by Len Levinson
“Got it.”
“Good. Now let’s go downtown, and if you try anything funny I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off, you scumbag killer. Move.”
“Could I possibly take my coat? It’s a bit chilly out there and it might rain.”
“It ain’t ever gonna rain where you’re going, fuckhead. Now I said MOVE!”
Chapter Four
They shackled Butler’s wrists and ankles to a bar on the floor in the back seat area of a patrol car and drove him downtown. In his awkward bent-over position, Butler pondered the fate of Wilma B. Willoughby. She was such a beautiful young woman, so bright, so charming. He’d felt a genuine liking for her in the Oak Room of the Plaza, and now she’d been wiped off the face of the earth. Had the poor girl unwittingly fallen into a disaster, or was she an agent who’d made a fatal mistake?
Whatever had happened, why did the locale have to be his apartment? The one thing perfectly clear was that somebody was trying to do something horrible to an unemployed secret agent named Butler. Whoever they were, they were serious enough to spill blood, and clever enough to set him up in a very professional manner. In fact, Butler could see no way to prevent himself from going to jail for a very long time, because all the evidence pointed to him as the brutal killer of Wilma B. Willoughby.
I’ve got to analyze this carefully, Butler told himself as the city streaked past the windows of the patrol car. It’s clear that somebody wants to do something to me. They didn’t want to kill me, though. They just want me to rot in jail for the rest of my life.
There was a very interesting coincidence, he realized. He’d been set up on the same day that he’d been fired from the Agency. Could it be that the Agency had decided to put him away because he knew a lot of dirty secrets and they were afraid he might talk? But in that case, wouldn’t it have been easier to kill him? They never hesitated to commit murder when it served their purposes. In his day he himself had knocked over a few alleged enemies of the American people. He’d even been in the Muneda Palace when Allende was gunned down, but he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger. A Chilean Army officer with close ties to the Agency had done that. Well, if they’d kill the legally elected president of a nation, why wouldn’t they kill an obscure spy like Butler?
You could follow a problem like this through ever-widening circles until you went mad, but his life was on the line and he had to keep going. He knew there were people in the Agency who hated him. They were the right-wing fascist types who thought any despicable act was justifiable in their unceasing war against godless communism, and Butler had often disagreed with them. Perhaps they hated him enough to want to see him rot in jail for the rest of his life, instead of giving him a quick clean death. They were perverse bastards; he wouldn’t put anything past them.
On the other hand, perhaps he had been set up by a foreign power hostile to the United States, in the hope that he’d suspect the Agency and blab all his dirty little secrets to the press before the Agency could bail him out.
But maybe the Agency really was behind it, assuming that he’d blame a foreign power, certain that he was an Agency man to the marrow of his bones and therefore never would talk.
If the Agency thought that, why had they set him up in the first place?
And who was Wilma B. Willoughby?
And what the fuck was going on?
There was only one way to clear this up. As soon as he could he’d have to call the Agency. If they said they couldn’t help him, he’d have to accept that as the tip-off that they’d set him up. If they said they could help him, and in fact sprung him from jail, that wouldn’t exonerate them completely. They might’ve set up the whole mess anyway just to bind him closer to them, make him grateful for their help in his hour of greatest need, and convince him to keep his mouth shut out of gratitude.
But would they kill Wilma B. Willoughby just for that? He nodded grimly and decided that they would.
Chapter Five
Butler was taken to police headquarters on Centre Street, photographed, fingerprinted, and slapped around a little in a tiny room in the basement.
“Why’d you do it?” asked a big cop with a scar on his cheek, glowering down at him.
“I didn’t do it.”
“You’re a fuckin’ liar.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ liar.”
“I said you are.”
Whack!
Butler’s head went tumbling across outer space. He was handcuffed to the chair and there was nothing he could do. But he was no stranger to pain. They could punch him out all night and he’d still keep his mouth shut. He was a very tough customer.
The cops realized that after about ninety minutes of interrogation.
“This is a waste of fuckin’ time,” said the cop who’d been hitting him with the rubber hose.
“Yeah,” said somebody else standing in the shadowy background.
“Might was well lock the fucker up.”
“Might as well.”
The cop with the rubber hose bent over and unlocked the cuffs that held Butler to the chair.
“I want to make my phone call,” mumbled Butler.
“What’d he say?”
“He says he wants to make his phone call.”
“He hasn’t made his phone call yet?”
“I guess not.”
“Well we gotta let him make his phone call. It’s the law, and we don’t want to break the law, right?”
“Right.”
They dragged Butler out of the little room and down the corridor to a gloomy office area, where they dropped him in a chair in front of a desk.
“There’s the phone, asshole. Make your call.”
Butler wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand and picked up the receiver. He dialed the special secret number of F. J. Shankham at the New York field office of the CIA.
Winifred Dooley, still on the lobster shift, answered the phone. “Hello,” she said gruffly.
“This is Butler. Lemme speak to the boss.”
“He’s not in.”
“Where is he?”
“Search me.”
“When do you expect to hear from him?”
“Damned if I know. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I happen to be in jail, and I need to get sprung.”
“Why are you in jail?”
“The cops think I killed somebody.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not!” Butler yelled. His patience was wearing thin.
“Then why do they think you killed somebody?”
“Because they found a dead body in my bathtub.”
“In your bathtub, you say?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh my goodness!”
“I want you to get in touch with Shankham and tell him to get me the hell out of here.”
“You want Mr. Shankham to get you out of jail?”
“That’s right.”
“But you don’t even work for us anymore.”
“Yes I do—for thirty more days. And you’d better tell Shankham that if he doesn’t get me out of here within twenty-four hours, I’m going to start telling little stories about such places as Chile, Angola, Namibia, Argentina, Brazil and Nicaragua to anyone who’ll listen. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly clear.”
“Good evening to you, Ms. Dooley.”
“The same to you, Mr. Butler.”
Butler handed the phone to the cop. “I’m finished with my call.”
The cop took the phone and hung it up. Then he and his partner marched Butler down the hall to a dank little cell and locked him in.
Butler sat on the wooden slab that was supposed to be a bed, and looked around. There was a commode in the corner that stunk to high heaven, and that was it. From afar some poor bastard was groaning. Butler looked at his watch; it was five o’clock in the morning. He stretched out on the cot and closed his eyes. The bloody image of Wilma B. Will
oughby floated before him.
“Somebody is going to pay for this,” he muttered. “Anybody who messes with me is messing with the wrong guy.”
Chapter Six
Butler was awakened by the sound of keys clanking against the bars of his cell. He raised his head from the wooden slab and saw a cop unlocking the door. Beside the cop was the slender stooped figure of F. J. Shankham.
“Your lawyer’s here,” the cop snarled, opening the cell door.
Shankham entered the cell, peering at the body on the wooden slab as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. The cop locked the cell door and Butler sat up, wiping the sleep from his face.
“It’s about time you got here,” he grumbled, looking at his watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning.
Shankham sat next to Butler on the bunk. “How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible. Do you know what’s going on?”
“You’re charged with third-degree murder, and your arraignment is this morning.”
“I know that part, but I don’t know what’s going on.”
“To what are you referring?” Shankham asked, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
“I’m referring to the fact that I’ve been framed and I can’t help wondering who did it.”
“Surely you don’t think that we…”
“If not you, then who?”
Shankham shrugged. “I don’t know, Butler. To tell you the truth, how do I know that you didn’t actually kill that poor unfortunate young woman? You are rather unstable, you know.”
“I am not unstable.”
“Of course you are. You wouldn’t hold the ridiculous political beliefs that you do if you weren’t unstable.”
“This is no time for a political argument. I want to get out of jail.”
“I’m afraid your legal situation isn’t very good. They’ve got the evidence against you and they’ve got it cold.”
“What evidence?”
“First of all, the bartender at the Oak Room has testified that he saw you in the company of the victim in the early hours of this morning. Next, neighbors of yours called the police to complain of terrible bloodcurdling screams coming from your apartment. And finally, the police called on you and found the victim in your bathtub, with her throat slashed with a knife that matches the set of knives in your kitchen, and which, moreover, has your fingerprints on it. That’s third-degree murder at least, and who knows, in a few days the police might get it up to first-degree murder.”
“Whoever set me up did a good job of it.”
Shankham became nervous. “Well, a man is presumed guilty—I mean innocent—until proven guilty, but they’ve got an awful strong case against you. If I were sitting on that jury I’d be strongly inclined to send you away for the rest of your life.”
Butler stared at him. “You would?”
“I told you that they’ve got the evidence and they’ve got it cold.”
“But I told you that I’ve been set up. Don’t you believe me?”
Shankham smiled. “Butler, you know better than to ask me that. You’ve known me long enough to be aware that I don’t trust anybody. I don’t even trust myself, so how can I trust you?”
“I was set up, I tell you.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but a jury probably will vote to convict.”
“You’ve got to help me, Shankham.”
“Of course we’ll help. We don’t throw our people to the wolves. We’ll get you the finest lawyer money can buy. He’ll do everything for you that he can. You’ll get a fair trial before a jury of your peers. That’s all we can do, Butler. We can’t produce a miracle for you. The age of miracles is past.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to—some dumb hick?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hey Shankham, this is me, Butler. I’ve been in the Agency for ten years and I know the Agency can do anything it pleases, because I’ve seen it in action. I’ve been in jail before and I’ve been sprung. Why not now?”
“Because before you were on official Agency operations, but this time the evidence points to the likelihood that you’ve taken it upon yourself to cut up some poor young woman on your own.” Shankham shook his head. “That’s a different matter entirely. Why, can you imagine the scandal if the papers ever found out that a CIA agent killed his girlfriend and the CIA used its influence to have him released?”-
“She wasn’t my girlfriend and I didn’t kill her.”
“But you knew her.”
“I only talked with her for about a half hour at the Plaza. I never saw her before in my life. In fact I thought she was working for you.”
Shankham raised his eyebrows. Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“That’s preposterous. Whatever made you think that?”
“I thought perhaps you wanted to check to see how I was dealing with the fact that I’d just been fired.”
“Nobody in the Agency gets fired. You were going to resign.”
“Don’t change the subject. I still wouldn’t be surprised if that girl was working for you and you set me up.”
Shankham looked at him in irritation. “Don’t be absurd!”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“I think you’re hallucinating. Why would we want to put you in jail?”
“To keep me quiet. Because I know too much.”
“If that were so we merely would have killed you.”
“Too messy, maybe?”
“There are clean ways, as I’m sure you know. Besides, even if you did talk, who would believe you? You’d be just another crackpot running around denouncing the CIA. And the American people don’t care anyway. Just let them have televisions sets in every room and a new car every three years, and they don’t give a damn what happens. The average American is a dope; you know that. I’m surprised you’d think they’d do something if they knew the truth about world events. The only truths they’re interested in is who won the ballgame today and what’s for supper tonight.”
“That’s because they’re so brainwashed by the media.”
Shankham shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, we didn’t set you up, Butler, and I’m astonished and hurt that you think we did. We have no motive for setting you up. There’s nothing in it for us. Actually I’m not so astonished, to tell you the truth. Everybody blames everything on the CIA these days. You kill your girlfriend and then blame it on us. How tacky.”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend and I didn’t kill her.”
“We’ve gone over this ground before.” Shankham looked at his watch.
“You’ve got to help me.”
“I told you that we’ll get you a very fine lawyer and we’ll post bail. More than that we cannot do.”
“There’s a lot more you can do. If the bartender at the Oak Room remembers what time I left, it can be deduced that I couldn’t possibly have had time to kill Wilma B. Willoughby.”
“Was that her name?”
“Yes.”
“What a strange name.”
“That wasn’t the only strange thing about her. She had undercover agent written all over her. She was a museum of the tricks and ploys that we all use.”
“You don’t say?”
“Sound like anybody you know?”
“I don’t think so. And in reference to what you said about the bartender in the Oak Room, he already has given a deposition in which he stated that he doesn’t know exactly what time you left the bar.”
“The waiter?”
“The waiter has stated that he thought you left with the victim, but he couldn’t be sure.”
“That bastard!”
“He sees so many people coming and going—you can’t blame him.”
“But I gave him a ten-dollar tip!”
“Probably everyone else at the Oak Room does too.”
Butler pinched his lips together and thought for a few moments. “Perhaps we can locate the cabdriver who took me home. Cabdrivers have to write down
the hour and minute they pick up and drop off their fares.”
“There are thirty thousand cabbies in the naked city.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to locate him.”
“What are you looking at me for?” Shankham asked, moving away from Butler on the wooden cot. “You don’t expect the Agency to try and locate him, do you?”
“I do.”
“Uh-uh, Butler. Forget about it. We can’t take the chance on the bad publicity if we used our resources and the taxpayers’ money to try and exonerate an agent accused of killing his girlfriend.”
“I told you that she wasn’t my girlfriend. I hardly knew her.”
“Then you tell me how she wound up in your bathtub?”
“Somebody put her there to set me up.”
“But how?”
“The important question is who. Maybe it was the Russians, hoping I’d blow my top and blab everything I know.”
“It’s possible.”
“Or the Chinese.”
“Maybe.”
“Or you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“It wasn’t me, Butler. I know you don’t believe me, but it wasn’t. And if you decide to blab everything you know, as you so crudely put it, and if the American people awake from their deep sleep and start to pay attention, you shall disappear off the face of the earth and never be seen again. Because you see, when I take care of somebody, there are never any loose ends. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Shankham stood up and slapped his palms against his stomach. “Your lawyer should be in to see you before your arraignment. We will post bail, of course, and pay your legal fees. But that will be the extent of our involvement with you. Sorry. Good luck to you, and if you’re ever in the neighborhood, give me a call and we’ll have lunch together.”
“You bastard.”
“Butler, I knew a woman would be your downfall. I just knew it. You play around too much. You should have gotten married; then this wouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Shankham,” Butler said, not bothering to get up.
“Same here.” Shankham rattled the cell door and the jailer came running with his ring of keys. The jailer unlocked the cell and Shankham stepped out into the hall. Turning to Butler, he said, “Good luck again, old man.”
