“Miss Bracken,” Juanita said, speaking softly, “you once told me that if I had a problem I could come and talk to you.”
“Of course, Juanita. Do you have one now?”
Her small face creased in worry. “Yes, I think so.”
“What kind of problem?”
“If you don’t mind, could we talk somewhere else?” Juanita was watching Wainwright, near the vault on the opposite side of the bank. He seemed about to end a conversation.
‘Then come to my office,” Margot said. “When would you like to make it?”
They agreed on Monday evening.
17
The reel of tape, retrieved from the Double-Seven Health Club, had been lying there on the shelf above the test bench for six days.
Wizard Wong had glanced at the tape several times, reluctant to wipe out what was on it, yet uneasy about passing on the information. Nowadays, recording any telephone conversation was risky. Even riskier was to play the recording back for someone else.
Yet Marino, Wizard was certain, would very much like to hear a portion of that tape, and would pay well for the privilege. Whatever else Tony Bear Marino might be, he was generous about payment for good service, which was the one reason Wizard did work for him periodically.
Marino was a professional crook, he was aware. Wong himself was not.
Wizard (his real first name was Wayne, though no one who knew him ever used it) was a young, clever, second-generation Chinese-American. He was also an electronics-audio expert, specializing in the detection of electronic surveillance. His genius in the subject had earned him his name.
For a long list of clients, Wong provided guarantees that their business premises and homes were not bugged, their phones untapped, their privacy—from surreptitious electronics—inviolate. With surprising frequency he did discover planted listening devices and when it happened his clients were impressed and grateful. Despite official assurances to the contrary—including some recent presidential ones—bugging and wiretapping in the U.S. continued to be widespread and flourishing.
Heads of industrial companies retained Wong’s services. So did bankers, newspaper publishers, presidential candidates, some big-name lawyers, a foreign embassy or two, a handful of U.S. senators, three state governors, and a Supreme Court justice. Then there were the other executives—the Don of a Mafia family, his consigliori, and various wheels at slightly lower level, of whom Tony Marino was one.
To his criminal clients Wizard Wong made one thing plain: He wanted no part of their illicit activities; he was making an excellent living within the law. However, he saw no reason for them to be denied his services, since bugging was almost always illegal, and even criminals were entitled to protect themselves by lawful means. This ground rule was accepted and worked well.
Just the same, his organized crime clients intimated to Wizard from time to time that any usable information he acquired as a result of his work would be appreciated and rewarded. And occasionally he had passed on tidbits of knowledge in return for money, yielding to that oldest and simplest of all temptations—greed.
He was being tempted by it now.
A week and a half ago, Wizard Wong had made a routine anti-bug survey of Marino’s haunts and telephones. These included the Double-Seven Health Club where Marino had a financial interest. In course of the survey—which showed everything to be clean—Wizard amused himself by briefly bugging one of the club lines, a practice which he sometimes followed, rationalizing that he owed it to himself and his clients to maintain his own technical expertise. For the purpose he chose a pay phone on the health club’s main floor. Through forty-eight hours Wizard left a tape recorder spliced across the pay-phone circuit, the recorder hidden in the basement of the Double-Seven. It was a type which switched itself on and off each time the phone was used.
Though the action was illegal, Wizard reasoned that it didn’t matter since no one but himself would hear the tape played back. However, when he did play it, one conversation, especially, intrigued him.
Now, on Saturday afternoon, and alone in his sound lab, he took the tape from the shelf above the test bench, put it on a machine and listened to that portion once again.
A coin was inserted, a number dialed. The sound of dialing was on the tape. A ringing tone. One ring only.
A woman’s voice (soft, with slight accent): Hello.
A male voice (whispering): You know who this is. But don’t use names.
The woman’s voice: Yes.
The first voice (still whispering): Tell our mutual friend I’ve discovered something important here. Really important. It’s most of what he wanted to know. I can’t say more, but I’ll come to you tomorrow night.
A woman’s voice: All right.
A click. The caller, in the Double-Seven Health Club, had hung up.
Wizard Wong wasn’t sure why he thought Tony Bear Marino would be interested. He simply had a hunch, and his hunches had paid off before. Making up his mind, he consulted a private notebook, went to a telephone and called a number.
Tony Bear, it transpired, could not see him until late Monday afternoon. Wizard made an arrangement for then and—having committed himself—set out to extract more information from the tape.
He rewound it, then carefully played it several times again.
“Judas Priest!” Tony Bear Marino’s husky, thick features contorted in a savage scowl. His incongruous falsetto voice rose even higher than usual. “You had that goddam tape, and you sat on your goddam ass a week before you came here!”
Wizard Wong said defensively, “I’m a technician, Mr. Marino. Mostly, the things I hear are none of my business. But after a while I got to thinking this one was different.” He was relieved in one sense. At least there had been no angry reaction because he had bugged a Double-Seven line.
“Next time,” Marino snarled, “think faster!”
Today was Monday. They were at the trucking terminal where Marino maintained an office and, on the desk between them, was a portable tape player which Wong had just switched off. Before coming here he had re-recorded the significant part of the original tape, transferring it to a cassette, then erased the rest.
Tony Bear Marino, in shirtsleeves in the stuffy, heated office, appeared physically formidable as usual. His shoulders were a prizefighter’s; his wrists and biceps thick. He overflowed the chair he sat in, though not with fat; most of him was solid muscle. Wizard Wong tried not to be intimidated, either by Marino’s bulk or his reputation for ruthlessness. But, whether from the hot room or other reasons, Wong began to sweat.
He protested, “I didn’t waste all that time, Mr. Marino. I found out some other things I thought you’d want to know.”
“Such as?”
“I can tell you the number that was called. You see, by using a stop watch to time the length of each dial turn as recorded on the tape, then comparing it …”
“Cut the crap. Just give me the number.”
“There it is.” A slip of paper passed across the desk.
“You’ve traced it? Whose number is it?”
“I have to tell you, tracing a number like that isn’t easy. Especially since this particular one is unlisted. Fortunately, I have some contacts in the phone company …”
Tony Bear exploded. He slammed a palm on the desktop, the impact like a gunshot. “Don’t play games with me, you little bastard! If you got information, give!”
“The point I’m making,” Wizard persisted, sweating even more, “is that it costs. I had to pay off my phone company contact.”
“You paid a goddam lot less than you’ll squeeze out of me. Get on with it!”
Wizard relaxed a little, aware that he had made his point and Tony Bear would meet the price to be asked, each of them knowing there might be another time.
“The phone belongs to a Mrs. J. Núñez. She lives at Forum East. Here’s the building and apartment number.” Wong passed over another slip. Marino took it, glanced at the address, and put it
down.
‘There’s something else might be of interest to you. The records show the phone was installed a month ago as a hurry-up job. Now normally, there’s a long waiting list for phones at Forum East, but this one wasn’t on the list at all, then all of a sudden it was put on at the top.”
Marino’s growing scowl was part impatience, part anger at what he heard. Wizard Wong went on hastily, “What happened was, some pressure was applied. My contact told me there’s a memo in the phone company files showing it came from a guy named Nolan Wainwright who’s head of security for a bank—First Mercantile American. He said the phone was needed urgently for bank business. Billing for it is going to the bank, too.”
For the first time since the audio technician’s arrival, Tony Bear was startled. Momentarily the surprise revealed itself on his face, then vanished, to be replaced by a blank expression. Under it, his mind was working, relating what he had just learned to certain facts he already knew. The name Wainwright was the connection. Marino was aware of the attempt six months ago to plant a stoolie, a creep named Vic who, after they busted his balls, said “Wainwright.” Marino knew of the bank dick by reputation. In that earlier series of events Tony Bear had been very much involved.
Was there another one now? If so, Tony Bear had a strong idea what action he was after, though there was a lot of other business through the Double-Seven he had no wish to see disclosed. Tony Bear did not waste time in speculation. The caller’s voice, a whisper only, you couldn’t tell. But the other voice—the woman’s—had been traced, so whatever else was needed they could get from her. It did not enter his mind that the woman might not co-operate; if she was foolish, there were plenty of ways.
Marino paid Wong off quickly and sat thinking. For a while, he followed his usual cautious pattern, not rushing a decision and leaving his thoughts to simmer for several hours. But he had lost time, a week.
Later that night he summoned two musclemen. Tony Bear gave them a Forum East address and an order. “Pick up the Núñez broad.”
18
“If everything you just told me turns out to be true,” Alex assured Margot, “I’ll personally administer the biggest kick in the ass that Nolan Wainwright ever had.”
Margot snapped back, “Of course it’s all true. Why would Mrs. Núñez invent it? In any case, how could she?”
“No,” he admitted, “I don’t suppose she could.”
“I’ll tell you something else, Alex. I want more than your man Wainwright’s head on a platter—or his ass. A whole lot more.”
They were in Alex’s apartment where Margot had come a half hour ago, following her Monday-night talk with Juanita Núñez. What Juanita had revealed amazed and enraged her. Juanita had nervously described the month-old agreement in which she had become the link between Wainwright and Miles Eastin. But recently, Juanita confided, she had begun to realize the risk she was running and her fears had grown, not just for herself but for Estela. Margot had gone over Juanita’s report several times, questioning her on details, and at the end Margot went directly to Alex.
“I knew about Eastin going under cover.” Alex’s face was troubled, as it had been so often recently; he paced the living room holding an untasted scotch. “Nolan told me what he planned. At first I opposed it and said no, then I gave in because the arguments seemed convincing. But I swear to you that no arrangement with the Núñez girl was ever mentioned.”
“I believe you,” Margot said. “He probably didn’t tell you because he knew you’d veto it.”
“Did Edwina know?”
“Apparently not.”
Alex thought peevishly: Then Nolan was out of line there, too. How could he have been so shortsighted, even stupid? Part of the trouble, Alex knew, was that department heads like Wainwright got carried away by their own limited objectives, forgetting the larger view.
He stopped pacing. “A minute ago you said something about wanting ‘a whole lot more.’ What does that mean?”
“The first thing I want is immediate safety for my client and her child, and by safety I mean placing her somewhere where she’s out of jeopardy. After that, we can discuss compensation.”
“Your client?’
“I advised Juanita tonight that she needs legal help. She asked me to represent her.”
Alex grinned and sipped his scotch. “So you and I are now adversaries, Bracken.”
“In that sense, I suppose so.” Margot’s voice softened. “Except you know I won’t take advantage of our private conversations.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I’ll tell you privately we will do something—immediately, tomorrow—for Mrs. Núñez. If it means sending her out of town for a while, to be certain she’s safe, then I’ll approve it. As to compensation, I won’t commit us on that, but after I hear the whole story, and if it agrees with yours and hers, we’ll consider it.”
What Alex left unsaid was his intention to send for Nolan Wainwright in the morning and order the entire undercover operation terminated. That would include safeguarding the girl, as he had promised Margot; also, Eastin must be paid off. Alex wished fervently he had stayed firm by his original judgment and forbidden the entire plan; all his instincts had been against it and he had been wrong in backing down under Wainwright’s persuasion. The risks, in every way, were far too great. Fortunately it was not too late to remedy the error, since nothing harmful had occurred, either to Eastin or Núñez.
Margot regarded him. “One of the things I like about you is that you’re a fair man. So you do concede the bank has a liability to Juanita Núñez?”
“Oh, Christ!” Alex said, and drained his scotch. “Right now we’re liable for so much, what the hell is one thing more?”
19
Only one more piece. Just one more needed to complete the tantalizing jigsaw. A single lucky break could yield it, and answer the question: Where was the counterfeiter’s base?
When Nolan Wainwright conceived the second undercover mission, he did not anticipate spectacular results. He considered Miles Eastin a long shot from whom some minor information might accrue, and even that could take months. But instead, Eastin had moved quickly from one revelation to another. Wainwright wondered if Eastin himself realized how outstandingly successful he had been.
On Tuesday at midmorning, alone in his plainly furnished office at FMA Headquarters Tower, Wainwright once more reviewed the progress made:
—The first report from Eastin had been to say “I’m in” at the Double-Seven Health Club. In light of later developments that, in itself, had been important. Confirmation followed that the Double-Seven was a hangout for criminals, including the loan shark, Ominsky, and Tony Bear Marino.
—By gaining access to the illegal gambling rooms, Eastin had improved his infiltration.
—Soon after, Eastin had made a “buy” of ten counterfeit $20 bills. These, when examined by Wainwright and others, proved to be of the same high quality as those circulating in the area over the past several months and were undoubtedly from the same source. Eastin had reported his supplier’s name and the man was being watched.
—Next, a three-pronged report: the forged driver’s license; the license number of the Chevrolet Impala which Eastin had driven to Louisville, apparently with a consignment of counterfeit money in the trunk; and the counterfoil of the airline ticket given Eastin for his return journey. Of the three items, the airline ticket had proven the most useful. It had been purchased, along with others, with a Keycharge bank credit card, counterfeit. At last the bank security chief had a sense of closing in on his main objective—the conspiracy which had, and still was, defrauding the Keycharge system of huge amounts. The fake driver’s license confirmed the existence of a versatile, efficient organization to which there was now an additional lead—the ex-con, Jules LaRocca. The Impala, inquiry showed, had been stolen. A few days after Eastin’s journey it was found abandoned in Louisville.
—Finally, and most important, had been identifying the counterfeiter, Danny, alon
g with a cornucopia of information including the fact that the source of the counterfeit Keycharge credit cards was now known with certainty.
As Wainwright’s knowledge had accumulated because of his pipeline from Miles Eastin, so had an obligation grown—to share what he knew. Therefore a week ago he had invited agents of the FBI and U. S. Secret Service to a conference at the bank. The Secret Service had to be included because money counterfeiting was involved, and theirs was the constitutional responsibility for protecting the U.S. money system. The FBI special agents who came were the same team—Innes and Dalrymple—who investigated the FMA cash loss and arrested Miles Eastin almost a year ago. The Secret Service men—Jordan and Quimby—Wainwright had not met before.
Innes and Dalrymple were complimentary and appreciative about the information Wainwright gave them, the Secret Service men less so. Their beef was that Wainwright should have notified them sooner—as soon as he received the first counterfeit bills from Eastin—and that Eastin, through Wainwright, ought to have advised them in advance about the Louisville journey.
The Secret Service agent Jordan, a dour, hard-eyed, runtish man whose stomach rumbled constantly, complained, “If we’d been warned, we could have made an intercept. As it is, your man Eastin may be guilty of a felony, with you as an accessory.”
Wainwright pointed out patiently, “I already explained there was no chance for Eastin to notify anybody, including me. He took a risk and knew it; I happen to think he did the right thing. As to a felony, we don’t even know for sure there was counterfeit money in that car.”
“It was there all right,” Jordan grumbled. “It’s been surfacing in Louisville ever since. What we didn’t know was how it came in.”
“Well, you do now,” the FBI agent Innes injected. “And thanks to Nolan, we’re all that much further ahead.”
Wainright added, “If you’d made an intercept, sure you might have got a batch of counterfeit. But not much else, and Eastin’s usefulness would have been ended.”