The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  However, again, demographics notwithstanding, only one telephone rang at this moment, and it was in the tastefully ornate town house of the oldest old money in Boston, specifically the residence of R. Cookson Frazier. As the phone rang, the spry elderly gentleman in red, sweat-stained gym shorts sank a basketball accurately into the net of the small court he had built for himself on the top floor of his home. His sneakers squeaking on the hard wood beneath, he turned quizzically at the shrill intrusion. The momentary indecision ended when he remembered on the third ring that his housekeeper was down at the market. Wiping his brow beneath his white hair, he walked over to the wall phone and picked it up. “Yes?” he said, partially out of breath.

  “Mr. Frazier?”

  “This is he.”

  “It’s Aaron Pinkus, Mr. Frazier. We’ve met several times, the last being at the Fogg Museum charity ball, I believe.”

  “It was, indeed, Aaron, and why the ‘Mr. Frazier’? You’re damn near as old as I am and I believe we both agreed you wouldn’t look it if you exercised more.”

  “Too true, too true, Cookson. There never seems to be enough time.”

  “There won’t be for you, although you’ll probably be the richest man in the graveyard.”

  “I’ve long since given up such ambitions.”

  “I know that, I’m just goading you because I’m sweating like a pig, which is a poor metaphor—I’m told that pigs don’t sweat.… What can I do for you, old fellow?”

  “It concerns your grandson, I’m afraid—”

  “You’re afraid?” interrupted Frazier. “I’m terrified! What now?” Pinkus started to tell his story, but within eight seconds, at the mention of the speedboat, the old man broke in, shouting triumphantly. “That’s it! I’ve got him!”

  “I beg your pardon, Cookson?”

  “I can put him away!”

  “What …?”

  “He’s not permitted by law to drive his boat—or his car or his motorcycle or his snowmobile. He’s been deemed a menace on land, sea, and snow!”

  “You’d have him sent to jail?”

  “Jail? Good Lord, no. Simply to one of those places that can straighten the boy out! My attorneys have already arranged it. If he’s caught in even one of the violations, and there’ve been no injuries or legal redress from second parties, the court will permit me to take my own custodial measures.”

  “You want to place him in a sanitarium?”

  “I’d prefer to use another term, like a ‘rehabilitation center’ or whatever the code words are.”

  “To go that far, he really has grieved you then.”

  “He certainly has, but perhaps not in the way you think. I know that boy and love him dearly—my God, he’s the last of the male Fraziers!”

  “I understand, Cookson.”

  “I don’t think you do. You see, whatever he is, we made him that way, our family did, just as I did with my own son, and I’m far worse because at least I was around, alive. But, as I say, I know him, and underneath that besotted exterior oozing with charm is a brain, Aaron! There’s another man beneath the overindulged boy, I sense it, I truly believe it!”

  “He’s a very likable person and I certainly couldn’t contradict you.”

  “You don’t believe me, either, do you?”

  “I don’t know him that well, Cookson.”

  “The newspapers and the television people obviously think they do. With every scrape he gets into, the labels are there. ‘Scion of wealth in drunk tank again,’ and ‘Playboy of Boston a disgrace to the city,’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “The events apparently took place—”

  “Of course they did! That’s why your news is the greatest gift you could give me. I can now take control of that overage delinquent!”

  “How? His speedboat’s on the water and we don’t know where he’s going.”

  “You said he pulled up to the Swampscott beach about twenty minutes ago—”

  “Or slightly less.”

  “To get back to the marina will take him at least forty to forty-five minutes—”

  “Suppose he’s not heading for the marina? Suppose he’s going the other way?”

  “North of Swampscott, the nearest refueling dock that permits outsiders is at Gloucester, and those cigarette boats drink fuel like six Arabs with straws in a single pot of tea. Gloucester’s about a half hour away.”

  “You know all this?”

  “I was commander of Boston’s Power Squadron for five consecutive terms; of course I know it. We’re wasting time, Aaron! I’ve got to call the squadron and our friends in the Coast Guard. They’ll find him.”

  “One thing, Cookson. On board is an employee of mine named Devereaux, Samuel Devereaux, and it’s imperative that he be held by the authorities for me.”

  “Bad business, eh?”

  “No, not bad at all, merely impetuous. But it’s vital that he be held. I’ll explain later.”

  “Devereaux? Any relation to Lansing Devereaux?”

  “His son, actually.”

  “Damn fine man, Lansing. Died much too young for a fellow of his abilities. For a fact, he led me into several lucrative investments.”

  “Tell me, Cookson. After he died, did you ever make contact with his widow?”

  “Could I do otherwise? He was the brains, I was merely some minor money. I transferred my profits to her accounts. As I say, who could do otherwise?”

  “Apparently a number of people.”

  “Damned thieving bloodsuckers.… I’ve got to get off the phone and make some calls, Aaron, but now that we’ve talked, let’s have dinner some evening.”

  “A great pleasure.”

  “With your lovely wife, Shelly—such a tall and graceful woman.”

  “It’s Shirley, and, actually, she’s not tall, it’s her—never mind.”

  28

  The sky grew suddenly gray and the dark clouds above swelled in direct proportion to the angry ocean below. And off the coast of Massachusetts, Sam Devereaux held on to the stainless steel railing of the speedboat wondering what had possessed him to call Geoff Frazier, a man he thoroughly disliked.… Well, perhaps “disliked” was too strong. Nobody who knew “Crazy Frazie,” as he was sometimes affectionately called, could really dislike him, because the “Spaced Cadet” as he was frequently referred to, had a heart as big as his monthly inheritance stipend, which he would willingly give to anyone he knew to be in distressful circumstances. What disturbed Sam at the moment was Frazie’s maniacal maneuvers that intentionally sent the narrow, sleek, twin-engined cigarette boat into the monstrous waves.

  “Have to do it, old sport!” shouted the grinning skipper, his braided captain’s hat askew. “These thin things can go belly-up if you don’t take the water on head first!”

  “You mean we could sink?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure; never happened!” A gigantic spray washed over the boat’s windshield, soaking both men. “Damned exhilarating, isn’t it, sport?”

  “Geoff, are you sober?”

  “Perhaps a touch, old boy, but it won’t interfere!” yelled Frazier. “The sauce always makes one better in these sudden squalls! Gives you the edge over nature, if you know what I mean.… Can you hear me, Dewy?”

  “Unfortunately yes, Frazie.”

  “Not to worry. These billy-blows kick up quickly but they can go away sometimes just as fast!”

  “How long?”

  “No more than an hour or so,” shouted the happily grinning Frazier. “Our only problem will be finding a basin until then.”

  “A basin?”

  “Can’t head in till we find a cozy nook, as it were.”

  “Speak English!”

  “Just did, sport. An inlet that reduces the wind and the water, and there’s damn few along the shoreline.”

  “Go into the beach!”

  “There are a lot of rocks and jetties, Dewy, and these sweet things aren’t the easiest to control in weather.”


  “Whether what …?”

  “Never mind—”

  “Damn it, go into the beach! There’s a whole stretch up ahead without a rock in sight and I’ve got important things to do!”

  “Well, rocks and shoals aren’t the only impediments, old fellow,” yelled Frazier. “Boats like this one beaching on private property aren’t exactly welcome sights, and if you’ll look closer, there’s nothing but dune houses as far as you can see!”

  “You went in almost a half hour ago down in Swampscott!”

  “Down there people like me pay for beachfront they never use so the neighbors can’t hear us or pollute our waters. Also, everyone knows the Birnbaums’ house, and anyone who reads the society pages knows they’re at the estate auctions in London. I took a chance, Dewy, but not up here—not with this squall and not with my past boo-boos!”

  “Boo-boos…?”

  “Just silly little traffic violations, you might say, old boy. Nothing to worry about, but there are rotten apples in every decent barrel, you know!”

  “What apples? What barrels?” roared Sam as harsh, simultaneous sprays from both port and starboard overwhelmed him, drenching him to the skin.

  “Grandpapa’s stupid Power Squadron—snitches, all of them, and they hate me because my boat’s faster than any of theirs!”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Frazie?” A tremendous midair lurch and subsequent pounding return into an onrushing wave caused Devereaux to lose his grip; he crashed to the deck, grabbing the handle of a stow-away cabinet and yanking it down, the force propelling his head inside. “Help!” he screamed. “I’m stuck somewhere!”

  “Can’t hear you, Dewy, but not to worry, chum! I can see the Gloucester markers up ahead. ‘Red right return,’ as they say.”

  “Red … mftt … mfitt!”

  “You’ll have to be clearer, Dewy! Can’t make you out in this wind, but I’d be most grateful if you’d uncork a bottle of Dom Perry for me. There’s an iced case in the aft locker, that’s a good fellow!… Just spin it up on the deck the way we used to do with the girls from Holyoke, remember? The centrifugal motion loses only half the precious liquid. Physics One-Two at dear old Andover! Most vital thing I ever learned!”

  “Mfttt … oww … ouch!” shrieked Sam, pulling his head out of the deck recess, a coil of white rope around his skull. “You want a bottle of wine when we’re in the middle of a hurricane? You’re certifiable, Frazie, absolutely nuts!”

  “Come now, sport, this is merely a heavy squall, that’s all.” The grinning captain, the visor of his cap of authority now over his right ear, turned and looked at his deck-prone passenger with the rope around his head. “Oh, come now, old boy, is that your crown of thorns?” he roared, laughing.

  “I will not get you a bottle of champagne, and I demand that you get me on shore or I’ll personally wax your tail as an officer of the court with regard to your incapacity on the high seas!”

  “Two hundred yards offshore?”

  “You know what I mean!” As Devereaux rose to his knees, another massive wave crashed over his shoulders, splaying him back on the deck. “Frazier!” screamed Sam, once more gripping the stainless steel railing on the gunwale. “Don’t you care about anything but yourself?”

  “That in itself—or myself—is a very large territory, chum, but, of course, I do. I care about old friends who still call me a friend. I care about you because you called me in need!”

  “I can’t deny that,” said Devereaux, deciding to open the stern ice cabinet, suddenly thinking that Frazie might need that “edge over nature” after all.

  “Oh, oh!” roared the captain of the Swampscott rescue mission. “We’ve got a problem, Dewy!”

  “What?”

  “One of those snitches from Grandpapa’s dumb Power Squadron must have spotted us!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a C.G. cutter on our tail, old friend! Turn aft and look!”

  “Holy shit!” whispered Sam to himself as he saw the sharp-bladed bow of a white Coast Guard patrol boat with red stripes leaping over the waves several hundred yards behind them. Then through the erratic bursts of wind he heard the sound of a siren. “Are they trying to stop us?” he roared.

  “Let’s put it this way, sport, it’s not a courtesy call!”

  “But I can’t be stopped!” yelled Devereaux, uncorking a bottle and spinning it across the wet deck. “I have to get to the authorities—the police, the FBI, The Boston Globe, somebody! I have to expose one of the most powerful men in Washington who’s done a terrible thing! I have to do it! If the Coast Guard or anyone in the government finds my evidence, they’ll stop me!”

  “That sounds heavy, old boy!” shouted Frazier, his voice carrying over the wind and through the sprays of the waves as he picked up the bottle. “But I have to ask you a question! You’re not carrying little pills or packets of powder or anything like that, are you, sport?”

  “Christ, no!”

  “I really have to be sure, Devvy, please understand that!”

  “Believe me, Frazie,” screamed Sam over the now thunderous sounds of the New England squall. “We’re talking about a man who can shape the nation’s policies, who next to the President is considered the most powerful man in our government! He’s a liar and a crook and he hires killers! I’ve got it all in my pocket!”

  “Someone’s confession?”

  “No, a tape that confirms the whole conspiracy!”

  “That’s really heavy, isn’t it?”

  “Get me on shore, Frazie!”

  “Then I’d suggest you really do hold on, chum!”

  The next minutes, the approximate number a hysterical Devereaux would never know, were like plunging, swirling, plummeting submersions into all of Dante’s circles of hell. Crazy Frazie suddenly became a maniacal Ahab, but instead of attempting to kill the great beast, he was doing his God-commanded damnedest to avoid its massive jaws. Like a satanic captain from the netherworld, a grinning Geoffrey Frazier, the bottle of Dom Perignon sporadically at his lips, whipped and thrashed the machine beneath him to obey his commands as he spun the wheel repeatedly back and forth, expertly crashing into and ebbing away from the angry swells on all sides.

  The less maneuverable patrol boat behind was obviously skippered by a furious Coast Guard officer. Joining the bursts of the wailing siren came indignant, commanding words shouted over a loudspeaker. “Cut back your engines and head for marker seven due northwest! Repeat, you maniac, marker seven and knock off the horseshit!”

  “We couldn’t ask for anything better,” yelled Captain Crazy Frazie to his stunned passenger. “He’s a fine fellow!”

  “What are you saying?” screamed Sam. “They’ll board us with cutlasses and knives and guns and capture us!”

  “Capture me, no doubt, old sport, but not you if you do as I tell you.” Frazier did not reduce his twin engines, but he did wave-tack against the squall until he was heading roughly northwest. “Now, listen to me, Devvy! I haven’t been up this way in a while, but the ‘marker seven’ jogged my memory. It’s about a hundred and fifty yards to the left of a rather large rock formation that juts out of the water, a small land mass that cuts down the wind—the sails frequently complain it’s four hundred feet of dead air.”

  “Rocks? Dead air … For Christ’s sake, Frazie, I’m fighting for my sanity, for my country’s integrity!”

  “Just a sec, old boy!” shouted Devereaux’s rescuing skipper as he bounced the bottle of champagne against the top of his dashboard. “You broke the cork, chum, and it’s choking the neck!” The Dom Perignon back to his lips, he added. “There, that’s better! Now, what was it, sport?”

  “Oh, my God, you’re impossible!”

  “Seems I’ve heard that before—” Frazier’s words were interrupted by a starboard lurch with its subsequent spray catching him directly in the face. “Damn! Salt water never did mix with the bubbly!”

  “Frazie …!”

  “Oh, y
es, now listen up, Devvy!… We’ll reach marker seven, where I’ll throttle back in the calmer stretch—that’s your signal to prepare to abandon ship, as it were.”

  “You mean like in ‘man overboard,’ where those navy fascists behind us can pick me up?”

  “I said ‘prepare,’ not execute—”

  “For Christ’s sake, use another word!”

  “When I slow down, get to the starboard but stay below the gunwale, then I’ll suddenly hit full throttle and make a large arc to port, bringing you within forty or fifty yards of the beach. That’s when you slip over the side—the spray will cover your disappearance—and I’ll continue to give our water commandos a merry chase!”

  “Good Lord, Frazie! You’d do this for me?”

  “You asked for my help, Devvy—”

  “Sure, but that’s because I knew you had a fast boat and … and … well, I sort of thought.…”

  “That ‘Crazy Frazie’ might just be your man, being the man he was?”

  “I’m sorry, Geoff. I don’t really know what to say.”

  “Don’t bother, sport, it’s all fun!”

  “You could get in a great deal of trouble, Geoff, and I never counted on that, honest I didn’t!”

  “Of course, you didn’t. You’re the most irritatingly honest person I’ve ever known! Hang on, now, Devvy, we’re going in.”

  They entered the narrow channel that held the red marker seven, the reedlike cigarette boat abruptly slowed down in the smoother waters. The Coast Guard patrol approached within thirty yards aft.

  “Hear this, and hear me well!” came the agitated voice over the loudspeaker. “You have been identified as one Geoffrey Frazier and your passenger is a man named Samuel Devereaux, and you are both now under arrest. Hold to, as three of my crew board your craft and take full control.”

  “Geoff!” cried Sam Devereaux, lying prone on the starboard deck. “I really didn’t expect anything like this to happen—”

  “Oh, shut up, old boy! Another few moments—as soon as they lower their dinghy—I’ll start up and swing toward the beach. I’ll signal you when I think we’re as close as we can get and that’s when you slip over. Got it?”