Hoax

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Cold and calculating in everything he did, he sometimes imagined this inner self as a serpent coiled up within the skin of a human being named Andrew Kane. In fact, when he was young, he had sometimes wondered if those around him could hear the dry rustling of its scales as it moved. But being a narcissistic sociopath did not mean he was insane, at least not in the legal sense. To be deemed insane in the eyes of the law—and therefore not responsible for a criminal act, such as murder—he would have been unable to distinguish between right and wrong. Kane knew the difference; he simply didn’t care. His only real concern with the legal mores of society was that he not get caught as that would interfere with his plans and make his life uncomfortable.

  Kane had no friends and didn’t want any. There were people who worked for him and people he appeared to be friendly with—whether it was extending an invitation to dinner or a game of squash. He liked rough sex but that, and as adornments at social functions, was about the only use he had for women. He used them all, men and women, for only as long as it suited him and then cast them off like condoms, including his two wives.

  No one was close to the real Andrew Kane, and only a very few ever learned that he was more than he appeared. Not even his closest associates knew how far the tentacles of his empire stretched, or the myriad types of enterprises they grasped.

  Many of his business dealings were legitimate, if kept secret. His real estate holdings in the United States were not limited to Manhattan but extended west to Chicago and Hawaii, and southwest to Houston. He also owned hotels in Europe, sweatshops in Asia, diamond mines in Africa, and oil rigs in the Bering Sea.

  Kane had invested in the entertainment industry as well with principal ownership in movie studios and record labels. His ego reveled in knowing he could count on Broadway and Hollywood actors, rock stars, ballerinas, and artists to show up at his parties, all of whom would be expected to support his political ambitions. With so many celebrities on the menu, an invitation to a Kane affair was the most sought after in Manhattan.

  However, his legal empire represented only a fraction of the hundreds of millions of dollars he was actually worth. For every tentacle that was latched onto a legitimate enterprise, another was into insider trading, drugs, prostitution, pornography, gambling, money laundering, arms sales, and extortion. Where it served his purposes, he made alliances with other criminal organizations, such as the Mafia. He even paid for a network of spies among the terrorist organizations so that he could mitigate any potential harm to his foreign and domestic investments should they do something drastic, like crash airplanes into the World Trade Center, which he’d learned were likely, with barely enough time to sell his holdings in the buildings.

  Legal or otherwise, Andrew Kane was far removed from the day-to-day running of most of his empire by layers of dummy corporations and offshore banks. The business drudgery was handled by CEOs and board members who had no idea whom they actually worked for, just the notion that there was a boss somewhere who paid them well, so long as they produced and kept their mouths shut.

  • • •

  As O’Callahan groveled, Kane reflected on how easy it was to manipulate human beings. It usually took so little to get them to compromise their values; they were always so willing to look the other way, or to blame someone else. They were great for talking about ethics—companies, including several of his own, were forever holding sensitivity-training seminars to address sexual harassment or racism in the workplace—and then the CEOs would turn around and screw their secretaries or tell nigger jokes at parties.

  The crowning glory for him was the day the spinmeisters for the Clinton administration essentially told the American public that there was nothing wrong with the president of the United States getting blow jobs from chubby interns in the Oval Office and then lying about it under oath. Indeed, if the polls were correct, the American public had been convinced that integrity and honesty were not requisites for the nation’s highest office. I should fit right in, he thought with a chuckle.

  Even men with no obvious vices always had their Achilles’ heel. Take the archbishop. He supposed that Fey was what most people would consider a decent and moral man. Even Kane’s network of spies had found no obvious chinks in Fey’s moral armor. The archbishop had none of the sexual vices that had scandalized the church in recent years.

  Perhaps he hit the sherry a bit too much, as evidenced by the veins in his rather large, red, and bulbous nose. Nor was he above accepting a few personal gifts from his friend and legal advisor, Andrew Kane, who donated lavishly to the archbishop’s projects, as well as buying a helicopter for the archbishop’s personal use. The helicopter had been a gift after Fey granted Kane an annulment from his first wife; a large check with lots of zeros for the cathedral had paid for the second. But generally the churchman lived a life without sin, except one—the sin of pride. He saw the new cathedral as his legacy, something he would be remembered for after he passed on to his reward.

  Such a benign dream alone would not have left him open to the manipulations of Kane. But Fey did have another weakness: his love for the church. He would have done anything to keep the church from harm. So over the years when priests were accused of committing sexual indiscretions, Fey allowed the archdiocese’s law office of Plucker, Bucknell and Kane to settle the cases out of the public limelight, not realizing he’d invited a serpent into the garden.

  Early on, Kane had learned that any payments from the church bank account amounting to less than one million dollars did not have to be approved by the church council. Whenever a complaint arose because some priest molested a young woman, or violated a boy, one of his young, tough associates would negotiate a sum with the victim’s family, who were promised that the offending priest would be sent away for sex offender treatment and never allowed to serve in a position of trust again. If that didn’t mollify them, well, there were other, less pleasant, ways of reasoning with uncooperative people.

  When families received their check from the church, they had to sign papers agreeing they would not seek criminal charges or any further recompense from the church. They were further counseled by priests carefully chosen by Kane and his associates, who noted that in accepting the offer, the victims and their families were protecting the church from a “few bad apples,” and therefore acting in accordance with the wishes of God. The counselors went to great lengths to point out that the Christian faith was based on the premise of forgiveness—that Jesus on the cross had even forgiven murderers, as well as his tormentors. “How can we do any less for a few troubled priests?”

  The careful application of money and guilt had kept the New York archdiocese out of the same sort of ongoing scandal that had rocked the church in Boston. As promised, Kane saw to it that the aberrant priests were sent to specialized sex offender treatment programs in rural areas where they would not attract much attention, such as a facility for the worst offenders near Taos, New Mexico, called the St. Ignatius Retreat. However, what he didn’t tell the victims and their families—or the archbishop—was that many of the priests were brought back into the fold and assigned to new parishes, often in similar positions, their “cures” highly suspect.

  Andrew Kane, who made millions in legal fees he charged the church, couldn’t have cared less about protecting it, except as it fit into his plans for vengeance. In fact, he fantasized about the look of dismay on Fey’s fat face when the press would find out about the accusations and payoffs and cover-ups through a carefully orchestrated release of the information. The New York church would be rocked to its foundation; then he’d top it all off with the final revelation that would bring down the house. His special little secret.

  Of course, there would be some fallout on his firm. But he would clasp his hands together piously before the television cameras and note that Plucker, Bucknell and Kane was merely the church’s legal counsel and obligated to represent their client’s civil law interests in negotiations with the families. He would, of course, disavo
w any part in allowing the offending priests to return to their duties. “A horrible breach of trust, compounding previous errors,” he imagined himself saying. “But Plucker, Bucknell and Kane was kept in the dark about these nefarious dealings or we would have severed our ties to the church.” Any criminal charges, he’d add, were the responsibility of the NYPD and the New York District Attorney’s Office, which had “obviously not done their jobs.”

  • • •

  Kane was kept informed of what Fey was thinking and doing by Father O’Callahan. As a young priest a dozen or so years earlier, O’Callahan had been in the habit of sexually assaulting young women who admitted to adultery in the confession booth. Instead of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, he’d demanded sex unless they wanted their husbands to learn of their sins.

  The blackmail had come to Kane’s attention when one of the young women told her husband and a complaint was lodged with the archbishop’s office. Negotiations proved difficult. The young husband, already the cuckold, did not want to accept the church’s money and threatened to go public. The problem required a special solution.

  One afternoon a few months after reporting the assault, the young woman was in the laundry room of her apartment complex when she was paid a visit by a large man who spoke in thickly accented English. Her husband later discovered her locked in their dark bathroom, crying uncontrollably, and babbling about the “horrible things” that would be done to her if they didn’t accept the church’s offer. When her husband turned on the light, he saw that one of her eyes was swollen shut and surrounded by an immense, purple bruise.

  The law office of Plucker, Bucknell and Kane was notified the next morning that the couple had reconsidered and would accept the $750,000 they’d been offered. Kane reduced the offer to $500,000—for the trouble they’d caused him—but they came into the office, signed the papers, collected the check, and then left the state, their car already packed.

  Ever since then, O’Callahan had been utterly loyal to Kane, who’d liked the young priest’s complete lack of morals and thought that with a little guidance, he might prove useful. The priest was bright, Machiavellian in his love for intrigue, and certainly not troubled by a conscience; he’d never seen the church as anything expect a place where he could exercise control over women to satisfy his sexual desires.

  Kane had repaid O’Callahan’s loyalty by suggesting to Fey that a certain bright young priest who had recently come to his attention might make a good personal secretary. The timing of the suggestion was perfect. Just a few weeks earlier, Fey’s longtime secretary had suffered a most unfortunate accident when he was mugged on Second Avenue as he was walking to St. Patrick’s for evening Mass. The old man had been given such a knock on the head that he was rendered an imbecile and sent to live the remainder of his days at a monastery in upstate New York. Fey gladly accepted Kane’s suggestion and made O’Callahan his secretary.

  O’Callahan had proved his worth several times over, none more important than his handling of Fey regarding the clergy sex offender cases. The payoffs had troubled Fey, but (with Kane’s coaching) O’Callahan convinced the archbishop that the money was spent and the incidents kept secret for the greater good of protecting the Holy Church.

  “Why should a few troubled priests ruin so much important work done on the behalf of so many others,” O’Callahan counseled. “Millions of people count on the church for hope and comfort in these troubled times. These indiscretions by a few misguided and damaged men would shake the public’s faith to the core. At the same time, shouldn’t we forgive our troubled brothers and get them the help they need while removing them from temptation?”

  Whenever Fey seemed to waver, O’Callahan would up the stakes by pointing out that the new cathedral he wanted to build would be in great jeopardy if New York’s Catholics closed their wallets at the same time they lost their faith. “And losing our cathedral would be a tragedy,” he’d coo, “for the faithful, for New York City…and for you, your eminence.”

  With his conscience lulled to sleep, Fey closed his eyes to the payoffs, preferring that O’Callahan and Kane sign off for him on the checks. When he suspected that he wasn’t being told the worst of it, he decided that even those details were best left for people better equipped to deal with them.

  • • •

  Most of the time, a simple threat was enough to keep Kane’s vassals in line. However, every once in a while he felt it necessary to revert to lessons learned in childhood and poke someone in the eye with a stick. The other night during the archbishop’s fund-raiser he’d been waiting for a telephone call to hear that such a message had been delivered to ML Rex.

  He did not allow anyone to take anything from him—not his women, not his possessions, not his money—and he dealt with thieves harshly. But there was one sin against his pride that would send him into a blind rage that even he recognized was unhealthy for his aspirations: the sin of betrayal. Nobody, but nobody, fucked over, or walked out on, Andrew Kane.

  Among the fiefdoms of his kingdom was principal ownership of a major recording label that itself was comprised of a half-dozen affiliates, one of them being Pentagram Records. The company was a personal favorite of his; he’d created it, chosen the name, and dedicated it to the wonderfully violent gangsta rap. Music is dead, he thought, whenever he listened to what the studio produced. But still there was something that commanded his respect about so many illiterate assholes with so little talent making so much money by writing hardly comprehensible songs about shooting people, selling drugs, and abusing women. Now, that was the American dream.

  The idea that one of these so-called musicians he’d created—a low-life gang member who owed every cent he’d made to Kane—had the temerity to walk out on his contract had infuriated him. That’s the problem with niggers…they have no sense of loyalty. And the loyalty of his subordinates was paramount with Andrew Kane. Once they’d sold their souls to this devil there were no refunds and no returns.

  While few knew that he owned Pentagram, his people would make sure that the lesson taught to ML Rex reached other artists with his labels who might consider looking for greener pastures. Yet, as satisfying as it was, the execution of ML Rex was only a move in a chess game with much larger ramifications than the death of one more foul-mouthed nigger. Someone had something that he wanted very badly—something that could ruin all of his plans, even make his life uncomfortable—but the usual forms of persuasion had not worked. In a way, ML Rex had died for someone else’s sins against Kane.

  Kane considered himself a “big idea” sort of guy who left the details of carrying out his plans to his underlings, especially O’Callahan. That’s why he felt irritated when the priest mentioned the retreat in New Mexico. “So what was this about St. Ignatius?”

  “Oh probably nothing,” the priest replied, remembering the glare and not wanting to see it again today. “Just a call from Tobias about some Indian cop coming around and asking questions about missing kids.”

  “So why are you bothering me with this?” Kane said quietly as he studied his immaculate fingernails. “Didn’t I ask you to make sure there were no problems at St. Ignatius?”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Callahan replied, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead. “I wouldn’t have bothered you except for our ‘friend’ out there.”

  Kane lifted his gaze to lock into the priest’s eyes. “But, of course, I’m sure it’s nothing,” O’Callahan went on, clearing his throat. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Good, Riley, make sure you do,” Kane said and went back to studying the saints on the ceiling.

  11

  “CHIEF JOJOLA! CHIEF JOJOLA!”

  Charlie Many Horses called to him from the edge of his dreams. Except that the voice did not sound like his friend, nor had Charlie ever addressed him as chief.

  In his dreams, Jojola was still dancing. He wet his parched lips with his tongue and kept his legs moving to the beat of the drums. At some point he knew that he would move bey
ond the hallucinations and into a dimension where he hoped the spirits would offer a clue to help him stop whatever was happening to the tribe’s children.

  “JOHN JOJOLA!”

  The voice continued yelling, but Charlie had turned his back and walked into the dark. The others in his mind’s village gave him disapproving looks; the dance was sacred and wasn’t supposed to be interrupted with shouting. But the voice was insistent. “Chief Jojola. There’s an emergency, sir!”

  Jojola’s feet gradually stopped moving like a windup toy running down. A wave of irritation passed over him; he thought that he had been on the verge of communication with the kachinas, but the feeling was gone with the dream. He opened his eyes and saw the worried face of Officer Larry Small Hands bending over him.

  When Jojola recognized the young officer, his grip relaxed on the big bone-handled knife he kept beneath his pillow. Still, he was disturbed that for the first time he could remember since he was a child, someone had managed to walk up on him while he was sleeping. Must have been one hell of a deep dream, he thought, though the details had already faded by the time he sat up.

  Meanwhile, Small Hands’s face could hardly contain his excitement, and Jojola realized that whatever it was that caused the officer to enter his house uninvited—a cultural no-no in the close quarters of the pueblo—had to be important. The Taos Pueblo Police Department rarely dealt with major crimes. Felony investigations on Indian reservations were the purview of the FBI, an agency that put little manpower or resources into such investigations so very little ever got done. Anything off the reservation and not within the Taos city limits was handled by the Taos County sheriff.