The Road to Gandolfo (12 page)

“I see what you mean—–”

“I’d rather you said ‘Yes, Sam, I’ll stay away from Angelo Dellacroce.’ That’s what I’d like to hear you say.”

“See what you mean.”

“You’re not listening. When you pay a lawyer a retainer you listen to him. Now, repeat after me: ‘I will not go near—–’ ”

“I know you’ve had a hard day, but you might put your mind to the next order of business. Just sort of think about it.”

“I’m still thinking about Angelo Dellacroce.”

“That part’s finished with—–”

“Glad to hear it.”

“—for the time being. Now, I want you to begin roughing
out a kind of standard corporation agreement. A real legal document that has blanks for people putting in money.”

“People like Dellacroce?” Devereaux’s voice made clear his position.

“
Goddamn
, forget about that guinea bastard!”

“From what I know about him I think you should refer to him as the Roman-blood-royal. But I’d rather you never referred to him again. What kind of corporation? If you want it filed in New York, I’ll have to bring in another attorney. I told you that.”

“
No, sir, boy!
” Hawkins shouted the words. “I don’t want anyone else involved! Just you!”

“I made it very clear: I’m not licensed to practice here. I can’t file in the state of New York.”

“Who said anything about filing? I just want the papers.”

Sam was numb. He was not sure what he was supposed to say; what he could say. “Do you mean to tell me you retained me for ten thousand dollars to prepare legal papers you are not going to execute—strike that—
file
?”

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t sometime. I’m just not going to worry about it now.”

“Then why get a lawyer until you need one? And why the hell am I in New York?”

“Because I don’t want you in Washington. For your own good. And when a man raises money for a corporation, he’s got to have real legal-looking documents to give for it. I reversed the order of your questions.”

“I’m glad you told me. I won’t pursue either one. What kind of corporation?”

“A regular one.”

“There’s no such thing. Every company is different.”

“The kind where profits are shared. Among investors.”

“In that they’re all the same. Or should be.”

“That’s the kind I want. No monkey business.”

“Wait a minute.” Devereaux put down the phone and crossed to the chair where he’d left his attaché case. From it he took out a yellow legal pad and two pencils and returned to the desk. “I’ll need the specifics. I’m going to ask you some questions so I can rough out this not-to-be-filed, unexecuted legal document.”

“Go ahead, boy.”

“What’s the title? The corporate name.”

“I thought about that. What do you think of the Shepherd Company?”

“Not a hell of a lot. I don’t know what it means. Not that it makes any difference. Call it anything you like.”

“I like the Shepherd Company.”

“Fine.” Sam wrote out the words. “What’s the address?”

“United Nations.”

Devereaux looked at the telephone. “What?”

“The address. Whatever the United Nations building is.”

“Why?”

“It’s … symbolic.”

“You can’t use a symbolic address.”

“Why not?”

“I forgot. You’re not filing. All right. The depository?”

“Who?”

“The bank. Where the corporate funds will be deposited.”

“Leave that blank. A couple of lines. There’ll be several banks.”

Sam’s pencil involuntarily stopped. He forced it onward. “What’s the purpose of the company?”

There was a pause in Washington. “Give me some legal-sounding choices.”

Now a longer pause in New York. Devereaux’s pencil really objected. “Let’s start with ‘intent.’ ”

“Obviously, to make money.”

“How?”

“By having something people will pay for.”

“Manufacturing? Production of merchandise?”

“No, not really.”

“Marketing?”

“That’s nearer. Keep going.”

“Where?”

“Some more words,” replied Hawkins.

“I’m not a corporate attorney but if I remember the books, a company’s purpose—its motive for profit—is in one form or another of production, manufacturing, marketing, acquisition, services—–”

“Hold it! That one.”

“Services?”

“That’s good, but I mean the one before that.”

Sam exhaled. “Acquisition?”

“That’s it. Acquisition.”

“Acquiring at one price, disposing at a second, higher price. You’re in brokerage?”

“That’s very good, Sam. That’s really using the old noodle.”

Devereaux pushed the pencil against its inanimate will and wrote on the pad. “If you’re a broker, there’s got to be a product. Services or real estate or merchandise—–”

“Of a deeply religious nature,” interrupted MacKenzie, his voice low and solemn.

“What is?”

“The product.”

Sam inhaled; it was a long breath. When he exhaled it was with a hum. “Are you saying that you are forming a company to broker the acquisition of religious merchandise?”

“That’ll do,” answered Hawkins simply.

“Artifacts?”

“That’s even better.”

“For Christ’s sake,
what
is?”

“ ‘Broker the acquisition of religious artifacts.’ Goddamn, boy. Perfect!”

Devereaux borrowed the standard New York State forms for a limited partnership agreement from Barton. It was a relatively simple matter to transcribe his notes into the partnership forms and have the hotel stenographer retype the pages as though they had been dictated. Things were looking up, thought Sam as he scrutinized the finished product, replete with its blank lines for investors, depositories, amounts; and the inane description of “brokering the acquisition of religious artifacts.”

But it looked as legal as a chapter in Blackstone. Yes, Sam mused as he balanced the envelope containing the gobbledygook he was about to mail to MacKenzie Hawkins. Things
were
looking up. He’d be back in Boston with Aaron Pinkus Associates in a few days; his “legal” work for the Hawk was finished. Altogether it had taken him nine
days, some three weeks short of the month Mac had figured.

He had agreed to stay at the Drake a day or two longer, giving Mac sufficient opportunity to approve of his labors. There was no question that approval would come, and it did.

“My word, Sam, that’s a mighty impressive looking document,” said the Hawk over the telephone from Washington. “I’m downright amazed you were able to write it all up so quickly.”

“There are certain guidelines to follow; it wasn’t that difficult.”

“You’re too modest, young fella.”

“I’m anxious, that’s what I am. Anxious to get back to Boston—–”

“I can certainly understand that,” broke in Hawkins without the commensurate affirmative that would have curtailed the sudden, growing pain in Devereaux’s stomach.

“
Listen
, Mac—–”

“I see you made me president of the company. You didn’t tell me that.”

“There were no other names. I asked you about the corporate officers and you said leave the lines blank.”

“What are those titles
secretary
and
treasurer?
Are they important?”

“Not if you’re not filing.”

“Suppose someday I decided to?”

“The standard procedure is to combine the two. Most states require a minimum of two general partners for a limited partnership agreement.”

“But I could have more if I wanted to, couldn’t I?”

“Certainly.”

“I just wanted to know what’s right, Sam. Not important. It’s never going to be filed. Just passes the time.”

Devereaux thought he detected a note of melancholy in Hawkins’s voice. Was Mac beginning to come to grips with his own fantasies? Did he begin to understand that his irrational foray into corporate legalities was simple compensation for the absence of command decision? Sam
began to relax. He actually felt sorry for this old war-horse.
Passes the time
was a euphemism for
filling up the days
. “I’m sure it does, General.”

“Why, Sam, you haven’t called me general in weeks.”

“Sorry. A slip.”

“I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, boy. You’ve worked hard. Have a little fun tonight. Remember, it’s on the expense account.”

“As to that ten thou’. It’s very generous of you but I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I’ll deduct whatever legal expenses—stenographer, supplies, that kind of thing—and return the rest. Then there’s an investment counselor I know in Washington—–”

Devereaux stopped. He realized that the click on the other end of the line had terminated the conversation.

There was no point in not having a good time. He had spent enough weekends in New York to know where the action was: the singles’ bars on Third Avenue.

Sam was spectacularly successful. His catch was a nubile young thing who had come out of Omaha, Nebraska—the county seat of Henry Fonda and Marlon Brando—to scale the Broadway heights. She was terribly impressed with a lawyer who did a lot of work for Metro-Goldwyn-Warner-Brothers when he wasn’t handling contracts for
Bowling For Dollars
and
Masterpiece Theatre
.

Sam was impressed, too. All during the night, throughout most of the next morning, well into the following afternoon and (with time out for food and limited discussion) into the next evening.

It was 9:27 when the telephone rang; 9:29 when the nubile young thing spoke sleepily. “Sam, the phone’s on my side.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Shall I get it?” she asked.

“Since it’s on your side, I’d say yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Sam opened his eyes. The girl had raised herself and was stretching; the sheet had fallen away. “Make it quick,” Devereaux said.

“If you’re sure.”

“I have no wife and my mother doesn’t know where I am and Aaron Pinkus wouldn’t be mad. Get the phone, talk fast, and hang up.”

The girl reached for the instrument; Sam reached for the girl.

“There’s a man with a raspy voice who wants to talk to you. He says his name is Angelo Dellacroce.” She handed Sam the receiver.

“Hey,
you
!” The words spat from the telephone. “You Samuel Deverooze, secatary-treasurer of this Shepherd Company?”

Former Lieutenant General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice awarded the nation’s highest honor for extraordinary heroism beyond the call of duty in deadly combat against the enemy, cowered like a frightened boy at the sight of former Major Sam Devereaux, military accident.

Hawkins could see Sam getting out of the taxi at the entrance of the North Hampton Golf Club. The brass lamps on top of the stone posts flanking the drive were the only source of light; it was a cold, cloudy night and no moon could be seen. The lamps, however, gave sufficient illumination to reveal the anguished expression on Devereaux’s face.

Sam was furious, MacKenzie realized that. But, he thought to himself, he had not actually lied. Not really. He never told Devereaux he
wouldn’t
approach Angelo Dellacroce. Only that he had no reason to do so when Sam pressed him on the point. At that moment. Not
later
.

The secretary-treasurer title was something else. It looked terrific on the partnership agreement:
Samuel Devereaux, Esq., Counselor-at-law, Suite 4-F, Drake Hotel, New York
, right above the line reserved for the second most important office in the Shepherd Company. It was for Devereaux’s own good; he’d understand that soon enough. But at the moment Samuel Devereaux, Esq., was mad as a caged bull fenced off from heifers in heat.

The Hawk had agreed to Dellacroce’s rendezvous because it suited him. The Italian was so concerned about surveillance he had insisted on meeting Mac in the middle of the fairway on hole six at the North Hampton Golf Club between the hours of midnight and one in the morning. But if Hawkins had objected and changed the location to
the Bell Telephone Company, Dellacroce would have capitulated.

For Dellacroce had no choice. Mac had a folder on the Mafioso that would have guaranteed a jail sentence worthy of a court in the People’s Republic.

Still, a meeting at night in terrain surrounded by thick woods and streams and small lakes appealed to Hawkins. He was at home in such territory. It wasn’t Cambodia or Laos, but he could sort of keep his hand in, as it were.

He flew up from Washington in the afternoon and with false identification rented a car and drove out to North Hampton. As soon as it was dark, he circled the golf club and parked at the west perimeter. Dellacroce had told him that the club was closed for the evening and the night watchman would be replaced by one of his men.

Which meant, of course, that Dellacroce would double the patrols everywhere, especially around the area of fairway six.

His pockets stuffed with coils of thin rope and rolls of three-inch adhesive, Hawkins employed an old Ho Chiminh tactic that had served him well in the past. He began his commando assault at the farthest point inside the hostile area and worked his way toward the front.

At 2300 the enemy patrols started to man their emplacements within the North Hampton Golf Club. There were nine (a few more than Mac had anticipated) spaced out in the rough by the edge of the woods on both sides of fairway six, the line of relay extending back to the clubhouse and the driveway.

One by one, Hawkins immobilized eight patrols; he removed all weapons, bound them, taped their faces—all facial muscles, not just the mouths—and rendered them unconscious with
kai-sai
chops at the base of the skull. Then he worked his way back to the ninth patrol who manned the entrance.

He saved for this man a strategy that was particularly effective against the Pathet Lao. For the guard had to be able to talk.

The man was exceedingly cooperative. Especially after Mac had sliced his trousers from crotch to cuff.

At ten minutes to midnight, Dellacroce’s huge black
limousine drove swiftly through the gates and up to the wide, pillared porch. In the darkness the ninth patrol, riveted to a pillar, spoke.

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Dellacroce. All the boys are spread good, like you said.”