Singapore Wink (9 page)

Cole smiled slightly. “I see,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if deciding about how much he could safely tell. “I came to Washington in 1936—the year you were born, I believe. And despite my rather excellent education, I was, as they say, grass green. I needed a mentor, someone to guide me through the bureaucratic and political maze. I told them that I needed this and they quickly found just the man.”

“You've been using ‘they' and ‘them,'” I said. “I've asked who they are before, but I've never got a satisfactory answer. Who are ‘they,' the outfit, the organization, the mob, the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra? Is there a name for them and they?”

Cole smiled again, even more slightly than before. “It's a peculiarly American trait, I suppose, this insistence upon a descriptive noun. It was poor old Joe Valachi who called it the Cosa Nostra because the Government was pressing him to give them a title. So one Narcotics Bureau Agent said ‘cosa' and Valachi came back with ‘nostra,' and they ran with it from there. Of course, if two persons of Italian descent were speaking about a mutual project, they might say,
‘Questa è una cosa nostra,'
but they would really be saying, “This is an affair of ours.' They certainly wouldn't be saying ‘I am a member of “our thing” or “our affair.”'”

“What about the Mafia?” I said. “Or is that old hat?”

“It implies a Sicilian organization, and although there are certain ties with it in Sicily—Luciano during World War II, for example—there is no Mafia as such in the United States.”

“What is there then?”

“A group of totally amoral businessmen of Italian and Sicilian descent who control the vast majority of organized illegal activities that go on in this nation. They don't call themselves anything.”

“And they are the ones you turned to in 1936 when you needed your mentor or guide?”

Cole tapped his cigar ash into a tray. “Yes. They were the ones who sent me through college and law school. When I told them that I needed a guide, they promptly secured me a full partnership in a most respectable Washington law firm, the same one in which I'm now senior partner, Harrington, Mecklin, and Cole.”

“Mecklin I've heard of,” I said.

“He almost became a Supreme Court judge.”

“What happened?”

“Harrington had died by the time I came along in 1936. Mecklin, unfortunately for him, was a compulsive gambler. Everything. Horses, poker and bridge, but especially poker. So one evening at a most respectable club here in Washington my sponsors, shall we call them, slipped a mechanic into the game and he took Mr. Mecklin for around fifty thousand dollars that night. Another game was arranged later in the same week, and Mecklin dropped seventy-five thousand dollars. The mechanic, who was also a consummate confidence man, as most of them are, agreed to yet another game to give Mecklin a chance to win. This time he dropped ninety thousand dollars and, of course, he couldn't pay. The confidence man grew impatient, threatened exposure, and my sponsors hurriedly came to the rescue with a loan which enabled Mecklin to pay off the debt in full. However, my sponsors grew just as impatient for full repayment and when Mecklin was unable to meet their, shall we say, rather importunate demands, they suggested that the firm take me in as a full partner.”

“Then it cost them around $215,000 to get you a partnership,” I said.

Cole chuckled his pleasant sound. “Not at all. It cost them only a thousand or so for the con man's services. The money that they lent Mecklin to pay off his debts was promptly returned to them by the con man.”

“Then what happened?”

“Word got around, as it always does, and Roosevelt changed his mind about Mecklin. The man grew absolutely bitter. He began to take an almost perverse delight in plunging into legal tangles whose outcome could only embarrass the administration. More often than not, he was successful, and he took me along with him. He taught me the art of accommodation and compromise and believe me, Mr. Cauthorne, they are most valuable skills.”

“I don't quite follow you,” I said.

“Every so often, a crusader dons his sword and buckler and journeys forth against the infidel who goes by the name of organized crime. In the early 1950's, it was the good Senator Kefauver. Then Senator McClelland tilted his lance against the same foe in the 1960's and later in the decade along came the Task Force on Organized Crime, appointed by the President.”

“I remember,” I said. “I also remember that nothing much happened.”

“After the rather tawdry findings of each of these investigations were released, there was a brief public outcry, a kind of ‘My, isn't that awful and why don't they do something about it' type of outcry, if you will.”

“But not much else,” I said.

“Very little, and for very good reason, too. You see the law enforcement agencies, state and local as well as federal, are perfectly aware of what's going on and who's profiting from it. They have, over the years, worked out a degree of accommodation with those responsible, a tacit understanding concerning territories and scope of operation. In exchange for the discipline which my sponsors, as I've referred to them, are capable of exercising, the law enforcement authorities are content to compromise on some minor but essential points—so long as they know where the ultimate responsibility lies. One of my principal tasks is to maintain this
détente
.”

“And a few hundred thousand dollars can work miracles,” I said.

“A few million, you should say.”

“And you have it to offer?” I asked.

“Yes, I have it to offer, but not quite in the way or to the persons whom you might suspect. Suppose I wanted to influence a Senator in behalf of a client so that the Senator would influence someone else. There would never be a direct approach. It would come instead from the Senator's bank or a chief political supporter or even from another Senator whose own bank might be exerting similar pressure on him. It's all quite indirect.”

“But eventually somebody, somewhere gets bribed.”

“For every corruptor there must be a corruptee and in the thirty-three years that I've spent in Washington I have seen money accepted greedily by some most respectable persons up to and including those of cabinet rank.”

“You do a nice lecture on morality,” I said, “but none of it explains how Angelo Sacchetti is blackmailing you, does it? And why tell me all the secrets? I'm no confession booth.”

Cole was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly as if again debating with himself about how much more he could safely say. “I'm telling you the details, Mr. Cauthorne, because it is one way, perhaps the only way, that you will be impressed with the importance and gravity of what I'm going to ask you to do. I promise to be as brief as possible, but when I'm through I think you'll realize the utter seriousness of the present situation. Only my complete frankness can convince you of that.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll listen.”

“Good,” he said and paused again as if trying to remember the thread of his tale. “My former partner, the late Mr. Mecklin, realized quickly what had happened to him. He was not a fool, but his bitterness towards the administration caused him to plunge into the affairs of my sponsors in an almost gleeful manner. He became obsessed with their potential ability to exercise power, and power was all that really ever interested Mecklin other than gambling. So he advised them to diversify.”

“And they did?”

“Not at first. They were reluctant to take advice from one whom they considered to be an outsider. After Mecklin died I advised them to do the same thing, and they did. They went into the stock market, into banking, into manufacturing, and a number of other legitimate enterprises.”

Cole paused. I waited for him to continue. When he did, his voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

“During our years together, Mecklin grew quite fond of me and he once said, quite early in our association, in fact, ‘Protect your flanks, son. Records. Keep records of everything. Tangible evidence, Charlie, will be your only protection when they finally turn on you and, by God, they will.'”

“You followed his advice, I take it.”

“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, I did. I have been counselor or, if you prefer the more romantic title,
consigliere,
to my sponsors for nearly thirty years. It has not always been a harmonious relationship, of course. There were some who opposed me.”

“What happened to them?”

Cole smiled and when he did, I could almost feel sorry for whomever he was thinking of. “Several of them were deported when the authorities suddenly discovered that they were not really born in the United States as they had claimed. Others were arrested, convicted, and sentenced to rather lengthy prison terms on the basis of new evidence that mysteriously came into the hands of the appropriate law enforcement agencies.”

“The evidence was carefully documented, of course.”

“Most carefully. It was always sufficient to provide an airtight case.”

“It's nice to know that sometimes you cooperate with our national guardians,” I said.

“They have learned to live with me—and I with them. Actually, we both seek the same ultimate goal—a rational structure for illegal activities.”

“And this is where Angelo Sacchetti comes into the picture?”

“Indeed he does, Mr. Cauthorne. You may not know that Angelo and I were never close despite my being his godfather, which has an unusually deep significance among my sponsors. I tried to educate him, but that failed miserably. He was expelled from three colleges and whenever that happened, he turned up in New York where my sponsors promptly spoiled him with too much money and too many women. They thought he was wonderful while I couldn't abide him—even when he was a child. I was more than happy when he decided to enter the motion picture industry. He wanted to be an actor. God knows he had the looks, but unfortunately he couldn't act.”

“So I've heard,” I said. “I've also heard that he was a complete ham. That's probably the real reason he winked when he went over; he couldn't bear to keep the act to himself.”

“You are quite probably right,” Cole said. “At any rate after he moved to Los Angeles he sometimes flew into Washington, usually to borrow money which, for foolish, sentimental reasons, I quite readily lent him. At least I did until a little over two years ago.”

“Why did you stop?”

Cole shrugged. “I didn't really. I merely asked him when he intended to repay the sums that he had already borrowed. He went into a total rage and stormed out of the room. This very room, in fact.”

“Then what?”

“He left that same night, quite suddenly, but not empty-handed.”

“He took something of yours with him?”

“Yes.”

“Something you'd like back?”

“Yes again.”

“What?” I said.

“There is a safe in this room—or there was. Angelo simply opened it, probably in search of cash. He found something better. Microfilmed records. As I've said, I keep meticulous records.”

“How did he open the safe, with a nail file?”

Cole sighed and shook his head. “Angelo is not stupid. When he wanted to learn, he could, and my sponsors and their associates in New York were willing teachers when he visited them. He learned a great many things from them and one of the things that he learned was how to open a safe. I had suddenly been called out of town; the servants were asleep, and Angelo simply blew it open.”

I rose and walked over to the cut-glass brandy bottle and poured myself another drink without asking. Then I moved over to the fireplace and watched the apple logs burn for a while. After a time, I turned to Cole who was watching me carefully.

“I can understand most of it,” I said. “Angelo found out that you were providing evidence on a more or less regular basis to the police or the FBI or God knows who. If your associates or sponsors or whatever you call them found out about it, you'd live another day, possibly two. So Angelo blackmails you out of nearly a million dollars which you paid and probably didn't miss too much. But what I don't understand is why Angelo pretended to die, nor do I understand why you've suddenly decided that I can do something to get you off the hook.”

“I'm afraid it's a little complicated, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“Most things involving a million dollars are.”

“Yes, they are, aren't they? But let's take you first. What I want you to do is fairly simple. I want you to find Angelo Sacchetti, retrieve the missing records, and return them to me. For this I am willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

“In Los Angeles, it was only twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“The matter has become more urgent since then.”

“Urgent enough to double the price?”

“Yes. Plus expenses, of course.”

“All right, let's say I accept.”

“I hope that you will.”

“I haven't yet, but let's say that I do. Where do I find Angelo?”

“In Singapore.”

I stared at Cole. “You mean he was always in Singapore?”

Cole shook his head. “No, after he disappeared and pretended to be dead, he went to Cebu City in the Philippines. From there I understand that he went to Hong Kong and then established his present operation some eighteen months ago in Singapore.”

“What operation?”

Cole sighed and stared into the fire. “With the help of my reluctant financing and with the knowledge of tactics and procedure that he learned from my sponsors in New York, Angelo Sacchetti now runs a rather smooth operation in Singapore.”

“What kind?”

“Name it. He's introduced numbers; he is most prominent in the loansharking business, and he has branched out lately into business insurance, or so I understand.”