Thank You for Smoking (35 page)

"Captain," Nick said, "I think there something's very
wrong
here."

"You don't think that he . . . no. Now, I don't doubt he mighta been a little jealous of my affection for you. And while it's true people in the vending machine business rub elbows with some rough individuals, I shouldn't think . . . Good Lord, is this possible?" His head sank into his pillow. He put his hand over his eyes. "I'll need to have my man make inquiries."

"Your man? Who's that?"
"Best keep his identity private, for the time being."

The Captain opened his eyes again and removed his hand. "Now Nick, if these grotesqueries that you have revealed to me do turn out to be true, I don't suppose I need to elaborate for you what this is going to mean for our industry."

"Well, no, but. . ."

"Of course, that's not
the prime
consideration here. Assuming that you've been grievously wronged, we'll have to make amends to you. But let me cook you up some hypothetical soup. Suppose—-just suppose—assuming we establish that what you're saying is true, which I don't doubt it is, that I fire BR's sorry ass—and that chippy of his, Jumelle—quietly, but with such extreme prejudice that he'll be lucky to get a job selling lottery tickets in Guam. And you were to plead guilty to these charges."

"Guilty?"

"Bear with me. Guilty with an explanation. That is, guilty to the sin of being young and impetuous, just like a lot of other people who've worked in Washington. Hell, you already
got
a reputation for impetuosity on account of telling everyone the President choked. For $450 an hour Carlinsky can damn well get you reduced time at some country club prison where they riot on account of the
coq
an
vin
was overcooked and the wine wasn't properly chilled."

"Uh—"

"Now here's the really good part. We open up a quiet little bank account in the Cayman Islands for you, say . . . five million dollars. What the hell, ten. Now even counting inflation and taxes, ten million dollars is
still
a lot of money, son. You wouldn't have to work for the rest of your life. You like to fish, don't you? Well, you could buy yourself a nice island somewhere and fish and be fed mangos by dusky women who don't wear clothes. That sounds pretty good to
me.
Tell you what, if you want to go on working for us, I'll put you in charge of the Hong Kong office. You'll be head of all American tobacco business in the Far East. Hell, that's where the future is, anyway. So many Asians, so
little
time. . . ."

Nick thought. "I like the part about firing BR and Jeannette. I don't know about the rest of it."

"Well, let's take it step by step. We'll start with BR, then see how you feel about taking early retirement."

"You're in no shape to make the right decision. You're all wrapped around the axle. You look like you haven't slept in a week. Dark circles under your eyes. Fine tobacco spokesman you are," he murmured.

"All right," Nick said, "step by step."

"Knew you were a sensible fellow. Knew it the first day
I
met you at the Club. Do you remember? How I would love to wrap my lips around one of their mint juleps right now."

The head nurse was approaching with a stem look on her face. "I'll talk to you later," Nick said. "Get some rest."

"If I oink next time you see me, you'll know I been screwed again."

Nick turned to go. The Captain said after him, "Don't forget, tobacco takes care of its own."

26

The next day Nick was whistling
C’est fume, C’est fume
in the
midst of restoring his office after its deconstruction by the FBI when Gazelle stuck in her head and in her now customary para
noid whisper hissed: "Nick, FBI
"

"Show them right in," he said.

It was agents Monmaney and Allman. They clearly felt that they could dispense with the usual opening pleasantries now that Nick's ass belonged to them.

"Did you leave the city yesterday?" Monmaney barked.

"What," Nick said, going on with his cleanup, "and violate the terms of my bail?"

"You got into a cab outside this office. The driver drove evasively, breaking several traffic laws. For which he has been detained. And questioned."

"Picking on Muslims again, eh?"

Agent Monmaney clenched his fists.

"I'd say he drove quite normally, for a District cab driver."

"He says you told him that we planted something in his trunk."

"Well, you'll have noticed that his English is a little rough. He must have misunderstood me. I did ask him if he ever kept plants in his trunk."

"You're cocky this morning, Nick," Agent Allman said. "Yes, I am," Nick grinned. "I feel
much
better." "You bought a ticket to Winston-Salem, North Carolina." "I did?"

"You want to add perjury to the list? You put it on your air travel card. We have the receipt. And you stayed at the Motel Eight in Winston-Salem. We have that receipt, too."

"Aha."

"What's that mean?"

"I lost my wallet yesterday. Someone must have used my credit cards to fly to Winston-Salem. I must say, odd choice for a travel destination. I'd have gone to someplace more fun. I only noticed it missing this morning. I called them in stolen." He smiled. "You'll be able to verify that."

"Slick, Nick. By the way, everything you say
will
be used against you."

"Are we under arrest again?"

"No," Agent Monmaney said. "For the time being."

"You know," Nick said, "I understand how you guys feel about me. But for what it's worth, I didn't kidnap myself. And you're going to find out that I didn't. So when you do, let's all have a drink together and say, Fuck was all
that
about?"

They regarded Nick dubiously. "You're expecting good news?"

"Oh yes," Nick said. "Very."

"Does it have anything to do with your visit to Winston-Salem?" "Don't recall I said I
was
in Winston-Salem." "Let's go," Agent Allman said.

"Say," Nick said, "why don't you let Akmal go. You can't blame him for being spooked. You guys
have
been kind of tough on those poor Muslims."

"Come on," Allman said to Monmaney.

"Ta ta," Nick said.

"Asshole," Monmaney said on the way out.

The visit by the Untouchables, along with his decision not to accept the Captain's hush money, had Nick's mood rising like a souffle. He couldn't wait for the Captain. He walked to BR's office and, once again ignoring his secretary's remonstrations, went in. Jeannette was with him.

"Ah," Nick said, "teamwork. That's what it's all about, isn't it." BR scowled. "What do you
want, Nick? You're not even sup
posed to be here."

"But I work here."

"You're on leave. Effective as of now."

"No," Nick smiled, "I don't think so. But I think
you're
about to go on a long leave. And so is Mata Hari over there. Don't forget your rubbers, Jeannette."

Jeannette said, "You can't prove a th—"

BR shushed her, indicating by pantomime that Nick might be wearing a wire. It was so deft that Nick wondered if this was the first time he'd performed it.

Nick wagged his finger at Jeannette. " 'Ooh, Nick, ooh. Here, take the condoms. I got the extra large. . . .' That'll make for fun in the courtroom. As for you, my wonderful, supportive boss, clear something up for me. I couldn't figure out why your rent-a-kidnappers let me live. But it occurred to me that maybe they screwed up. Am I getting warm?"

BR stared.

"So you and your dominatrix girlfriend cooked up the condoms-in-the-NicArrest-boxes scheme?
Very
neat."

"Nick," BR said in a forbearing voice, "you've been under a lot of stress. I think you ought to get some professional help."

"Yes," Nick said. "I have been under a great deal of stress. YOU ASSHOLES!!!"

BR and Jeannette started.

"Sorry," Nick said. "Stress. Well, see you round Cellblock C."

Nick closed the door behind him feeling much better. When he reached his office, Gazelle was sitting at her desk looking particularly woeful.

"Cheer up," said Nick. "Things are going our way." "You didn't hear?" "Hear what?"

"The Captain died this morning."

"What I don't understand," Carlinsky said, "is why you didn't tell me this before."

"I didn't
know
it before. And would you please stop saying that. It's very annoying."

"So, as you see it, BR had you kidnap
ped. The kidnapping failed.

Then he and Jeannette framed you by contriving to get your prints on the boxes of what you thought, in the dark, were condoms, but were actually the nicotine patch boxes." "Right."

"You don't have any proof."

"No,"
Nick said, "I
don't keep a video camera in my bedroom." "And you shared this scenario with Mr. Boykin the night before he died."

"Yes. He was going to fire BR and Jeannette and then . . ." "Don't hold back, please. It's very counterproductive." "He's dead. Why does it matter what he was going to do?" "Everything matters."

"He asked me to consider taking the fall, in order to spare the industry massive embarrassment. In return for which I'd be extremely well compensated. I decided I wasn't going to do that, and fight it all the way. Then he died."

"Was this conversation recorded?"

"No."

"Too bad. Not that it would have been admissible, but we could have gotten it into the press's hands. It would have caused such an uproar that it would have made it very difficult to empanel a jury. And we'd have ended up with a dumber one. You'll have gathered by now that I like a dumb jury. Dumber the better. Now, as to this matter of Mr. Boykin suggesting that BR may have had something to do with these tobacco liability litigants' deaths by smoke inhalation,
that,"
he said, puckering, "is a very
full
can of worms."

"Yes. Nightcrawlers."

"Though again, we have no evidence."

"So, we'll start an investigation into their deaths," Nick said. "We'll feed the press, shake the bushes, the trees. Something'll drop out of them. It'll be great." Nick rubbed his hands together.

"Perhaps. But before we go pointing fingers at high places, you need to consider. It is a high-risk defense strategy. Because if there isn't something, and we've gone trampling on graves, alleging conspiracies that even Oliver Stone would reject, then we'll end up making everyone extremely mad, especially the j
udge, and you might end
up serving a longer stretch of time than even the maximum. At
sent
encing time, he can decide to make you serve the term for each count consecutively, rather than simultaneously. He can also send you to a maximum security prison. And I'm not sure that's an experience you would enjoy. Of course, that's your decision. Myself, I like a good courtroom dust-up. But it's your ass, not mine. As it were."

Nick was considering all this, to the sound of steel doors clanging shut in his ears, when Carlinsky's secretary came over the speaker. "It's Mr. Rohrabacher, from the Academy of Tobacco Studies. He says it's extremely urgent. I told him you were with a client."

Carlinsky said to Nick, "I guess I should take that."

He picked up the phone. "Yes. Yes. Yes, he is here. I see. Have you told him? I see." He looked at Nick and arched his eyebrows. "Yes. All? Well, yes. We handle those. Of course. We're a large firm. I see. Let me speak with the managing partners and I'll have an answer for you by the end of the day."

Carlinsky hung up. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid this is awkward. I'm informed that you are no longer with the Academy of Tobacco Studies."

This was a common phenomenon in Washington, finding out from a third party that you've just been fired. Usually, you hear about it on CNN, or over the phone from a reporter calling to confirm that the locks on your office were changed while you were out picking up your dry cleaning. Nick was not all that surprised, especially after receiving the frosty interoffice memo from BR informing him that he was not welcome at the Captain's funeral.

"Well, to hell with him. Let's fight him."

Carlinsky pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. "That might be awkward."

"I
know
you're expensive. But I'm sure we can work something out. You can attach my salary for the rest of my life." "It's not that. It's a conflict of interest."
"What
conflict of interest?"

"I can't defend one client by pitting him against another client." "What 'another' client?"

"Our firm has just been asked to become legal counsel to the Academy of Tobacco Studies." "You mean, just
now?"