To Save a Son (13 page)

“Believe what?” said Maria.

“That someone could be killed,” said Enrico, answering for his son.

“This isn't a movie!” rejected Franks contemptuously. Who was it who had said something like that? Nicky, he remembered. During the office confrontation. Why was everything so unbelievable?

“No,” said Enrico, regaining a little of his chipped control. “This isn't a movie. This is reality; hard, actual reality. And that reality is that Pascara is capable of having someone killed if he wants it done. They all are.”

“Do you
know
that he's had anyone killed?” persisted Franks.

“Of course I don't.”

“So it's just a story—a story spread about to make Pascara seem more important than he is and frighten people prepared to be frightened into doing what he says and never daring to challenge him.”

Enrico spread out his hands toward the still-standing man, an imploring gesture, and Franks' feeling was one of embarrassment. “I'm sorry,” said Enrico, the final concession. “I'm sorry I let it happen. That you think I trapped you. That I let Nicky trap you. Okay, so maybe we did. It's the way the system works, favors given, favors repaid. I had—we had—no right to involve you. I was wrong and I apologize and ask you to forgive me.…” The man paused, appearing physically choked at making the admission and worse, having to make it in front of his family. “Now I ask you one thing more. I know you've no reason to listen to me anymore—to trust me. But about this you must trust me. I know these people. What they're capable of. Stonewall the investigation; let it happen and don't help any more than is absolutely necessary. That way Pascara and Flamini and Dukes will respect you, know that they can trust you. When it's over, you can ask to dissolve the companies. That's the way things are settled. Quietly. No fuss.”

“Ask!”
said Franks. “It's my bloody company. Ask permission to do something about a company which I created and I control?”

“Yes, you have to,” said Enrico.

Franks raised his hands and let them drop again, frustrated and feeling impotent in his effort to penetrate the old man's stupid attitude. Trying again, he said, “What if this investigation doesn't fail, like the rest! You expect me to appear in court—be stained by guilt of association maybe?”

“I told you, it won't happen,” said Enrico. “But if it does, then yes, that's what I expect you to do. What they expect you to do.”

“You're preposterous,” Franks said. “All of you. Preposterous.”

“Okay,” said Enrico gently. “So maybe these things don't happen in England. Not in those countries of Europe that you know, although I would have expected you to have some idea of how things are in parts of Italy. But you read the newspapers. See TV. You
know
it happens here, in America.”

“Please, Eddie. Please believe him; do as he says.”

There was a moment of surprised silence in the room as Mamma Scargo spoke, intruding for the first time in her life into business where she traditionally had no part. The old lady looked apprehensively toward her husband, as if for a rebuke. Nothing came. She said, emboldened, “He knows. No more damage; don't let there be any more damage than has been caused to us by what's already done.”

Illogically, thoughts of his real father came into Franks' mind. His father had run from gangsters. At once Franks felt a surge of irritation. It was the cliché of history to talk of Nazis as gangsters. They might have been, but they were a party and a government, and his father had been a Jew who had been right to run. It had been the sensible, honorable way to survive. There wasn't any comparison between the sort of running that his father did and the sort of running that was being demanded of him now. For his father to run—to do what he did—had been courageous. For him to do it would be cowardly. Franks said, “I won't give in.”

Mamma Scargo began to cry, quietly, as before. Beside her, Enrico said, “You're a fool.”

“I know,” Franks spat back. “You made me one.”

“Don't be glib,” said the old man. “Don't you have a family to think of?”

“This one!” sneered Franks.

“No,” said Enrico. “I know how that's got to be from now on. I meant Tina and David and Gabriella.”

Franks stopped, remembering his earlier decision not to bully and realizing he'd been attempting exactly that. “It's because of Tina and David and Gabriella that I'm doing what I am,” he insisted. “I don't want them tainted: exposed to the sort of public embarrassment that could happen if I did what you want me to.”

“You're wrong, Eddie,” said Enrico helplessly. “You're wrong and you're going to regret it.”

“I regret a lot of things, sure,” said Franks. “But I'm not wrong. You're living in the past;
exactly
like a movie.”

On the way out to Westchester, Tina had been tensed with anger, but on the ride back to Manhattan, Franks was conscious of her being more subdued and reflective.

“Changed your mind?” he said.

“They seemed very sure.”

“They're frightened.”

“If they're right, they're frightened with good reason.”

“I don't think they're right.”

“Things
are
different here from Europe.”

“You want me to do what they ask?”

Tina didn't reply at once. Then she said, “I want what I said before. For you to do what you think is right.”

Franks had retained the plasticized entry key to his suite, so there was no need to stop at the porters' desk when they got back to the Plaza. He was actually at the elevator with Tina beside him when the challenge came.

“Edmund Franks?”

Franks turned. The man was fat to the point of obesity. His shirt collar was undone, the tie pulled down, and the concertinaed jacket of his fawn suit hung awkwardly from his shoulders, falling backward as if in some retreat from the embarrassment of being there at all.

“Yes,” frowned Franks. He saw that behind the fat man there was another: neat, thin, and bespectacled. They looked like the before-and-after part of some diet advertisement.

“Name's Waldo, Harry Waldo.…” The fat man jerked his head sideways. “This is my partner, John Schultz. Thought you might have made contact.”

“Why should I have made contact?”

“FBI, Mr. Franks. Didn't Mr. Scargo tell you we'd seen him?”

“Of course he told me; that's why I'm here. From what he said I expected you to contact me.”

“That's what we're doing right now, Mr. Franks. It's time to talk, don't you think?”

14

The crush in the elevator separated them, the FBI agents facing Franks and his wife, all with their backs against the paneled walls. Franks had the bizarre thought of their lining up in some sort of battle formation, one to oppose the other. The investigators fell deferentially behind him as they approached the suite, and immediately inside, Waldo gazed around in an attitude that Franks defined as something like mocking admiration.

“Wow!” said the FBI man. “Must be more than a thousand bucks a day.”

“Probably something like that,” said Franks, unsettled by the man's demeanor but determined against letting it show. He indicated the bar and said, “Would either of you like something?”

“No, thank you,” said Schultz, answering for both of them. “But please go ahead, yourself.”

“If I feel like it, I will,” said Franks, annoyed at the condescension. At once he tried to curb the attitude, wondering if they weren't attempting to off-balance him.

“Why?” said Waldo, turning theatrically in the center of the main room, with its views not just of the avenue but of the zoo and Central Park as well.

“Why what?” said Tina, coming in on her husband's side.

“Why pay thousands of dollars for a suite when you've got that lovely place in Scarsdale?” said Waldo. “Now that's what I call a property!”

He was letting the encounter get away from him, Franks recognized. And he wasn't going to survive if he allowed anything—and certainly not this initial meeting—to get away from him. He said, “Who are you?”

“We told you downstairs, sir,” said Schultz politely. “FBI.”

“I know what you told me,” said Franks. “So if you're FBI you have identification?”

“Sure,” said Waldo. Neither FBI man moved, and neither did Franks.

“Let me see it,” demanded Franks.

Waldo looked at Schultz, as if unsure whether to obey or refuse, and then said, “That's your right.”

Both men pulled wallets from their pockets. There was another hesitation, and then Waldo waddled forward, offering the shields. Franks, who had no idea what an FBI identification badge looked like, made the pretense of examining both and then said, “Thank you.”

“In fact,” said Schultz, “you've got further rights. You aware of American law, Mr. Franks?”

“No,” said Franks.

“You, Mrs. Franks?” Waldo asked Tina.

“What's my wife got to do with these inquiries?” Franks asked at once.

“We don't know yet, sir,” said Waldo, maintaining the stiff politeness. “But it's only right that she should know her rights and privileges under American law, wouldn't you say?”

“My wife hasn't got anything to do with any of it,” said Franks.

“Any of what, sir?” said Schultz.

Franks realized he was sweating, disoriented by this comedy act. Except that it wasn't a comedy. He desperately wanted a drink, which was rare for him, but realized that if he moved to get one they would discern it as a sign of weakness. He remained instead where he was. “Why would I need to invoke the rights and privileges available under American law?”

“Like I said,” reminded Waldo, “we don't know, not yet.”

His impression in the elevator of their lining up in some sort of battle formation hadn't been bizarre at all, Franks realized. It had been entirely appropriate. Further, these two apparently incompatible men seemed formidable opponents. He asked, “If our rights are important, shouldn't you set them out?”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Schultz recited formally. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer, and to have him present during any questioning. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer”—Schultz paused and looked around the suite—“one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish one. If you decide to answer questions without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering questions at any time you so choose.”

Franks experienced the numbness of incredulity. And nervousness, too. He'd gone through two meetings—the first with Nicky, the second with Enrico—and felt nothing but disbelieving contempt for the suggestions of killing. He'd spent a lot of time considering the damage that was possible to all the businesses. But never had he imagined that the investigators would seriously consider him implicated, a knowing and willingly involved participant in whatever crime they were probing. But that's what they clearly thought, from the way the conversation was going: they thought he was an active partner in some sort of criminality. He'd already decided—
almost
decided—not to give in to any pressure that Pascara or Flamini or Dukes might attempt. And he wouldn't give in to any pressure here, he decided, equally determined. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. So there was no way he
could
be coerced. “I've committed no crime, so I've not got any fear of incrimination,” he said.

“Let's get a lawyer,” said Tina, suddenly urgent.

“That's your right, quite independent of your husband,” said Schultz, maintaining absolute formality.

“My husband decides,” said Tina loyally. She attempted to sound forceful, but there was a waver in her voice.

“I have—we have—nothing whatsoever to fear or to hide in talking to you,” said Franks. “I understand from Scargo that you're making investigations into the Bahamian and Bermudan hotel company and also of the separate casino corporation involved in the Bahamas. Both are entirely properly run, bona fide companies that can withstand any sort of investigation or inquiry. You have the company records. From your examination of those you will know what I'm saying is the truth.”

His throat felt dry, and his anxiousness for a drink worsened.

Uninvited, Waldo eased himself into a chair, sitting awkwardly because he overflowed from it. From a briefcase as bulging and untidy as he was, Waldo took a file. Franks thought immediately how thick it looked. Waldo took a long time finding what he wanted, grinning up at last in satisfaction. “We've got problems,” said the FBI agent. “Big problems.”

Franks looked uncertainly at the American, frowning. Then he remembered Nicky Scargo's panicked telephone call—could it only really have been two nights before?—and said, outraged, “You've tapped my telephone!”

“No,” said Waldo, clearly unimpressed by Franks' anger. “You were in England when that call was made. We've got a wire on Nicky Scargo.”

“But why?” demanded Franks, instantly aware of the stupidity of the question.

“You're fronting for gangsters, Mr. Franks. You've set up a perfect company—two perfect companies, each relying on the other—through which mobsters like Pascara and Flamini and Dukes are cleaning their money.” Waldo paused, enjoying himself. “You've got the biggest car wash in town, Mr. Franks. You're cleaning up millions of dollars from numbers and from loan sharking and from prostitution and from drugs and from protection and from larceny. From where we're sitting, Mr. Franks, you seem a pretty important guy to an awful lot of people.…” Waldo stopped once more, looking toward Tina. “You, and your wife,” he finished.