Trevayne (26 page)

They weren’t figures! They weren’t numbers!

Only
people
.

Persons anonymous!

But that’s what Trevayne was after.

And Mario de Spadante had said a lot of people might have to hang.

People.

Persons anonymous.

Was he one of them?

James Goddard watched a bird—a sparrow hawk—dip suddenly downward and just as swiftly come up from behind the trees and catch the wind, soaring to the sky, no quarry in his beak.

“Jimmy!… Jimmeee!”

His wife’s voice—full-throated yet somehow nasal—always had the same effect on him, whether it was shouting from a window or talking over the dinner table.

Irritation.

“Yes?”

“Really, Jim, if you’re going to commune, for God’s sake put the telephone outside. I’m busy on
my
line.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Someone named de Spad … de Spadetti, or something; I don’t know! Some
wop
. He’s on ‘hold.’ ”

James Goddard took a last look at his precious view and started for the house.

At least one thing was clear. Mario de Spadante would be given the very best efforts a “bookkeeper” could provide. He would tell him digit by digit the areas of inquiry Trevayne had asked for; no one could fault a “bookkeeper” for that.

But Mario de Spadante would not be privy to the “bookkeeper’s” conclusions.

This “bookkeeper” was not for hanging.

Paul Bonner walked through the door of the cellar café. It was like a hundred other San Francisco basements-with-licenses. The amplified, ear-shattering sound from the tiny bandstand was an assault on his sensibilities—all of them—and the sight of the freaked-out, bare-breasted dancers no inducement.

The place was a mess.

He wondered what the effect might have been if he’d worn his uniform. As it was, he felt singularly out of place in a sport coat and denims. He quickly undid his paisley tie and stuffed it into his pocket.

The place was crazy with weed; more hash than “grass,” at that.

He went to the far end of the bar, took out a pack of cigarettes—French, Gauloise—and held them in his left hand. He ordered a bourbon—shouted his request, actually—and was surprised to find that the drink was an excellent sour mash.

He stood as best he could in one spot, jostled continually by the bearded drinkers and half-naked waitresses, a number of whom took second glances at his clean-shaven face and close-cropped hair.

Then he knew he saw him. Standing about eight feet
away in tie-dyed Levi’s and sandals, his shirt a variation of winter underwear. But there was something wrong with the hair, Bonner thought. It was shoulder-length and full, but there was something—a neatness, a sheen; that was it. The man’s hair was a wig. A very good wig, but by the nature of its in-place effect, inconsistent with the rest of his appearance.

Bonner unobtrusively raised the pack of Gauloise and lifted his glass in greeting.

The man approached, and when he stood next to Paul he leaned over and spoke through the noise close to Bonner’s ear.

“Nice place, isn’t it?”

“It’s … overwhelming. You look like you fit in, though. Are you sure you’re the right guy? No intermediaries; I made that clear.”

“These are my civilian clothes, Major.”

“Very appropriate. Now, let’s get out of here.”

“Oh, no, man! We stay. We talk here.”

“It’s impossible. Why?”

“Because I know what these vibes do to a pickup.”

“No tapes; no pickups. Come on, be reasonable. There’s no call for that sort of thing. Christ, I’d be frying myself.”

The unkempt mod with the neat hair looked closely at Bonner. “You’ve got a point, man. I hadn’t thought of it that way. You’ve
really
got a point!… The bread, please.”

Bonner replaced the Gauloises in his shirt pocket and then withdrew his wallet. He took out three one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the man. “Here.”

“Oh, come on, Major! Why don’t you write me a check?”

“What?”

“Get the bartender to change them.”

“He won’t do that.”

“Try.”

Bonner turned toward the bar and was surprised to see the bartender standing close by, watching the two of them. He smiled at the Major and held out his hand. Sixty seconds later Bonner was holding another assortment of bills—fives, tens, twenties. Three hundred dollars’ worth. He gave them to the contact.

“Okay. Let’s split, man. We’ll walk the streets, just like cowboys. But we’ll walk where
I
say, got it?”

“Understood.”

Out on O’Leary Lane the two men headed south, slowly weaving their way among what was left of the Haight-Ashbury tribes. The sidewalk stalls and curbside vendors noisily proclaimed the tribes’ acceptance of a laissez-faire economy. A lot of profit was being made on O’Leary Lane.

“I suppose, in line with your obvious cautions, you haven’t written anything down for me.”

“Of course not. Nothing to prevent
you
from taking notes, though. I remember everything.”

“That conference lasted damn near three hours.”

“I didn’t get to be Genessee Jim’s top accountant because of a bad memory, Major.” The long-haired man gestured left, toward an alley. “Let’s head in here. Not so frenetic.”

They leaned against a brick wall covered with semi-pornographic posters, mostly torn, all marked with graffiti; the light from the street lamps on O’Leary Lane was just enough to illuminate their faces. Bonner maneuvered his contact so the light was shining on him. Paul Bonner always watched a man’s face during interrogations—whether in the field or in a San Francisco alley.

“Where do you want to begin, man?”

“Forget the tea and cookies. Start with the major items; we’ll work back to the less important.”

“All right. In descending order.… The F-90’s overrun—specifically, the design conversions of fan metals mandated by innovations called for in the Houston labs. They were first conceived of because of the flap at Rolls-Royce, if you recall.”

“What about them?”

“What do you mean, what about them? Those inno’s had a price tag of one-zero-five mill; that’s what about them.”

“That’s no secret.”

“I didn’t say it was. But Trevayne’s crowd wanted to know dates. Maybe there was a time lag you people haven’t thought about.… But that’s not my bag. I’m no J. Edgar;
I provide data, you evaluate. Isn’t that what that honky used to say?”

“Go on.” Bonner had withdrawn a spiral notepad and began writing.

“Next. Down south, Pasadena.… The plants are eight months behind with the tool and dies for the big chopper armor plates. That’s a bad one, man. They’re so fucked up they’ll never find ozone. Labor troubles, pollution complaints, blueprint alterations, base-metal compos; you name it, they fell over it. Armbruster’s got to bail those plants out and still make it with the pure-breathers.”

“What did Trevayne want with this one?”

“Funny. He was sort of sympathetic. Honest mistakes, environment concerns; that kind of thing. He didn’t dwell on the bread; he seemed more interested in the boys who had the problems.… Next. Right here in our beloved Northwest Pack. The lines up south of Seattle. As you know, there’s a little diversification going on; Genessee took over the Bellstar Companies and has thrown a mighty tax chunk into making them work. So far, it’s a large pair of snake-eyes.”

“Those are the rocket plants, aren’t they?”

“Rockets, propulsion fuel, pads, launch tracks … the Peenemünde of the Pacific, as we affectionately call that mess.”

“They’re necessary. They’ve got to keep functioning …” Bonner caught himself.

“Ah, so, Mr. Moto!… Don’t burden me with evaluations, man. Remember?”

“I know; not your bag.… So what about them?”

“So they’re a loss leader, and I
do
mean the leader of the losses, Charlie. And for a very good reason that Trevayne suspects. Genessee has no business buying from itself.”

“That was thrown out of court.”

“My turn to evaluate.” The long-haired, wigged accountant laughed. “The court was thrown out of court. Because a few other people made evaluations.… Trevayne wants more information on Bellstar. Only, here again, like Pasadena and Houston, he’s mining some personnel files.
Frankly, I don’t dig; they’re not going to tell him anything. Wrong turn on his part. He doesn’t pass ‘Go.’ ”

Bonner wrote in his notebook. “Did he get any more specific?”

“No, man. He couldn’t. Your Mr. Trevayne is either very dull or very cozy.”

A drunk careened off the wall at the far end of the short alley. He was a tourist, obviously; dressed in a jacket, slacks, tie, and an American Legion barracks cap. He leaned against the brick, unzipped his trousers, and proceeded to urinate. The accountant turned to Bonner.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. The neighborhood’s going to hell. And if that’s a tail, Major, I’ll grant you’re imaginative.”

“You may not believe this,
man
, but I hate those professional heroes.”

“I believe you, man. You look like you hate good.… I know a quiet mahogany a few blocks west. We’ll finish up there.”

“Finish up! We haven’t begun! I figure you’ve got about two hundred and ninety dollars to go.…
Man!
”

“We’ll make it, soldier-boy.”

An hour and ten minutes later, Bonner had just about filled his small spiral pad with notes. He was getting his three hundred dollars’ worth—at least in terms of the accountant’s recollections. The man was amazing; he was capable—if he was to be believed—of recalling exact phrases, specific words.

What it all meant would be up to someone else, however. All Bonner could make of the information was that Trevayne and Company covered a lot of ground but didn’t do much digging. However, again, that could be an erroneous conclusion on his part.

Others would know better.

“That about does it, Major,” said the Genessee executive from under the long, false hair. “Hope it gets you a pair of ‘birds’; that is, if you’re really a soldier type and not some kind of crusading nut.”

“Suppose I was the latter?”

“Then I hope you nail G.I.C.”

“You can be flexible, I see.”

“Pure rubber. I’ve got the objectives of a scavenging mongrel.
I’m
my cause.”

“That must be nice to live with.”

“Very comfortable.… And I’ve got you boys to thank for that comfort.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes, man! A few years ago I
really
dressed like this. I mean, I meant it! Protests, peace marches, walkathons for the dried-up Ganges, every man was my brother—black, white, and yellow; I was going to change the world.… Then you mothers sent me to ’Nam. Bad scene, man. I got half my stomach blown out. And for what? The pious, plastic men with their square-jawed bullshit?”

“I’d think that kind of experience might have renewed your energies; to change the world, I mean.”

“Maybe some, not me. I lost too much meat around the middle; I paid my dues. The saints are pimps, and Jesus Christ is not a superstar. It’s
all
a bad scene. I want mine.”

Bonner rose from the small, dirty barroom table. “I’ll pass the word. Maybe they’ll make you president of Genessee Industries.”

“It’s not out of the question.… And, soldier, I meant what I said. I want mine. If Trevayne’s in the market, I’ll let him bid; I want you to know that.”

“It could be dangerous for you. I might have to blow out the other half of your stomach. I wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.… But I’m fair about such things. I’ll call you first and give you a chance to meet the price.… If he’s in the market, that is.”

Bonner looked at the accountant’s enigmatic smile and the somewhat crazy expression on his face. The Major wondered whether the evening was one hell of a mistake. The Genessee man was toying with him in a very unhealthy way. Bonner leaned over, his hands gripping the sides of the table, and spoke firmly but calmly.

“If I were you, I’d be awfully careful about fishing on both sides of the river. The natives can get very unfriendly.”

“Relax, Major. I just wanted to see you spin; you spin
like a top.… No sweat. I like what’s left of my stomach.… Ciao.”

Paul pushed himself up. He hoped he’d never have to see this strange, unhealthy young man again. He was the worst type of informer—and usually the best at his job: a sewer rat who scurried around the tunnels of filth and had no fear of the sunlight, only a certain disdain. His only commitment being himself.

But then, he’d admitted that.

“Ciao.”

The young attorney, Sam Vicarson, had never seen Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a silly thing to want to do, he supposed, but he’d promised himself. And now he had two hours to himself, before the five-thirty session in Trevayne’s room. The subcommittee chairman had called the two hours a bonus for extraordinarily good behavior during the Genessee conference.

Sam Vicarson suggested they be given Academy Awards instead.

The taxi pulled up to a clam bar with baskets filled with seaweed and large hemp nets piled in front.

“This is where the wharf begins, mister. Straight north, along the waterfront. Do you want to go to someplace special? Di Maggio’s maybe?”

“No, thanks: this’ll be fine.”

Vicarson paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. He was immediately aware of the heavy odor of fish, and wondered—since the whole area had a contrived appearance—if it was piped in. He smiled to himself as he started down the street with the curio shops and the “atmosphere” bars, the fishing boats bobbing up and down in their slips, nets everywhere. A half-mile travelogue prepared by a very knowledgeable Chamber of Commerce.

It was going to be fun. It was going to be a fun two hours.

He wandered into a number of shops, and for laughs sent postcards to several cynical friends—the most atrocious postcards he could find. He bought Trevayne and Alan Martin two grotesque little flashlights about three inches long and shaped like sharks; the mouths lit up by pressing the dorsal fins.

He strolled out to the far end of a pier, where the boats had an authentic look about them; or, more correctly, the men around them seemed intent on making their living from the water, not from the tourists. He started back, stopping every twenty yards or so to watch the various crews unload their catches, hose down the slicks. The fish were fascinating. Different shapes; odd speckling of colors amidst the predominant grays; the lidless eyes so wide, so blank, so dead yet knowing.