Two Jakes (35 page)

He
gave her a brief rundown of what had happened, leaving little out.

“Perhaps
I spoke too hastily,” she said when he finished.

“Call
Dudley and see if he’s free for lunch tomorrow. Then book me a late afternoon
or evening flight to Miami. Get me a room in South Beach, preferably the
Delano.”

“I
take it this time you won’t need your golf clubs.”

CHAPTER
44 – THE FINAL ONE KILLS

Jean
Georges was in the lobby level of Donald Trump’s International Hotel and Tower
at 1 Central Park West. With floor-to-ceiling windows facing the park, its
airy, modern décor was all angles and light. But what set the restaurant apart
was the food, simple dishes elegantly prepared by Jean-George Vongerichten
himself. Scarne and Sealth ordered the prix fixed dinner, which featured
venison with spring fruits and vegetables. Sealth asked if he could see the
wine list. He looked up at the hovering sommelier and said, “Let’s have the
2002 Hawks View Pinot Noir.”

“You
came 3,000 miles to arguably the best French restaurant in New York,” Scarne
said, “and you want a California wine?”

“It’s
from Oregon, Willamette Valley. You’ll love it.”

“Your
friend knows his wines, sir,” the sommelier remarked. “It is perfect for the
venison. We only have a couple of bottles. I’ll put them aside.”

“I
spent a year in France on an Interpol exchange program with the
Sûreté Nationale,” Sealth said. “I got into wines
over there and try to keep up back home. Turns out Oregon has pretty ideal
climate for the Pinot Noir grape, which is very cantankerous.”

“How
did you like working with French flics?”

“I
liked it fine. Tough guys and smart, most of them. Not like Inspector Clouseau.
More like that detective in
Day of the Jackal
, the first one. Anyway,
it’s a different legal system, but the French police are first-rate. Their
Government can be stupid, but they don’t have the monopoly on that, do they?
People are nice enough if you make the effort. I tend to give the frogs a bit
of a slide just because I think I might have a bit of French trapper blood in
me. Course, the women are wonderful. Almost married one.”

Scarne
raised his eyebrows.

“I
met her at a party the Interpol guys gave us. We went out for almost the whole
time I was in Paris.”

He
paused while the waiter returned with their wine. Sealth tasted it, and nodded.
They both drank after the man left.

“So
what happened,” Scarne said. “Great wine, by the way.”

“Seattle
ain’t Paris.”

Sealth
stared into his wine, lost in thought.

“Any
chance you’d trade Seattle for Paris?”

“Not
then. I was an up-and-comer, poised to make the great leap to Homicide, a real
coup for somebody like me. Hard to throw that away. Timing is everything, ain’t
it? Anyway, that ship has sailed. It’s been five years. We exchange Christmas
cards.”

“May
mean you’re not the only one carrying a torch.”

“Who
says I’m carrying a torch?”

“It’s
written all over your face, Noah. Don’t be defensive. You didn’t mention her
boobs, or how great the sex was. She still means something to you. I’m the last
guy to be giving advice, but why don’t you go for it? How many hagfish homicides
do you want in your life? I don’t see a wedding ring.”

Their
food came and they made small talk. It turned out that Scarne was right about
Sealth’s bloodlines. When the big cop found out that Scarne had Cheyenne in
him, he loosened up again.

“Jesus,
between the two of us we could start a casino,” he said. “I’ve got some
Duwamish or Suquamish in the woodpile. The original Noah Sealth was Chief
Seattle, who signed the treaty that gave all the tribal lands to the white man
before the Civil War, not that he had much choice. I don’t know if I come by
the name Sealth legitimately or it was adopted by one of my slave ancestors who
went west and married a squaw. Like I said, the Injun’ blood had been diluted
by French trappers somewhere along the way, hopefully voluntarily.”

They
skipped dessert in favor of Armagnac and coffee.

“I
want to tell you something I didn’t tell the feds, Noah.”

“Here
it comes. I hope I don’t have to arrest you. I’m getting to like you.”

“You
keep forgetting your jurisdictional problem. Besides, if stupidity was a crime,
you’d already have cuffed me.”

Scarne
told him about the sex video. Sealth’s shoulders shook with suppressed
laughter.

“I’m
sorry, but you just made my day. And you’re giving me advice about women!
Somebody has got you by the short hairs. What now?”

“I’m
going to find out why they don’t want to whack me outright, just get me off the
case. The video not only discredits me, it also provides a rationale for
Sheldon’s suicide.”

“You
don’t think it’s possible that the video, pardon the expression, sent him over
the edge?”

“Why
would he be carrying it around? I don’t believe he ever saw the damn thing.
Keitel must have planted it at the scene after he killed him.”

“You
think the broa – I mean Loeb – knew about the video?”

“If
she did, I’d like to think she would have told me after I saved her life. I’m
certain the room change was news to her. If she were in on it, why the charade?
But I guess I can’t be completely sure. She’s an unusual woman.”

“Do
you love her?”

Scarne
sat back and twirled his brandy glass.

“Yeah.”

“Then
you really are between a rock and a hard-on. At the very least she’s complicit
in covering up financial crimes and maybe turning a blind eye to murder. At the
worst, she’s ordering the murdering. She may love you, which may be the only
reason you are still alive. And that could change. She could decide you are not
worth the risk. Women can be more practical than us in that regard. To them, if
it can’t be, it ain’t. Or somebody could decide that for her, or the both of
you. That whole organization seems unstable to me. Getting careless or
arrogant, or both. Either is dangerous. In combination they are fatal. Maybe to
you.”

Sealth
sipped his Armagnac.

“You
want my advice? Forget her. Forget what happened. Take whatever the Shields
family throws at you. Better to lose your license than wind up with a hagfish
up your ass. You still have friends in high places. You’ll bounce back. Let the
Feds handle Ballantrae. It’s a miracle you’re not dead already. You want to
hear my odds on another miracle? And I don’t care if you are part Cheyenne and
part Sicilian. The Basque have a saying: ‘Every hour wounds, but the final one
kills.’ The secret is putting off that final hour, my friend.”

The
waiter appeared. Somewhat to Scarne’s surprise, Sealth made an honest effort to
split the check.

“Buy
me dinner next time I’m in Seattle,” Scarne said, grabbing the bill.

“It
was a one-time offer, dickwad,” Sealth said.

***

Outside
on the sidewalk, Scarne turned to Sealth.

“I
told you about the video because I may need your help.”

“What
a surprise.”

“I
want to turn Alana. If I can get her to testify against Ballantrae and the
others in the Brutti killing, can you claim jurisdiction in Seattle? I want her
clear of the Feds to start. Once you have her, she may even be able to bargain
for witness protection with them. They want Ballantrae. You get Garza. I’m sure
Keitel will take a fall, too. Then everybody is happy.”

“And
why do I need you? I’ll get them eventually.”

“Eventually
is a long time. And no offense to Seattle’s finest, but you don’t have the
resources the Feds have. We both know they’re going to cut you out just as soon
as they can. Brutti’s sister is a sideshow to them. I have an edge right now
with Alana. I want to get her clear, but whatever happens I’m going to beat the
Feds to the punch. You can go along for the ride. We have a deal?”

Sealth
looked disgusted.

“Yeah.
Why not? Can’t deny a condemned man’s last wish.”

CHAPTER
45 – MACK’S RULES

Scarne
spent the next morning tying up a loose end. A few calls located one of the
detectives who was at the scene of Sheldon’s death. He grudgingly told Scarne
that there was a witness who claimed Sheldon Shields was pushed.

“Didn’t
you pursue it?”

The
silence told Scarne he could have phrased it better.

“Hell,
no. We always let murderers go. Especially when they push old men in front of
the downtown local. We rushed it because we were out of donuts. You fucking
P.I.’s are all the same.”

“Sorry.”

“Of
course we ‘pursued’ it. But the girl’s description didn’t pan out. Nobody else
saw anything and the family told us the guy was probably despondent. We put a
little extra on it because of who he was, but there was nothing. What’s your
interest in this again? You got something for us?”

“Sheldon
Shields was my client. I’m not sure it was an accident.”

“Wait
a minute. You’re the guy on the family’s shit list, right? What’s the matter?
The old guy’s check didn’t clear?”

“I
don’t suppose you could give me the girl’s name?”

“Blow
me.”

Reluctantly,
Scarne called Dick Condon at home. After reciting a long list of Scarne’s
shortcomings, the Commissioner said he would do what he could.

“Her
name is Nancy Lopez,” Condon said without preamble when he called back. “You
can skip the golf jokes. Take down this number.” He gave it. “I had to speak to
the detective personally to pry it out of him. He figured it was you who was
asking. Don’t think I’ve ever come that close to being told to go fuck myself
by a second-grade. Guy has balls. I like that. Thinks you’re an asshole.
Another plus in his favor. Anything else you need? Luckily, I don’t have much
to do as Commissioner.”

“Thanks,
Dick. I owe you.”

“Yes,
you do. Although you may not be able to repay me anytime soon. Randolph Shields
wants your head on a platter. He went to our mutual friend on the City Council.
I’d lay low. Maybe leave town for a while.”

“I’m
heading to Miami.”

“That’s
still in this hemisphere. Try harder.”

***

“Who
are you again?”

Nancy
Lopez’s voice on the phone was polite, but suspicious.

“My
name is Scarne. I’m investigating the death of Sheldon Shields, the man you saw
fall in front of a subway train.”

“I
told the other cops everything. They didn’t believe me.”

“I
don’t think it’s a question of the police not believing you. Nobody else saw what
you did. But now some facts have popped up. I believe you, and that’s all that
counts.”

The
girl, briefly and succinctly, described how a man pushed Sheldon onto the
tracks. She was staring right at him when it happened. There was no mistake.
What did the man look like? Again, she gave a solid description of what little
she saw of the assailant. It meant nothing to the cops but she could have been
describing the man who followed Scarne into the church. Scarne smiled grimly.
Keitel.

“You’ve
been very helpful. The Police Department could use you.”

“That’s
what my boyfriend says. He’s a cop. Met him the day of the subway thing, in
fact. I’m gonna switch to John Jay. I hope you get the prick – uh, sorry – the
perp who pushed the old man.”

“Don’t
worry about it, Miss Lopez.”

***

“Now,
why do I find myself agreeing with everything a tomahawk-throwing cop says, and
nothing you say?” Dudley Mack took a bite of his roast beef sandwich. “What the
fuck is the matter with you?”

“I
don’t think he throws tomahawks,” Scarne said.

They
were standing at the bar in Fraunces Tavern, a New York landmark that was a
favorite of George Washington and earned its patriotic stripes honestly when a
British frigate put a cannonball through its roof. The restaurant was also a
favorite of Mack’s, especially on weekends when there were no loud Wall Street
brokers at the bar. When Scarne had arrived the few tourists walking by were
casting nervous glances at Bobo Sambuca leaning against Mack’s Lincoln Town out
front. No wonder, Scarne mused as he waved hello; Bobo looked like he could
catch a cannonball.

“Whatever,”
Mack said. “Sealth sounds like a smart cop. If he thinks you’re going to get
killed, that’s probably the way it’s going down.”

In
addition to his sandwich, slathered in horseradish sauce, Dudley was sipping
Jameson’s. After a decent night’s sleep, Scarne was feeling, if not quite
human, at least like a primate. But he wasn’t quite up to drinking Irish
whiskey for lunch. He sipped his Diet Coke and picked at a chicken pot pie.

“I
know the Loeb broad got inside your head, Jake, but come on. Life isn’t
Casablanca
.”

“Pick
another movie. Bogart gave up Ingrid Bergman.”

“With
much less reason. My point is, you keep ignoring Mack’s three laws. They bear
repeating. Never play poker with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called
Mom's. And never, ever, sleep with a woman with troubles worse than your own.”

“What
happened to pissing into the wind?”

“Sometimes
that can’t be helped,” Mack said and took another dainty bite. It always amazed
Scarne that his friend had excellent table manners. He even dabbed a bit of
horseradish at a corner of his mouth.

“You
stole the line about women from Nelson Algren.”

“So
what? I didn’t spend all my time in college getting laid. And I bet old Nelson
stole it from someone else. But you’re the one proving us right.”

He
put down his sandwich, took a sip of whiskey and placed a hand on Scarne’s
shoulder.

“Let
me recap. There is a porn video of you that will probably be on You Tube. You
strangled a mobster who was trying to avenge a sister who was eaten by an eel.
Your girlfriend and her boss may be homicidal maniacs with two professional
assassins on the payroll. Said assassins may have pushed your elderly client in
front of the downtown local. The FBI is all over your shit. You’re probably
going to lose your license. I left out a couple of killings, but I have a ferry
to catch.”

“Well,
when you put it that way.”

“Don’t
be a smartass. What do you hope to accomplish? And please, don’t give me any
bullshit about honor, or a damsel in distress. We both know that ain’t the
case. You just have to see this through with her to the end.”

“How
about revenge?”

“You
son of a bitch. You know I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.”

“You
don’t mind if I restore a little of my honor along the way, do you?”

“Just
don’t let it cloud your judgment, kemosabe. Come on, finish up. I want to make
a call before we take you to the airport. I know you won’t be smart enough to
take Bobo with you, but there are some people in Miami who can help you. Can’t
let you get in any more knife fights unarmed, can I?”

***

On
the flight to Miami, Scarne considered his options. He knew that it might be
months, even years, before the Government made a case against Ballantrae that
could stick. And they might never succeed. Administrations changed. All Casey
and Valledolmo had were unsubstantiated rumors and dead bodies. And dead bodies
can’t testify. The Feds had been right. He did Ballantrae a favor by killing
Brutti. Well-paid lawyers and lobbyists could probably explain away everything
else. It wasn’t likely the Mafia or the Ukrainians would turn state’s evidence.
He thought about that. What would the mobsters do now? And what should he do
about Alana?

It
occurred to him that it didn’t matter what anyone else did at this point. With
both Josh and Sheldon Shields dead, and himself disgraced and ostracized by the
family, Scarne knew he had to bring Ballantrae down, and quickly, before
Randolph Shields made good on his threat to ruin him. But how? The only way,
and it was a long shot, would be to find out what Josh had discovered about
Ballantrae, if anything.

Since
most writers were paranoid, he was willing to bet that Josh had backed up his
files. Perhaps the killers missed something. The backup could be anywhere, but
the likeliest place was the Miami apartment. Scarne’s initial search of the
flat, before the case turned so murderous, had been desultory. Now he was
determined to tear the place apart. Fortunately, Randolph Shields had not asked
for the keys back. Maybe he didn’t know where Scarne had stayed. He figured he
had a couple of days before the lawyers started going through Sheldon’s affairs
and contacted La Gorce’s management.

***

Scarne’s
plane landed in Miami at 7 P.M. and he asked his cab driver to find the nearest
Home Depot. Telling the cabbie to wait, he went in and bought a small tool kit.
He then had the cab drop him at the Intercontinental Hotel on Biscayne
Boulevard. He walked through the lobby into the open restaurant area beyond. A waiter
came and he ordered coffee and a club sandwich. There were avocado slices under
the turkey. He was almost finished when a small, very thin man wearing white
slacks and a colorful short-sleeve shirt walked over. It was exactly 9 P.M.

“Mr.
Scarne?”

Scarne
nodded and the man sat and placed a small toiletry bag on the table.

“Welcome
to Miami.”

He
didn’t offer his name or his hand. Scarne gestured toward the pot of coffee and
the man poured himself a cup.

“You
don’t look like a Sambuca,” Scarne said.

“I
married one.”

Since
the Sambuca women were only slightly smaller versions of the males of the
family, Scarne suppressed a mental image of the marriage bed. Probably a
sawed-off shotgun wedding or a career move.

“Nice
bag,” Scarne said. It was a Louis Vuitton. He lifted it. “Feels like you
overdid the toothpaste.”

The
man flashed a small grin, for half a second. He leaned slightly forward.

“The
automatic is a .380 Bersa, with a Brugger & Hock silencer. They call it
their ‘Thunder’ model.” He shrugged. “Don’t know who they’re trying to impress.
It’s basically a Walther by another name, made in Argentina. Figures, the place
is lousy with Krauts. But it’s a very good piece. Better than a Walther, in my
opinion. It’s got a blowback action like the Walther but it won’t knick your
hand on recoil. That’s a problem with the Walther.” He held up his right hand
in a shooting pose and used the index figure of his left hand to rub a spot
near the back of his right index finger. “See these little scars? Those are
Walther bites. Can make you gun shy. Think too much about it and you’ll miss
what you’re aiming at. Bersa engineered the bite out. Amazing for a gun so
light. Easy carry, only weighs 23 ounces without the silencer.”

He
saw the look on Scarne’s face.

“Don’t
worry. It’s a solid piece of metal. You know what they say. ‘A .380 in your
pocket is better than a .45 in the truck.’ They kept the weight down with the
magazine. It only holds seven rounds, plus the one in the chamber. But it has
straight-in chambering, which means it takes the best hollow points. You need
more than eight hollows you’re in big fucking trouble, friend.”

“Don’t
some of these lighter guns have a tendency to jam with hollows?”

The
man nodded approvingly.

“Yeah,
some new Bersas jam in the first couple of dozen rounds, until the recoil
spring gets broken in. Then, never again. Weird. Don’t worry about this one.”
He deadpanned. “Spring’s broken in.”

“Ammo?”

“I
gave you two boxes of Cor-Bon 90 grains, hollow, and two extra magazines, in
case you run up against Tom Cruise. You ever notice how he kills five guys
shooting at him with Uzis and he’s only got a pistol.”

“Probably
has a Bersa.”

“Yeah,
whatever. Ammo velocity without the silencer is 965 feet per second, 12 feet
from the muzzle. At 25 yards, it will group just under three inches. Closer
than that, even Stevie Wonder can’t miss.”

“You
know your guns.”

“This
is Miami.”

The
man got up to leave.

“By
the way, there is toothpaste in there, brush, disposable razors, other stuff.
Thought you might need them.”

“Thanks.”

“Gun’s
clean. No serial numbers. Keep it or fish it. Good luck.”

Scarne
finished eating and walked out to the cab line in front of the hotel.

***

The
Delano, among the most beautiful hotels in Miami Beach, was a favorite of
Scarne’s. It was noted for severe but luxurious rooms, all done in white, as
well as the flowing white floor-to-ceiling drapes and soaring columns in its
famous indoor/outdoor lobby and common areas. Even the staff wore white. Scarne
thought that only the brightly colored Dali furniture prevented snow blindness.
He went up to his room and unpacked. A half hour later he was sound asleep. It
was going to be a busy Sunday.