Red Rag Blues (22 page)

“Is there bad news?” Fisk asked. “He hasn't hurt anyone. The banks have been warned.”

“To do what, exactly? How can they distinguish between the messengers our smart-ass sends and the hundred other desperate men who hold up banks every week?”

Fisk thought about it. “We could expose him,” he said. “Use the newspapers …” Prendergast looked sideways at him. “Copycat crimes,” Fisk said.

“This could be a different smart-ass, impersonating Cabrillo. Assuming it
was
Cabrillo in New York. Whoever the criminal, he's a showman. Good. Soon he'll trip over his own feet and fall off the stage.”

“And meanwhile, we don't think Cabrillo killed Sammy Fantoni.”

“Why would he? No motive. He's too smart to be a gorilla. Fantoni was a dumb hit-man. My reading is that his uncle sent him to whack somebody, Sammy loaded his gun in the car, accidentally shot himself in the leg. Gangsters are not immune from error, Fisk. Don't make something of nothing.”

Fisk thought:
But he was in Cabrillo's car. Nobody heard a shot. And what about the fire?
He knew what Prendergast would say: Life is messy. Disorder is normal. Purity is suspect. Let it lie. So Fisk said, “Jerome Fantoni is very dissatisfied. Says he wants justice.”

“Then he should pay his taxes,” Prendergast said. That was that.

*

Harding and Philby met in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was unlikely to be bugged by the FBI. Philby read the case summary that Harding had brought; then they strolled through the galleries.

“On the debit side, sir, the Bureau doesn't have a clue where he is, or what to do next, or even if he is the real Cabrillo.”

“Oh, he's the genuine article.”

“On the credit side, our pest control man has fumigated the premises. Pity he winged the wrong bird. Understandable mistake. Made Cabrillo jump, didn't it? All the way to California.”

“Yes.” Philby stopped. They were looking at a huge canvas depicting a blood-smeared warrior, holding a sword and naked except for a helmet, doing battle with an angry lion. “The director of MI6 in discussions with H.M. Treasury,” he murmured. They
walked on. “The publishers' blacklisting is helpful, but it won't silence Cabrillo forever.”

“He doesn't need funds, sir. Not since San Francisco.”

“I was thinking of his Spanish temperament. Have you heard the old saying: ‘Scratch a Spaniard and start a fire'?”

“No, sir.”

“I'm not surprised. Cabrillo invented it, which doesn't mean it's not true. I say, just look at this.” It was a painting of Leda and the swan. “Here we see the FBI and the CIA earnestly seeking ways to fuck each other. Hence the baffled expression on the swan.”

“Isn't the swan supposed to be a Greek god?”

“Zeus. He took the form of a swan to improve his chances of sexual intercourse with Leda.”

“He should have asked my advice first, sir,” Harding said. “It would have avoided a lot of fuss and feathers and frustration.”

While Luis was in California, Julie checked out the real-estate scene in Washington. This didn't take long. Washington wasn't the murder capital of America, but the US army trained its surgeons for Korea by sending them to Washington hospitals, a good place to learn how to treat gunshot wounds, especially on a hot Friday night. Usually, the wounded were black. Two-thirds of the citizens were black. Segregation simplified the real-estate business. “Unless you're very brave and very poor,” an agent told Julie, “it's got to be Georgetown. Trust me.”

He found her a small house in Potomac Street, a turning off M Street. It was another short sub-let: the owner was a State Department official who'd gone to Paris to replace a colleague who had shopped often but paid seldom.

Luis didn't like the sound of it. “M Street?” he said. “Presumably between L Street and N Street? That displays a pathetic lack of imagination. What happens after Z Street?”

“It's all swamp up there,” she said. “Nothing but bears and Indians. Grab your hat.”

He didn't like the look of the real-estate agent either. Gregg DeWolf was a younger, slimmer version of Burt Lancaster. He wore a cool tan-colored suit. The crease in his pants was as
sharp as the prow of the
Ile de France.
He was three inches taller and half an octave lower than Luis. He was pleased to meet Luis and very pleased to see Julie again.

Potomac Street was delightful and the house was perfect: two-story Georgian, painted cobalt blue with black shutters. Luis parked the Buick next to a fire plug. DeWolf advised against this. Luis ignored him. He paid three months' rent in advance, in cash, counted the notes into DeWolf's hand, waved away the offer of a receipt. “I taught unarmed combat to Commandos all through the war,” he said. “There are six ways to break a man's arm without using weapons and I invented three of them.”

DeWolf knew when to look impressed, and he looked impressed now.

“Everyone needs a hobby,” Julie said. “Me, I play tennis.”

*

The house on Potomac Street was fully furnished. Life was easy. Julie explored Georgetown and bought clothes to replace the stuff abandoned in the penthouse. After too long serving beer and burgers at Mooney's, this was an unreal, fairytale existence. Luis seemed to be rich and she was willing to wallow in luxury. She knew Luis: it wouldn't last.

He got a ticket for parking next to the fire plug. He began to read it and found it longwinded and heavy-handed and he gave up. He used the car again, and came back and parked next to the fire plug again. Soon the car had another ticket. He stuffed it where he'd stuffed the first, in the glove compartment. The Buick had a deep glove compartment. Its designers had thought of everything.

The radio warned that it was going to rain. “The sun is shining,” Luis said. Julie was curled up on a sofa, happy, with bunch of new novels from the owner's bookshelves. “Take an umbrella,” she said. “This is federal territory. They got federal rain here.”

He didn't take an umbrella. He took a bus, the first time he had been on a bus since London in 1945. A small boy in the seat in front turned and stared. His narrow features had a middle-aged look. He was chewing bubblegum. A bubble swelled and burst, sounding like a slap on a wet thigh. He sucked in the tattered debris. “Gimme a quarter,” the boy said softly, “or I'll tell the driver you took out your pecker.”

Luis leaned forward. “You're a smart kid,” he whispered. “You know any Commies?” He flashed his Caracas police badge. “The Bureau pays a dollar a Red.”

The boy still stared but he stopped chewing. Saliva dribbled from a corner of his mouth. He suddenly turned away and slumped. Luis relaxed. The bus went past the White House. It looked much bigger in the movies. Then the boy was back, bubblegum garaged in his cheek. “I got a Red for you,” he said, quietly but urgently. “Math teacher at my school. Bastard's a Commie. That's worth more'n a dollar, ain't it?”

Luis patted his shoulder. “The FBI already identified your teacher. But keep your eyes open, son. The enemy is everywhere.” He gave the boy a quarter. “Get off at the next stop. We can't be seen together.”

Luis rode the bus to the Mall, feeling slightly ashamed for having bamboozled the kid so easily. Espionage was such a potent drug. He walked to the Washington Monument. Against a
gray sky it looked massive but not majestic. He strolled around it twice. Now what? A tourist wearing a porkpie hat with a plastic hat-protector sidled up to him. “Some piece a stone, huh?” he said. “Five hunderd an' fifty-five feet. Hell of a thing.”

“That was last year,” Luis said. “What they don't tell you is it sinks an inch a month.”

“Thatafack?” He took a pace back and revalued the monument. “So … not five fifty-five, you reckon?”

“Five fifty-four. They lost twelve inches since last year.”

“Yeah, but …” He had a guidebook. “They finished building in 1884. If it kept sinkin' like you said, that's damn near seventy feet it sunk. Ain't possible.”

“You're no fool,” Luis said. “Once a year, the government sends up a construction crew to add an extra twelve inches to the top. They work by night. It's one of the best-kept secrets in Washington.”

“How come you know so much, then?”

“I'm the crew boss,” Luis said simply. “We climb tonight.”

They stood for a long minute, looking at the phenomenon that was the Washington Monument, until the man said, “Nice talkin' with you, sir. Now I got to go see where they make the money.”

Luis gave him a hundred yards start and followed him. An occasional breeze hunted in the grass, chased bits of litter, gave up, came back from a different angle. It was soon obvious where he was heading: a hulking lump of a building, as boring as a brick. Yet there was a line of people waiting to get in. Everyone wants to see money being made, and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing made dollars day and night, all year round. Billions of dollars.

The tour fascinated Luis. He looked down at presses creating sheets of thirty-two bills as easily as making wrapping paper. Men scanned each sheet for defects. That was all they did. Came to work, scanned half a million bucks, put their hats on, went home. A different press added serial numbers. A cutter chopped the sheets into bills. The bills got lumped into chunks, four thousand to a chunk. The chunks went to the banks. End of story, except the story never ended. What pleased Luis was the aura of craftsmanship. American dollars were made with care. With pride. With respect.

He was strolling across the Mall, thinking about those chunks of money, each as clean as a brick, when it began to rain. He
printed to the Capitol building, and just made it before God pulled the plug and soaked the tourists.

Luis was lost in five minutes and bored in ten. Too many marble columns, too many bronze statues, and miles of bloody corridors that led to staircases that went God knew where. Architecture didn't thrill Luis. What this Capitol building needed was someplace to nurse a martini and talk to a friendly barman until it stopped raining, instead of which he got a cop with brass buttons for eyes who said, “You look kinda lost, mister.”

“Ah, constable. Just the chap I need.” Luis smiled with his eyes and adopted his best Cary Grant accent. The
Abwehr
had coached him in how to deal with nosey policemen. Relax. Stand tall, speak calmly, request advice. If possible, associate yourself with authority. “Got here early for my appointment. Seem to have lost my way, rather.”

“Who's your appointment with, sir?”

“McCarthy. Senator McCarthy.” As soon as he heard himself, Luis knew that McCarthy was the real reason he was in the Capitol. In fact, McCarthy was the magnet that had drawn him to Washington.

“Senate's not in session. Probably in his office. That's in the Senate Office Buildings, across the street, on Constitution Avenue.”

“Outside?” Luis looked at the rain-streaked windows. “One would arrive quite drenched.”

“Take the subway,” the cop said. “In the basement.”

“What a thoughtful arrangement.”

“We like it.”

The subway train was made of small, open-top cars. The seats were generously upholstered and they faced each other. Luis sat in an empty car and thought about money, lunch, Julie and sex, all in the space of ten seconds. Sex made him hungry. An omelet would be nice. Three men got into the car. Suits, hats, briefcases.

“Hi,” one of them said. “You're not an accountant, by any chance?” Luis shook his head. “Too bad,” the man said. “Our client has mislaid a million dollars.”

“Can it, Charlie,” an older man said, mildly.

“Maybe he just mislaid the decimal point,” the third man said.

“Forgive my colleagues, sir,” the older man said. “Zeroes excite them. Are you a visitor to this fair swamp?”

“Oh, no,” Luis said. The fellow mistook him for a tourist. “I have an appointment with Senator McCarthy.” That silenced them.

The train moved and carried them through a tunnel and stopped. They got out. Charlie said, “You're going to see Joe McCarthy, right?” Luis nodded. “Met him before?” Charlie asked. Luis said no. “Well, get ready for a ride on the tiger,” Charlie said. “And I hope you brought plenty of red meat, preferably poisoned.” Anger had deadened his voice. He hurried after the others.

My goodness,
Luis thought.
Such a welter of images.
But he was thoughtful as he made his way upstairs. His mind offered up faint echoes of an ancient adventure, when poverty had sent him strolling into the German embassy in Madrid, offering to spy on the British. But that just took nerve. Senator McCarthy was an American politician, and therefore much more formidable an opponent than an
Abwehr
brigadier. Tackling McCarthy would demand nerve and fast footwork and high intelligence and a truckload of bullshit.

He found the right building, the right floor, the right corridor, the right office, but nobody answered his tap on the door; so he opened it.

A secretary blinked to acknowledge his presence. Her eyes were the only way she had to communicate. She was typing. Her mouth gripped a ballpen. Her shoulder squeezed a telephone. “Uh-huh,” she told the phone, and typed. “Uh-huh.”

“The senator …” Luis began. She nodded, and her eyes swiveled toward an open door. “Uh-huh.” The typing never stopped.

Luis went into the next room, which was bigger and better furnished. Nobody was there. Another door was, if not open, not entirely shut. He kept going, into a room that was even more spacious. A king-size desk was covered with books, files, documents. A man was writing fast on a yellow legal pad, filling line after line, no pause, no hesitation. Left hand spread across forehead, shielding the eyes. Shirt sleeves rolled up.