Madman's Thirst (26 page)

Of course, there was more to it
than that. Li – and frustrated Federal officials – knew that most of the
controversial work went to Chinese companies because various states turned down
the Federal stimulus money that would have required the work to go to American
companies. The states then searched out the lowest bidders. He shrugged.
Americans were insane. None more so than Arachne, of course. But he’s our lunatic,
and he just might pull this off.

Well, at least you can’t knock
American donuts, Li thought, handing his message to the sergeant.

“I want this to go out right
away,” he said. “Sorry about the crumbs. Give me another cigarette.”

***

On his way home, Arachne did
something rare for him. He poured himself a stiff drink in the back of his
Rolls. I’m so close, he thought, and began reflecting on how far he’d come with
his audacious plan.

The idea had come out of nowhere. Two
years earlier Arachne had been asked to give a speech at the Cato Institute,
the libertarian think tank, and told his staff to search the Internet for
examples of failed Government projects.

“The more ridiculous the better,”
he told them. “The Cato people don’t think Government can do anything right.”

His people had come up with some
beauties, including separate plans, many years apart, for underwater rail
tunnels linking Staten Island to both Brooklyn and New Jersey. The New Jersey
plan never got off the drawing boards, but he was astounded to learn that in
1922 the city actually began digging nascent shafts on both sides of the
Narrows for a Brooklyn to Staten Island “freight and passenger” tunnel. The
Brooklyn dig extended 150 feet under the harbor. His staff had provided
newspaper accounts, complete with photos of workmen with pickaxes and boring
equipment. The project was abandoned in 1924 amid budget and political
bickering.

Somewhat to his staff’s surprise, Arachne
did not include anything about the tunnels in the his presentation to the
institute. They quickly moved on to other things, not knowing that their
employer had become obsessed with the possibility of resurrecting the projects
as a way to achieve financial and political primacy in New York City and
beyond.

Once the greatest metropolis in
the world, New York was strangling on traffic and population. Arachne knew that
the region’s political leaders had for too long slavishly placed their bets on
Wall Street’s promise and glittering towers, ignoring the tri-state region’s
crumbling infrastructure. Then, when the financial industry’s bubble burst, the
same politicians claimed that they couldn’t afford costly new projects.

Not all of the politicians, of
course. A few visionaries had persevered with the idea of building two new rail
passages linking New Jersey and Manhattan under the Hudson River. They argued
that the proposed tunnels were desperately needed amid predictions that transit
demands in the Greater Metropolitan area would surge by 40 percent over the
next 20 years, which would overwhelm the capacity of the two existing
100-year-old tunnels beneath the river.

Arachne feared these visionaries,
since the $14 billion project, the largest public transit program in the
nation, was to be mostly funded by the Federal government and the Port
Authority of New York and New Jersey. It stood a good chance of surviving
hypocritical budget cuts. His Chinese benefactors began to hedge on their
commitments to him. He had to do something, and quickly. Murder, at least in
this instance, wasn’t an option. But money was.

When the governor of New Jersey
cancelled his state’s participation in the project, on which work had already
begun, observers were stunned. The governor claimed that his state would bear
the brunt of financing a project that would mostly benefit New Yorkers. Critics
said that, in reality, he wanted to divert the tunnel money to his state’s
highway fund so that he could avoid raising gasoline taxes, an anathema to a
politician with ambition for national office. The truth was more sinister. It
was Arachne’s money, supplemented by the Chinese, that killed the tunnel. Not
that it went directly to the Governor, whose motives, while selfish, were
purely political. Instead it went into the Super PACS (of both parties) to
influence the power brokers who had the ears of the Governor and his staff.

Arachne’s ability to kill the
Hudson River tunnels impressed his Chinese backers. There was now no
possibility, he knew, of the tunnels receiving government funding in the
current economic environment. He believed that if he could buy the necessary
land in New Jersey, Staten Island and Brooklyn, he could build the tunnels
himself, with the capital he needed coming from his partners at the C.O.F.P.
The Chinese would conveniently pay top dollar for his casinos and other
properties in carefully spaced out transactions, providing billions while
hiding their real influence behind their spurious investment in the Home Port
project.

Who could object? The residents
who opposed a stock car track and stadium would applaud tunnels that would cut
traffic. Labor unions in both states would support the creation of thousands of
jobs. By the time anyone looked too deeply into the project and realized that
the Chinese had a stranglehold on rail and marine traffic in the nation’s most
important region, it would be too late. Arachne, with his major shipping
interests already entrenched in the Howland Hook Marine Terminal on Staten
Island, with easy access to his new rail and tunnel empire, would become rich
beyond measure. And with the Shields media empire in his pocket as well, there
would be other realms to conquer.

The country was going to the dogs,
Arachne believed. A nation that grew great by investing heavily in
infrastructure – the Erie Canal, the Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, the
interstate highway system – now spent trillions on weapons, and drugs for
erectile dysfunction. The whole country had become one limp dick. Maybe he
could change that. What the nation needed was someone like him. 

“President Arachne,” he said
aloud, laughing. “A real prick.”

Cong Bao, already discomfited by
the sight of his boss drinking, looked nervously in the rear view mirror.      

But it had to be as near a fait
accompli as possible, Arachne knew. The Chinese money would only flow if there
was no serious opposition. He had welcomed local press scrutiny about the
NASCAR track. He wanted it to fail so that he could step in and get even more
property. Indeed, the track proposal was a godsend, providing perfect cover for
his plans. The Chinese, always suckers for a good conspiracy that featured
misdirection, loved it.    

 But then Bimm found out that the
Register’s
editor, Pearsall, was looking deeper. The real estate transactions were layered
with so many dummy corporations that even Arachne’s staff had trouble keeping
them straight, but who knew what Pearsall could dig up. The man, after all, had
won a Pulitzer.

Arachne, who had most of the land and
permits he needed (no mean feat given the bureaucracies in the two states
involved but made easier by the unwavering support of the Staten Island Borough
President and other local politicians who were promised a piece of the action),
was only weeks away from a multi-billion coup that could make or break him.
Pearsall had to be stopped before he uncovered the real story behind the land
purchases and started one of his damn crusades. Killing the man outright was also
too risky. The Chinese would take to the hills if things went wrong. Even arranging
an accident is never as easy as it sounds, as Arachne had just learned with
Scarne. Bimm, who hated the editor, had provided the details about the death of
Pearsall’s wife. The son of a bitch must be emotionally fragile, Bimm said.
Another tragedy would surely tip him over the edge.

That could be arranged, both men
agreed.

CHAPTER 30 – BREAKING AND
ENTERING

Dudley Mack lived in a large brick
house on a one-acre parcel on Howard Avenue in Grymes Hill. The property sloped
down a heavily forested hill to Van Duzer Street 100 feet below, affording a
spectacular view of New York Harbor from the rear deck, where he and Scarne
were working on one of Mack’s usual pitcher of martinis.

Scarne asked, “Where is
everybody?”

“They left about an hour ago to
head down to the shore.” The Macks had a spectacular home on the water on Long
Beach Island. Scarne had spend a couple of weeks there recuperating after the
Ballantrae case. “Mom wants to clean it up. You know how she is. But cheer up. She
knew you were coming and cooked up some of your favorites. We just have to heat
them up. Sometimes I think she likes you more than me.”

“Do you blame her?”

“Not really.” Mack poured another
martini for Scarne. “You look like you could use a few of these.”

“Where’s Bobo?”

“Gave him a few hours off. She
didn’t cook for an army. Besides, I figure you can protect me.” Scarne smiled
at the thought of Dudley Mack needing anyone’s protection. Bobo Sambuca spent
most of his time saving other people from his boss. “Although looking at your
puss, I have my doubts. What happened now?”

When Scarne finished recounting
his recent misadventures, Dudley said, “Nitrous Oxide. I love it.”

“Thought you would.”

Mack handed him the pitcher.

“Finish up,” he said, “but take
your time. I have to make some calls, throw the food in the oven and open up a
bottle of cheap dago red.”

“You sure you’re not Italian?”

“Too good looking.”

After they ate a predictably delicious
meal of veal parmesan and broccoli rabe, Mack said, “We can’t fuck around
anymore. You’ve obviously stirred up a hornet’s nest and they want you dead.
We’re gonna pay Bimm a visit. Or, rather, his house. Those calls I made; it’s
all set up. Bimm is in the Bahamas.”

“Nobody else there?’

“Nobody would live with Bimm. We’ll
take your cute little car, Jake. We have to stop at the 120 first. Bobo will
meet us.”

Why even ask, Scarne thought,
resignedly. When they pulled up to the precinct they found Bobo Sambucca leaning
against a gray and black hearse. He was wearing a black suit and a ridiculously
small chauffeur’s hat. Actually, Scarne noted, the hat was probably normal-sized.

“Be right back,” Mack said,
heading up the stairs to the station house.

“You’re going to surrender?”

Mack ignored him and Scarne turned
to Sambuca.

“Nice wheels, Bobo.”

“Short notice, Jake. It’s what I
had with me.”

Passersby, mostly commuters hurrying
home from the ferry, were giving them a wide berth.

 “Must be a big hit with the
ladies.”

“You’d be surprised how many times
I get laid in this thing.” The massive driver nodded his head toward the rear
of the funeral car, which blessedly was empty. “Got one of those pump-up air
mattresses stored back there, for special occasions. You know how broads try to
one up each other. Telling their friends they did the horizontal two-step in a
hearse is hard to top. And I usually don’t have to buy flowers. Just pull a few
from the baskets at the funeral parlor.”

“Thank God you cleared that up for
me, Bobo. I was worried you were a necrophiliac.”

Sambuca looked confused for a
second, then shrugged.

“Nah. I feel fine. Not like Dudley. He’s always complaining about his health. If it ain’t one weird disease, it’s
another.”

Scarne let it drop. Mack came out
of the precinct, followed by Detectives Abel Crider and Francis Scullen.

“Hey, Bobo,” Crider said.
“Howzithanging?”

“Down to my knee.”

Scullen stared at Sambuca and then
pointed at the hearse.

“We expecting trouble?”

“I’ll ride with Jake,” Mack said.
“Bobo, go with them. Leave the hearse.”

“Take the cannolis,” Scarne
murmured.

“Give me the keys,” Mack said.
“Been a while since I drove one of these things.”

“You can drive a manual shift?”

“Sure. Some of the cars I stole as
a kid were stick.”

Scarne gave him the keys with some
trepidation, which was confirmed when Mack stalled the car and then ground the
gears before finally moving.

“It’s a new gearbox, Duds.”

“Like I said, been a while.”

As they pulled away with the other
three men following them in an unmarked car, Scarne turned to Mack.

“That was some phone call.”

“Actually, I haven’t exactly been
sitting around on my ass while you’ve been running around trying to get
killed.”

“What did you tell Crider and
Scullen? I want to get my story straight when I’m indicted.”

Mack laughed.

“Just that Bimm may have some info
in his house on the Pearsall murder.”

“We don’t know that.”

“So?’

A minute later the two cars pulled
up outside a ramshackle two-story building on Central Avenue. A sign on the
door said “Project Redemption.” Scarne knew it was a halfway house for
non-violent criminals a block from the courthouse and police complex. Its residents
didn’t have to be reminded of how tenuous their grip on freedom was.

“What now?”

“You’ll see,” Mack said as they
got out.

The other three men got out of
their car. Crider walked into the halfway house and Scullen and Bobo came over
to them.

“I’m a little surprised to see you
here, Detective,” Scarne said.

“I was surprised to get a call
from the Police Commissioner. Seems you and he are pals.”

“He was very helpful when I left
the Department.”

“He means he fired his ass,” Mack
said.

“But I think he felt bad about
it,” Scarne said.

Crider emerged from the halfway
house talking animatedly with a very  frightened-looking man.

“That’s Herbert Lemming,” Scullen
said. “I wouldn’t shake his hand if I were you.” Lemming was small and
ferret-faced, with a bad complexion and thin brown hair. “He’s one of Abel’s
snitches. Likes to feel up little kids. When he dies he wants to come back as a
little girl’s bicycle seat.”

“I presume Detective Crider has
explained the situation to you, Herbie,” Mack said.

“Yes, sir, but I only understood
about half of it.” Lemming stared at Sambuca like a field mouse stares at a
python. He appeared to be having trouble swallowing. “He talks kinda fast.”

 “No matter, Herbie. Now you and Bobo
sit in the back of the nice police car and get acquainted.”

“I hate chicken fuckers,” Bobo
said, grabbing Lemming by his shirt collar and throwing him into the car.

“Herbie will do just fine,” Mack
said. “He’ll be motivated.”

“Where do you get these guys,”
Scarne said, “central casting? And what do we need him for?”

“In addition to his other talents,”
Scullen said. “Herb’s a computer geek. He’s not allowed near them without
supervision now, so he was kinda looking forward to this.” There was a squeak
from the back seat of the police car. “At least he was until a minute ago.”

Bimm lived 10 minutes away in a
McMansion in a new millionaire’s circle of houses recently constructed on the
grounds of the former St. Charles Seminary on Todt Hill. It was a monument to
bad taste that stood out even among the homes of his garish neighbors.

“You guys should probably wait
outside,” Mack told the two detectives. “Maybe keep an eye out for prowlers.”

“Sure,” Scullen said, looking
around at the million-dollar houses that surrounded them. “It’s a dangerous
neighborhood.”

Crider passed out sets of surgical
gloves.

“Noprints.”

“House probably has a primo
security system,” Scullen said.

“One of the best,” Mack said. “I
should know. One of my companies installed it.”

***

 “These are classics,” Lemming
said. “I can’t believe he’s got the one with the elephant screwin’ a…”  He
never finished the sentence as Mack slapped him on the head.

“Shut up, numbnuts. He got any
child porn?”

They were in Bimm’s home office,
which like the rest of the house, was decorated with hotel-quality furniture
and paintings. Lemming, who was sitting at Bimm’s desk, had sweated through his
shirt and smelled badly of a combination of body odor and fear. He was having
trouble concentrating with Bobo Sambuca hovering menacingly a few feet away. They
had been inside only a few minutes before finding Bimm’s cache of pornography
in the desk’s bottom drawer.

“You’re thinking blackmail,”
Scarne said.

“In my circles we call it
leverage,” Mack said. “Come on, Herbie, don’t lick the fucking CD’s. Just look
at them.”

“Nah. Nothing good,” Lemming said,
sounding disappointed. “Borderline stuff. Teen-agers.”

Bobo walked over and knocked him
off his seat. Lemming howled.

“Easy, Bobo,” Mack said, picking
up Lemming. “Herbie, important safety tip. Watch what you say around him.
Hearse sex aside, he’s pretty conservative. Bobo, go watch the front door.”

“Let’s go through his computer,”
Scarne said.

Sniffing dramatically for effect,
Lemming opened Bimm’s laptop. It was  password protected, but he had little
trouble breaking the code.

“Herbie, go sit in the living room
and whack off or something,” Mack said. “We can take it from here.”

After Lemming shuffled out, Mack
took his seat and started opening the folders. Most were filled with letters to
lawyers, contractors, accountants and other brokers, usually threatening to
sue. Just about everything was related to real estate. The two men were quickly
bored with the minutia.

“I’d rather look at his porn,”
Mack said.

“Open that one,” Scarne said,
pointing to a folder marked “NASCAR.”

It was almost as boring as the
others. Bimm was obviously involved in buying up the land surrounding the proposed
track site.

“Nothing illegal about this,”
Scarne said. “If the track goes through any businesses in the area will see a
benefit. Some of those plots are a fair distance from the track, though. They
go all the way to the Arthur Kill.” He was referring to the narrow waterway
dividing Staten Island from New Jersey.

“Yeah,” Mack said. “Think it means
something?”

“Maybe he just was able to get
them cheap. And didn’t I read something about a ferry service to the track from
Manhattan and Jersey?”

“Makes sense. Nobody ever said the
fat bastard was stupid.”

One of the folders caught Scarne’s
eye.

 “Open that one,” he said,
pointing to a folder named “Tunnel.” Within it was a subfolder marked “A.A.
Meetings” and scores of WORD docs. When he tried to open the subfolder, nothing
happened.

“Forget it,” Scarne said. “Open
the documents.”

Mack did and they started reading.