Madman's Thirst (22 page)

Sobok loved working in the United
States. 

***

Scarne’s X-Rays were negative, and
Levin gave him some pills for his headache, which helped him weather a series
of further interrogations by state, local and Federal officers, some of whom he
could hear arguing jurisdiction in the hallway. He was eventually told he was
free to go but warned he might be called back to identify the “priest” when he
was caught. He assured everyone he would make himself available, sure in the
knowledge the killer would never be caught.

Scarne’s one non-police visitor
was the sailor from the
Abraham Lincoln
.

“I didn’t want to win that way,”
the man said.

“What?”

“The pool! I had Banaszak,
remember? But I hear I had outside help. That ain’t fair. I put the money back
in the pot. It’s a carryover. Next winner will have a real windfall.”

“What does a winner do with the
money?”

“Spend it fast.” They both
laughed. “Seriously,” the man said, “most of the guys ask the staff to pick up
some presents for the kids who visit their fathers and grand-pops and the like.
Makes the place less depressing for them. And some buy gift certificates at
restaurants and shops for the nurses. Not all the money, of course. No use in
winning if you give it all away.”

“What’s your name?”

“Franklin.”

 “I’m Jake. Do me a favor and go
in that closet. Should be some money in my pants pocket. Take out $100 and put
it in the pool.”

“You ain’t eligible, Jake,
although I also hear you came close.”

“I don’t want to pick. And for
God’s sake, don’t put my name in the goddamn hat! Just add it to the kitty.
Please.”

“You got it.”

Levin discharged Scarne, with
instructions to seek medical attention if he felt nauseous.

“And  stay away from priests. I’d
avoid rabbis, as well, if I were you.”

***

When he got back to his hotel,
Scarne poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and called room service. He knew
he was lucky to be alive after the confrontation with Father Death, or whoever
that was in the parking lot. So, despite Levin’s suggestion that he take it
easy, he wanted to feel alive. The food arrived just as he was emerging from a
long, hot shower.

He called Dudley Mack as the
waiter set out his food: a rare Kobe beef cheeseburger, fries and a piece of
apple pie. Comfort food.

“Another priest,” Dudley said
after Scarne told him about Banaszak’s murder and the break-in at his
apartment. “Why don’t you just declare war on the Vatican?”

“This guy wasn’t a priest. Lacuna
must have brought in more hired help.”

“No. It wasn’t Lacuna.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Sallie Mae is dead. They
found him and his bodyguard trussed naked in the basement of his goomah’s house
last night. I was just about to call you.” There was a pause. “Somebody torched
the bodyguard’s nuts.”

“Good Lord.” Scarne’s headache
suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

“Lacuna’s squeeze saw him. Fits
the description of the good Father.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Please.”

“Forgive me. He didn’t kill her?”

“Nope.”

“A hit man with a heart.”

“A real pro. Not worried about
being identified. Got what he wanted and left. Sallie Mae told him everything
he knew.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“Only Buccatelli, the bodyguard,
was tortured. Salle Mae got one behind the ear, presumably as a consideration
for being forthcoming. If he hadn’t spilled his guts, his balls would have been
barbecued as well. Not your run-of-the-mill hit man. Smart, too. After leaving
Sallie Mae, he tosses Banaszak’s flat and finds the V.A. stuff. Flies right
down to Tampa, uses a priest of opportunity, so to speak, snuffs Banaszak like
a fly, cold cocks you and presumably leaves town the same fucking day.”

“Why didn’t he kill me?”

 “Same reason he left Sallie’s
mistress alive. Didn’t think you were a threat, or worth the bother.”

 “I am now.”

They were both silent for a
moment. Finally Dudley said, “Listen, Jake. I don’t want you getting killed
doing me a favor. You’ve done enough. This guy is no cupcake. Sallie Mae was a
tough guy, and his bodyguard might have been even tougher. And our friend took
them like they were Girl Scouts.”

 “I’m touched. But you don’t have
a say in the matter. It’s personal now.”

“Just because you got a little
bump on the head?”

“And because a crucial witness was
murdered 10 feet from me. And because I chatted with the killer and damn near
asked his blessing. And because the people who hired him, whoever they are,
think nothing of raping and murdering a young girl.”

CHAPTER 24 – CALLING THE PENTAGON

Back in New York, Scarne spent an
unproductive morning in his office trying to get a line on the faux priest who
killed Banaszak. He finally called Dick Condon, reaching him during a break at
a conference in the Pentagon, where he was leading a team of N.Y.P.D. terrorist
experts sharing their expertise with other government agencies.

“I feel a lot safer knowing that
you are in Washington,” Scarne said.

“I’m not sure how I should take
that,” Condon said. “You need something. What is it?”

Scarne described the incident in
Florida. 

“Sounds like you’re up to your old
tricks, Jake. Forgive me for asking, being only a lowly fucking Police
Commissioner and all, but why am I only hearing about this now.”

“I’ve been to the cops. I don’t
like to run to you every time I need help. I’m saving you for the big stuff,
like fixing parking tickets. Anyway, I couldn’t tell you everything, and I
don’t like doing that.”

“But you don’t mind lying to the
people who work for me.”

“I have my standards.”

Condon made a sound halfway
between a grunt and a laugh. Scarne heard a voice in the background say,
“Chief, they’re starting up. We should go back in.” Condon said, “I need five.”
Then, to Scarne, “Tell me everything.”

Scarne did.

“A priest,” Condon said. “Just
what we need. This is a mare’s nest. But we’ve got to do something.”

“I don’t know what else the
department can do that Scullen isn’t already doing. I gave my word that I
wouldn’t expose the priest.”

“You might change your mind if you
were clapped in jail as a material witness until you gave me his name. I like
you Jake, but not that much. I don’t fix parking tickets but I can fix your
sorry ass.”

Scarne knew the threat was hollow.

“You really want to go up against
the diocese and your pal, the Cardinal. The Church has caved on a lot of
things. But I think they may hold the line on the sanctity of the confessional.
Stick with fighting terrorists. You have a better chance.”

There was a long pause. Scarne
wondered if the cell call had been dropped. But then Condon said, “Scullen is a
good man. Bit of a burn out. They wanted to stick him behind a desk at One
Police Plaza but I knew that would kill him so I sent him to Staten Island to
wait out his pension. I’ll give him a call and tell him I’ve taken an personal
interest in this.”

The other voice came back.

“Chief, we’re up next. They’re
looking for you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Delaney. Get
back in there and tell them I’m defusing a bomb in the Joint Chiefs’ bathroom or
something.” Then, “Jake, go down to the Plaza and describe your hit man to our
Interpol liaison unit. Tell them to check with the Florida State Police for any
fingerprints they may have lifted in the hospital, although I’d bet that’s a non-starter.
And spend some time with our sketch artists. I’ll have Delaney set it all up.
Give him something to do. He’s about to have a canary. I have to get back in
the conference. But Jake .…”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll give you a little room on
this. But I want to hear something soon, or I’ll pull the string on you and
take my chances with the Vatican. Got it?”

“Sure, Chief. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“I got this ticket for parking in
a handicap spot.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

***

When the Police Commissioner tells
his subordinates to cooperate, they cooperate. Within an hour of arriving at
One Police Plaza in downtown Manhattan, Scarne had met with the Department’s
Interpol unit and, for good measure, its Organized Crime Task Force. E-mails
and FAXes were sent. Computers computed. A dozen cops worked the phones.
Florida was contacted, as was the F.B.I., D.E.A., C.I.A. and some agencies with
initials Scarne never heard of. He even caught one detective Twittering.

“Assassins Twitter,” he asked
incredulously.

“No,” the cop laughed, “but you’d
be surprised what people know about on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and all the
rest. Can’t hurt to send out his description. You never know.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Scarne
said.

A Deputy Chief who looked like a
college professor sent Scarne down to sit with not one, but two sketch artists,
one of whom did it the old-fashioned way and the other who used a computer to
generate likenesses in
Avatar
-like 3D. When they were finished, one of
them, the older sketch artist who still used pencil, said, “You know who this
guy looks like?”

“Yeah, I know,” Scarne said.

He was starving, having skipped
lunch. The cops said they’d have something soon and he ran out to get a bite to
eat a local pub one of the artists said made a great corned beef sandwich. It
did. It also made great mugs of beer. He was on his second when he called his
office.

“I was about to call you, Jake,”
Evelyn said. “I just got off the phone with Aristotle Arachne. He wants to talk
to you. He gave me his number. Said you can call him anytime.”

Things are looking up, Scarne
thought, taking the number. He had another beer. Feeling refreshed and
optimistic, he was back in the Plaza at 5 P.M. The cops had drawn a blank.
Every query had come back negative.

“This guy apparently doesn’t
exist,” one of the Interpol squad cops said. “Maybe he really is an alien.”

“My contact at the agency said if
we ever find him, they want to offer him a job,” said another detective.

“Balls,” Scarne said.

***

 “Thanks for getting back to me so
promptly,” Arachne said when Scarne reached him. “Making any progress on that
case you told me about at my apartment?”

Sure, Scarne thought. I’ve turned
up some promising dead ends. But he said, “Yes.” Mainly because Emma has the
code to Arachne’s apartment elevator and he didn’t want to sound incompetent.
Childish.  

“Good, good. I’ve been thinking
about it. You said you wanted to nose around NASCAR and I promised to help. There’s
a fellow who handles some security for them. Name is Michael Honker. He’s
working out at Pocono Downs in Pennsylvania the next few days. I’m headed there
tomorrow and can introduce you. We can hop out there in my helicopter, say,
around 11 AM?”

Scarne accepted the offer but
declined the ride. He didn’t mind driving the two hours out to the Pocono Downs
racing complex in Wilkes Barre, PA, since it would give him a chance to put the
rebuilt gearbox in his MGB through its paces on the open road. After he rang
off he called Emma Shields.

“Did you hear the joke about the
priest, the hit man and the private eye?”

“No, how does it go?”

“It’s long. Any chance you can get
a baby sitter?
The Girl with the
Dragon Tattoo
is at the
Angelica. Then we can get a late bite at Knickerbocker’s and I can regale you.”

“I’ve already seen it.”

“It’s the Swedish version. With
Noomi Rapace. She’s terrific.”

“Jake, I can’t.” She hesitated. “Actually,
I have a babysitter. And I’ve made plans. Ari invited me to the opera.”

Scarne felt a familiar twinge.
There was no reason Arachne should have mentioned it, of course. But he was
still nettled. The opera, no less.

“That’s OK. Short notice. Have a
good time. Perhaps we can do the ballet next week.”

“Childish,” he said to himself after
they hung up. He thought about calling Daisy Buchanan. That would be worse than
childish. She was, in her own way, a nice girl. He settled for Noomi Rapace.
The movie was terrific and all the murders and mayhem suited his mood. The
Swedish dialogue, thankfully abetted by subtitles, was less jarring than the
dialogue in some German films he’d seen. German was a tough language to be
romantic in, Scarne knew. If you didn’t read the subtitles you’d think the
actors were discussing how to invade Poland rather than trying to get a
fräulein in the sack. 

After the movie he went to
Knickerbocker’s on University Place near his apartment and had too many
bourbons and nothing to eat. Then he went home to sleep, slightly drunk but
thoroughly disgusted with himself.

CHAPTER 25  – ONCE IN A
LIFETIME

 Scarne’s rebuilt gearbox handled
the Pocono Mountain roads smoothly, alternately purring and roaring through his
frequent up and down shifts. He wondered if the stock car folks would let him
give the car a spin on the track’s 2.5-mile oval.

He pulled into the raceway complex
and after mentioning Arachne’s name was directed to a private lot next to the
infield. He drove past a line of garishly colored stock cars that dwarfed his
little two-seater.

“Don’t be intimidated,” he said
aloud to the MGB. “You’d smoke these guys on a mountain road.”    

It was just 11. A helicopter
clattered overhead and landed in the infield. As he walked over, he spotted Arachne
climbing out. The two men shook and then Arachne gave him a quick tour of the central
pit areas. A car buff, Scarne was fascinated, and said so.

“I’m a Formula One fan myself,” Arachne
said. “Do a little driving when I can. But it’s hard not to appreciate the
skill and daring of NASCAR drivers.”

A stock car roared past at what to
Scarne was warp speed. He whistled.

“At ground level, you get a real
idea of how fast they go,” Arachne said. “Television distorts it.”

“That’s damn fast,” Scarne said
appreciatively.

“Only a demonstration car, Jake.
Probably going at 60% of its top speed. Did you notice that there were two
people sitting in front.”

Scarne hadn’t

“They let civilians pay for the
privilege of having the crap scared out of them. Great PR, and it’s perfectly
safe. There’s a real NASCAR driver at the wheel. For him it’s like a Sunday
drive.”

The car had made its loop and was
noticeably slowing. It pulled into a nearby pit and Scarne watched a potbellied
man awkwardly clamber out the passenger side window, with considerable help
from some track workers. He staggered a bit and then joined the driver and
other crew who slapped him on the back.

“That fellow got his money’s
worth,” Arachne said, laughing. “How would you like to try it, Jake?”

“Love, too,” Scarne replied.

“Great. I’ll set it up for you.”

“I couldn’t let you do that, Ari.”

“Nonsense. If you’re worried about
the cost, don’t be. They do it as an accommodation for me all the time.”

Scarne couldn’t pass it up. Hemingway
had said that there were only three “real” sports: mountain climbing,
bullfighting and auto racing; avocations during which participants ran the very
real possibility of not surviving the day. Scarne thought Hemingway was
stretching. Falling a thousand feet off the Eiger, being eviscerated by a
snorting half-ton bovine or broiling alive in a racecar was less about defying
the odds and more about defying the gods. Most people, Scarne suspected, would
rather take their chances with 230-pound linebackers and 90-mile-an-hour
fastballs. But such pursuits apparently weren’t enough for Ernest. Scarne
believed that was why, in 1961, when life offered no more challenges, he
inhaled a shotgun. But the man could write.

“Well, if that’s the case.”

“A once-in-a-lifetime experience,
Jake. Come on. Let’s get to the track office and I’ll introduce you to Honker, then
we’ll get you a car and driver.”  

They met Michael Honker in the
track administrative office, a brightly lit room lined with photos of stock
cars and drivers and various oversized sponsor decals. There was a large glass
case containing dozens of what looked like Matchbox miniatures of race cars.
Just about every desk had both a small checkered flag and an American flag.

“Jake, this is Mike Honker.
Retired F.B.I.”

 The NASCAR security man greeted Scarne
with a perfunctory handshake. Scarne could sympathize with the man, up to a
point. He was an interloper and had been mentally filed in a “pain in the ass”
folder.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone
for a while,” Arachne said. “I’ve got some calls to make, and I’m going to see
about setting Jake up with a demo ride. Then maybe we can all grab some lunch.”

“So, Mr. Scarne,” Honker said
after Arachne left, “what can I do for you?”

Scarne was prepared. Without
mentioning the Pearsall girl’s murder, he told Honker that Arachne was
concerned about rumors that there was underworld involvement in the NASCAR
project on Staten Island.

“There is also the possibility
that certain politicians may have been paid off to facilitate the deal.”

The security man looked indignant
and Scarne decided to ease off a bit.

“We don’t think NASCAR would
countenance anything like this, but we are realists about how things are done
in New York City, as I am sure you are. Some of the folks you have to deal with
across the country probably aren’t boy scouts. We understand. Accommodations
have to be made or nothing would ever be built. But we want to be aware of
anything out of the ordinary. No surprises.”

“You have anything specific?”

Just a few murders, Scarne thought.

“No, just talk.”

Honker relaxed. He recognized a
fishing expedition when he saw it.

“Talk is cheap, Scarne. But I
guess I can keep my eye out for anything suspicious. Got any names?”

“Nathan Bimm.”

“Never heard of him.”

 “Real estate guy on Staten Island.
Supposed to be deeply involved in the track plan.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Salvatore Lacuna.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Wit Banaszak.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Quasimodo.”

“Doesn’t ring .…” Honker caught
himself. “You’re a wiseass, aren’t you, Scarne?”

“Only when I’m awake.”

They sparred for another half
hour. Scarne was soon convinced the trip was a waste. He wondered why Arachne
thought Honker would be useful. The security man’s phone buzzed. He picked up the
receiver and listened.

“Your demonstration ride is ready,
Hot Shot,” he said, hanging up. “Maybe we can pick this up after lunch?”

Well, maybe the day wasn’t a total
waste, Scarne thought. He was itching to get in a stock car.

“Sure.”

“Follow me.”

They walked down a corridor to a
smaller office. A gangly string bean of a man at least six inches taller than
Scarne rose from his desk as they entered.

“This is Chuck Graebe,” Honker said.
“He runs our guest passenger program, or whatever they call it. I’ll leave you
in his capable hands. I have work to do. See you at lunch, Scarne. They’ll tell
you where to go.”

He walked out without another
word.

“Glad to meet you Mr. Scarne,” Graebe,
putting out a hand.

“Jake will be fine.”

“Let’s hope so,” Graebe said with
a grin as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder, from which he
extracted a document. He handed it to Scarne. “It’s a standard release. You can
read it if you want, but basically it says that if we injure or kill you,
there’s nothing you or your heirs can do about it, even if they find the
pieces.”

“Sounds eminently fair to me,”
Scarne said, signing the last page of the three-page document. He assumed
Graebe’s morbid sense of humor was part of the act designed to hype the
upcoming milk run.

“Great, let’s get you suited up.”

Scarne followed him to a locker
room, where an attendant instructed Scarne to strip to his underwear and then
helped him put on a fire-proof suit, gloves and boots. The blue suit was
constrictive and Scarne immediately began to sweat.

“It’s our latest. Made primarily of
Nomex, but we added a layer of Carbon X, which increases its fire protective
qualities but reduces breathability,” the man said. “So it tends to keep heat
in as well as out. Try not to move around too much and you’ll be all right.
Some of the drivers lose 10 pounds over a three-hour race. But you’ll only be
out on the track a half hour, if that. Now let’s get a helmet that fits.”

Five minutes later, Scarne and
Graebe walked out on the track, feeling like he should be looking for moon
rocks.

“That’s your ride over there,” Graebe
said, pointing to a red-and-blue stock car emblazoned with decals. “It’s
specially fitted out to take a passenger, but in all other respects it’s a
race-quality stock car. And you’re going out with one of our top drivers.”

“You ever take one of these
rides?”

“Me? Nah. They’d have to cut a
hole in the roof for my head.”