Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  “The proposed track?’

  “Yes. You’ve heard about it?”

  “You could say that. I’m thinking about putting some money into the deal, if they’ll let me.”

  “A racetrack, Ari?” It was Emma. “Isn’t that a little off your reservation?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. But you know I dabble in Formula One and have contacts among the NASCAR drivers. And you remember that I own Howland Hook, which isn’t that far from the NASCAR property. I may want to have some say in what’s going on in that part of Staten Island.”

  “Howland Hook is a marine terminal for container ships,” Emma explained to Scarne.

  “Yes, I know. I spent, or misspent, much of my youth on Staten Island.”

  “Oh, of course, I forgot.”

  “So, you know the borough well, Jake,” Arachne said. “NASCAR is big business. Staten Island would be lucky to get them, don’t you agree?”

  “Some people are worried about the traffic problem.”

  Arachne laughed.

  “Jake, this is New York. There are always traffic problems. Or environmental problems. Or religious problems. We’re the NIMBY capital of the world – ‘Not In My Back Yard.’ It’s amazing anything ever gets built.”

  “You’ve done all right.”

  Arachne nodded at the observation.

  “But I’ve had to step on some toes to do it.”

  “The people I’m after did more than step on toes. They brutally raped and murdered a young girl.”

  Arachne looked incredulous.

  “Good God! I can’t imagine anyone in NASCAR countenancing that sort of thing. It’s preposterous.”

  “I don’t think he means NASCAR is involved,” Emma said quickly, turning to Jake. “Perhaps you should tell Ari what happened.”

  Scarne hesitated, and Arachne noticed.

  “If I’m going to help you, I want some idea of what this is about. I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He waved airily at his surroundings. “I didn’t get all this by talking out of school. Quite the opposite.”

  “You can trust Ari,” Emma said.

  Scarne gave an abridged version of the events leading up to his investigation and his lack of progress since. His host listened intently and without interruption, occasionally taking a sip of port. When Scarne finished, Arachne quietly filled all their glasses.

  “That may be the most disturbing story I’ve ever heard.”

  “Emma is correct,” Scarne said. “I can’t imagine NASCAR is involved, except perhaps unwittingly. But it’s not exactly something I want to run by their public relations people.”

  “I would think not,” Arachne observed.

  “Have you ever come across a man named Nathan Bimm?”

  “Nathan Bimm? Who is he?”

  “Just a name that’s come up in the NASCAR deal. Big in real estate on the Island. Very cozy with the Borough President, Blovardi.”

  “Don’t know Bimm. But I’ve met Blovardi, of course. Rotund little man. Can’t say I trust any of the politicians out there. But I can’t let that get in the way of a potentially good investment. Still, if there’s anything to what you say, I don’t want to be blindsided. After the job Shields did on me, I don’t need any more aggravation.”

  “Ari, our stories were fair and scrupulously researched,” Emma said.

  “Of course they were, dear. I’m just teasing. Actually, you gave Howland Hook high marks. I guess if a Greek can run anything well, it’s a shipping line operation.” Arachne turned back to Scarne. “In any event, Jake, perhaps we can help each other out. I can call the NASCAR people and tell them that you are working for the Arachne Group, doing some due diligence for me. Maybe their security people know something. But you will have to be discreet about what you’re really after. If you mention murder, that may have some legal ramifications for me. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t see why not. But if I come across anything damning, I’m going to have to do something about it.”

  “Of course, I understand. I would want you to. I just hope you might give me a heads up. If I pull out of a prospective deal, I might have to smooth some ruffled feathers at NASCAR.”

  Scarne hesitated.

  “I think Ari is making a reasonable request, Jake,” Emma interjected. “Considering what he’s willing to do.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Scarne said.

  “Great,” Arachne said. “That’s all I can ask. Now how about we rejoin the party? I really soaked some of those people tonight. The least I can do is get them drunk. Let’s have some fun.”

  CHAPTER 18 – THE VULCAN

  “Would you like some more champagne, Mr. Sobok?”

  Hagen Sobok was sitting in the first-class cabin of an Air France A340 Airbus reading The Long Lavender Look by John D. MacDonald. He looked up at the smiling hostess and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  The Air France service, always superb, had even been ratcheted up a notch after he mentioned that the woman he was seeing also worked as a flight attendant for the airline. Indeed, the luscious creature filling his flute had once shared routes with Juliette.

  “Excuse me, but did she call you Mr. Spock?”

  Sobok smiled and turned to the voice, which belonged to an attractive woman sitting across the aisle from him.

  “It’s Sobok, but I get that a lot.”

  “Well, you do look like him, except for the ears, of course. Does it bother you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, holding up his right hand and splitting his fingers in a rough approximation of the Vulcan ‘live long and prosper’ sign.

  The woman, whom he recognized from a recent picture in some business magazine, laughed. She was the chief financial officer a large American commercial bank. She pointed to the book he had put down.

  “Are you enjoying that?”

  “Yes. Not his best, but there are really no bad Travis McGee novels. It’s one of the seminal mystery series in American literature.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t read thrillers. They seem all the same. High-tech and unbelievable. But I’m sure they are entertaining.”

  “You’re right about most of the stuff coming out now. But MacDonald was a wonderful writer. This series ended decades ago, after 21 books. And he wrote perhaps 800 short stories and almost 60 other novels. I have most of them. The novels, not the short stories. I bet you have seen some of the movies they’ve made from his books. How about Cape Fear, or Seven?

  “The one with Brad Pitt and the head in the box? Truly disturbing.”

  “You might even like the thrillers. McGee is always unraveling some complicated financial scheme or another. Right up your alley.”

  The woman smiled. It was obvious he knew who she was. Interesting man. And a handsome figure, dressed as he was in a conservative black suit and dark grey turtleneck that did little to hide his athletic physique.

  “I might just try one, then. Could give me some ideas in dealing with our friends in the Emirates. Dubai still isn’t too friendly to woman bankers.”

  “I’m sure you can hold your own. But if you want, I can always lend you some photon torpedoes.”

  “You’re on.”

  A meal service interrupted their conversation, and when it was over the woman pulled out a laptop. She was attractive and had that middle-40’s, moneyed, divorced look. Sobok thought he had a better than even chance of exchanging business cards. After cleaning up the mess in New York, he wouldn’t mind a little R&R. She wouldn’t sleep around, but when she got someone in bed, she would be a tiger. He wondered which card would impress her the most. Probably one of the diplomatic ones.

  Sobok finished a chapter and put the book away. He pulled out his iPad and began culling through the research material he had quickly assembled. Much of the information on his first target was in the public domain: news clippings, police reports and the like. All basically useless. Sobok could have just as well watched The Godfather or Goodfellas one more time.
He would obviously need the help on the ground that his new employer promised. Not because the target was particularly dangerous. These people were laughable. But it would be prudent to take them unaware and he was as yet ignorant of their daily habits. And he had to keep them alive, for a time at least. That was crucial in solving the problem of the second target.

  Sobok was uneasy. He didn’t like relying on local help, especially from an intermediary. The slightest of doubts about his new client embedded itself in his mind. Of course, being a professional, he would reserve judgment until after meeting the man. But he would be careful. He didn’t like rush jobs.

  ***

  The previous Saturday, Hagen Sobok had been shopping for perfume in Printemps, the enormous, glittering, multilayered Paris department store just off Boulevard Haussmann on the Right Bank, when his mobile vibrated. A text message. One word. Mass. He sighed and looked at his watch, startling the salesgirl who was about to spray a sample of Cristalle on the back of his hand. He smiled at the reflex; he could just as easily have looked at the time displayed on the mobile held in his other hand.

  “Pardonnez moi, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her back his hand.

  This was cutting it close, the closest ever, he thought as he felt the cold spritz and idly raised the hand to his nose.

  “Tres bien, merci,” he smiled to the girl. And in English, “Gift wrap?”

  She nodded and stepped away. Sobok took the opportunity to tap a text answer on his phone. Again, one word. Oui. With his rates now at a minimum of 20,000 Euros, it was almost always a “oui.”

  The perfume was a tad stronger than he would have liked, but he also wanted to get some chocolates for Juliette and now had only an hour left to shop. Dating an Air France flight attendant had its obvious advantages, but she was hard to please. He’d also have to remember to change their dinner reservations to someplace on the Left Bank.

  After paying for the perfume, Sobok headed home to change his clothes. He would buy his chocolates on the way. There would be a shop. In Paris, there was always a shop on the way home. He couldn’t remember the last time he made it there without a small purchase of something, at least a baguette. He thought it might be a law.

  Ordinarily, Clovis gave him several days’ notice. But whenever it came, Sobok knew to show up for the evening service the following Saturday. It was always a job, or “assignment,” as Clovis preferred calling it. The shorter the interval between the call and the meeting, the higher the fee – that was a given. A same-day call was unheard of, and Sobok wondered what the market would bear. He decided not to be too greedy. Clovis was a reliable source of income and a terrific negotiator , as well as – if the word had any meaning in their line of work -- a friend. The fact that Sobok could perform on such short notice would redound to their credit with the type of people who used his services.

  It was 6:15 PM when Sobok crossed the Pont D’Arcole over the Seine onto Île de la Cité, the largest of two adjacent islands sitting in the river between the Left and Right Banks, and walked to Notre-Dame. Throngs of tourists were milling about the plaza in front of the famous cathedral and dozens were lined along its side waiting for a tour that cost 15 Euros. Those who had already paid were being led into the church by a side door.

  Sobok blithely walked to the main entrance of the church and joined a clutch of people going in the front door. He and others were forced to step over a Muslim woman who knelt in their way. She was dressed in a tattered brown burka and held out a plate in a grimy hand. The plate held a few coins but Sobok didn’t see anyone contributing and assumed that she had salted it herself. Such women were ubiquitous all over Paris, particularly around tourist destinations. At first Sobok had been generous with the pitiful-looking women, until an old Frenchwoman upbraided him one day.

  “Their husbands stay home on welfare,” she said, “and put these women out on the street to beg. It’s a racket. Half the money probably goes to Hamas.”

  Sobok took a program from an usher in the vestibule. It was one of the best- kept secrets in Paris that the 6:30 Saturday night mass at Notre-Dame was open to anyone and was rarely crowded. He took a seat near the right rear of the huge church. A stream of tourists already on a tour walked the perimeter separated from the worshipers by the ropes and brass stanchions lining the side aisles. Some whispered and pointed at the many architectural wonders surrounding them. Sobok smiled at a small boy tightly clutching his mother’s hand and gave him a slight wave. In effect, he and the other celebrants inside the ropes were now part of the tour.

  For the next half hour, Sobok relaxed in the dark beauty of his surroundings and enjoyed the mass. The liturgy was in French, of course, and while he was becoming more acclimated to the language in his recently adopted city, he only got the gist of the fiery sermon delivered by the tall black priest. (The Catholic Church in France, and elsewhere in Europe, had a hard time with vocations among increasingly secular populations and relied on clergy from the Third World). Sobok, in any event, was unlikely to be moved by any sermon. He was affected, however, by the ancient hymns sung by the lovely lector. French was a language made for such music.

  The collection plate was passed. Sobok put in 100 Euros, drawing startled looks from some of the other worshippers. In return he gave them what he thought was a saintly smile. It would have been a lot cheaper to take the tour, he reflected, but then he doubted any of the tourists came to the church to arrange murder. He wasn’t religious or superstitious, or beset by conscience, but there was a limit to sacrilege – although he was fairly certain that in centuries past many killings had been discussed, and possibly committed, within the walls of this particular house of God.

  Sobok knew Clovis wouldn’t enter the church until sometime after the collection. He’d teased the man about being a cheapskate. In truth, they had no set time to meet. The mass lasted an hour; they always managed to conduct their business before it was over, no matter who got there first.

  ***

  Clovis St. Germaine arrived just after Communion, sitting down after Sobok removed his small packages from the folding chair next to him. St. Germaine, with his turtleneck and cloth cap, looked like the elderly French pensioner he was, although in his case, his pensions came from service in both the Foreign Legion and Sûreté Nationale.

  “The same woman?” St. Germaine whispered, nodding toward the packages now in Sobok’s lap.

  “One even more beautiful,” Sobok said.

  “In Paris, the next woman is always more beautiful. I should know. I’ve been married three times.” St. Germaine looked around and laughed under his breath. “Once, here.”

  Other than an occasional comment about the weather or an inquiry into their respective health, this would be the extent of their personal conversation. After their initial introduction, brokered by one of St. Germaine’s old Legion contacts, they never met outside of Notre-Dame, although they knew where each other lived. They also knew each other’s real name. (“Clovis St. Germaine? You must be joking,” Sobok had commented years earlier. “Look who is talking,” the other man retorted.) Their joint knowledge was a symbol of their trust, hard-earned.

  St. Germaine handed Sobok an envelope. He opened it and looked through the papers inside. Good. He hadn’t been to the States in a while. He read further. The instructions were, of course, filled with euphemisms, some quite humorous. But the intent was clear.

  “Given the short notice,” Sobok said, “I presume there is some urgency.”

  St. Germaine smiled at the gambit.

  “Your usual minimum is my commission on this one.”

  Sobok raised his eyebrows.

  “The client is very rich and somebody has apparently botched the job,” St. Germaine said. He leaned into Sobok. “Mafia. He seemed to think that might be a problem. I asked extra for it.”

  ***

  Hagen Sobok, the “Vulcan,” as he was actually known in the trade, passed through security at JFK International and waved goodbye to the woman
with whom he had just exchanged cards. Hope to see you soon, he thought to himself, right after I make sure my targets neither live long, nor prosper.

  An hour later he checked into The Peninsula Hotel on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. After unpacking he took a long walk, heading to the West Side. A heavy dinner would be counterproductive, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some of the best pizza in the world. He had two slices, a glass of the house chianti and a small salad at Patsy’s on West 74th. Then he headed back to his hotel.

  Sobok always listened to his body. He was tired and wanted a good night’s sleep before his meeting the next day with the intermediary who would provide the information he needed. A doctor named Bimm. Presumably one who had never taken the Hippocratic Oath too seriously. Sobok shrugged. He was actually looking forward to it. He’d never been on the famous Staten Island Ferry.

  CHAPTER 19 – THE GADOMSKI BOY

  The next morning Scarne woke up with a hangover and feeling out of sorts. They had stayed late at Arachne’s apartment and Scarne had become a bit annoyed at how much attention their host paid to Emma. A couple of times when Scarne was with other guests or at the bar he returned to find Arachne’s arm draped casually around her waist. While he realized that his relationship with Emma was non-committal, he couldn’t help but feel irked. She had tried to smooth his ruffled feathers on the way home but, using her daughter as an excuse, didn’t invite him in.

  Scarne put on a pot of coffee, set the timer, and then went down to the his building’s basement gym, which looked like something Rocky Balboa would train in: old-style weight benches and barbells, jump ropes, dirty floor mats, stretching pulleys attached to boards on the wall, even a heavy punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Some of the residents, used to upscale health clubs, wouldn’t be caught dead with their $400 track suits in the room, with its odors of sweat, mold and liniment vying for primacy. Scarne, wearing $20 Old Navy shorts and an old Providence College sweatshirt with coffee stains, loved the place. He never even signed the petition for a new facility, now moot with the impending brick façade assessment.