Operation Bamboozle (17 page)

“This is terrible,” Mrs. Jessica Finch said. “Appalling.” She was a big woman, and when she heaved a deep breath, her pearl necklace climbed eagerly out of her cleavage. “When dear Horace passed away, the shock was dreadful, but now you would have me believe …”

“With the greatest reluctance, I assure you,” Hancock said. “Only stark necessity would have brought us to Glendale.”

“A bastard son,” she whispered. She moved to the window. Fifty yards away, her grandchildren were playing croquet beneath lofty shade trees. “The family …”

“Need never know, ma'am,” Luis said.

“Like many a financial giant,” Hancock said, “Mr. Finch was a man of overflowing energy and ambition. Building the finest chain of funeral parlors in the West could not satisfy his creative urge.”

“Dynamic. That was the word morticians everywhere applied to him,” Luis said. “May I fetch you a glass of water, ma'am?”

“Sherry.” She indicated a silver trolley.

“Genius can be a cruel mistress,” Hancock said. “Sometimes the endless pressure of dynamism demands occasional relief.”

“Even occupants of the White House have been known to succumb.” Luis gave her a wineglass of sherry. “The best of us is only human.”

She took a healthy swig. “Ours is a very serious business, Mr. Cabrillo. More than serious. Solemn. Imagine the
jokes.”
The word was painful.

“Revelations might indeed prove costly,” Hancock said. “Thousands of dollars in lost custom. Maybe tens of thousands.” Mrs. Finch shuddered.

“We at Noble, O'Hagan and Church pride ourselves on two things,” Luis said. “Utter discretion, and a solution to the client's problem at a fraction of the cost that a revelation in the gutter press might entail.”

“Which God forbid,” Hancock murmured. “You may think, ma'am, that this poor innocent boy is being punished for his parents' sins. Not so.”

“Hypoplastic neurostasia strikes at random,” Luis said. “Especially the B strain. But if my colleague can be on a plane to Switzerland tonight, there is real hope.”

They were driving away in Hancock's Oldsmobile, carrying Mrs. Finch's cashier's check, when Luis said, “She had tears of gratitude. We made her very, very happy. This is a sweet con.”

“You stole my line about the B strain,” Hancock said. “We agreed to share it. When you get to say neuroplastic hypostasia, I get to say the B strain, and vice versa.”

“I was carried away. And it's hypoplastic neurostatia.”

“This ain't vaudeville. The B strain is the clincher. You dumped that line. I would've slipped it in like a dagger.”

“Well, we got the money.”

“Yeah.” Hancock stopped at a light. “Next time you steal my line, I'm gonna steal it right back and correct you and make it the Q variety, which is twice as nasty.” He was serious.

“So what happened to the B strain?”

“They found a cure,” Hancock said. “A miracle drug. It was in all the papers. Keep up to date, for Pete's sake.”

Flanagan was a good cop, maybe too good for New York City. Other cops took a stuffed envelope from every bar, restaurant and pizza place on their beat. Flanagan never did. Well, maybe a five-spot if the guy pushed it in Flanagan's hip pocket and told him to buy the baby new shoes. Otherwise, the only thing Flanagan took was a nip of whiskey. Nights got cold, a man needed the extra warmth to stay alert, and the barman was always glad to see a uniform come in, it discouraged mayhem. Sometimes the nips accumulated. One night, after checking out a couple of dozen bars, Flanagan was feeling no pain, and when he saw four guys fighting he waded in with his nightsick and flattened the lot. Two of them were pushing drugs and two, regrettably, were undercover cops. Flanagan might have got away with it if his written report hadn't been such an alcoholic shambles. Half was illegible and the other half was gung-ho
garbage. He got an immediate transfer to traffic duty. He took this very badly.

A week later, the lights were on the blink at Union Square and Flanagan was controlling traffic where 14th Street meets Broadway. His mouth was tired from blowing his whistle. A green Pontiac ignored his signal to stop, ignored his whistle, and gunned past him as if he was cast in bronze, so he grabbed his .38 Police Special and shot it, missed, shot again and hit a crosstown bus, shot again and finally nailed the Pontiac, which bounced off a truck and skidded into a fire plug. The upshot was traffic chaos, of course, washed down by the fountain from the fire plug, and it was several minutes before Flanagan learned that his first shot had killed an old man, a messenger carrying documents to a nearby building. Officers searching the Pontiac found hidden three small soft-leather bags of diamonds, but not the driver. And by then, Flanagan was explaining himself to Internal Affairs.

Prendergast got the call from the NYPD. The Bureau was investigating a plague of interstate diamond thefts and Prendergast had his hat on when Fisk told him the LA office suspected Cabroy of counterfeiting and perhaps homicide. “Go see Jerome,” Prendergast said.

“He won't say anything,” Fisk said. “He'll claim national security.”

“Got a better idea?”

“Guns and phony money don't sound like Cabrillo's style. It's messy.”

“Not compared with Union Square.” Prendergast left at a fast stride.

Fisk telephoned the Fantoni residence and was told that Mr. Fantoni had a dental appointment. “With his cousin, right?” Fisk said. “Central Park South?”

Silence, while the Fantoni residence thought about that. “I couldn't say, sir.”

“No, but I can.” Fisk hung up.

Jerome Fantoni's cousin was Gabriel Hartz, and he was gently tapping Fantoni's teeth with a steel probe. “Tell me if this hurts,” he said. None of it hurt. “Your teeth are fine,” he said. “You've got the teeth of a gorilla. Jesus, I wish mine were half as good.”

“They ache in the mornings,” Fantoni said. “Ache like hell. Take an x-ray.”

“I x-rayed your whole damn mouth a month ago. Here, see for yourself, spotless. Any more x-rays, you'll die of radiation.”

“I can't eat breakfast, Gabriel. Sometimes a little oatmeal. If I chew, it's murder.”

Hartz took off his white coat and gave it to the nurse. She left. He sat on a radiator. “You're grinding in your sleep, Jerry. Jaw muscles are tremendously strong. Rule of thumb is the maximum pressure they exert is your body weight. In your case, 60 to 80 kilograms. Your teeth wake up feeling like they've gone ten rounds with the Brown Bomber. But that's just the symptom. Your problem's up here.” He tapped his forehead. “Stop worrying.”

“Personnel problems.” Fantoni got out of the chair and walked slowly around the room, taking care to place one foot precisely in front of the other. Corners were difficult. “There's no respect any more. No loyalty. I have two hundred men on the payroll and income is down 23 percent on last year. Inflation, they tell me. Recession.”

“Well, there is a recession.”

“No. Somebody's skimming.”

“So, find the bastard and shoot him.”

“I dream about doing that. It's always the wrong man. So that just makes the problem worse.”

“Shoot them all,” Hartz advised. “Take your teeth to Florida before you grind them all to a fine powder. Enjoy what's left of your miserable life.”

“Florida,” Fantoni said. “The elevators all have Musak. Nonstop Greensleeves. It would kill me.”

Hartz held the door for him. “Go to the track. Play the ponies,” he said. “Have some fun.”

Fisk was waiting in reception. “Damn, it's Robin,” Fantoni said. “Where's Batman? I don't care. Let's get out of here.” They took the elevator. “How are your teeth? I grind mine. While I sleep. Paradox, isn't it? Sleep is meant to revive and refresh. Otherwise what's the point?” The elevator clanked quietly. “Say something, for God's sake.”

“An enigma, rather than a paradox, sir.”

“What school did you go to?”

“Southern California.”

“I went to Princeton. My teeth, my paradox.”

They joined the hustle and bustle of Central Park South, and Fisk told him of a report that his daughter Stephanie, now living in LA, was linked with Cabrillo and Conroy who were parties to a federal investigation into counterfeit currency and homicide.

“And let's forget any plea of national security,” Fisk said. “Working for McCarthy won't cut any ice if they're forging dollars. That's national sabotage. You know these people. Can they do it?”

“Capable of anything. I'll get Stevie out of there. She's young, rebellious, has very bad judgment of men. Count on me.”

“No violence, sir.”

Fantoni spread his arms. “Would I harm my daughter? Tell me, Mr. Fisk, why did you prefer enigma to paradox?”

“An enigma's a mystery with a riddle, sir. Solve the riddle and you may sleep better.”

“You want me to play hide and seek with my own mind? That's crazy. I can tie my laces and fasten my buttons and go to the bathroom alone. How did I get stuck with a riddle that can't talk in plain English?”

“Good question, sir,” Fisk said. “Follow that line of thought.”

They parted.

The set-up at Konigsberg was odd. Julie Conroy was sharing the house with a con man, plus a talented artist who couldn't sell, and the only three-time-married virgin in Los Angeles, probably in Southern California, maybe west of the Rockies.

They got along. Luis was happy in his work, which paid the rent and so on. Princess Chuckling Stream painted seven days a week and cared about nothing else, except food. Stevie Fantoni enjoyed being her model, and got even more pleasure as the paintings became bigger. Soon there were nudes all over the house. She always looked happy and she was always wet: in the shower, in the rain, playing in the surf, sitting under the sprinkler. None of it was true. All the painting was done indoors. Stevie sat or stood or jumped as she was told and then Princess imagined the wet skin. Luis was impressed. “You do it the hard way, Princess,” he said, “but it looks real. I mean, really real.”

“Real ain't good enough. Any clown with a Kodak can give you real. Takes paint to make you feel like
you
got the wet skin.”

“Well, I think it's stunning.”

“See the dimples in my butt?” Stevie said. “Cute, huh?”

“It's a piece a crap,” Princess said. “I can do better.”

Julie reckoned it was time to sell some of the crap, and she told Luis this as they were getting ready for bed. “Good idea,” he said. “I can't turn around without seeing Stevie in the buff, smiling at me. It's exhausting. My gonads are in turmoil. They don't know whether they're coming or going.”

“There's a dirty joke hiding in there. I think you made it, ten years ago, in London.”

“Did I?” He tried to remember, and failed. “Those were busy times. Me against the
Wehrmacht,
dawn to dusk, cooking up fresh deception plans to baffle Hitler. But I did find time to propose marriage, didn't I?”

“No. My husband was still alive then.”

“So he was. Eternal bliss, then. I offered you quantities of pure joy. I distinctly remember that.”

“Sure, another deception plan. What you really wanted was a little woman, stark naked, telling you how Godalmighty splendid you are. That's all any man wants.”

“Surely not.” He sucked his teeth. “Still, if you think it might work, I'm ready to give it a chance.”

They sat on the bed and looked at each other. She thought:
Life with Luis is always going to be dangerous, it might fall apart tomorrow, why take the risk?
The answer came back like an echo:
You want security? Move to Iowa, marry a librarian.
Luis had several thoughts simultaneously. One:
Sex with Stevie would be an act of kindness,
but two:
She says she's never had it so she might not like it,
and three:
If Julie walked out now I'd fall apart,
and four:
This con with Hancock could be our pension, LA is big enough,
and five:
Giving James de Courcy a good thrashing would be nice. It wouldn't get our ten grand back, though.

“How is the turmoil in your gonads?” she asked.

“Deafening. Ferocious. Yet tender.”

“Enough of your sweet-talkin' romance.” She pulled off his pajama bottoms. “I've met your sort before. All hat and no cattle.”

“That's a mortal insult in my country,” he said, “so it's just as well I don't understand it.”

Vito Dilazzari had never been interested in accounting. He had involved himself in the operational side of the business: eliminating obstacles and giving the remains a decent burial in the wet concrete of a new Freeway. LA kept growing, obstacles kept arising, and the Freeway system kept expanding, so there was a natural harmony here which he had found satisfying.