Red Rag Blues (32 page)

“All gun, no brain. Sam Giancana runs the Mid-West. If you want to put the fix in, Murray Humphreys knows the price of every Chicago politician down to the last nickel.”

Luis said, “So the Mafia actually—”

“Not the goddamn Mafia! In Chicago it's called ‘The Outfit.' Maybe ‘The Syndicate.' Jeez, you guys see too many movies.”

“Who runs Buffalo?” Julie asked.

“Stefano Magaddino. His organization's called ‘The Office.'”

“New Orleans?”

“Carlos Marcello. The Syndicate. He's got Louisiana and half Texas, too.”

“How come you know so much?”

“How come you know so little? I'm a Fantoni. I was brought up to take a pride in my heritage.” She strode away with such dignity that the towel fell off. She let it lie.

“Triple Virgin,” Julie said. “And she's built like Miss America with new Ultra-Glide Hydromatic Suspension.”

Luis was staring into space. “Nobody says Mafia in the Mafia,” he said softly. “Isn't that wonderful?”

“I'll tell you what's even more wonderful.” She stood up. “Dinner can wait. Can you decode that message?”

“I may need help.” He got to his feet. “Meanwhile, can I interest you in a roll in the hay?”

“Is Garibaldi a cookie?”

It was dusk when they wandered out of the bedroom, showered, dressed, and took Stevie to dinner, oyster-stuffed fish fillets, all you can eat for five dollars. She ate her fill, but she was not happy. “They say there's somebody for everyone. Why is it I keep finding somebody who's nobody?” she said.

“A good-looking woman makes a man nervous,” Julie said. “He takes one look, he knows he's not in the same league, his poor little prong goes A WOL.”

“Yeah, but not in the dark with the lights out.” Nevertheless, Stevie was slightly encouraged.

“I would be a huge disappointment to you,” Luis said. “Just a moth in the flames of your beauty.”

“I'll wear a paper bag over my head,” she said.

“You are a truly desperate woman,” Julie said.

They went back to the apartment and worked through the pile of Soviet-Mafia intelligence reports. Stevie corrected the names, added convincing details. “Joe Zerilli runs the Syndicate in Detroit,” she said. “Very thorough. There's seven men on the Detroit Police Review Board and Joe's got five. This here, where you mention Tommy Lucchese in New York? He should get credit for double-boxing. It's his way of disposin' of stiffs when a lot of guys been whacked. Two bodies in one box, the top one bein' the genuine customer. Who's gonna go pokin' about in a coffin? People got more respect.”

They finished at two in the morning.

“One thing puzzles me,” Julie said. “Your father went to Princeton. Where did you go? Hell's Kitchen?”

“He sent me to Bryn Mawr. I got my letter in lacrosse. Bust three heads wide open when we played Sarah Lawrence. But I quit. They was too polite. I like to be around people who speak their minds.”

“No shit,” Julie said.

“There you go,” Stevie said.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. All born to be poets. With names like that, what else could they do? Some people live up to their names. Some people live down to them. Wiley Foxx, for instance, had to be a smalltime crook. What is it, an act of premature vengeance against an unwanted child? The Stones have a daughter they christen Cherry. The Carts have a son and they reject Elmer and Duke and Floyd because, hey, Orson, that's a nice name. Orson Cart. It's not enough the kid gets their tattered, battered genes; they have to make him a cartoon character. A lot of people thought Wiley was Foxx's nickname. No such luck.

Wiley was 22 when Luis gave him the Buick. So far his life had been a bad joke. Kicked out of high school for attempted arson (the matches were damp), medically unfit for the army, barely literate, he was too stupid to know he was stupid. It made him just a digit in the stats that require a certain number of schmucks to counterbalance the clever people. You can't reward genius without penalizing the putz.

Wiley got a temporary job as attendant in Long-Stay Parking at Washington International Airport while the regular guy recovered from sciatica. The job was easy, plenty of dead time between flights when Wiley could steal. People left cars unlocked, windows a half-inch open, spare keys on a magnet stuck inside a wing. Pickings were slim: a pack of Lifesavers, a thermos flask, a Zippo lighter. On a good day, a travel rug. Not enough to feed Wiley's greed. When travelers collected their cars and paid the parking fee, Wiley short-changed them, if he felt brave.

One day he short-changed an off-duty Washington cop, back from a wedding in Bermuda. Big mistake.

The cop let the bills lie on his open palm. “I gave you a twenty,” he said.

Wiley gave him more money and apologized with a grin that sent out waves of dishonesty as loud as if he'd fouled his pants, which he almost had.

The cop put his thumb on the bills to stop them blowing away but he still did not close his fist. He thought:
This piece of piss needs to suffer. Needs to bleed.
He nodded at the attendant's hut. “That where you guys hang out?” Wiley grunted, yeah. The cop said, “Mind if I go in, take a look around?” Now Wiley wet himself, a hot rush down his left thigh. In the hut was stuff he stole. Hidden, but…

“Locked,” he said. “Ain't got the key. Other guy, he got the key. But he ain't here …” His bladder pumped itself empty. “That's how come it's locked.” Wiley wanted to cry.

“Too bad.” The cop looked at the sky. “Rain on the way. You're gonna get wet.” He drove on. When he glanced at the rearview mirror, the attendant was sitting on the ground. You ask a guy, can I look around your hut, he doesn't know you're a cop, he says go to hell. This sad specimen, he panics.

Washington airport is in Virginia. The cop phoned the local law. Fifteen minutes later, two State troopers in a handsome tan-and-bitter-chocolate patrol car swung into Long-Stay Parking, and Wiley discovered a fluid ounce he thought he'd spent. He was going to jail. He wouldn't last ten minutes in jail.

They were friendly, just wanted to check out security arrangements. “We talk inside this hut of yours?” one said. Fat splashes of rain were blackening the ground. The cop had been right. Wiley's nerve was as limp as old lettuce, he couldn't con these big, smart troopers with his shit about keys. He opened the door and let them in. That was when he got lucky. A car horn blared. “Customer,” he said. “Be right back.”

The rain became serious while he was taking the money, giving the ticket, leaning on the counterweight to raise the barrier arm. He left it upright. He ran to the Buick, his crappy old sneakers skidding on the wet tarmac, got in, rammed the key into the dash. More luck. The motor fired. He set the wipers to max and slipped the brakes and rushed such power to the wheels that his head bounced. What a punk.

If he had driven quietly and modestly out of Long-Stay, he might have got away. It was a parking lot; naturally cars came and went. But he slammed his foot to the floor, created a rage of noise, left a wake of blue smoke from burning rubber, fishtailed through the exit. He was Wiley Foxx. The troopers chased him.

He saw the flashing lights and heard the coyote wail behind him. Traffic was thin. They'd catch him. Any cop drove better than Wiley, he knew that. His right leg was shuddering, he had to grip his knee to keep his foot hard on the gas, but that took one hand off the wheel, and the wheel was wet, slippery, he needed both hands. Fuckin' rain. Now the lights behind were brighter, the wail was louder, he had to get off this road, and he knew there was a chance soon on the right, an escape, a sharp exit into a side road, narrow, just a lane. Wiley knew if he waited and then fired the Buick hard right, the troopers would scream past him and he'd be gone, man, gone! He'd seen it done on TV, in
Dragnet.
The turn-off hurtled toward him. He hit the brakes and spun the wheel. What he wanted was a long sideways skid, as seen in
Dragnet.
What he got was a full-circle spin, and then some, which slammed the Buick broadside at a pine tree, one hundred and twenty-six years old, five-foot diameter, in perfect health. Car and driver embraced the base like a candy wrapper. In an instant, the average intelligence of the population nudged upward by an infinitesimal amount.

The Buick was identified; so was Wiley Foxx. The information traveled via the DA's office in Washington to Jerome Fantoni. It deepened his depression. All his life, he had regarded serious crime as the solution to his problems; now he was bedeviled by trivial crime, almost
facetious
crime. A pest control operator killed one person close to him. Now an airport parking attendant was tied to the loss of another. Probably killed him. What made it worse, these nobodies, these nebbishes, they went and killed themselves before he could get to grips with them. How can you fight death?

*

“Wiley Foxx,” Prendergast said. “A pitiful jerk who gets a headache making change at Long-Stay Parking. What did I tell you?”

“You said crime is messy,” Fisk said.

“And Foxx has Jerome Fantoni's Buick. Which disappeared when Cabrillo, if it was Cabrillo, dropped out of sight when Sammy ran out of blood on Broadway. What else did I tell you?”

“Criminals always bungle.”

“Because they're bums. This Foxx was a bum. That's why this whole thing has never made sense. Bums have no brains. Wise up, Fisk. You keep looking for a pattern of behavior. Tell me this: if you ever find a pattern, what will it be?”

“An accident. A mistake. An aberration. Because crime is messy.”

“You're learning at last,” Prendergast said.

The TV crews cursed McCarthy for holding his Press Conference halfway up the steps of the Capitol Building at 4 p.m., the hottest, stickiest part of the day. To get a good shot of the senator meant building a temporary camera tower of scaffolding. The networks and the local stations competed for space with foreign TV crews. Riggers, sound engineers and cameramen sweated and swore, but the reporters relished the setting. It was pure McCarthy. Look at that bank of microphones: studded with idents from all over. Look at the background: noble, soaring pillars pointing to the stately Dome. Look at the crowd: a great mob of tourists, ready for a free show, something to boast about when they got back to Elk Lick, Dakota. Best of all, the newsmen were guaranteed hot headlines, because McCarthy always delivered. In spades. For that, any true newsman would sweat blood.

The crowd applauded McCarthy when he walked out of the Capitol. A team of six men took positions behind him. He began to speak at 4 p.m. on the button. Another reason why television loved him.

“The price of freedom,” the senator said. “Think of that for a moment. The price of freedom. What is it? How much are we willing to pay?” That was to give the sound engineers a chance to balance their levels. Now for business. “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance—well, you knew that. But vigilance is just a down payment, when there are people hellbent on taking away our freedom who are prepared to spend blood! That's no figure of speech. When I say blood, I mean the very essence of life itself
which we know the Communist dictators squander with ruthless indifference. Stalin …” McCarthy spoke very slowly, delivering the words as if they were playing-cards. “Stalin … murdered … several … hundred … thousand … colleagues.” Back to normal speed. “Not enemies. Colleagues, comrades, taken away, shot, never heard of again. Why? Who knows? Before that, Stalin had already murdered his Kulaks, his farmers, by the million. Some say eight million, some say ten million, maybe more. Why? Who knows? Red leaders don't have to explain their massacres. Don't have to explain anything! But one thing needs no explanation because it cries out so loudly that even the deaf, blind but unfortunately not mute liberal-loving Comm-Symps in this country cannot ignore this simple question. If that is how Stalin treated his own people, his countrymen, patriots who saved his skin against Hitler, then how do you think the Reds would treat us, the American people, if we let them dominate this fair land? Impossible, you say? Think back. Remember Japan. I served in the Pacific. I saw the blood our boys shed. The price of freedom. So it's with a heavy heart that I find it my inescapable duty to report that the Communist infiltration of the United States has created a more insidious, a more deadly Fifth Column on American soil than ever before in our history …”

*

Wagner was at home, holding a book, not reading. He was thinking of his future. Manfred had been right: Arabel was a threat as long as he lived, a threat to Wagner's career, which meant his life. He was an ex-brigadier of a defeated army and an ex-head of a disgraced
Abwehr
station. He knew how very lucky he had been to get into the CIA. If the Arabel scandal came out, he was a three-time loser. Finished. It was maddening to know that Arabel was not far away, in killing range so to speak, if only he could find him.

Wagner let the book drop. He switched on the television. Senator McCarthy was blaming everything on the Communists. Wagner watched, hating himself for wasting his time. But what else could he do with it?

A row of serious-looking, sober-suited men stood behind McCarthy, one step up. One of them smiled and nodded, endorsing the senator's claim. Not Secret Service, then. Wagner blinked. He moved closer to the set, kneeled and stared. Arabel?
Arabel, yes, beyond any doubt. The director cut to a wide shot. The Capitol steps.

Wagner grabbed his car keys and ran.

*

“Folks write to me,” McCarthy said. “All kinds of folks. That's good, I want to hear what the good people of America think, even including what they think about
me.
I'm told that's not the way it is with every US senator …” Laughter could be heard. McCarthy looked puzzled. “Oh, you noticed it too … Huh … Well, some folks ask, they say, ‘See here, senator, if you know so much about Communist dirty tricks, why don't you arrest the scoundrels?' Answer is: I wish I could. But I don't have the power. I have the honor to chair the Senate Sub-Committee on Investigations. Yes,
investigations.
We turn over rocks and some pretty slimy things crawl out, but we can't arrest them. Not our job. What I can do is
alert
the American people to the kinds of sabotage that Red agents trained in subversion would like to see succeed. Let me give you an example of how they might possibly seek chinks in our armor. For instance, I've learned that a new military radio which is being tested for the Pentagon has been reported as having an unbelievably good performance. I'm no expert. All I know is, if it's unbelievable, I don't believe it, and I wouldn't want American soldiers to depend on it in battle. Wouldn't do any harm if the Pentagon double-checked the loyalty of that team doing the testing, would it? And I was shocked to learn how vulnerable to sabotage the state of Idaho is. Soviet scientists have been experimenting, developing a new type of potato blight. Maybe it's still in Russia, maybe it ain't. Now, as you know, a lot of your tax dollars go into the Department of Agriculture. I just hope Agriculture's on the ball. I hope nobody's draggin' his feet, for whatever reason. I think you know what I mean. And if you want to know just how smart the Reds can be, imagine how much damage it would do to the economy of our richest state, California, if the folk out there got demoralized by repeated earthquake warnings that were faked. How? By falsifying the data obtained from studying the San Andreas Fault! Experts tell me that, with the wrong man in the right place, it could easily be done. If I were Governor of California … I need say no more. It's kinda worrying, ain't it? I'm just one man, but if my intelligence system can pick up these kinds of risks, I sure hope our law officers and the head
honchos in this Administration are keepin' their ears to the ground. I say this because I have—and I have it here—hard evidence, clear evidence, physical evidence, of a total failure, a devastating and a shameful failure at every level of your government, to detect the hand of the Kremlin at work in one of the places where you might least expect to find it…”