Scruff

  “That was Walter Madison. I wish I hadn’t promised to play fair. His partners don’t want the Bonner case, even if it means losing me as a client; which Walter told them, of course, it wouldn’t.”

  “There’s such a thing as changing your mind.”

  “I might do that. Their reasoning’s fatuous. They respect the prosecution’s case and have none for the defendant.”

  “Why is that fatuous?”

  “They haven’t heard, nor do they wish to hear, the defendant’s story. They don’t want to get involved; clients to protect, including me.”

  “That’s fatuous.… However, I think we can turn the hysterical newshound into an enthusiastic character witness for the maligned Major; that is, if we want to. The least we can do is shut him up.”

  “Bruce?”

  “In lavender spades.”

  Vicarson’s research had been accomplished with comparative ease. The man’s name was Alexander Coffey. The Asian Affairs Bureau at the Pentagon—that is, the officer in charge at A.A.B.—recalled that Roderick Bruce had brought to his attention Coffey’s background. And A.A.B. had been happy to catch the Ph.D. Far East scholars were hard to come by. The officer was, of course, saddened about the Chung Kal operation, but apparently some good had come out of it. At least, that’s what he’d been told. It was always dangerous to put a research analyst into a combat situation.… He gave Coffey’s file to Sam.

  Vicarson had then gone to the Smithsonian Far East Archives. The head archivist there remembered Coffey clearly. The young man was a brilliant scholar but an obvious homosexual. It had surprised the archivist that Coffey hadn’t used his deviation to avoid being drafted, but since his future would be involved with foundations, and foundations were conservative organizations, by and large, the Smithsonian assumed Coffey didn’t want the proof on record. Also, the archivist had the suspicion that Coffey knew someone who could steer him into a pleasant military assignment. The man had heard that Coffey was stationed in Washington, and so presumed his suspicions were correct. He obviously didn’t know about Coffey’s death at Chung Kal, and Vicarson did not bother to tell him. The archivist showed him Coffey’s identification card. On it was an address on 21st Street, Northwest, and the name of a roommate.

  As Vicarson learned, a former roommate.

  The roommate still blamed the “rich-bitch” Coffey had moved in with for Alex’s death. Alex never told him who it was, but “he came around often enough—to get away from that awful glutton.” Alexander Coffey “came around” in new clothes, a new car, and new jewelry. He also came with news that his benefactor had arranged the perfect “situation” in the Army that wouldn’t require even one day of barracks, one day out of Washington. A simple exchange of clothes for the daytime, and the uniform would be custom-made in soft flannel. It was, according to Alex, the “perfect solution” for his career. Even an Army commission thrown into the bargain. What foundation could refuse him? And then he was “hijacked,” probably “betrayed” by the “rich-bitch.”

  Vicarson had heard enough. He drove out to Arlington and saw Paul Bonner.

  Bonner remembered Coffey. He had respected him; liked him, actually. The young man had an extraordinary knowledge of the north Cambodian tribes and came up with ingenious suggestions as to how to implement religious symbols in initial contacts. A bold method of operation never considered before.

  One aspect of Coffey’s joining the unit stood out in Bonner’s memory. The man was totally soft, completely alien to the demands that would be made upon him in the hills. Probably a faggot, too. As a result of this knowledge, Bonner drove him hard, relentlessly. Not that six weeks would make up for a lifetime, but perhaps enough could be instilled to help him in a pinch.

  But it hadn’t been enough, and Coffey was captured in a “scramble.” Bonner blamed himself for not having been tougher with the scholar; but as a professional, he couldn’t dwell on it. He could only learn from it. If the situation ever arose again, where such a man was assigned to him, he’d be unmerciful. Then, perhaps the man might survive.

  “There it is, Mr. Trevayne. Lover-didn’t-come-back-to-me.”

  Trevayne winced. “Really, Sam. It’s very sad.”

  “Sure as hell is. But it’s also enough to throw Bruce out of the box. I happen to like Paul Bonner; I don’t give a shit for that cocksucker. I use the word with legal expertise, sir.”

  “I’m sure you do. Now, just hold it on a front burner and we’ll consider all our options.”

  “Look, if you’re reluctant to get into this gutter, Mr. Trevayne, I’m not. I mean, it’s not very nice for someone like you, but I’m just a wandering legal genius who has no roots. Just influential employers who, I trust, will not forget my contributions.… Let me kick him in the balls; I’d love it.”

  “You’re impossible, Sam.”

  “Your wife once told me I reminded her of you. Best compliment I ever had.… You shouldn’t do it. It’s my job.”

  “My wife is an incurable romantic when it comes to energetic young men. And it’s not your job. It’s nobody’s at the moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Roderick Bruce isn’t acting alone. He’s being fed. He’s not flying solo, Sam. He’s got confederates; right among the people Paul Bonner thinks are his enthusiastic supporters.”

  Vicarson lifted his glass as Phyllis Trevayne walked down the stairs and entered the room. “Wow, that’s a wrinkle.”

  “You keep that up, Sam, you won’t be invited to a candlelight dinner when Andy’s away.”

  “Which is tomorrow,” added Trevayne. “Webster implied that the President thinks I should hear what De Spadante has to say in the morning … in Bonner’s behalf. Which means I listen to Mario de Spadante tomorrow morning ‘up in Greenwich.’ ”

  “You’ll be back by the afternoon. There goes our candlelight dinner, Mrs. Trevayne.”

  “Not at all,” said Andy. “I want you and Alan here by five-thirty. Light the candles, Phyl. We may need them.”

  37

  Mario De Spadante was annoyed that the nurse insisted the shades be raised so as to let in the morning sunlight. But she was a good nurse—not one of his, the hospital’s—and Mario was a polite man to those not in his employ. He let the shades stay up.

  Andrew Trevayne had just arrived; he was downstairs being met at a side entrance. He had driven into the parking lot two minutes ago and soon would be coming through the door. Mario had arranged the room as he felt it should look. He was raised in the bed as high as possible, the chair beside him low. The young, well-dressed guard on duty across the room smiled as De Spadante instructed him to crank the bed handle and move the furniture.

  The young man was one of William Gallabretto’s assistants from California. He realized that De Spadante might soon order him out of the room, and that meant he had very little time to accomplish his task.

  For attached to his lapel in the form of a jeweled American flag was a miniature camera with a shutter-release wire threaded down to his left jacket pocket.

  The door opened, and Andrew Trevayne walked into the room. The corridor guard closed the door, making a last-instant check that the third man was inside.

  “Sit, sit, Mr. Trevayne.” De Spadante held out his hand, and Andy had no choice but to take it.

  The young man by the wall had his hand in his pocket, and, unseen by both men, his thumb made rapid compressions against a small flat metal plunger.

  Trevayne sat in the chair, releasing the Italian’s grip as swiftly as possible. “I won’t pretend that I looked forward to this visit, Mr. de Spadante. I’m not sure we have anything to say to each other.”

  That’s right, thought the young man by the wall. Move in a bit and look thoughtful, perhaps a little wary, Trevayne. It’ll come out as fear.

  “We got a lot to say, amico. I got nothing against you. This soldier, yes. Him I owe for the death of my little brother. Not you.”

  “That soldier was attacked, and you kn
ow it. I’m sorry about your brother, but he was armed and prowling around on my property. If you were responsible for his being there, look to yourself.”

  “What is this? I walked in my neighbor’s field, and he takes my life? What kind of world have we come to?”

  “The analogy doesn’t fit. Walking in a field is hardly the same as stalking at night with pistols, knives and … what was it? Oh, yes, iron spikes wrapped around your fingers.”

  Perfect, Trevayne, thought the man by the wall. That slight gesture with your palm up. Just right. You, the “capo regime,” explaining to your “capo di tutti capi.”

  “I grew up having to defend myself, amico. My fancy schools were the streets, my teachers the big niggers who liked to hammer wop heads. A bad habit, I confess, but an understandable one that I often carry my fist in my pocket. But no guns; never guns!”

  “Apparently you have no need for one.” Trevayne looked over at the young man by the wall with his left hand ominously in his jacket pocket. “He looks like a cartoon.”

  You’re very funny, too, Trevayne, thought the man by the wall.

  “You! Out!… A friend of a cousin; they’re young, what can I do? They have great affection.… Out! Leave us.”

  “Sure, Mr. de Spadante. Whatever you say.” The young man removed his hand from his jacket pocket. In it he held a box of jujubes. “Care for a candy, Mr. Trevayne?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Get out!… Christ, penny candy they got!”

  The door closed, and De Spadante shifted his huge bulk in the pillows. “Now, we do some talking, okay?”

  “It’s why I flew up. I’d like to make it as short as possible. I want to hear what you have to say; I want you to hear me.”

  “You shouldn’t be so arrogant. You know, a lot of people say you’re arrogant, but I tell them that my good amico, Trevayne, he’s not like that. He’s just practical; he doesn’t waste words.”

  “I don’t need your defending me—”

  “You need something,” interrupted De Spadante. “Christ, you need help.”

  “I’m here for one reason only. To tell you to back off from Paul Bonner. You may control your own hoods, De Spadante; get them to swear to whatever you say. But you won’t stand up to the cross-examination we throw at you personally.… You’re right, I don’t waste words. You were seen mauling and threatening a congressman one night on the golf course in Chevy Chase. You were seen by a man who reported the incident to me and Major Bonner. That was an act of physical violence; knowledge of it was all the motive Bonner needed to be on guard. Later you were observed thirty-five hundred miles away, following me to San Francisco. We have sworn testimony to that. Major Bonner had every reason to fear for my life.… Beyond these irrefutable facts and subsequent reasonable concerns, there are other speculations. How does a man like you get off physically abusing a United States congressman? Because he had the temerity to mention an aircraft company? Why did you follow me to California? Were you trying to corner an assistant of mine down at Fisherman’s Wharf? Attack him too? Why? What have you got to do with Genessee Industries, De Spadante? The court’s going to be concerned with these questions. I’ll make sure of it, because I’ll tie them to your assault on Paul Bonner last Saturday night.… I know a little more than I did on that shuttle flight to Dulles. You’re finished … because you’re too obvious. You’re just not desirable.”

  Mario de Spadante, through heavy-lidded eyes, looked at Trevayne with hatred. His voice, however, remained calm, only the rasp slightly more pronounced. “That’s a favorite word of your kind, isn’t it? ‘Desirable.’ We’re … ‘just not desirable.’ ”

  “Don’t make a sociological case out of it. You’re not an appropriate spokesman.”

  De Spadante shrugged. “Even your insults don’t bother me, my good amico. You know why?… Because you’re a troubled man, and a man with troubles has a bad tongue.… No, I’m still going to help you.”

  “You may, but I doubt that it’ll be voluntary.…”

  “But first this soldier,” continued the Italian, as if Trevayne had not spoken. “This soldier, you forget. There’s not going to be any trial. This soldier is a dead man; believe me when I tell you this information. He may be breathing now, but he’s a dead man. You forget him.… Now, for your good news.… Like I said, you got troubles; but your friend Mario is going to make sure that nobody takes advantage of you because of them.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You work hard, Trevayne; you spend a lot of time away from home.…”

  Andrew sat bolt upright in his chair. “You make one lousy, rotten threat against my family, you filthy son-of-a-bitch, and I’ll see you put away for the rest of your life! You’d better not even think in those terms, you animal. That’s one area where the President has given me all the assurances I need! I’ll make one telephone call, and you’re locked up so far out of sight—”

  “Basta! You got no right! You shut up!” De Spadante roared as loud as was possible for him, simultaneously clutching his stomach. Then, just as quickly as he had matched Trevayne’s intensity, his voice descended to its raspy, quiet norm. “That kind of talk doesn’t belong in this room. I got respect for a man’s house … his children, his brothers. That soldier, he’s the animal, not me; not De Spadante.”

  “You were the one who brought it up. I just want to make sure you know where you stand. That’s out of bounds, and the man on Pennsylvania Avenue has guaranteed it. He’s out of your league, hoodlum.”

  Mario swallowed, his fury hidden poorly under his rasp. “He doesn’t guarantee an Augie de Spadante, does he? Not Augie; he’s not desirable.”

  Trevayne looked at his wristwatch. “You have something to say, say it.”

  “Sure. Sure, I’ll say it. And the only guarantee you got is me. Like I said, you spent a lot of time away from home, picking up your chips. Maybe you don’t have enough time left to give proper guidance to your loved ones. You got problems. You got a wild boy who drinks too much and draws blanks after a bad night. Now, that’s not too terrible, but he also hits pedestrians. For instance, I got an old man in Cos Cob who was hurt pretty bad by your kid.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “We got photographs. We got at least a dozen photographs of a half-crazy kid by his car at night. The car and the kid, a mess. So, this old man who was hit; we paid him to be nice and not hurt a wild kid who didn’t mean any harm. I’ve got the canceled checks—and, of course, a statement. But that’s not such a bad thing; millionaires’ kids have different values. People understand that.… We had a little more trouble with your girl. Yes, that was a bad thing; it was very touch-and-go for a while. Your friend Mario spared no expense to protect her … and you.”

  Trevayne sat back in his chair; there was no anger in his expression, only disgust coupled with faint amusement. “The heroin. That was you,” he said simply.

  “Me? You don’t hear good.… A little girl, maybe bored, maybe just for kicks, gets hold of a bag of the best Turkish—”

  “You conceivably think you can prove that?”

  “The best Turkish; over two hundred thousand worth. Maybe she’s got a little network of her own. Those fancy girls’ schools are a big part of the scene today. You know that, don’t you? There was a diplomat’s daughter caught a few months ago; you saw that in the papers, no? He didn’t have a friend like your friend Mario.”

  “I asked you a question. Do you really think you could prove anything?”

  “You think I couldn’t?” De Spadante suddenly turned on Trevayne and spat out the words. “Don’t be so dumb. You’re dumb, Mr. Arrogance! You think you know everyone your little girl has been seen with? You think I can’t give Lieutenant Fowler of the Greenwich Police Department a list of names and places? Who checks? Seventeen isn’t that young these days, amico. Maybe you read about those rich kids with the nigger organizations, blowing up buildings, making riots.… Now, I don’t say your kid is one of them; but
people got to think. They see it every day. And two hundred thousand …”

  Trevayne stood up, his patience at an end. “You’re wasting my time, De Spadante. You’re cruder—and denser—than I thought. What you’re telling me is that you’ve engineered potential blackmail situations; I’m sure they’re well-thought-out. But you’ve made a serious mistake. Two mistakes. You’re out of date, and you don’t know your subjects. You know, you’re right. Seventeen and nineteen aren’t that young these days. Think about it. You’re part of what the kids can’t stand anymore. Now, whether you’ll excuse me or not—”

  “What about forty-two?”

  “What?”

  “Forty-two isn’t a kid. You got a pretty wife. A well-stacked lady in her forties with plenty of money and maybe a hunger or two she don’t get satisfied inside her big ranch house … or maybe in her fancy castle on the ocean. A lady who had a big drinking problem a few years ago?”

  “You’re on dangerous ground, De Spadante.”

  “You listen, and you listen good!… Some of these classy ladies come into town and hang around the East Side saloons, the ones with French or Spanish names. Others head for the artsy-fartsy places in the Village where the rich fags go, too. Lots of studs down there who’ll swing both ways for a buck.… And then a few of the real genuine articles go to hotels like the Plaza—”

  “I warn you!”

  “Before they get to the Plaza—where naturally they got reservations—they make a telephone call to a certain number, these ladies do; these genuine articles. No fuss; no bother, no worries at all. Everything very discreet; satisfaction guaranteed.… And the games they play! I tell you, amico, you wouldn’t believe it!”

  Trevayne abruptly swung around and started for the door. De Spadante’s voice—louder but not loud—stopped him. “I got a sworn affidavit from a very respected hotel security man. He’s been around for a long time; he’s seen them all. He can spot the genuine articles; he spotted yours. It’s a very ugly statement. And it’s true. What he saw.”