Foxcatcher

by William H Hallahan

  “Thanks for telling me,” Dice said.

  By the time they’d passed the Bordentown exit, a needlelike drizzle had settled in.

  They took the Walt Whitman Bridge over the Delaware into South Philadelphia and drove to Wolf’s warehouse near Veterans Stadium. It was shortly after noon.

  Dice went into his big dumb harmless act. Carrying a phone installer’s tool case and a spare phone, he entered Wolf’s warehouse by way of the loading platform and disappeared inside.

  About forty-five minutes later he returned. “Piece of cake,” he said. “Got two taps on Wolf’s personal phone.” He climbed into the back of the van, set up a tape recorder, and plugged in two pairs of earphones. “Okay. He talks. We listen. What’s next?”

  They drove to a pay phone and Brewer made the call to Wolf. “I got an interesting deal for you,” was all he needed to say.

  Wolf agreed to meet them at Donzi’s, a longshoreman’s saloon down near the Packer Avenue docks. Two ships laden with containerized freight were being off-loaded, and Donzi’s was crowded with longshoremen in rain slickers and hard hats, drinking, playing hand-shuffleboard, and talking about the Eagles’ game with the Redskins.

  “That’s him,” Brewer said. The two of them watched Wolf step out of a hot-pink Cadillac and swagger arrogantly toward the entrance with a cold cigar in his mouth.

  He looked meaner than ever to Brewer. Running to flab around the middle, he was still a powerfully built man, maybe in his mid-sixties now, with a shock of bristling gray hair, a long scar that traversed his forehead, and intense wild eyes.

  “You’re right, Brewer,” Dice said. “He does look like a real wacko.”

  “Wait till you see him in action,” said Brewer.

  Wolf shouldered his way through the crowd of longshoremen at the bar, then stood looking bleakly down on Brewer and Dice. He pointed with his cigar. “You I remember. You I never saw before.”

  “Okay,” said Brewer. “That’ll do for the introductions. Sit down.”

  “What are you guys into?”

  “Got a nice deal for you, Wolf.”

  Wolf slid into the booth. “I’m listening.”

  “I want some parts and I’m ready with the cash.”

  Let me see.

  Brewer pulled the list out of his pocket. “I need these parts—from these manufacturers—in these quantities,” he said.

  Wolf studied the list for a few moments. Then he used his cigar as a pointer again. “Why do you have to have this one from Superior? I can give you the same part from Ruflex and for less.”

  “Make it Superior, okay?” Brewer said.

  “You’re the doctor. What kind of paper you got?”

  “Straight stuff. Legit invoices. From six or seven outfits.”

  “Why so many?” Wolf asked.

  “You want to sell seventy grand worth of these parts to one buyer? The Feds would come to visit in nothing flat.”

  “Are you telling me how to run my business?”

  “What do I care? You want to put it all on one invoice, Wolf, be my guest.”

  Wolf looked at Brewer, then at Dice. “You guys don’t want much, do you? Every one of these parts is on the Feds’ shit-list. I could turn you in just for showing me this paper.”

  Brewer slapped some coins onto the table. “There’s the phone. And here’s the money. Go make the call.”

  “Do I need you to tell me when to make a phone call?” Wolf looked at the list again. “This ain’t going to be easy. Maybe I can’t give it all to you.”

  “It’s all or nothing at all, Wolf,” Brewer said.

  “Then maybe it’s nothing.”

  “If you’re not interested, just say so.” Brewer stood up.

  “What’s the rush?” Wolf asked. “Sit down.”

  “I haven’t got time for games,” Brewer said. “I’m offering you twice the going price in cash—all of it off the books. It’s your move. So shit or get off the pot.”

  There was a pause as Wolf’s face began to flush.

  Wolf put a crooked finger under Brewer’s nose. “Don’t you give me any lip, you hear?”

  “It’s a nice piece of change, Wolf. Seventy grand. You want it, you got it. You don’t, take a walk. Put your fucking finger down.”

  Wolf’s face turned a murderous purple. “I don’t need this shit,” he said.

  “It’s your move, Wolf,” Brewer said.

  Wolf took the cigar out of his mouth. “Let me see your paper.”

  Brewer eased out of his pocket a set of blank invoices.

  Wolf raised his eyebrows. “Altoona. You know where Altoona is, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Right inside your territory,” Brewer said.

  Wolf pointed with his dead cigar. “We haven’t done any business in Altoona for twenty, thirty years. Sheesh. Scarsdale. Easton. Stroudsburg. Landsdowne. How many you got?”

  “How many you want?” Brewer asked.

  “Eight would be nice.”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Cash with the order.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “In small bills.”

  Brewer nodded. “No problem. When do I get delivery?”

  Wolf studied the list again. “Most of this I can give you right now. In fact I can get all of this to you. Day after tomorrow.”

  “I need it tonight,” Brewer said.

  “Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

  “I need it tonight, Wolf.”

  Wolf shrugged. “Okay. Tonight. After six. Loading Bay two. But the price is one hundred.”

  “Forget it,” Brewer said.

  “Ninety is my best price,” Wolf said.

  “Seventy. Take it or leave it.”

  Wolf stood up and leaned over the table. “Seventy grand in small bills. Right? Six o’clock. Loading Bay two.” He swaggered toward the crowd of longshoremen at the bar like a linebacker looking for the ball carrier.

  Brewer sat frowning. “He didn’t ask the right questions.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means he could be planning to blow the whistle on us.”

  They followed Wolf back to his plant and parked the van a half block away where they could keep the pink Cadillac in full view.

  “Let’s see what he does when he gets back to his phone,” Brewer said.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes after he got back to his office, Wolf was on the phone. He called a Mr. Harris.

  “Okay,” he said to Harris. “I got two live ones for you. They want parts from here to there and all of them are on the shit-list.”

  “Get any names?” Harris asked.

  “One of them I never seen before.”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy. A smuggler, I think.”

  “When are you going to pass it to them?”

  “Couple of hours. Six o’clock.”

  “Okay. Do it. And the minute they drive off, call me and we’ll take it from there. You read?”

  Dice disconnected his earphones. “You want to drive?” he asked Brewer.

  “Where?”

  “Back. To New York. You’re not going to hang around here, are you?”

  “I’m not leaving without those parts, Dice.”

  “Charlie. You don’t have a prayer.”

  “Ever hear of Mr. Micawber? His favorite expression was ‘Something will turn up.’ ”

  “No, I never heard of Mr. Micawber,” Dice answered. “Where did he do his time?”

  Dice listened on the earphones half asleep. “Christ,” he said. “All this Wolf talks is numbers. All kinds of numbers. He says one two three four, and the other guy says five six seven eight. Then he says we have three eight ninety-seven five bee. And the other guy says forty-four dozen. Then they talk shipping from inventory and invoice numbers. That kind of stuff. I can’t understand it.” He looked at Brewer. “Charlie, let’s get out of here. They’re going to have a dozen cars in
this area in a short time. We haven’t got a prayer.”

  Brewer nodded without speaking.

  “I know. I know,” Dice said. “Mr. Micawber.”

  Dice tapped Brewer’s arm and pointed at his earphones. “Wolf’s just called some broad,” he said. “They’re set up for a little matinee in her place, then dinner at the Coq au Vin.”

  Later he said, “Now he’s breaking a date with his wife. They were supposed to go to dinner and a show in town. He says he’s working late in the office, but she’s really ticked.”

  He looked at Brewer’s impassive face. “Charlie, you like shows?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Call Wolf’s wife, Charlie. Get a nice evening for yourself. Dinner, two seats on the aisle, and hugs and kisses. If you get out of this you’ll deserve it, Mr. Micawber.”

  Dice massaged his neck and sighed. “How did a cretin like that get a business like this?” he asked.

  “It’s an inspirational success story, Dice,” Brewer said. “He started with stolen military parts in a garage. His best sales tool was a maniac’s temper and a tire iron. Sometimes he used a sawed-off baseball bat.”

  “And he got from that to this?”

  “His sons did. They both have Harvard M.B.A.’s. If it wasn’t for them he’d still be peddling stolen parts from his garage.”

  The warehouse staff quit at four. The office staff left at five. At five-thirty Wolf’s two sons drove off. Dice said, “Lay you eight to five there’s at least a dozen cars staked out around here.”

  At quarter to six, Brewer said, “Make me a copy of that telephone tape.”

  At five to six, he said, “Okay, Dice. Here’s the rundown. There’s no sense both of us taking a fall. You get out and walk. If I make it I pick you up four blocks that way on Packer Avenue. If I don’t, you go home on the train and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Brewer, I never walked out on a guy before. But you don’t have a prayer. I want you to know that I think you’re crazy, and I expect to take the train home.” Dice stepped out of the van, put his raincoat collar up, and walked north toward Packer Avenue.

  “Just follow the streetlights,” Brewer said to him.

  “Good luck, Mr. Micawber.”

  Brewer drove the van around to the loading platform and backed up to Loading Bay two. He put the van’s lights out and waited.

  After a while Wolf stepped through a small door and knocked on the van roof. “Open up.”

  He led Brewer inside to a hand truck holding several dozen low stacks of small-parts boxes. “That’s the whole thing. Every item on your list. Only the price is one hundred, not seventy.”

  “How come?”

  “Price increases and one thing or another.”

  “Seventy,” Brewer said.

  “Like I said,” Wolf replied. “One hundred. I got the only game in town.”

  “Forget it. I’m making a fishcake on this job as it is.”

  “It’s your choice,” said Wolf.

  “You wasted my time, Wolf.” Brewer turned and walked through the door. He crossed the loading platform, jumped down, and had opened the van door when Wolf called him.

  “Okay, okay. Hold it. You got the cash?”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Wolf,” Brewer said.

  “Take it easy, babe. We can do business. Let me see your money.”

  “We have a deal at seventy or what?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Seventy. Come on back in.” He watched Brewer climb back up on the loading platform. “You got a very short fuse,” Wolf said to him.

  The two of them returned to the hand truck.

  “Where’s the money?” Wolf asked.

  “First I count the order,” Brewer said.

  “Sheesh.” Wolf watched Brewer go through each box and check the contents against his list. It took nearly forty-five minutes.

  “Okay,” Brewer said. “Seventy big ones in twenties, tens, and fives.” He held out a large brown paper bag tied with string. “You want to count it, Wolf?”

  “You bet your bippie.” Wolf opened the bag and pulled out some stacks of currency bound by paper bands. He counted the bills in several stacks; then he counted the stacks and shrugged. “Seems to be all here. If it isn’t I know where to find you.”

  “You’ll never find me, Wolf. Count it now. I don’t want any complaints.”

  “I counted it. We got a deal.”

  “One more piece,” Brewer said. He held out the reel of telephone tape. “If Harris and his team pick me up, my partner drops a copy of this in the mailbox. You read?”

  “What’s this?” Wolf took it doubtfully.

  “It’s a few phone conversations you’ve had lately, Wolf. Enough to send you up for ten or better—not counting income tax evasion.”

  Wolf’s face turned purple. He crushed his cigar in his right fist and shook it at Brewer. “You’ve been tapping my phone!”

  “Bet your ass. Including the chat with Harris this afternoon.”

  Wolf threw his shattered cigar down.

  “Call them off, Wolf. If you don’t, my partner makes his drop, and the big boys come and hang your asshole over a doorknob for a few years.”

  Wolf hefted the reel in his hand.

  “Call them off, Wolf, or you’ll be in the cell next to me.”

  “Get out of here,” Wolf said.

  “Call first.”

  “No! The deal’s off.”

  “No. The deal’s on. You got the money and I got the parts. Now call them off.”

  “How, for Christ’s sake? The place is crawling with them.” Wolf’s face was purple and his eye was maniacal.

  “That’s your problem. Move your ass.”

  “Dummy up,” Wolf said. “We gotta call this deal off. They’ll nail both of us.”

  “No. This deal is on or I drop the tape anyway. There’s no moves on the board for you, Wolf. Call.”

  Wolf’s eyes rolled wildly.

  “Call,” said Brewer.

  Wolf threw the tape against the wall and walked over to a phone on the shipping desk. He dialed a number and murmured a few words into it. Then he walked back.

  Brewer slammed the brown paper bag against Wolf’s chest. “Here. If anything happens to me, Wolf, it happens to you. Now help me load the van.”

  Brewer drove away from the loading platform, back toward Packer Avenue. It was all or nothing now. The parts in the van could get him a very long federal prison term; with his prison record, a very long term indeed, plus the completion of his gun-selling jail term. He would be a very old man before he’d served out his years.

  He would know in a few moments; ahead were two parked cars, both with men inside. As he drew closer, one of the cars put on its headlights. It rolled forward slowly toward him, then paused. The second car put on its headlights. They were ready for him.

  Brewer looked ahead, seeking a rabbit hole to dash into. But there was none; a low-powered rental van chased by two high-powered pursuit vehicles had no place to hide, no place to run to.

  He continued driving toward the two cars, drew abreast, and passed them. Both cars made U-turns and drove after him. Now they picked up speed and came up fast behind him. They split, one coming up on his right side, the other on his left.

  As they came abreast they studied his van and looked accusingly in at him. Then the right-hand vehicle raced ahead; the left-hand followed and they quickly disappeared around a corner.

  At Packer Avenue he found Dice on the corner and let him in. As they drove off, they passed another parked car with men in it.

  Brewer said, “We’ve got to get out of here before Wolf finishes playing the telephone tape.” They passed two more parked cars with men in them.

  “Jesus God,” Dice said. “How many did they have?”

  They drove back on the Jersey Turnpike to New York in a slow, steady rain, accompanied by the rhythmical bump-bump bump-bump of the windshield wipers.

  Brewer had put a sizable dent in his parts
list.

  “This is better than taking the train,” Dice said.

  8

  The paralegal assistant carried Brewer’s portfolio in his left hand to Madeline Hale’s desk. She opened the flap and pulled out the miscellany of papers, writs, transcripts, and depositions connected with his trial. Compared to most of her other case files it was not very fat.

  Hale felt like an archaeologist in an ancient midden, piecing together shards to discover a lost tale.

  Among the papers was her trial journal, and she idly opened it to her first meeting with Brewer in prison. They were holding him then in the Tombs in lower Manhattan, while they decided whether to try him in federal court or state court. He was brought into the lawyer’s conference room and locked in with her—with a guard on either side of him.

  The first thing about him she’d noticed was anger. A smoldering anger. He must have given the police a very difficult time, because wherever he went he was accompanied by the two guards. She decided after that first interview that his anger was aimed at himself.

  To her, Rumbh was a fabrication, as was the story of Rumbh’s instructions, as was Brewer’s description of his actions in New York—all manufactured by Brewer for the trial. It hadn’t really mattered, because more than anything else it was Marvel’s testimony that had convicted Brewer.

  On the margins of the pages of her trial journal, she found jotted the titles of books he’d asked for. There was no pattern to them: history, literature, philosophy, contemporary affairs, biography. No light reading. She was impressed anew by how much he had read.

  In all, he was like a strange fish to her, brought up from some random toss of a net. He didn’t fit the usual mold of intelligence men, the slightly rumpled, quick-minded lot who were not given to much introspection. They didn’t have Brewer’s perception of salami tactics. Their easy moral codes permitted many things without any discomfort to their consciences—the wire tap without papers, the lie casually rehearsed in the cab, the planting of heroin in a coat pocket.