by Ross Thomas
“You know, Mr. Cauthorne, I debated with myself for almost six weeks about whether to invite you to Washington.”
“If your other guests receive invitations like the one I got, you must be rather lonely.”
Cole frowned and shook his head. “Yes, I heard about that—your young employees and the vandalism. I’ve already taken measures to compensate you for everything. It was most unfortunate.”
“It would have been even more unfortunate if the kid had lost a hand. How much is a hand worth in your book?”
Cole brushed his mustache with the knuckles of his left hand and then sighed. “The old methods are slow in dying, especially among the older generation. But progress is being made, I assure you, and once again I must apologize for the totally unnecessary methods of persuasion that were employed.”
“I don’t know if they’re as outdated as you claim,” I said. “They got me here.”
Cole took another sip of his drink. “Did they really, Mr. Cauthorne? Was it the violence, and the threat of further violence, that convinced you to come, or was it the news that Angelo Sacchetti is still alive?”
“I wondered when you would get around to him,” I said. “I was betting on after dinner—over the brandy.”
“I’ve had considerable research done on you, Mr. Cauthorne.” He made a vague gesture towards the draped windows. “Over there, in my desk, is a rather thick file—or dossier, if you prefer. It’s all about you. I’ve been given to understand that you suffer from a mild psychological disturbance which stems from the time that Angelo disappeared in Singapore.”
“A lot of people know that,” I said.
“True. But also in that file—or dossier—are copies of the notes made by the analyst that you consulted for—I believe it was nine months. A Dr. Fisher.”
“Fisher didn’t give them to you.”
“No,” Cole said, smiling slightly. “He didn’t. He doesn’t even know that I have them. As I said, they are copies.”
“Then you do know a lot about me.”
“More, perhaps, than you know about yourself.”
“I see.”
“I must say, Mr. Cauthorne, you are taking all this extremely well.”
“You want something from me, Mr. Cole. I’m just waiting to find out what it is so I can say no.”
“Well, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just go a step at a time. From your analyst’s notes, I gather that you suffer from mild, periodic seizures during which you experience trembling, excessive perspiration, and a recurring hallucinatory experience which has Angelo falling into the sea and winking at you as he falls. That’s not exactly Dr. Fisher’s description, but rather more of a layman’s translation of his notes.”
“As lay translations go,” I said, “it’s not bad.”
“Dr. Fisher’s notes imply that you blame yourself for Angelo’s alleged death and that this created a certain amount of deep-seated guilt which triggered the recurring hallucinatory experiences (again, I must say I’m paraphrasing the good doctor). I’ve taken the liberty, Mr. Cauthorne, to have two other qualified medical persons go over Dr. Fisher’s notes. Your name, of course, was carefully obliterated. It’s their opinion that if you personally were to find Angelo Sacchetti alive, your psychological discomforts would disappear. Otherwise, they may grow worse.”
I finished my drink and put the glass on a table. “So the deal is that in exchange for finding Angelo for you, I cure myself. That’s the surface deal, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
“A great deal more,” Cole said.
“Why don’t you use your own people to find Angelo?”
“I don’t think that would do.”
“Why not?”
“Because my dear godson is blackmailing me.”
“Some of the boys could take care of that, couldn’t they?”
Cole put his glass down, made a steeple of his fingers again, and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Cauthorne. You see, if the persons I would ordinarily call on in such a situation were to find out what Angelo is blackmailing me with, I’m afraid that I would remain alive—at the most—for only twenty-four hours.”
CHAPTER VIII
Before Cole could continue, the sliding door opened again and Joe, the bodyguard, wheeled in the dinner which he served on a small table with the same efficient movements that he had used to mix the drinks. I decided that he must be handy to have around. Dinner was a thick filet, a superb salad, and a baked potato. A bottle of burgundy was equally excellent.
“It’s what you usually have at home, isn’t it, Mr. Cauthorne?” Cole said after Joe had gone.
“Your chef is better than mine.”
“Well, let’s enjoy our dinner and then we can continue our discussion afterwards—over the brandy, as you suggested earlier.”
“It was growing interesting,” I said.
“It will get even more so,” Cole said and started to carve up his steak.
We ate almost in silence and when we were through Joe promptly appeared and cleared away the dishes and served the brandy and coffee. When he had gone once more, Cole offered me a cigar which I refused, carefully lighted one for himself, took a sip of his brandy, and said, “Now, where were we?”
“Angelo Sacchetti was blackmailing you.”
“Yes.”
“I assume that you’ve been paying.”
“I have indeed, Mr. Cauthorne. In the past eighteen months I have paid only slightly less than a million dollars.”
I smiled for what must have been the first time that evening. “Then you’re in real trouble.”
“You seem inordinately pleased.”
“Wouldn’t you be in my position?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I suppose I would. My enemy’s troubles are my good fortune and all that sort of thing. You do consider me your enemy?”
“Let’s just say I doubt that we’ll ever be close friends.”
Cole drew on his cigar and then slowly blew the smoke out. I noticed that he inhaled it. “You’ve heard,” he said, “that they call me Charlie the Fix. Do you have any idea of what the nickname implies?”
“Some,” I said. “The corruption of public officials and civil servants probably. A few bribes here and there. A little subornation of perjury, I suppose, plus the discreet use of a sizable political slush fund.”
Cole smiled slightly. “I see,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if deciding about how much he could safely tell. “I came to Washington in 1936—the year you were born, I believe. And despite my rather excellent education, I was, as they say, grass green. I needed a mentor, someone to guide me through the bureaucratic and political maze. I told them that I needed this and they quickly found just the man.”
“You’ve been using ‘they’ and ‘them,’” I said. “I’ve asked who they are before, but I’ve never got a satisfactory answer. Who are ‘they,’ the outfit, the organization, the mob, the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra? Is there a name for them and they?”
Cole smiled again, even more slightly than before. “It’s a peculiarly American trait, I suppose, this insistence upon a descriptive noun. It was poor old Joe Valachi who called it the Cosa Nostra because the Government was pressing him to give them a title. So one Narcotics Bureau Agent said ‘cosa’ and Valachi came back with ‘nostra,’ and they ran with it from there. Of course, if two persons of Italian descent were speaking about a mutual project, they might say, ‘Questa è una cosa nostra,’ but they would really be saying, “This is an affair of ours.’ They certainly wouldn’t be saying ‘I am a member of “our thing” or “our affair.”’”
“What about the Mafia?” I said. “Or is that old hat?”
“It implies a Sicilian organization, and although there are certain ties with it in Sicily—Luciano during World War II, for example—there is no Mafia as such in the United States.”
“What is there then?”
“A group of totally amoral busines
smen of Italian and Sicilian descent who control the vast majority of organized illegal activities that go on in this nation. They don’t call themselves anything.”
“And they are the ones you turned to in 1936 when you needed your mentor or guide?”
Cole tapped his cigar ash into a tray. “Yes. They were the ones who sent me through college and law school. When I told them that I needed a guide, they promptly secured me a full partnership in a most respectable Washington law firm, the same one in which I’m now senior partner, Harrington, Mecklin, and Cole.”
“Mecklin I’ve heard of,” I said.
“He almost became a Supreme Court judge.”
“What happened?”
“Harrington had died by the time I came along in 1936. Mecklin, unfortunately for him, was a compulsive gambler. Everything. Horses, poker and bridge, but especially poker. So one evening at a most respectable club here in Washington my sponsors, shall we call them, slipped a mechanic into the game and he took Mr. Mecklin for around fifty thousand dollars that night. Another game was arranged later in the same week, and Mecklin dropped seventy-five thousand dollars. The mechanic, who was also a consummate confidence man, as most of them are, agreed to yet another game to give Mecklin a chance to win. This time he dropped ninety thousand dollars and, of course, he couldn’t pay. The confidence man grew impatient, threatened exposure, and my sponsors hurriedly came to the rescue with a loan which enabled Mecklin to pay off the debt in full. However, my sponsors grew just as impatient for full repayment and when Mecklin was unable to meet their, shall we say, rather importunate demands, they suggested that the firm take me in as a full partner.”
“Then it cost them around $215,000 to get you a partnership,” I said.
Cole chuckled his pleasant sound. “Not at all. It cost them only a thousand or so for the con man’s services. The money that they lent Mecklin to pay off his debts was promptly returned to them by the con man.”
“Then what happened?”
“Word got around, as it always does, and Roosevelt changed his mind about Mecklin. The man grew absolutely bitter. He began to take an almost perverse delight in plunging into legal tangles whose outcome could only embarrass the administration. More often than not, he was successful, and he took me along with him. He taught me the art of accommodation and compromise and believe me, Mr. Cauthorne, they are most valuable skills.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” I said.
“Every so often, a crusader dons his sword and buckler and journeys forth against the infidel who goes by the name of organized crime. In the early 1950’s, it was the good Senator Kefauver. Then Senator McClelland tilted his lance against the same foe in the 1960’s and later in the decade along came the Task Force on Organized Crime, appointed by the President.”
“I remember,” I said. “I also remember that nothing much happened.”
“After the rather tawdry findings of each of these investigations were released, there was a brief public outcry, a kind of ‘My, isn’t that awful and why don’t they do something about it’ type of outcry, if you will.”
“But not much else,” I said.
“Very little, and for very good reason, too. You see the law enforcement agencies, state and local as well as federal, are perfectly aware of what’s going on and who’s profiting from it. They have, over the years, worked out a degree of accommodation with those responsible, a tacit understanding concerning territories and scope of operation. In exchange for the discipline which my sponsors, as I’ve referred to them, are capable of exercising, the law enforcement authorities are content to compromise on some minor but essential points—so long as they know where the ultimate responsibility lies. One of my principal tasks is to maintain this détente.”
“And a few hundred thousand dollars can work miracles,” I said.
“A few million, you should say.”
“And you have it to offer?” I asked.
“Yes, I have it to offer, but not quite in the way or to the persons whom you might suspect. Suppose I wanted to influence a Senator in behalf of a client so that the Senator would influence someone else. There would never be a direct approach. It would come instead from the Senator’s bank or a chief political supporter or even from another Senator whose own bank might be exerting similar pressure on him. It’s all quite indirect.”
“But eventually somebody, somewhere gets bribed.”
“For every corruptor there must be a corruptee and in the thirty-three years that I’ve spent in Washington I have seen money accepted greedily by some most respectable persons up to and including those of cabinet rank.”
“You do a nice lecture on morality,” I said, “but none of it explains how Angelo Sacchetti is blackmailing you, does it? And why tell me all the secrets? I’m no confession booth.”
Cole was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly as if again debating with himself about how much more he could safely say. “I’m telling you the details, Mr. Cauthorne, because it is one way, perhaps the only way, that you will be impressed with the importance and gravity of what I’m going to ask you to do. I promise to be as brief as possible, but when I’m through I think you’ll realize the utter seriousness of the present situation. Only my complete frankness can convince you of that.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll listen.”
“Good,” he said and paused again as if trying to remember the thread of his tale. “My former partner, the late Mr. Mecklin, realized quickly what had happened to him. He was not a fool, but his bitterness towards the administration caused him to plunge into the affairs of my sponsors in an almost gleeful manner. He became obsessed with their potential ability to exercise power, and power was all that really ever interested Mecklin other than gambling. So he advised them to diversify.”
“And they did?”
“Not at first. They were reluctant to take advice from one whom they considered to be an outsider. After Mecklin died I advised them to do the same thing, and they did. They went into the stock market, into banking, into manufacturing, and a number of other legitimate enterprises.”
Cole paused. I waited for him to continue. When he did, his voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
“During our years together, Mecklin grew quite fond of me and he once said, quite early in our association, in fact, ‘Protect your flanks, son. Records. Keep records of everything. Tangible evidence, Charlie, will be your only protection when they finally turn on you and, by God, they will.’”
“You followed his advice, I take it.”
“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, I did. I have been counselor or, if you prefer the more romantic title, consigliere, to my sponsors for nearly thirty years. It has not always been a harmonious relationship, of course. There were some who opposed me.”
“What happened to them?”
Cole smiled and when he did, I could almost feel sorry for whomever he was thinking of. “Several of them were deported when the authorities suddenly discovered that they were not really born in the United States as they had claimed. Others were arrested, convicted, and sentenced to rather lengthy prison terms on the basis of new evidence that mysteriously came into the hands of the appropriate law enforcement agencies.”
“The evidence was carefully documented, of course.”
“Most carefully. It was always sufficient to provide an airtight case.”
“It’s nice to know that sometimes you cooperate with our national guardians,” I said.
“They have learned to live with me—and I with them. Actually, we both seek the same ultimate goal—a rational structure for illegal activities.”
“And this is where Angelo Sacchetti comes into the picture?”
“Indeed he does, Mr. Cauthorne. You may not know that Angelo and I were never close despite my being his godfather, which has an unusually deep significance among my sponsors. I tried to educate him, but that failed miserably. He was expelled from three colleges and whenever
that happened, he turned up in New York where my sponsors promptly spoiled him with too much money and too many women. They thought he was wonderful while I couldn’t abide him—even when he was a child. I was more than happy when he decided to enter the motion picture industry. He wanted to be an actor. God knows he had the looks, but unfortunately he couldn’t act.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I’ve also heard that he was a complete ham. That’s probably the real reason he winked when he went over; he couldn’t bear to keep the act to himself.”
“You are quite probably right,” Cole said. “At any rate after he moved to Los Angeles he sometimes flew into Washington, usually to borrow money which, for foolish, sentimental reasons, I quite readily lent him. At least I did until a little over two years ago.”
“Why did you stop?”
Cole shrugged. “I didn’t really. I merely asked him when he intended to repay the sums that he had already borrowed. He went into a total rage and stormed out of the room. This very room, in fact.”
“Then what?”
“He left that same night, quite suddenly, but not empty-handed.”
“He took something of yours with him?”
“Yes.”
“Something you’d like back?”
“Yes again.”
“What?” I said.
“There is a safe in this room—or there was. Angelo simply opened it, probably in search of cash. He found something better. Microfilmed records. As I’ve said, I keep meticulous records.”
“How did he open the safe, with a nail file?”
Cole sighed and shook his head. “Angelo is not stupid. When he wanted to learn, he could, and my sponsors and their associates in New York were willing teachers when he visited them. He learned a great many things from them and one of the things that he learned was how to open a safe. I had suddenly been called out of town; the servants were asleep, and Angelo simply blew it open.”
I rose and walked over to the cut-glass brandy bottle and poured myself another drink without asking. Then I moved over to the fireplace and watched the apple logs burn for a while. After a time, I turned to Cole who was watching me carefully.
