall in here,” says Harry.
Templeton brings a finger to his lips to shush him until the door closes. With his secretary outside, Larry smiles, then lifts the smoking offender from under the desk and gives us one of his characteristic looks: devil with a stogie, arched eyebrows, and a polished head. “One in the morning, one in the afternoon, the doctor prescribes them,” he says.
“So that’s what did it,” says Harry.
“I know, don’t say it, stunted my growth. Hinds, you gotta get up earlier in the day if you’re going to try to spring that one on me.”
“How about we go one-on-one, a little basketball?” says Harry. “I’ll give you an edge. Put you on roller skates.”
“I see you’re as sensitive as ever to the plight of the disabled.” Templeton leans back in his chair and smiles at him from behind a veil of cigar smoke. “You haven’t changed.”
“Show me someone who’s disabled and I’ll show you a tear,” says Harry. “But let’s not change the subject. I thought this was a no-smoking zone, county building and all.”
“They don’t ask and I don’t tell. Hope you don’t mind.” Larry doesn’t wait for an answer. He flicks a little ash into an open desk drawer on the other side. “I’d offer you one, but they’re too expensive.”
“What is it, administrative or criminal,” Harry says, turning toward me, “a violation of the no-smoking ordinance?”
“I’m not getting into this one,” I tell him.
“Smart man. Besides, it’s only an infraction. Insulting a midget, now that’s federal,” says Templeton.
“Which title is that?” asks Harry.
“When I find it, I’ll send you the citation.” Templeton reaches out and shakes my hand. “How come you were so blessed as to get this dip-shit as a partner?” he asks.
“Luck of the draw.” I settle into one of the chairs across from him. “You look as if you’re prospering,” I tell him.
“No lack of offenders to prosecute, if that’s what you mean. It’s a bumper crop.” He gestures toward the files stacked on the floor; off to one side of his desk, they climb the wall a good two feet.
Harry turns slowly in place, taking in the Dwarf’s new surroundings, his freshly decorated office. If you can get past the cigar, you can still catch a whiff of the paint. Templeton has moved up in the world since we last met. The office is twice as large and has a corner set of windows to boot.
Harry is busy checking out the Persian runner on the floor, lifting the corner and reading the label.
“Are you a collector?” says Templeton.
“No, but I’ve seen a few of these fenced for fees. This one looks expensive enough to fly,” he says.
“I’d be happy to put you out the window for a test drive,” says Templeton.
“Later,” says Harry. “After you bring in the belly dancers and we see the seven veils.”
“I’ll give you the name of my decorator,” says Larry.
“Don’t bother. I couldn’t afford it,” says Harry. “Just tell me where you keep the magic lamp. I may need to rub it to spring a client one of these days.”
“I hope it’s not this one,” says Templeton. “Because if it is, the genie’s gonna need a new battery. He’s definitely not going to have enough juice.”
“That bad?” I say.
Templeton takes a drag, looks at me, nods slowly and blows a smoke ring in my direction.
“You called the meeting,” I tell him.
“So I guess we should get down to cases.”
