The Road to Gandolfo (11 page)

“Of course not. No trouble—just a firing squad.”

“Nonsense.” Hawkins got up from the floor, carrying the freed briefcase to the hotel writing desk. “You’re safer with me. I know those IG close-outs. You think you’re winding everything up and some pricky-shit waltzes in and tells you you’re not going anywhere until some brief is completed.”

Devereaux looked over at the general, now snapping the G-2 bands and opening the expensive briefcase. There was logic in Mac’s madness. There
was
sure to be some ball-breaking file or other that a confused superior did not care to have left in his lap. A memorandum could be misplaced—or not read. A confrontation, even a discussion,
between legal officers could not be overlooked. Hawkins definitely had a point: Sam was safer away from the office.

MacKenzie removed several hundred Xeroxed pages and put them on the desk beside the briefcase. Devereaux pointed to them and spoke cautiously, “That’s all
your
Seven Seven Five?”

“Well, not actually. A lot of it’s open stuff that’s never been closed out.”

Sam was suddenly more uncomfortable than he had been for the past three hours. “Wait a minute. You said back at G-two that it was just raw material on people you’d run across.”

“Or people
other
people ran across. I added that, son, I really did. You were just so upset you didn’t listen.”

“Oh, Christ! You removed raw files on subjects that weren’t
yours
?”

“No, Sam,” replied the Hawk as he squared off some pages. “
You
did. It says so right at the security desk. Your signature.”

Devereaux sank back in the couch. “You devious son of a bitch.”

“That kind of says it,” agreed Hawkins sadly. “There were times in the field—operating way the hell behind the lines, of course—when I wondered how I could bring myself to do the things I did. But then the answer was always the same. I was trained to survive, boy. And survive I do.” The Hawk now had four piles of Xeroxes neatly to the left of the briefcase on the desk. He tapped his fingers over them as if playing a piano and then looked over at Sam pensively. “I think you’re going to do real fine. You
will
accept the temporary appointment as my attorney, won’t you? Won’t be for long.”

“And it’s a little more complicated than investments, isn’t it?” Devereaux remained well back in the couch.

“A mite, I suspect.”

“And if I refuse I don’t even have to worry about Brokemichael. He’s minor. Now there’s a small matter of removing classified files from G-two. No statute of limitations on that little caper.”

“Don’t imagine there is.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Work up some contracts. Pretty simple stuff, I should think. I’m forming a company. A corporation, I guess you’d call it.”

Sam inhaled deeply. “That’s really kind of amusing, if it weren’t so sad. Purpose and intent notwithstanding, there’s a not-so-minor item called capitalization required when you form a corporation. I know your finances. I hate to disabuse you but you’re not exactly in the corporate assets league.”

“No faith, that’s your trouble. I expect you’ll change.”

“And what does that cryptic remark mean?”

“It means I’ve got the assets figured out to the dollar, that’s what it means.” Hawkins planted his fingers over the Xeroxes in an elongated press. As if he had found the Lost Chord.

“What assets?”

“Forty million dollars.”

“
What!
” In his stunned disbelief, Sam leaped up from the couch. The dangling steel chain followed swiftly and, in a howling instant of pain, the bottom links whipped across his eye.

His left eye.

The room went around and around.

Devereaux ripped open the envelope the instant he closed the hotel door. He pulled out the rectangular slip of heavy paper and stared at it.

It was a cashier’s check made out to his name. The amount was for ten thousand dollars.

It was absurd.

Everything was absurd; nothing made any sense at all.

He had been a civilian for exactly one week. There had been no hitches regarding his discharge; no Brokemichael surfaced, and no last-minute problems developed in the office because he had not gone to the office until an hour before his formal separation from the army. And when he arrived he not only had a patch over his left eye, but a thick bandage around his right wrist. From burns.

He had moved out of his apartment, sent his belongings to Boston, but did not follow them because a devious son of a bitch named MacKenzie Hawkins stated that he needed “his attorney” in New York. Therefore Sam had a two-room suite at the Drake Hotel on Park Avenue, reserved and paid for. The suite was leased for a month; Hawkins thought it would be enough time.

For what? MacKenzie was not yet ready to “spell it out.” However, Sam was not to worry; everything was “on the expense account.”

Whose expense account?

The corporation’s.

What corporation?

The one Sam would soon be forming.

Absurd!

Forty million dollars’ worth of delusions that screamed for a frontal lobotomy.

And now a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars. Free and clear and no receipt required.

Ridiculous! Hawkins could not afford it. Besides, he had gone too far. People did not send other people (especially lawyers) ten thousand dollars without some kind of explanation. It simply was not healthy.

Sam walked over to the hotel telephone, checked the confusing litany on the pull-out tab beneath the instrument, and placed a call to MacKenzie.

“Goddamn, boy! That’s no way to behave! I mean, you might at least say thank you.”

“What the hell for? Accessory to theft? Where did you get ten thousand dollars?”

“Right out of the bank.”

“Your savings?”

“That’s right. Didn’t steal from anyone but myself.”

“But why?”

There was a slight pause in Washington. “You used the word, son. I believe you called it a retainer.”

There was a second pause. In New York. “I think I said I was the only lawyer I knew who had a retainer based in the sort of blackmail that could march me in front of a firing squad.”

“That’s what you said. And I wanted to correct that impression. I want you to know I value your services. I surely wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate you.”

“Cut it out! You can’t afford it and I haven’t done anything.”

“Well, boy, I believe I’m in a better position to judge what I can afford. And you
did
do something. You got me out of China some four thousand years before my parole was due.”

“That’s different. I mean—–”

“And tomorrow’s going to be your first day of work,” interrupted the Hawk. “Not much, but a beginning.”

There was now a long pause in New York. “Before you say anything, you should understand that as a member of the bar, I subscribe to a canon of ethics that is very specific. I’ll do nothing to jeopardize my standing as an attorney.”

Hawkins replied loudly, with no pause whatsoever, “I should hope not! Goddamn, boy, I don’t want any slippery shyster in
my
corporation. Wouldn’t look good on the stationery—–”

“
Mac!
” roared Devereaux in exasperation. “You didn’t have stationery printed?”

“No. I just said that. But it’s a hell of an idea.”

Sam did his best to control himself. “Please.
Please
. There’s a law firm in Boston and a very nice man who’ll be on the Supreme Court someday who expects me back in a couple of weeks. He wouldn’t look kindly on my being employed by—somebody else during my leave. And you said my work for you would be finished in three or four weeks. So no stationery.”

“All right,” agreed Hawkins sadly.

“Now, what’s on for tomorrow? I’ll charge you by the day and deduct it from the ten thousand and return the rest at the end of the month. From Boston.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

“I
do
worry. I should also tell you that I’m not licensed to practice in the state of New York. I may have to pay outside attorney’s fees; depending upon what you want done. I gather it involves filing for this corporation of yours.” Devereaux lit a cigarette. He was happy to see that his hands were not shaking.

“Not yet. We’ll get to that in a couple of days. Tomorrow I want you to check out a man named Dellacroce. Angelo Dellacroce. He lives in Scarsdale. He’s got several companies in New York.”

“What do you mean, ‘check out’?”

“Well, I understand he’s had business problems. I’d like to know how serious they are. Or were. Sort of find out what his current state of well-being is.”

“ ‘Well-being’?”

“Yeah. In the sense of his being around and not in jail, or anything like that.”

Devereaux paused, then spoke calmly, as if explaining to a child. “I’m a lawyer, not a private investigator. Lawyers only do what you’re talking about on television.”

Again MacKenzie Hawkins replied quickly. “I can’t believe
that. If somebody wants to become part of a corporation, the attorney for the company should find out if the fellow’s on the up-and-up, shouldn’t he?”

“Well, it would depend on the degree of participation, I suppose.”

“It’s considerable.”

“You mean this Angelo Dellacroce has expressed interest?”

“In a way, yes. But I wouldn’t want him to think I was being rude by making inquiries, if you know what I mean.”

Devereaux noticed that his hand now trembled slightly. It was a bad sign; better than a pained stomach but still bad. “I’ve got that strange feeling again. You’re not telling me things you should tell me.”

“All in good time. Can you do what I ask?”

“Well, there’s a firm here in the city that my office uses—used to use, anyway. Probably still does. They might be able to help.”

“That’s fine. You see them. But don’t forget, Sam, we’ve got a lawyer-client relationship. That’s like a doctor or a priest or a good whore; my name doesn’t get mentioned.”

“I could do without the last reference,” said Devereaux.

Damn it. His stomach growled. He hung up.

“
Angelo Dellacroce!
” Jesse Barton, senior partner, son-of-founder, Barton, Barton and Whistlewhite, laughed. “Sam, you’ve been away too long!”

“
That
bad?”

“Let’s put it this way. If our mutual Boston friend and your erstwhile employer—I
assume
he’s still your employer—Aaron Pinkus, thought you were seriously considering Dellacroce for some kind of money deal, he’d call your mother.”

“That bad?”

“I’m not kidding. Aaron would question your sanity and personally remove your name from the office door.” Barton leaned forward. “Dellacroce is Cosa Nostra with a capital Mafia. He’s so high in the charity rackets the cardinal invites him to the Alfred E. Smith dinner every year. And naturally, he’s untouchable. He drives district attorneys
and prosecutors right out of their gourds. They can’t get him, but not for lack of trying.”

“Then Aaron mustn’t learn of my very innocent inquiry,” replied Sam in confidence.

“Your indiscretion is safe with me. Incidentally, is it an indiscretion? This party of yours, is he really that naïve?”

Sam’s stomach began to answer for him. He spoke rapidly to cover the sound. “In my judgment, yes. I’m paying back a debt, Jesse. My client saved my ass in Indochina.”

“I see.”

“So he’s important to me,” continued Sam. “And according to you he’s naïve. About this Dellacroce.”

“Don’t take my word for it,” said Barton, reaching for his telephone. “Miss Dempsey, get me Phil Jensen downtown, please.” Jesse replaced the receiver. “Jensen’s second in command at the prosecutor’s office. Federal district, not municipal. Dellacroce’s been a target over there ever since Phil joined; that was damn near three years ago. Jensen gave up an easy sixty thou’ to go after the evil people.”

“Commendable.”

“Bullshit. He wants to be a senator or better. That’s where the real money is—–” The telephone rang. Barton picked it up. “Thank you.… Hello, Phil? Jesse. Phil, I’ve got an old friend here; he’s been away for a few years. He was asking me about Angelo Dellacroce—–”

The explosion on the other end of the line reverberated throughout the office. Jesse winced. “No, for Christ’s sake, he’s not involved with him. Do you think I’m crazy?… I told you he’s been away; out of the country, as a matter of fact.” Jesse listened for a moment and looked over at Sam “Were you in northern Italy?… Where, Phil?… Around Milan?”

Devereaux shook his head. Barton continued, one ear at the telephone, his words directed at Sam.

“Or Marseilles?… Or Ankara?… What about Rashid?”

Devereaux kept shaking his head.

“
Algiers
?… Were you in Algiers?… No, Phil, you’re way off. This is very straight. I wouldn’t be calling you if it was anything else, now would I?… Simple investment stuff, very legitimate.… Yes, I know, Phil.… Phil says
those bastards will own Disneyland next.… Come on, Phil, that’s not kosher; he’ll simply walk away from him. I just wanted to confirm Dellacroce’s status.… Okay. All right. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

Barton replaced the phone and leaned back. “There you are.”

“I touched a raw nerve.”

“The rawest. Dellacroce not only skipped free of an airtight indictment last week, but because of a grand jury leak, the prosecutor’s office has to issue a public apology. How does that grab you?”

“I’m glad I’m not Jensen.”

“Jensen’s not. His office will lay off Dellacroce for a couple of months then ring him in again. Won’t do them any good; Dellacroce’s got his ass in butter. He slides in and out of courtrooms.”

“But my client should stay away.” Devereaux did not ask a question.

“Several continents,” replied Barton. “Clothes don’t make the man; his investors do. Ask anyone from Biscayne to San Clemente.”

“Well, goddamn, isn’t that interesting? You just can’t tell anymore, can you?”

“Stay clear of him,” said Devereaux, shifting the hotel phone and reaching for the glass of bourbon on the other side of the desk. “He’s bad news and you don’t want him near you.”