Hooligans (51 page)

could‟ve drowned. Apparently he was in the water for some time. He washed up near Saint

Somethings Island, wherever that it.”

“Saint Simons,” she said. “It‟s south of here, about fifty miles.”

“They‟re doing the autopsy there,” I said.

She shuddered when I said the word. Then she looked up suddenly. “I almost forgot,” she said.

“Mickey was by. He said if I saw you to tell you he needs to get in touch. He says it‟s very

important.”

“Do you have my number?” I asked, getting up to leave. I had really wanted to see DeeDee and had

little else to say to Lark. She nodded. “I‟m staying at the Ponce.” And she nodded again. “Well,” I

said, “if! can do anything.

“You did the toughest thing of all,” Lark said. “It was nice of you, telling her that way instead of.

The sentence seemed to die in her mouth, as if she were unsure how to finish it. I put my arm around

her and hugged her until I felt the tension begin to ease, It was a hug I could use, too, just feeling

someone close to me, to share a moment of caring with.

“You ought to have somebody here with you,” I said.

“No, not yet. Dee wouldn‟t want that.”

I left and drove back to the Warehouse. The Stick‟s black Pontiac was lurking in front. Inside the

converted supermarket Stick was reading a computer printout.

“You‟re back early,” he said. “Did‟ya get my message?”

Obviously he had not heard about the events at the track and I wasn‟t in the mood for details. It was

only midafternoon but I felt like my cork had been pulled for the day.

“I‟m dead,” I said casually.

“A lot of people are having that trouble these days,” he drawled. “How are things at the track?”

“There was an accident,” I said. “Three horses went down.”

“What!”

“One of the horses split a foreleg in the stretch and took two other nags down with it.”

“Are the jockeys okay?” he asked.

“Busted up but they‟ll live. Lost two of the horses.”

He whistled through his teeth, but that seemed to be the extent of his interest.

“And how are things at the bank?”

“I thought you‟d never ask,” Stick answered with a smile. “I tumbled on to how they‟re using the

bank to wash their money. The bad news is, as far as I know, what they‟re doing is legal.”

“Impossible!” I snapped.

“Well, to some extent it‟s legal,” he said, amending his original comment. “The account Cohen uses is

in the name of the Abaca Corporation. According to Charlie One Ear, Abaca owns Thunder Point

Marina, Bronicata‟s restaurant, the Porthole, the Jalisco Shrimp Company, etcetera. I checked the

account and there are daily deposits, but never more than a couple thousand dollars.”

“That‟s inconsistent with what Lark told you.”

“Hang on,” he said, “I‟m not through yet. I only had that one account number, so I decided to check

the daily tape. That‟s a chronological list of all the deposits made at the bank each day. Lo and

behold, there‟re ten deposits for ten grand each, all within seconds of each other.” He made a grand

gesture with his hands and smiled. “Pyramids,” he said.

“Pyramids?”

“Cohen has this thing for pyramids.”

“I don‟t understand.”

“It‟s simple, once you tumble on to it. Cohen puts a hundred C‟s in, Abaca shows a deposit of only

ten grand. It only gets complex when you start trying to decipher the whole system.”

“Well, try, „cause you‟ve lost me,” I said.

“First, let‟s assume that Seaborn is in collusion with Cohen. Cohen is using the bank as a washing

machine. The whole point is to move a lot of cash through the bank without making the IRS

suspicious, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That‟s where the pyramids come in. What happens, let‟s say Cohen makes his daily deposit. . . ten

grand, for the sake of discussion. The deposit goes into the Abaca Corporation. That‟s the base

company, okay? But the computer is programmed to immediately dispense that money, by

percentage, into several other accounts. It never appears as a ten-grand deposit because the computer

spreads it over ten other accounts before making the deposit.”

“Does it always go into the same accounts?” I asked.

He shook his head. “There‟s a code designation on the account number that tells the computer what

set of accounts the money goes into and what percentage goes into each. Then each of those accounts

is spread over five or ten other accounts. So what they got is pyramids.”

“So every dollar that goes into the bank is diverted into so many other accounts, you don‟t see any big

sums going anywhere and it doesn‟t wave any red flags at the Lepers,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “If you weren‟t looking for something, you‟d never tumble over it. Thing is, they

seem to be using these accounts for legitimate purposes. Payrolls for Triad employees, accounts

payable and receivable for the Bom Dia restaurant, Jalisco Shrimp Company, Thunder Point Mar ma..

. the Seaview Company, Hojan and Rajah, whatever that may be. . . hell, there could be a couple of

hundred accounts. This Cohen is a genius. If he had to, he could probably legitimately account for

most of the money going into these pyramids.”

“There‟s got to be a reason for going to all that trouble,” I said. “There‟s got to be some skimming

accounts, or payoff accounts.”

“Yeah, I agree,” he said. “But what are they? We‟re looking at one pyramid off another here. Creative

bookkeeping compounded by creative computer techno logy. So maybe some of these accounts are

payoff accounts or skim accounts; there‟s no way to tell which ones.”

Stick was right. The system, although devious, was not illegal. What was illegal was using the bank t

channel illegal monies from gambling, prostitution, narcotics,, and whatever else, into legitimate

accounts and then siphoning off some of those accounts without reporting the income to the IRS. The

big question was how they were doing it.

“We‟ll never unravel it all without a key list of all their accounts,” said the Stick.

I said, “Stick, we‟re close to nailing them. Cohen must have this defined somewhere. It‟s far too

complex to keep in his head.”

“Probably in a computer of his own,” said Stick. “And there‟s no way we can access a private

terminal.”

“Then one damn thing is for sure,” I said. “We‟ve got to keep Cohen alive. He‟s got the key to the

puzzle.”

“Wanna put „em under protective custody?” Stick said. “I can‟t think of anything else to do. We‟re

baby-sitting „em around the clock now.”

“Yeah, and so far it hasn‟t helped any of them,” I said.

There was one other possible answer. We could offer to put Cohen in the witness protection program

if he would cooperate with us. And I know what my answer to that proposal would be if I were

Cohen. I‟d tell me to get stuffed.

60

I suppose the most spectacular view in town comes with the tallest building—that‟s if you have the

money to make the view worthwhile. Babs Thomas had them both and the taste to do it right. The

penthouse was like a glass box surrounded by gardens. Glass walls everywhere: the living room,

bedrooms, kitchen, even the bathrooms. Floor-to-ceiling drapes provided whatever privacy was

necessary, although the only danger of eavesdroppers seemed to be from low-flying aircraft.

The penthouse was lit by slender tapers, an effect both unusual and stunning, since the glass walls

reflected every flickering pinpoint and then re-reflected it, over and over, bathing the rooms in a soft,

yellow glow.

There were at least thirty couples there, Babs‟ idea of a few friends, all of them old-monied and well

pedigreed. I assume only a death in the family would have been a suitable excuse for missing the

soiree. That or, as in the case of Charles Seaborn, the bank examiners.

Babs, a vision in yellow silk wearing a white hat with a brim wide enough to roller-skate around,

swept over to me as I entered, pulled me into a neutral corner, and filled in my dance card for me,

advising me on who was worth talking to and whom to skip.

My top priority was to meet the remaining members of the infamous Committee.

Arthur Logan, the lawyer, was forty and looked sixty. Poor posture made him appear almost

humpbacked, his face was pinched into a perpetual frown, and his eyes were paranoiacally intense and

busy, like a man who expects to hear bad news at every turn. Ten minutes of conversation proved him

to be as senile in mind as in body, a man so fanatically conservative that even Calvin Coolidge would

have found him an anachronism. His wife, also singularly unattractive, appeared to have lost her chin

somewhere along the way. She complemented him by smiling and keeping her mouth shut.

On the other hand, Roger Suffer, the big-shot journalist, was just the opposite, the epitome of the

young man on the go. His handshake was painfully sincere, his gaze intense, his attitude open. He

talked to me for five minutes before he figured out I wasn‟t there to invest money in Dunetown, then

his gaze became less intense and began to wander from one female rear end to the other. His wife,

who let inc know she was the best tennis player at the club thirty seconds after we met, was busy

flirting with the men in the room.

Charming.

No wonder the city had fallen prey to Tagliani. Dutch had said it the night I arrived. Dunetown had

been entrusted to wimps. Were they involved with Seaborn and Cohen?

Doe caught me by surprise. I was ordering a drink when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and she

was standing there. My knees started to wobble again.

The big surprise was that Chief was with her.

He sat tall and erect in his wheelchair, and while time seemed to have taken its toll, the old man still

looked like everybody‟s grandfather ought to look, his white hair cresting a craggy face that was

indomitable.

I knew the Findley background well. I should have, it was a story I had heard repeated often enough.

Chief‟s grandfather, Sean, an Irish collier, had emigrated to Dunetown, won a waterfront tavern in a

card game and parlayed that into the city‟s first million. After that it was cotton, banking, real estate,

God knows what else. The same flint that had fired old man Sean had also struck wit and wisdom in

every crevice of Chief‟s face and his eyes were as fiery and intense as ever. Only his body seemed to

be failing him.

“Hello, Chief,” I said. “Been a long time.”

“Yes,” he said, “and a sad one.”

I knew the breed well enough to know that Chief would not mention Teddy or my unanswered letter.

Apologies come hard and infrequently to men like that; they‟re not prone to admitting mistakes. Or

maybe Chief just didn‟t see it the way I did; maybe he had just closed the book on that chapter.

“Doe tells me you‟re in government service,” he said, with obvious sincerity. “That‟s quite

admirable.”

That was the end of our conversation. A moment later someone pushed past me to pay homage to the

old warrior, and then someone else, and someone else, until I was gradually edged out of the circle.

Doe eased her way to my side. I could feel the sexual electricity humming around her. Time had not

changed one thing—they were still the lightning people.

“Where‟s Harry?” I asked.

“He cancelled out at the last minute. There was an accident at the track. Some horses were killed.”

“I know, I was there.”

“It must‟ve been just horrible,” she said, then added hurriedly, “Albert‟s coming in ten minutes to take

Chief home. I‟ll meet you out on the terrace after he leaves.‟ She turned abruptly and wormed her way

back into the circle of sycophants.

Suddenly I was alone and staring across the room at Sam Donleavy. I shouldered my way toward him

through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation along the way. The women cheeped like

sparrows, while the men sounded more like trumpeting elephants. Donleavy seemed relieved by my

company.

“It‟s hot in here. Let‟s step out on the terrace and get some air,” he suggested.

Lightning was playing in the clouds south of the city and the wind was jangling a delicate glass wind

chime near the door. You could feel rain in the air.

“We still on for lunch tomorrow?” I asked, by way of starting the conversation.

“Looking forward to it,” he said. “I heard about the Lukatis boy. A damn shame.”

“Yeah,” I said. “A tough break for his sister.”

“Do you think it‟s tied in to these other deaths?”

“I wouldn‟t know. The body‟s down south of here. The autopsy will be done there.”

“I see. Look, I want you to know that any help you give us in cleaning up this mess will be greatly

appreciated. Things have been happening so fast it‟s hard to assimilate them.”

“Yeah,” I said, “the pace has been breezy.”

“I suppose you‟re accustomed to such things.”

“Not really. Murder is always ugly, no matter where it happens or who the victim is.”

“Yes, I suppose. At any rate, if you need any help at all from me, just ask.”

“Thanks,” I said. After a decent pause I asked, “Did you know Tagliani?” I tried to sound casual.

“Yes. But as Frank Turner.”

“Were you social friends?”

“Not at all. I met with Turner on a couple of occasions to help him get oriented, but that was some

time ago.”

“And to size him tip?” I suggested.

He stared at me intently for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. “That, too.”

“So you knew him personally?”