Wet Work

by Christopher Buckley

  He dialed the main number again at Becker and asked for Security.

  "Yeah," he said, "my name is Mariatri. I'm with the Policemen's Benevolent Association in New York and-"

  "I'm sorry, we don't handle charitable contributions. You'll have to talk to Mr. Zahn, in Public Relations. I'd be happy to transfer you-"

  "No, it's okay. I'm not calling for money, but I get that all the time. You say you're from the PBA and everyone is happy to transfer you. We're just updating our files here and I see one of our former members, Felix Velez, works there."

  "Oh, fine. Yes, that's correct."

  "Is he there, by any chance?"

  "No."

  "Does he have a title or anything?"

  The voice was amused. "No, not really."

  "See, we're doing a special issue in our magazine, a kind of 'Where Are They Now?' feature, you know, like the ones in Parade magazine? I was wondering how we should list him."

  "He's in charge of personal security."

  "Personal security?"

  "For Mr. Becker."

  "A bodyguard."

  "Security specialist."

  "Right." Diatri thought: Just what I'm going to end up as, security specialist. Holding doors open for rich people. If I'm not holding a specimen cup and telling people to go wee-wee in it. "Well, that must be interesting work, especially for someone like Mr. Becker. I guess he travels a lot. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine saw him in Miami a couple months ago."

  "That's possible. I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

  "I guess that about covers it. Listen, thanks."

  Diatri dialed the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables, where Velez had registered, and asked for the manager.

  "Yes, this is George Diatriola, with the Miami Herald? Good morning. We're doing this story on where major executives and the like, you know, your basic captains of industry, stay when they're in town and it just came to our attention that Mr. Charles Becker of Becker Industries stayed with you a couple of months ago?… Uh-huh. What was the nature of his visit?… He didn't say. Well, a man in his position doesn't really have to say, does he?… Uh-huh. Eastern? Is that a fact? Well, you win some, lose some, right? I kind of wish someone would come along and take it over. It's a crying shame, to run an airline like that. I kind of miss Frank Borman. I don't know if he was a good manager, but I liked those commercials. Something about an astronaut, I guess. Well, Mr. Becker must think very highly of your hotel down there-here. We oughta do an article on the Biltmore… We did? Well, sure we did, but there was some feeling around here that it was a little, I don't know, superficial, so I was thinking that we should do another article. I'd certainly like to feature your name prominently in the article, if that's okay by you. Could you spell it for me?… I never would have been able to spell that. Is that a German name?… Swiss. That's a really beautiful country you have there. I like those, what do you call them, the chocolates come in that triangular tube?… There you go. I used to be able to eat three of those at a sitting. So did you grow up near the Matterhorn?… I'm sorry? An umlaut over the u. Uh-huh, two dots side by side. I'm not a hundred percent sure we can do umlauts, but I tell you what, I'm going to check personally downstairs with the printers and see what we can do… Thank you."

  He dialed down to New York City police headquarters and had them fax up a record photograph of Felix Velez. Next he dialed Neon Leon's and got the voice saying, "I'm sorry, the number you have called has been disconnected." It was funny the way she said "disconnected" so upbeat, like it was good news, you were really hoping it would be disconnected.

  He called Ignacio's cousin's number and got someone who'd never heard of Ignacio or his cousin. He called the owner, his paella buddy, and spoke to his wife, and tracked him down at a golf and tennis club in Dania.

  "What happened to Neon Leon's?" he said.

  "Business died after the Herald called it a 'hangout of local drug lords.' I never knew that. That cabron of a headwaiter never told me about that pig."

  Diatri explained he was trying to reach Ignacio. The owner said Ignacio was having some immigration problems and was up in Jacksonville somewhere, or maybe Gainesville.

  "What about the maitre d'?"

  "I don't care where he is. He is a bastard!"

  "All right. Could you try to locate Ignacio for me? It's very important."

  Just then Marie said, "Frank, Mr. Colaris wants to see you."

  "What for?" said Diatri suspiciously.

  "Roberta told me it's got something to do with a physical."

  "A what?"

  "A medical. They want to set one up."

  "How come?"

  "I don't know, Frank. But you have been looking kind of sick."

  "That's ridiculous. I'm fine. I'm too busy to have some stupid physical."

  "Okay by me, Frank, but I'm not the Agent in Charge."

  "Listen, Marie. Tell him I just got a tip from one of my CIs and I had to go out on it."

  "Aw, Frank."

  "Tell him I got good information on a five-hundred-a thousand-key shipment coming in by Greyhound into Port Authority, but I got to go UC on it real fast. You got that?"

  "Frank."

  "Marie, I'm not asking you to be the mother of my children, I'm asking you to tell the Agent in Charge that a possible major shipment of, of cocaine is coming in and I'm on it, okay? Okay, for crying out loud?"

  "All right, Frank."

  Diatri went out the emergency exit, walked down three flights and took the freight elevator the rest of the way.

  He had to stall the physical at least until the bruises on his inner arms from the IV needles went away. Probably ought to build up his strength a little too. Jog, or something.

  He walked down to the Port Authority building on Forty-second with the thought of scaring up a little action-though a thousand keys was going to be tough on such short notice. After a half hour of sizing up various nervous-looking guys clutching attaché cases a little too tightly, he realized he'd lost interest in the small hauls, the one- and two-kilo busts. He decided to head over to the Public Library on Forty-second and Fifth and just maybe read, look through old issues of Life magazine. He got very depressed on the way over. The Red Meteor was doing him in, it was only a matter of time.

  He went to the main reading room and instead of getting old Lifes looked up Charles Becker in Who's Who. There was nothing in Current Biography, so for the hell of it he went to the Readers' Guide to Periodical Literature.

  There wasn't all that much on him. He was listed in a recent Forbes magazine roundup as the forty-eighth-richest man in the United States. Not bad. He'd married into a little money and turned that into a fortune. The American Way. Diatri wondered if these rich guys competed among themselves for the rankings. He visualized a rich man's marathon, except all the runners were in the back of chauffeured limousines that had racing numbers on their grilles. He went to the New York Times index and ate up hours sifting through that for citations.

  He took his call slips to the microfilm desk and then went to the viewers. He flicked on the light, threaded the spindle and cranked the film through the viewfinder. It was warm, but he kept his jacket on since pistols in holsters tended to make people nervous, especially in libraries. He cranked for hours, hundreds and hundreds of yards of current events warping and woofing across the scratched glass lens. Mrs. Charles Becker went to the Metropolitan Ball in Mrs. Charles Becker died in 1975. Mr. Becker took Telemetries private. Crank. Mr. Becker sold Zacatecas Petroleum. Crank. What was he looking for? This was ridiculous. If he wanted to eat up time-page 63, Metro section-he should get on a plane to Miami with a good print of the Velez photo and take it to the maitre d'. He could get healthy in Miami, run on the beach, get some real sun instead of lying under that bastard tanning machine, all that remained of his second marriage. Page 63. Russian exiles finding difficulty adjusting to New Jersey. No kidding. He should check with Eastern Airlines to see if there was anything on Becker trying to
take them over. Sanit Commission urges study of eastern Long Island landfill. Conservationists "cool" to idea. Shakespeare in the Park threatened by federal funding cuts. That would be a nice thing to do some night, Shakespeare in the Park. Editor's Note: Felix Rohatyn is not 93 years old, as yesterday's article stated. A feminist group "upset" by the "impression" given in yesterday's story that they advocated breast-feeding children into their early teens. Breast-milk had to be an improvement over the stuff they had him drinking. He wondered what breast milk tasted like. Heiress dead of apparent overdose. Nothing about Charles Becker on 63. That was annoying. You go to the trouble of looking it up and it's not there. He checked the date of the citation. 63, all right. Shakespeare in the Park… he'd always wanted to see Man of La Mancha. Maybe some night-

  20

  No one seemed to have any file footage of Charles Becker, not ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, not C-SPAN. Diatri wondered how it was possible for any human being in the latter part of the twentieth century, much less the forty-eighth-richest guy in America, to make it to his age without leaving a piece of himself on video.

  He set up his office in a phone booth at the Public Library. After two days he found a field producer with WPIX who seemed to remember that she'd sent a crew to the New York City morgue that day, but they'd decided in the end that Natasha Becker just wasn't a big enough heiress.

  "If it'd been Cornelia Guest," she said, "we would have gone with it."

  Diatri watched the raw footage. He saw the old man in the Jackie O glasses being shoved up against his car by the crowd of shouting reporters. He recognized Felix Velez, trying to clear a path.

  The problem was, he didn't say anything, just looked dazed as Velez and another guy, a detective, it looked like, hustled him through the crowd. Diatri felt a little sorry for the guy, watching him. He looked like he was about to go into shock.

  He went back to the Public and cranked through microfilm.

  He'd wound his way through twenty-seven miles of current events when he came to a 1981 story in the National Catholic Reporter saying that Becker had just given five million dollars to Mount St. Mary's College in Maryland.

  He called up the college's development office. "Yeah, this is Murray Kempton, with Newsday? Listen, we're doing a big story on Charles Becker, the philanthropist? He made a very nice gesture to you, I know, back in '81. I was wondering if maybe you gave him an honorary degree… You did? Well, for five million, I'd give him one too. You hand those out at graduation, am I correct? Did he by any chance give a little speech to say thanks?… Is that right? Did you record it?… Uh-huh. You know, that's just what my article could use, because, as you know, he's such a private guy. I spent hours with him and would you believe he didn't mention anything about this five mil to me? Now, where exactly are you in Maryland?"

  Diatri went straight from La Guardia to the rectory. Father Rebeta answered the door.

  "Hello, Padre."

  "Hello, Frank." They sat in the room of the Joyless Madonna.

  "Are you… well, Frank?"

  "Fine."

  "You've lost weight."

  "Let me play something for you," Diatri said. He had pre-cued the tape to start after Charley Becker was introduced. Father Rebeta listened. He made a steeple with his fingers and rested his nose on it. Diatri clicked it off.

  "Ecce homo."

  "How's that?" said Diatri.

  "Behold the man. What Pilate said to the crowd."

  "That's him on the tape?"

  "Perhaps that wasn't the most apt allusion, under the circumstances. Congratulations, Frank. How on earth did you find him?"

  "You're sure?"

  The priest thought. "Yes," he said. "Though I don't suppose that would mean much in court, would it? I mean, a good defense attorney would take that apart pretty easily, unless you-"

  "One step at a time, Padre. You're sure that's the same voice you heard that night?"

  "No question. Do you mind if I smoke?"

  He pulled an unfiltered cigarette-borrowed from the housekeeper-out of his pocket, wrinkled and bent. He straightened it with loving care so as not to break the skin, making a ritual out of it, as if smoking it was the one thing he had to look forward to other than eternal salvation. "I don't really smoke," he said, lighting up. "So who is he?"

  "I don't mean to sound like a jerk, Padre, but that's privileged information." He stood up. "I better get back. Thanks for your help. We'll be in touch as the case develops-"

  "Sit down, Frank. For heaven's sake. No one's flying in steaks."

  It had been over twenty-five years since a priest had told him to sit down. And what do you know, he sat.

  "Well," said Rebeta, "we know he's Catholic." He chuckled. "I suppose that's obvious by now. Texan, no formal education, self-made, rich, a defense contractor with a guilt complex-no, there's more than guilt at work here, some genuine, non-intellectualized religiosity-who's just bought himself an honorary degree from Mount St. Mary's College."

  Diatri jumped up. "You Jesuit son of a-the whole fucking time, you knew! Get up! Stand up!"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm placing you under arrest for withholding evidence in a federal investigation, and obstruction of justice."

  "Oh, sit down, Frank."

  "DON'T TELL ME TO SIT DOWN! You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to speak to-"

  "Calm down, Frank. Just sit down and calm down. George Bernard Shaw said the most redundant sign in the English language was 'Fresh Fish Sold Here.' If it weren't fresh, you'd smell it; that it's fish, is also obvious from the smell; that it's for sale goes without saying; that it's here is most obvious of all."

  "What the hell does a CNN anchorman have to do with this?"

  No, George Bernard-it's all there on the tape. The accent, clearly west of the Mississippi, less elasticity to the vowels, the glottal stops are harder, it's more twang than drawl. So, Texas. As Oscar Wilde would have said, 'My dear, no one is from Arizona.' It's obvious he had no formal education himself, from the tone of awe. 'Halls of higher learning,' 'ivory towers of knowledge.' Believe me, no one who ever saw the inside of a university classroom would say that. It would therefore follow that he's self-made. It's clear that he has something to do with the old Military Industrial Complex from the way he hauls out that hoary old chestnut about beating swords into plowshares. Finally, it's unlikely that a school like Mount St. Mary's would be giving out honorary degrees to, well, sword makers if there hadn't been a little quid pro quo. St. Peter's Basilica in Rome was built on indulgences, forgiving sins for cash. Mother Church is eternal, Frank, but thirty-year T bills yield eight percent."

  "But how do you know it's Mount St. Mary's?"

  "The quaint self-deprecating bit about how giving him the honoris causa is the first mistake the school's made since 1808. There aren't that many old Catholic schools in America. Georgetown was founded in 1789-"

  "All right, all right," said Diatri, defeated. "But if I find out that you knew about this and you're just yanking my chain I'm going to… be real disappointed in you, Padre."

  "Frank, you've obviously been under a strain lately. If you don't mind my saying, you really don't look at all well. What have you done to your skin?"

  "I do mind, as a matter of fact."

  "Would you like something to settle your stomach?"

  "Let me guess. It's elementary, right?"

  "You're holding your stomach, Frank." Father Rebeta left and came back with a glass of seltzer water.

  "So, who is he?"

  "I can't tell you that, Padre."

  "You could tell me in confession. To keep it confidential."

  "Padre"-Diatri stood up and smiled-"you don't have time to listen to my confession." At the door he said, "When this is over, I'll buy you dinner some night if you want."

  "I like steak."

  "Okay." Diatri laughed. "Steak."

  21

  "Where the fuck have you been, Diatri? What do you mean going off like that? No on
e goes UC in this office without authorization! I almost put out an Agent Missing on you!"

  "Will you calm down, please, Jim?"

  "Don't tell me to calm down, Diatri! I'm your fucking superior!"

  "I said 'please.'"

  "You're suspended pending medical evaluation."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "What are you talking about, medical evaluation?"

  "Look at you, Frank. You disappear for two weeks, you come back twenty-five pounds lighter with weird burns all over you."

  "What's wrong with losing some weight? You're the one always posting bulletins about eating right and walking up stairs instead of taking the elevator."

  "What about those burns?"

  "I fell asleep in one of those tanning machines. What's the big deal?"

  "Roll up your sleeves."

  "What?"

  "Roll up your sleeves."

  "Are you okay? Am I hearing this? Roll up my sleeves? All right. Here."

  "What's that there?"

  "A bruise, obviously."

  "A bruise from what?"

  "From donating blood. Now you've got something against the Red Cross?"

  "Let me see the other arm."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "Let me see the other arm. What's that?"

  "A bruise."

  "From giving blood?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, that's from something else."

  "What something else?"

  "I fainted at the blood place and they had to give me some glucose. I'm a little embarrassed about the fainting. You're being very hostile, Jim."

  "Frank, you've been acting strange. Someone saw marks on your arms in the locker room. You don't look good. You disappear for two weeks. What do you want me to say?"

  "Well, frankly it's been a bit of a strain, what with my sister's disease. A little support and understanding would be nice."

  "Yeah, well about your sister, Frank. I checked. You don't have a sister. You got no next of kin."

  "She's more like an adopted sister, really."