Cup of Evil: Corruption, Blackmail and Bodies Come to Light When a Sadistic Tycoon is Murdered

by E. Groat

  Dreamily, slowly, Garth awoke to soft caresses and to lips sweetly nibbling his earlobe. “Umm … is that you, Mildred?”

  The reply came with a sharp jab to the ribs, and a quick twist of the same ear that was relished like chocolate mousse just moments ago. Turning over in mock surprise, he met his assailant. “Oh it’s just you,” he teased. She attacked him with her only means of weaponry. The goose-down pillow pounded him unmercifully, but Garth—superior fighting man that he was — would not take this lying down. Maneuvering for a frontal attack, he zeroed in on her tiny waist, and brought her down in a sea of giggles. Small and intense, Zoe fought back bravely, but to no avail.

  “Turn in your sword,” he demanded.

  “Never,” she said defiantly. “You turn in yours.”

  He lowered himself to her and kissed her, warmly, deeply. Equally vanquished, he did indeed turn in his sword, his love, his loyalty, and his life. Zoe Erskine was the only woman he would ever love.

  They ate dinner that evening in New Haven, after Zoe made a quick shopping trip to replace the boots and stockings she had destroyed by stepping in the sewer grate back in the alley when she was spying on Beckman, as a momentary fear of being caught had made her panic. She wrestled with her foot and was unable to free it, twisting her ankle in the process and having to abandon half of a favorite, obscenely expensive pair of boots. Zoe was well off, but she was always taught to respect a dollar. The loss irked her. It was something else for which Beckman was going to pay.

  A big, ugly bruise appearing on her foot and ankle did not improve her mood, as she brooded about the weasel of a slumlord. Garth had picked up a pair of slippers and cotton socks at a gas station to tide her over, but now she chose a pair of gray suede pumps, gray woolen slacks and a white angora turtleneck. She returned to the cabin to find Garth reading an outdated Smithsonian. She showered and changed into her new duds, gained Garth’s glowing approval, and sped out the door to feast at the local oyster bar. Garth ate slowly, with silent appreciation for every bite; it was the first they had eaten since the diner. Now it was well past seven when they sat down to steak and lobster at The Cove. Overstuffed and content, they had the rest of the night and all day Sunday to relish each other’s company.

  Garth had managed to put Beckman on the back burner for now, but many of the things Zoe had told him about the conversation between Beckman and Lawton were disturbing. Extortion, graft, blackmail ... what else? He would start with the mayor’s office on Monday morning.

  Chapter 4

  Harry was late, as usual. He ambled into Josh’s office, looking like he fell out of a Dashiell Hammett novel or a classic Bogey film noir. Whatever he did to affect this style, it suited him. When talking to Harry, Josh always conjured up words like “gumshoe,” “dame,” and “rod.” All he needed to complete the visual was a drooping cigarette hanging languidly from his lips, but his doctor demanded he quit last year. He was also cautioned to go easy on the Jack Daniels. It seemed his health had brought him reluctantly into the modern world. He tossed his felt hat and trench coat on the couch, and greeted Josh warmly.

  Make no mistake, this “street person” was very refined and polished. His gleaming white shirt punctuated the cut of the navy-blue pinstripe suit, and the light-blue, solid-silk tie accentuated the blue of his eyes and the gray at his temples. He was tall and lean at fifty-three, and his somewhat secretive past seemed to add to his appeal. The smell of government or military surrounded him. What little Josh knew of him was unimportant—he knew that Harry was streetwise, knew things, and had connections. These attributes gave him the ability to get things done. Josh was fresh faced and just out of law school, at a meeting of his lawyer peers, when he met Harry. Statements were made indicating that if any dirty work had to be done, Harry was the man for the cleanup. Josh had used him many times since that first encounter. Harry was another prize he had inherited from his father.

  “Got anything for me?” Josh asked.

  Harry perched himself on the edge of the desk, withdrew a small leather-bound notebook, and began the report on Mayor James Leon Harris. “Nothing much, just punk kid stuff back in St. Louis, juvenile rap sheet miles long. He uses aliases a lot. Leon James, Harris Leon, J.H. Leon, James Harris. Affiliated with a lot of known criminals, dope, guns, gangs, prostitution—it’s all there. Harris is smart; he operates around the edges but nothing indictable. Strictly ya-got-nothin’-on-me-copper stuff.

  “He came to New York about a year ago, and got himself elected to city council,” Harry continued. “Most say he strong-armed those votes, brought along two thugs with questionable pasts, Townsend and Webster. Harris does have a weakness for cocaine. Now that he can afford it, nothing but the finest grade. He’s done it all, Josh. This guy’s a low-profile shakedown artist, a pimp, a real sweetheart, and fine upstanding citizen. I swear, Josh, all the crooks are in politics. The ignorant masses elect these guys because they’ve got the right grin and spew the right buzzwords. There’s nothing you can really use for leverage.”

  “Harry, I need something, and I need it now. Quick and actionable.”

  “Don’t worry, kid,” Harry said, “I’m working on it. Should have something for you by next week. We’ll get someone to squeal.” With that, he picked up his hat and coat and headed for the door. “See ya later, kid.”

  Strong-armed, sweetheart, squeal! Only Harry could say words like this and get away with it. “Harry,” Josh called out. “If you ever use the words G-Man or Tommy gun, you’re through.”

  “Sure thing, kid.” Harry grinned and headed out again.

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yeah, Josh,” he crooned.

  “How long have I known you now? Sixteen, maybe eighteen years?”

  “Uh huh,” came the reply.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Smith,” Harry said with a boyish grin. “Gotta go now. Gotta a date with a chicken inspector.”

  Chapter 5

  Garth climbed the long, pink granite stairs to the city hall with an air of assurance, as was his nature. Punctuality was also part of his nature, and it irritated him to be kept waiting, even by the mayor. This meeting at nine was set up two weeks ago. Just as the increasingly red hue to his complexion became apparent and his black-Irish temper was about to best him, a large oak-paneled door opened.

  “The mayor will see you now, Mr. Avery,” a pleasant woman announced, forty-five minutes late.

  Garth strode through the door, trying to keep his irritability in check. He had come too far to piss off this new mayor. In the deceased mayor Hanks, Garth had an allied force. This association with Harris was yet to be tested, and Garth had not heard good things about this man. There were rumors and whispers that the guy was an inexperienced asshole, with fingers in every pocket. Certainly not capable of filling Mayor Hanks’s shoes. Garth kept his fingers on the pulse of the city pretty well, through contractors, architects, engineers, and inspectors. If the rumors they told him were accurate, Garth would be dealing with a less-than-honorable character.

  “Good morning, Mr. Avery,” Harris chortled as Garth extended his hand.

  “Good morning, Your Honor. It’s good of you to take time to see me.”

  “Now,” said Harris, “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Your Honor, I was expecting that you were aware of the reason I’m here. These past three months, since Mayor Hanks’s death and during your transition period, I’ve been working with your chief counsel, Mr. Townsend.”

  Harris knew full well why Avery was there. However, he wanted Garth to understand the full impact of working with a different perspective. Harris was not Mayor Hanks.

  “It’s the downtown project, Your Honor,” Garth continued. “The blighted area, six square blocks between Western Boulevard and Longfellow.” Garth’s answer met with a quizzical stare.

  “The land and buildings have been purchased from the owners who still had property there, and the remaining abandoned b
uildings and land with overdue taxes and liens have been resolved. It’s unfortunate, Mayor Harris, that we did not have the opportunity to work with you from the beginning of this project. The original concept, programming, and marketing plan were presented to the city more than three years ago by Warren Erskine. His concept was that this inner-city urban blight could be transformed into a self-sustaining, integrated system, bringing commerce from the surrounding city and nearby areas.

  “I’m sure you knew of his reputation as a builder, developer, and philanthropist. I would like you to know, Mayor Harris, that his death has in no way dampened the spirit of this endeavor. All interested parties, myself included, are committed to finishing this project. We have worked very closely with the local Black and Hispanic communities. We have Cuban, European, Asian, and even Saudi interest. We have just spoken to a small leather-goods manufacturer who is showing interest in taking over the old tannery building. These are all small businessmen with very little money to invest, but with great backgrounds, ingenuity, and hard work. Investment…”

  “Mr. Avery,” Harris interrupted. “Before you go on, let me say this. I have done some checking into this project, and the fact is there are still well over $900,000 in tax liens that have to be satisfied. Surely you must understand, Mr. Avery, that in these days of highly scrutinized politics, I must be very careful about how the city’s funds are spent. I am accountable for all collected revenues. Please understand, arrangements that were made between Mr. Erskine and Mayor Hanks have no validity now. This whole thing must be re-evaluated, Mr. Avery.”

  “But, Mayor Harris,” Garth went on, barely keeping his anger in check. “In view of the projected increased revenues and broader tax base for the city, the previous administration was very flexible with its collection policy. Mayor Hanks worked hand in hand with us to augment our efforts to attract new business through the chamber of commerce and public-relations campaigns targeted for this area...”

  “Mr. Avery,” Harris interrupted again. “I cannot deal with lofty idealism and concepts. We must deal with the facts and figures, and the facts are the city treasury has not been satisfied. I must take all this into consideration before any permits are issued. All these facts must be reassessed. Maybe after further study regarding financial theory and investments, we can come to some kind of working arrangement. Now, I hope you will forgive me, but I do have a busy schedule.”

  Garth rose from his seated position with clenched teeth, but managed to be civil to Harris. “Yes, Your Honor, we’ll be talking soon.”

  Polite, so polite, Garth knew the son of a bitch had his hand out. He’d been through this too many times, in different situations, not to recognize the signs. And, this was not a chicken-feed mayor, “Over $900,000, I believe he said,” Garth thought. “Maybe twenty percent of a multi-million project. We’ll see, Mayor, we’ll see.” Garth headed back to the office to think over this giant bugaboo.

  Harris sneered at the air of contempt that Garth had left in his wake. “There are other players now, Mr. Avery,” the mayor said to himself. “Let’s just see what Beckman has in mind. Anyway it goes, Beckman, Avery, no skin off my nose. Just the best deal for me, gentlemen. The best deal for me.” Mayor Harris leaned back in smug assurance, certain the big payoff was within his grasp, no matter which road he traveled.

  Chapter 6

  While Garth was exchanging pleasantries with the mayor, Zoe was across town at the Calhern Gallery, having coffee and croissants with John Calhern. Zoe had hosted a fundraiser last year, and John was kind enough to offer the use of his gallery and services again. Her friendship with John was one of true respect and love. He was another longtime friend of her family, so seeking advice from John came second nature to her. Her father Warren, barrel chested and roughhewn, was the last person one would expect to appreciate a Gainsborough or Raphael, but he loved delicate, fine things like porcelain and potteries — and John was a man her father trusted to school him in the values of fine art.

  John Calhern was a self-effacing kind of guy who loved art for art’s sake, but he also loved the business of it. He would openly admit to inside circles that most of the stuff in his gallery was “crap.” The really good stuff he safely kept secret, showing it only to customers who truly appreciated its value. He just never quite understood the mindset of the wealthy, and why they paid for the “stuff.” John looked around his high-tech, ultra-modern surroundings. When he spied Zoe, he motioned her over toward his office, which was tastefully decorated in Old World tradition.

  “Ah, you’re here to raise money,” he said. “We’ll do it again as we did last year, only better.”

  Zoe let John do the talking and planning while she polished off the buttery, warm croissant John had offered her, washing down the last morsel with French-roast coffee from the finest Dresden china.

  John’s imagination was still soaring as he escorted her out of the office. Casually, out of the corner of his eye, he spied one of his clientele pondering a large, black canvas adorned with red rings signifying Birth & Death. John excused himself for a moment, put on his best gallery persona with his nose tilted slightly up, and approached his quarry.

  “I see you have been enticed by one of our most powerful pieces. What do you think of it?”

  Zoe likened it to a cheetah stalking his prey on Wild Kingdom. John sold it on the spot for $6,500, assuring Mr. Hastings that it would be delivered the next day. He strolled back to Zoe, check in hand.

  “What can I say?” he sniffed. “The stuff sells. Better than my charcoal renderings at the square in New Orleans.” They both chuckled and agreed to meet again on Friday.

  Outside, the warmth and brightness of the sun on Zoe’s face failed to dislodge the shock of the bitter cold. She thought of John Calhern and his artsy crowd. The thought warmed her. They certainly had been good for the Erskine Fund. There was such a bounce in her step; she didn’t feel the need for a taxi. She walked the two blocks to St. Xavier to meet Father Fitzhugh.

  The stillness of the shrine overtook her as she stepped in from the shrill noise of the New York street; as always, she was overwhelmed by the sanctity and solitude of the church. She knelt before the Holy Mother and whispered a small prayer, then turned toward Father Mike’s small office in the rectory.

  “Come in, come in,” he boomed.

  His many years in New York had failed to abolish his Irish brogue. His huge hands took both of Zoe’s warmly in his own.

  “Miss Erskine,” he frowned playfully. “It’s about time you visited your parish priest. Has the Good Lord been taking care of you, or have you been an awful handful for Him?”

  “A little bit of both,” she said, beaming.

  With that, he smiled warmly and escorted her to a rather uncomfortable, high-backed chair. “To what do I owe my being graced by such beauty?”

  “Father,” she lowered her eyes in feigned surprise, “I just know you have part of the Blarney Stone tucked beneath your pillow at night.”

  “Could be, Miss Smarty Pants. Now tell me why you are here.”

  She grinned and told him she was there for two reasons. One, to invite him to her next fundraiser at the Calhern Gallery. And two, to enlist his help with donations for the children’s and community center they had planned. St Xavier had outgrown its children’s facility years ago, and Father Fitzhugh was anxious to be of help in any way he could. He was well aware of her father’s plans for the rehabilitation of the blighted area downtown. Warren had been a member of his parish for the last thirty-five years, a golfing partner, and a confidant. Father Fitzhugh had broken bread with Warren Erskine and his family many times over the years. He had baptized Zoe as a baby, and prayed for her recovery when she had a bout with meningitis as a child.

  “Now Zoe,” he said. “You know the church is behind you one-hundred percent. You just need to tell me where, how, and when, and I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, and Father Mike, I need to tell you one more thing. I’m asking the same of Rabbi
Isserman and Reverend Joyce.”

  He wriggled his nose in disdain. “Don’t you worry about that for one minute. We’re all in this together. Now go, get out of here, and let me get some work done.”

  Zoe hugged him and headed out with one more stop in mind. The old fullback from Notre Dame watched her leave with twinkling eyes. He pledged to all the saints that he would not be outdone by Isserman and Joyce. The competitive old elf sat down and started making calls.

  * * *

  Zoe took a taxi to the Upper East Side. Her destination was the home of Ms. Rachel Stone, schoolteacher. She was seventy-three and retired now, but still very much in command. She wielded her lessons like a sword; confident they would all hit their marks. Should a blow from her sword of knowledge fall short of its quarry, she targeted the foe of ignorance again with constancy and patience. All of her students had a deep-seated fondness for her, whether they admitted it or not. They might bellyache about her, but they all knew she would see them graduate with better-than-average grades.

  Zoe was particularly fond of her and kept in touch over the years, the way she would with a favorite aunt. Zoe’s own mother was gone by her mid-teens, so Ms. Stone helped her through awkward and rocky periods in her young life. Zoe was now trying to convince her to come out of retirement to run the daycare center. It would be fully staffed, and she would be in complete control of the subject matter and courses for the older students.

  The doorman announced her, and Zoe was allowed entry. After chatting for about thirty minutes, Zoe knew she had Ms. Stone hooked when she reminded her of how drastically things had changed and how there was a desperate need for teachers of her caliber. Granted, her students would be much younger, but the results required were still the same—a good education, high moral standards, and the ability to discern right from wrong. Ms. Stone was just the lady to accomplish this end.