“Too late,” I said, “too late.”
“What’ll I do with them?”
“Syd, don’t force me to make obscene suggestions.”
Dom & Angie’s Luncheonette was the same. Eddie Alfoumado was there, checking the pay phone. He said hello. Gene recommended the meat loaf, if I was hungry. I wasn’t. Ralphie announced the phone was clean. When he left, Gene said, “You got that Gunderson thing ready to prosecute yet?”
“I thought your people wanted to shut it down.”
“Did I say that?” he said, smiling.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The case is dead.”
“I was counting on it,” he said. Not smiling.
“Why?”
“Edith Bloom changed her mind. She’s going to announce in January that she’s running for Brooklyn D.A. We ran a quickie poll. Her against Landsman. Nine to one. Fifteen to one among the Jews. A lot of that is simple name recognition. Who knows Landsman? We figure … we put our heads together, and we figure what he needs is that one big case. Put him on the map. What’s bigger than the attorney general?”
“I’d love to help you, Gene. But I can’t. My client sold me out. And Gunderson’s got my balls in his pocket. They fixed me good, and I could go down on an IRS rap. … Besides, my key witness is in a coma.”
“I didn’t think they could get to you,” Gene said. He sounded sad. Almost as if he pitied me.
“Fuck you,” I said. “They have me in a box. I’ll tell you what my choices are, then you tell me what I should do. I go after him, get destroyed in the process, and not get him. Or I let it go and I make out. Understand? It’s ‘They win, I lose,’ or ‘They win, I win.’ So I did the smart thing for a change.”
“Yeah, I guess. Most of the people I know, they do the smart thing.
Why should you be different?”
“Hey, who’s talking? Every day of your life is a deal.”
“Most people I know,” Gene said, “they got what you call variable integrity. Somebody comes around who’s different, I find it refreshing.
Like your old man. We were on different sides a lotta the time. But I always respected him. It was refreshing.”
“I told you what my choices are. You tell me what you would do.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We all gotta do what we gotta do.”
Nobody I talked to had seen the White Rapper. Wherever he was, he would still want pussy and drugs. That made it mostly a surveillance case. Follow the dealer, watch the girlfriend’s place. Two teams.
I called DeVito. Naomi spoke up. “I think you should use Miles,” she said.
“He doesn’t know anything about it,” I said.
“He’s smart, he’s a hard worker. Besides, I want him to get out of file rooms all the time. He should get some air. He should get some sun. He’s a wonderful person, but he’s turning into a mole.”
“Look, I already got two guys to sit on the girlfriend. I’m going to cover the dealer.”
“You should work with a partner. What do you do when you have to go to the bathroom?”
“That’s what bottles are for.”
“Oh,” she said, and blushed.
“Yeah, why not,” I said. “I’ll put the other two guys on the dealer. Watching the apartment isn’t too difficult. He can’t screw it up. I don’t think.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. You can train him.”
“I’m doing this for you,” I said.
“Thank you. I think I deserve some consideration.”
“What’ve you been doing, taking Assertiveness Training?”
“Yes,” she said. “With LPW. The Life Plan Way.”
So I put Miles on. And when, despite what I’d told Syd Coberland, Speedo showed up with the full, unexpurgated version of the special prosecutor’s report on Randolph Gunderson, I took it along. With two of us on the stakeout, I would want something to read.
The report was only moderately interesting. What they had taken such pains to hide was barely worth hiding. But in portions that had been public all along, there was evidence of a clear and conscious pattern of discrimination in housing.
FENDERMAN: Low-income housing was going to be built in your district.
DISTRICT LEADER AUGUST WALBY: That’s right. We was forced by the city to accept that.
FENDERMAN: It is my understanding that you were influential in pushing the contract to build and manage to the Empire companies.
WALBY: Yes. They’re good at it.
FENDERMAN: There were several lower bids.
WALBY: So what?
FENDERMAN: Did you accept any financial inducements, any favors, in order to swing the contract to one of Mr. Gunderson’s companies?
WALBY: No.
FENDERMAN: Yet there were lower bids, from other reputable companies. It doesn’t make sense to me. Explain it, please.
WALBY: Look, the city forces us to accept this—this invasion. Nobody wants it. We got a nice neighborhood there. What do they want to shift all the bums and muggers out to us for? So I figured it would help if somebody got the contract who would take good care of things. I look out for the interests of the people in my district. Anybody says different is a liar.
FENDERMAN: What do you mean, “take good care of things”? Take care of you?
WALBY: Don’t keep implying I take bribes. I don’t take no bribes. I got a good insurance business. I don’t need ’em. You want me to spell things out? OK, I’ll spell it out. Somebody doesn’t make a lot of money, that doesn’t make ’em a bad person. My parents, they didn’t make a lot of money, but they were clean, decent, hardworking, churchgoing people. Now Mr. Gunderson, his operations, they have a reputation, a good reputation, for keeping things right. So we talked to him and he made it real clear that he would see to it that the place wasn’t loaded up with coloreds, and not ruin one of the last good and decent neighborhoods this city still got.
It seemed to me that a case for violation of the city’s Fair Housing Act could be made fairly easily. And nailing the attorney general on a civil rights violation had a certain appeal.
I sat on it for two days. It was a stupid idea. Self-destructive. Then I drove to Brooklyn. Gene and I strolled over to the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. Looking out over the harbor, I told him that there might be a case. It would be a technical violation rather than what the public conceives of as “crime.” That they could certainly indict, but maybe not convict. Was he interested?
He was interested.
“If I give it to you, will Landsman run with it? I have to know, Gene—I’m putting my ass on the line.”
“You have my personal guarantee.”
Then I asked my lawyer and my accountant to come to the office for a meeting. I laid it out for them.
“Why don’t you take a vacation?” Gerry said. “Let your brain slowly return to normal.”
“But,” I said, “this case can be made entirely without me. They don’t need the information from me. It’s right there. In the record. So how can Gunderson blame me?”
“You realize that you’re kidding yourself,” Sam said.
“Of course he realizes,” Gerry said. “He just asked us here to tell him that he’s kidding himself. So that’s what I’m going to do. … ”
One of my father’s favorite plays, and mine too, when I was growing up was Cyrano de Bergerac. My father was a terrible romantic. Cyrano has a great death scene. Mortally wounded, he sees an anthropomorphic vision of Death:
Cyrano: I’ll meet him on my feet.
[He draws his sword.]
Sword in hand.
He sees me. He dares to mock me! …
What do you say? That it’s useless? … I know that.
Do I fight because I think there’s something to win?
No. No. The most beautiful battle is the one I know I have to lose.
Who comes here, who are all of you … ?
Oh, I recognize you now. All my old enemies.
The Lies—
[He assaults the air with his sword.]
Take that, and that. You, Compromise! Prejudice! Cowardice!
[He strikes.]
Will I make a deal?
Never. Never … Ah. There you are, you, my Pride and Vanity.
I always knew it would be you who finally took me down.
[He swings wide as a windmill, and stops, panting.]
Yes, you took it all away from me, the laurel and the rose. You’ve got it. Take it. But there is one little bit which I take. And tonight, when I enter the House of God, My salute will touch the sky, Because in spite of you, I take something that is clean, something that is without a stain
[He raises his sword high.]
and that is—
[The sword drops from his hands. He totters, he falls.]
My white plume. My pride, my pose, my lifelong masquerade.
Dangerous stuff to raise a child on. We’re better off with Rambo and Mr. T.
“ … Tony,” Gerry said, “you’re kidding yourself. If Landsman indicts Gunderson, you go to prison. So does Straightman. Maybe you can be roommates.”
“Let me ask you one question,” I said. “A technical footnote. If the indictment comes down by October, can I still claim that hundred grand?”
“Yes,” he admitted hesitantly. “But—”
“Tony, it’s stupid,” Sam said. “You can’t spend the money in the slam. If you had it, which you won’t, because the IRS is going to take it. Take the deal, you make twice as much again within the year. And you can even keep some of it.”
“I just don’t like it,” I said. “This guy is mobbed up. We know it. Everyone knows it. But he’s just going to go on and on. I had him. And I lost him. I’m having a lot of trouble living with that. What I see, is me going on for the rest of my life, and looking back, all the time, and saying, I could have done something about it. I could have done it. But I let it go. Because I was scared—”
“Because you were sane,” Gerry said.
“Because they bought me. Because I folded in the clutch. Because they bought me.”
“Look, Tony, I know you want to agonize about the purity of your soul, but it’s time to get on with things.”
“All right guys, let me put it to you another way. Just sit back and think about it, coolly and logically,” I said. “What would you say if I told you that it was already done—that it was in the works, in front of a grand jury, and an indictment is going to be announced in a couple of days?”
“You didn’t … ” Sam said.
“You’re a meshuggener, a schmuck, an asshole,” Gerry said.
“Hey, hey, guys, slow down. I didn’t say it’s done. But I want you to tell me what advice you would give me in that hypothetical situation.”
“I wouldn’t give you advice,” Gerry said. “I’d say get a new lawyer. Who needs meshuggener clients.”
Sam just shook his head.
“Seriously, guys. I want a real answer here,” I said.
They looked at each other. Exchanging grimaces.
“Me, I would say,” my accountant said, “flee the country.”
“And while you’re at it,” my lawyer said, “change your name.”
Epilogue
WHEN ASSISTANT BROOKLYN DISTRICT Attorney Landsman announced the indictment, Randolph Gunderson resigned from office.
It made headlines. For a few moments. But the only place that really picked it up and ran with it, along with the long list of other Reagan appointees who were investigated, indicted, forced to resign, was Doonesbury. Mondale was still unable to make the “sleaze factor” a campaign issue. The Reagan steamroller steamed on and, in November, flattened his opponent.
The President nominated one of his closest advisers to be the new attorney general. That nomination was, in due course, presented to the Senate for confirmation.
Time
Senators Grill Meese About Possible Conflicts of Interest
The question sounded facetious. “Was there anybody who had either given loans or financial aid to you or your family who wasn’t subsequently given a federal job?” asked Vermont Senator Patrick Leahy. Laughter rippled through the crowded Senate Judiciary Committee hearing room. Presidential Counsellor Edwin Meese grinned. But Leahy was serious. Meese hesitated, then came up with a name: James Schmidt, a senior vice president of California’s Great American First Savings Bank, which had loaned Meese $423,000 in mortgages and loans secured by houses in California and Virginia. Leahy tartly reminded Meese that four other officials of the bank had received federal appointments. … An internal memo from two lawyers in the Office of Government Ethics claiming that Meese had violated rules governing the conduct of federal employees was disclosed by the Wall Street Journal …
The 385-page report of the special counsel, Washington lawyer Jacob Stein, cleared Meese of any criminal acts but did not pass judgment on the ethics of his conduct. …
Meese was finally confirmed by the Senate in February. The Justice Department policies moved, if anything, even further to the right.
Gerry Yaskowitz was correct. The Swiss bank turned over the money without hesitation. In person. There was also a total of $75,000 in Joey’s apartment. Cash money. That, of course, I gave to Glenda, which will cover the condo payments until I figure a way back to the States.
I found the White Rapper for 21 Century Sounds. But Matt E. Silver is infatuated with his concept of the near death and subsequent resurrectional unwrapping of the New White Rapper. If Isidore Danielovitch pulls his disappearing act one more time, the Boy Hustler promised me, I will be the first one they call as a replacement. So that’s a possibility.
My mother, of course, was very understanding.
Getting out of the country and truly disappearing required some imagination. Guido was of great assistance. He helped me find this temporary retreat. It’s pretty strange wearing robes and living in a cell. But it’s not all bad. I enjoy the theological debates. They think I’m quite funny. Though they know quite well what I’m doing, they don’t seem to mind when I disappear for afternoons with Marie. The climate is sunny, and it was raining in Paris, as usual, so she is happy to be here too.
I feel the money has settled my debt to Glenda.
How very foolish for a man to kill himself for one woman when the world is full of women. When a woman takes my fancy, I say: “Do you love me? I love you. You don’t love me? More fool you!”
GARIBALDI
I do love women. Like I love the sky and seeing the leaves fall and the rain come down and new shoots rising. Except more so. As much as my honor. Which I didn’t know I loved.
THE NEW YORK TIMES
It’s no longer remarkable to find the U.S. Attorney General under investigation by a special prosecutor. The case of the Wedtech Corporation marks the third time that an independent counsel, appointed by a court under the Ethics in Government Act, has scrutinized Edwin Meese’s conduct—twice at his own request. What is remarkable is that Mr. Meese continues to denounce as unconstitutional the law that makes such inquiries possible.
The only thing I miss, and my only regret, is Wayne. That’s not an owing that I clear from my conscience with cash. I explained as best I could before I left, and I have written him, at length, subsequently. I hope he understands.
Turn the page to start reading the follow-up to the Tony Cassella Mysteries
Prologue: Hoar Frost
¥ = yen $ = U.S. dollar ÖS = Austrian schilling
DM = deutsch mark FF = French franc £ = English pound
SF = Swiss franc KR = Swedish krona
HIROSHI TANAKA TOOK DELIGHT in brand names. They were his validation. His boots were Strolz, custom made in Lech, Austria, where the boot fitter measured him around the ankles, over the insteps, across the toes, then made a template of each foot—a craftsman as thorough as the tailor who cut Tanaka’s suits in London. More important than the fit was the cost. Anyone who truly knew sk
iing knew that the Strolz was the most expensive boot on the market—ÖS5,500—$430 with the Austrian schilling at 11.62 to one American dollar. His LaCroix skis cost FF4,250, with the French franc running 5.6 to the dollar—$760; in schillings: ÖS10,000; and ¥97,280 with the yen at 128 to the dollar, which was the rate the day he bought them. Hiroshi took great pleasure in knowing where the yen was in relation to the dollar. It was creeping closer to that perfectly symmetrical barrier, ¥100 to $1, the four-minute mile of finance, the hymen of foreign exchange. The day it broke would be the day that the dollar went yin—passive, feminine—and the yen became totally, officially yang—masculine and dominant.
The thought of it stirred his crotch pleasantly. There was a direct connection in his mind between money and erection. That was not an ethnic slur, a personal aspersion, or even an artifact of sexism. There are many people, male and female, who have their genitalia tied to financial statements. Perhaps most. Certainly not all—certainly there are those who have sex for power. And out of anger. Fear. Duty. And love. The closer the yen got to 100:1 the larger Hiroshi looked to himself, when he pumped up and posed in profile in the mirror.
Unfortunately the yen had stalled at 123. In fact it was creeping back up, past 130, toward 140:1.
Never mind, no problem—he had something better than size. As in many other things, he had applied Japanese concentration, study, and discipline to Western technology. Ask Wendy. The American blonde, the nineteen-year-old American blonde who skied behind him. Hiroshi could make her scream, and scream, over and over again. First from pleasure. Then for respite and relief. Something no American boyfriend had ever made her do. She told him so and he had no doubt it was true. No—not even the black one she had gone all the way to New York City to find when she was in high school. An American high school in Danbury, Connecticut, where the children seemed to major in party, a word that loosely translated as excess alcohol, drugs restricted only by availability, and promiscuous sex. Hiroshi felt contempt for them. Hiroshi liked to feel contempt. It was the second best emotion, maybe the counterpoint emotion, of feeling rich. The “You are worse than I” implicit in “I am better than you.” The American children in Wendy’s stories partied as if they had been given a ticket that said, “Free ride forever.” A whole generation, a series of generations, of an entire nation had made a Faustian bargain—though too illiterate, as a group, to know the hero from either Marlowe or Goethe—to party, on the assumption that their souls would never come due.
You Get What You Pay For (The Tony Cassella Mysteries) Page 38
