The problem with all of it, of course, was that I had no proof. Not in the least. Just lame conjecture. Over the weeks I’d begun to doubt if I’d ever have any proof at all, which’d made me all the more depressed. As far as I was concerned, I’d sold out, traded my self-respect for some grocery, booze and rent money.
The subsequent depression robbed me of any of the benefits the publicity could’ve garnered me. I’d been surly to the press, shoving them out of my office, hanging up on them, cursing a few, knocking a few around, breaking at least one camera. The booze told me I was a noble guy to throw away the chance to milk the papers and the television for a ride on the gravy express. The dope talked to the back of my brain when Lorraine’s friends came on to me, forcing me to herd them out of my office. One after another. Good looking women, some of them diving for my zipper, biting at my pants as I pushed them toward the door, begging to wear my handcuffs, stripping in the hallway.
Poverty and celibacy—great ways to cheer myself up after Lorraine, great ways to put myself back to square one. When Lorraine had found me I’d been out of cash. I hadn’t had a client since I’d arrived in New York or a meal in three days. She was my last chance and I’d have been an idiot not to take her case. Just like I’d be one not to take the case staring me in the face.
I replaced my coffee pot on my hot plate and sat back behind my desk. I sipped at its gritty, greasy, too-hot foulness with the same knowledge of my actions a Buddhist has when he strikes the match of his own immolation. And suddenly, the last month and a half made sense. I was scared. Scared and embarrassed. Maybe Lorraine had set everything up and used me for her own ends. So what, I asked myself. So bloody, fucking what? I wasn’t upset that one millionaire had perhaps killed two other millionaires so she could steal their millions. I was upset that maybe Lorraine had made a fool out of me; I was embarrassed that a female, like my loving ex-wife, might have found me an easy mark. Might have stuffed my gut, spread her legs, given me a few bucks and sent me on my way so she could claim the big prize for herself.
As if a weight had crashed down from my shoulders, the rage I’d been crippling myself with for weeks fell away so quickly I couldn’t catch it. I could still smell it; it was out there somewhere in the background, but it was in the background, waiting for me to lower my guard so it could rush back in, maybe, but put aside for the moment.
I forced more coffee, breathing through my nose, taking what I had left in my cup down in one long, burning, torturous gulp. The sludge tasted bad, worse each second, but once it was inside it was mine, energy I no longer had to fight, but could use. It was a little victory, but it was enough to give me control of my mood and partially clear my fuzzing brain. Okay, I though. Time to get back to work.
“All right, Hubert. What’s the story?”
“I’ll be b-brief. Andy here is the leading b-black candidate for mayor of New York. He’s been gettin’ some fairly dangerous sounding m-mail lately, enough to make him nervous about his health.”
“With all due respect to Hubert’s interpretations, Mr. Hagee,” interrupted Lowe, “I’d say I was closer to panic. My campaign manager and I have both received threatening letters and calls. Both of our homes have been attacked. I’ve had windows broken in mine—Morris had his burned to the ground. The police haven’t found a clue yet. I’ve had to send my wife and children out of town for their own safety.”
“Doesn’t it hurt a politician’s image to appear in public without his family?”
“Not when he can tell the audience the reason they aren’t present is because their lives have been threatened too many times for him not to take it seriously. It’s bad enough I’ve painted a target on my chest for the lunatics—I don’t need public office bad enough to sacrifice my wife or babies to the crosshairs of hatred.”
“All right. Save the fancy rhetoric for the paying customers. What do you guys want from me?”
Hubert took over again.
“Andy’s got a rally tonight. B-Big one. The real money maker. He has to be there, out front, for hours…”
“Wearing your target?” I asked, admittedly with snide impatience.
“Essentially,” agreed Lowe, loving me more every minute.
“And so you want me to what? Cover an entire auditorium by myself? Put myself between you and every bigot in New York City? That could be more maniacs than even I could stop.”
“Listen, D-Dick Tracy,” answered Hubert, “don’t get t-too cute for us, huuummmm? Right now, you’re still a n-news item. You solved the Millionaire Mugging. Releasing your name as Andy’s bodyguard scares off the halfwits. Make’s Andy’s c-case look more serious. Might even turn a few votes if a famous white tough guy the morons saw on television s-seems to be saying the candidate is worth keeping alive.”
“Hubert presents things so attractively, I find I can not disagree,” added Lowe. “Surrounding me with fifty police officers or even fifty obviously armed plainclothes thugs to satisfy insurance obligations makes people nervous. They forget to reach for checkbooks if they think they might get shot while filling in that last zero.
“Politics is a media event, Mr. Hagee. The only reason we are here is because you are a media event as well—the only recognized gladiator in town, as it were. After tonight, I’ll know by the size of the contributions we take in whether I’m still in this foot race or not.
“Therefore, plain and simple, I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars to be my bodyguard until the rally is over. There will be plainclothes back-up everywhere—Morris is handling that. But people will only be aware of you—the media hero. If there are any bullets coming my way, you’ll be the only one the shooters think they have to worry about.
“Figure out whether or not it’s worth your time.”
Well, I thought, I finally had the whole story…a thousand bucks to shave and dry out and pose pretty for the cameras. They would use my image to scare off any amateur jokers, and my skills could sit on the shelf. Sure, I told myself, I was a lot better than they were giving me credit for—I was one smart, tough fish—worthy of better treatment than I was getting. But money’s a great lure, and smart, tough fish get reeled in every day, dangling from a piece of steel that cut through their lower lip just because they nibbled. My pride whispered some nonsense about throwing them out of my office, but my common sense started screaming about my landlord’s hungry bank accounts and how they hated to miss meals. My wounded pride had handed me enough damage. If these guys wanted to make me a media star, what the hell—why not? Maybe I could do Energizer commercials when we were done.
“Sure,” I told them. “I’m in. Do I have any say in things at all, or do I just stand around and wait for my money?”
“You’re being hired as my bodyguard. Do whatever you do when someone hires you to be a bodyguard.”
“All right, then. First, I want a run down of where you have to be today and why. Before we do anything else, we map out the rest of the time you and I are going to be around each other—every minute. Then I figure out how to get you from A to B to C, and you do what I say.”
Turning around, I told Hubert, “Go tell little Maurice to have Lowe’s driver take him home. Actually, I don’t care what you tell him, just as long as you shmooze the two of them out of here.”
Hubert winked at me and gave out with a laugh that sounded something like a dying cartoon duck’s. As he went into the outer office, Lowe asked, “And what is this all about?”
“This is getting rid of anyone we don’t need. Trust me to know my job. You can never tell from what angle something’s going to come at you. All it takes is a careless word from one person to another to another and before you know it, the man with the rifle knows where you’re going to be even before you get there.”
“I will not hide,” answered Lowe angrily. “I am not a coward.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” I told him. “Let’s clear a few things up. You want to run for mayor, run for mayor. It doesn’t matter to me.
But, please, save the speeches for people stupid enough to think their vote means something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if it was up to me I’d have all the lawyers and politicians lined up and gunned down as fast as the firing squad could reload.”
“I suppose you’d line up all the blacks, too. And the Jews and the gays, the Native Americans and women…”
“All the ones that were lawyers and judges and politicians.”
Lowe clenched his fists, almost ready to come out of his chair.
“You make me sick.”
“Get real. You’re a black man, a minority that’s been on its way up since the day you were born. My minority, it’s been sinking fast since the same moment. Try waking up with that taste in your mouth every day.”
“You son of a…”
“Je-zuz H. Kay-rist,” shouted Hubert, coming back into the office. “W-What the hell is wrong with you two? Lost your m-minds, or somethin’? Cut the bullshit, already.”
“Watch it, little man.”
“Why, what’re you going to do? G-Gun me down; beat me senseless? Step into the new millennium, Dick Tracy. People don’t g-get away with that shit, anymore. Yes, except for the criminals, and yes,” he turned to Lowe, “Andy, that is the fault of our esteemed courts and lawmakers. And, yes again, I know that’s something you want to do something about. I know. And so would you,” he turned back to me, stabbing a finger into my chest, “if you got your face up out of the booze long enough to read the papers.”
“Now you’re asking me to believe what I read in New York newspapers?” I joked. “You people want a lot for your money.”
Hubert grinned, a wide, ear-to-ear affair leaking the cartoon duck sounds.
“Touché,” he laughed. “Maybe I didn’t make a mistake, after all. Listen, I c-can smell the bug up your ass. You t-think we only came here because of the headlines you generated. Okay; that’s part of it. True enough. But, I’m not that big an idiot. Andy’s my pal. We’re from the dawn of time. I don’t trust his ass t-to a gimmick.
“I checked out your background. Six years in the Army, four of them in Military Intelligence. Four years after that with the Pittsburgh Police Department—last year and a half of that d-doing undercover. You’ve got some interesting stuff in your bio. Enough to make it look like i-if you got that moron-sized chip off your shoulder you might be of some help here.
“What do you think?”
“I think maybe I’m not as sober as I thought. And maybe I sound off a little too much. Okay. Strike the ‘maybe.’ And the ‘little.’ Guess I lost control there. Sorry.
“But how the hell do you know so much about me? Granted, you might have read the Pittsburgh stuff in the papers, but I’ve kept tight-lipped about my M.I. days. Where’d you tumble to that?”
This time Lowe laughed. When I eyed him for a reason, he said:
“Sorry. It’s just been a long time since I’ve ever seen anyone surprised at how much Hubert could tell them about themselves.”
“Information is my business, Dick Tracy. If I can’t find something out, it ain’t happened yet. So when I say you’re a good man to have on our side, don’t go actin’ like some g-goddamned shithead and ruinin’ my reputation.”
“That aside,” interrupted Lowe, “I have to admit to having something to do with the extra heat in here, too. Strike the ‘maybe’ and the ‘little’ for me as well.” He stretched out his hand to me saying, “I’m not used to knowing someone is trying to kill me, Mr. Hagee. I shouldn’t have lost control, either. Hopefully you will allow me to chalk it up to nerves.”
I shook his hand, asking:
“Is this just a politically correct handshake so we can get back to work, or are we kissing and making up?”
“A little of both, I suppose.”
“Okay,” I smiled, tightening my grip. “Honesty I can take.”
We shook hands, and I tried to take Lowe’s measure, feeling his spirit as our palms touched. The contact felt open, and I knew the fight was over. Good, I thought. Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back to work.
“So,” I asked as our hands broke contact, “any ideas on who’s got it in for you this week?”
“No. Not really. I can name plenty of groups and individuals that might like to see me disappear, but no one I can point to and say, ‘They’re the ones.’”
“Too bad. Oh well, let me get a grip on this. Why’s so much heat coming at you, anyway?”
Hubert took over.
“’Cause Andy’s the perfect target. He d-don’t want to play ball with the machine. He’s runnin’ on a clean record of good, solid, community service. Not like that tag-along, Jefferson.”
When I looked at the pair for an explanation, Hubert added, “Forgive me, the Reverend tag-along Jefferson.”
“John isn’t a bad sort, really,” said Lowe to Hubert.
“Oh, give it a rest, Andy.” Hubert turned to me, saying, “The guy is a bum. Andy’s logged plenty of public office hours in this town. He really could be on his w-way up. Jefferson’s a two bit carny screamer and bible thumper—a civil rights authority whose idea of equality for all is everything w-white being divided up for all the blacks. W-Why W-Wortzman brought that nickel and dime hate monger into things I’ll never know.”
“Now, Hubert…”
“Awww, now, n-nuthin’. He’s never held office, d-doesn’t have a church—he doesn’t even have a congregation. He’s an opportunist bum!”
“Be all of this as it may,” I interjected, “let’s get back to the discussion at hand.” Looking at Lowe with frank confusion, I said, “I’m sorry if I sound like an idiot, or at the least a cynic, but is this guy serious? Are you really running without any old boy support? I mean, no offense, but how’d you even get through the door?”
“They were looking for this election’s honest face. Someone the downtrodden and the despairing and the unloved poor could vote for; that way when I lose the wretched masses can at least suckle comfort from the illusion that they had a chance.”
“The big boys let Andy in knowin’ he’ll lose,” added Hubert. “They w-were sure he’d be out of the race w-weeks ago. God only knows what they’re thinkin’ now.”
I eyed Hubert carefully. A good information man has everyone in their little book. Why he didn’t have any of the answers left me a little suspicious. I asked, “You’re the info specialist. How come you can’t find anything out?”
“Because there’s a stone wall around this t-that makes the one in China look like a Lego set. Believe me, if one of the organizations in this town could drag one of its competitors down by releasing a little damning evidence—it w-would.
“But, no one’s talkin’. Now, they could all know nothing, or the one that knows could be w-waitin’ for Andy to be dead before they point the doomsday finger…two birds with one stone…or, it might be some loose nut case who doesn’t want a black man with a conscience in Gracie Mansion.”
“Have you thought that someone might be just playing with you?” I asked. “Looking to force you out of the race with some low level gorilla stuff?”
“Yes, I’ve tried to believe that, but I can’t. The letters and attacks were great publicity—better, more consistent press than anything we could have paid for. I’d think it was one of my own people drumming up headlines, except.…” His eyes broke from mine. The candidate was in his own world for the moment. Calling him back, I asked:
“Except…”
“Oh, yes. Except that I don’t think this is a game. I feel someone out there, waiting for their moment. Without trying to go voodoo on you, Mr. Hagee, I just know somebody is going to attempt to take my life. I have an itch at the base of my spine—it screams at me, warning me to take cover. It’s that little voice inside your head that you don’t dare ignore—the one that never lies.”
“I know the one you mean,” I told him. “I’ve spent a lot of time avoiding its advice late
ly. Explains my swell station in life. All right. Suffice it to say I believe you’ve got troubles. So tell me, what’s our parade route for the day?”
Smiling, Lowe answered, “My agenda for today is simple. Tonight’s speech is too important for me not to be in top form. Today’s docket was cleared weeks ago. Nothing to do but memorize my lines and try to catch a few winks somewhere along the way.”
“Swell. Then get Morrie what’s-his-name…”
“Wortzman.”
“Okay. Wortzman on the phone.”
Lowe punched in the number and then handed the receiver over to me. After a few rings and a properly neutral message, I managed to get Morris Wortzman on the air.
“What do you mean, you have Andrew? Who the hell is this?”
“Calm down, Morrie. You’ll live longer.”
“Calm down? Fuck you. What the hell is this? It’s…it’s six o’fucking clock in the goddamned morning. Are you nuts? What is this?”
“Morrie—listen to me. I’m a private detective. Mr. Lowe and an associate have retained me to act as the candidate’s bodyguard. For Mr. Lowe’s safety, I’ll be keeping him under wraps until tonight.”
“Under wraps? My dick under wraps. Associate, my ass. It’s that no good bastard Hubert. Where are you taking Andy? What’s going on? I have to know…”
“Last chance to shut up and listen, Morrie. You have my word, Mr. Lowe will be at the fund raiser on time. No problem. I’m good at my work. Trust me, bubala. I’m not telling you any more because that way you can’t accidentally get us all into trouble. Capisce?”
“Let me talk to Andy.”
I ran the idea over in my head and then finally handed the phone to Lowe. I’d told him how I wanted to run things. If he wanted to blab what was going on and take an unnecessary chance, I figured, what the hell…it was his neck on the block. He played it cool, though. He calmed Wortzman down without saying any more than I had. Hanging up finally, he asked:
“So what now?”
I pulled my watch from the drawer I’d left it in the last time I’d needed to work by the world’s hours, setting it to match Lowe’s.
The Detective Megapack Page 23
