Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  There was a long pause. Scarne wondered if the cell call had been dropped. But then Condon said, “Scullen is a good man. Bit of a burn out. They wanted to stick him behind a desk at One Police Plaza but I knew that would kill him so I sent him to Staten Island to wait out his pension. I’ll give him a call and tell him I’ve taken an personal interest in this.”

  The other voice came back.

  “Chief, we’re up next. They’re looking for you.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Delaney. Get back in there and tell them I’m defusing a bomb in the Joint Chiefs’ bathroom or something.” Then, “Jake, go down to the Plaza and describe your hit man to our Interpol liaison unit. Tell them to check with the Florida State Police for any fingerprints they may have lifted in the hospital, although I’d bet that’s a non-starter. And spend some time with our sketch artists. I’ll have Delaney set it all up. Give him something to do. He’s about to have a canary. I have to get back in the conference. But Jake .…”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll give you a little room on this. But I want to hear something soon, or I’ll pull the string on you and take my chances with the Vatican. Got it?”

  “Sure, Chief. One thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “I got this ticket for parking in a handicap spot.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  ***

  When the Police Commissioner tells his subordinates to cooperate, they cooperate. Within an hour of arriving at One Police Plaza in downtown Manhattan, Scarne had met with the Department’s Interpol unit and, for good measure, its Organized Crime Task Force. E-mails and FAXes were sent. Computers computed. A dozen cops worked the phones. Florida was contacted, as was the F.B.I., D.E.A., C.I.A. and some agencies with initials Scarne never heard of. He even caught one detective Twittering.

  “Assassins Twitter,” he asked incredulously.

  “No,” the cop laughed, “but you’d be surprised what people know about on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and all the rest. Can’t hurt to send out his description. You never know.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” Scarne said.

  A Deputy Chief who looked like a college professor sent Scarne down to sit with not one, but two sketch artists, one of whom did it the old-fashioned way and the other who used a computer to generate likenesses in Avatar-like 3D. When they were finished, one of them, the older sketch artist who still used pencil, said, “You know who this guy looks like?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Scarne said.

  He was starving, having skipped lunch. The cops said they’d have something soon and he ran out to get a bite to eat a local pub one of the artists said made a great corned beef sandwich. It did. It also made great mugs of beer. He was on his second when he called his office.

  “I was about to call you, Jake,” Evelyn said. “I just got off the phone with Aristotle Arachne. He wants to talk to you. He gave me his number. Said you can call him anytime.”

  Things are looking up, Scarne thought, taking the number. He had another beer. Feeling refreshed and optimistic, he was back in the Plaza at 5 P.M. The cops had drawn a blank. Every query had come back negative.

  “This guy apparently doesn’t exist,” one of the Interpol squad cops said. “Maybe he really is an alien.”

  “My contact at the agency said if we ever find him, they want to offer him a job,” said another detective.

  “Balls,” Scarne said.

  ***

  “Thanks for getting back to me so promptly,” Arachne said when Scarne reached him. “Making any progress on that case you told me about at my apartment?”

  Sure, Scarne thought. I’ve turned up some promising dead ends. But he said, “Yes.” Mainly because Emma has the code to Arachne’s apartment elevator and he didn’t want to sound incompetent. Childish.

  “Good, good. I’ve been thinking about it. You said you wanted to nose around NASCAR and I promised to help. There’s a fellow who handles some security for them. Name is Michael Honker. He’s working out at Pocono Downs in Pennsylvania the next few days. I’m headed there tomorrow and can introduce you. We can hop out there in my helicopter, say, around 11 AM?”

  Scarne accepted the offer but declined the ride. He didn’t mind driving the two hours out to the Pocono Downs racing complex in Wilkes Barre, PA, since it would give him a chance to put the rebuilt gearbox in his MGB through its paces on the open road. After he rang off he called Emma Shields.

  “Did you hear the joke about the priest, the hit man and the private eye?”

  “No, how does it go?”

  “It’s long. Any chance you can get a baby sitter? The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is at the Angelica. Then we can get a late bite at Knickerbocker’s and I can regale you.”

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  “It’s the Swedish version. With Noomi Rapace. She’s terrific.”

  “Jake, I can’t.” She hesitated. “Actually, I have a babysitter. And I’ve made plans. Ari invited me to the opera.”

  Scarne felt a familiar twinge. There was no reason Arachne should have mentioned it, of course. But he was still nettled. The opera, no less.

  “That’s OK. Short notice. Have a good time. Perhaps we can do the ballet next week.”

  “Childish,” he said to himself after they hung up. He thought about calling Daisy Buchanan. That would be worse than childish. She was, in her own way, a nice girl. He settled for Noomi Rapace. The movie was terrific and all the murders and mayhem suited his mood. The Swedish dialogue, thankfully abetted by subtitles, was less jarring than the dialogue in some German films he’d seen. German was a tough language to be romantic in, Scarne knew. If you didn’t read the subtitles you’d think the actors were discussing how to invade Poland rather than trying to get a fräulein in the sack.

  After the movie he went to Knickerbocker’s on University Place near his apartment and had too many bourbons and nothing to eat. Then he went home to sleep, slightly drunk but thoroughly disgusted with himself.

  CHAPTER 25 – ONCE IN A LIFETIME

  Scarne’s rebuilt gearbox handled the Pocono Mountain roads smoothly, alternately purring and roaring through his frequent up and down shifts. He wondered if the stock car folks would let him give the car a spin on the track’s 2.5-mile oval.

  He pulled into the raceway complex and after mentioning Arachne’s name was directed to a private lot next to the infield. He drove past a line of garishly colored stock cars that dwarfed his little two-seater.

  “Don’t be intimidated,” he said aloud to the MGB. “You’d smoke these guys on a mountain road.”

  It was just 11. A helicopter clattered overhead and landed in the infield. As he walked over, he spotted Arachne climbing out. The two men shook and then Arachne gave him a quick tour of the central pit areas. A car buff, Scarne was fascinated, and said so.

  “I’m a Formula One fan myself,” Arachne said. “Do a little driving when I can. But it’s hard not to appreciate the skill and daring of NASCAR drivers.”

  A stock car roared past at what to Scarne was warp speed. He whistled.

  “At ground level, you get a real idea of how fast they go,” Arachne said. “Television distorts it.”

  “That’s damn fast,” Scarne said appreciatively.

  “Only a demonstration car, Jake. Probably going at 60% of its top speed. Did you notice that there were two people sitting in front.”

  Scarne hadn’t

  “They let civilians pay for the privilege of having the crap scared out of them. Great PR, and it’s perfectly safe. There’s a real NASCAR driver at the wheel. For him it’s like a Sunday drive.”

  The car had made its loop and was noticeably slowing. It pulled into a nearby pit and Scarne watched a potbellied man awkwardly clamber out the passenger side window, with considerable help from some track workers. He staggered a bit and then joined the driver and other crew who slapped him on the back.

  “That fellow got his money’s worth,” Arachne said, laughing. �
�How would you like to try it, Jake?”

  “Love, too,” Scarne replied.

  “Great. I’ll set it up for you.”

  “I couldn’t let you do that, Ari.”

  “Nonsense. If you’re worried about the cost, don’t be. They do it as an accommodation for me all the time.”

  Scarne couldn’t pass it up. Hemingway had said that there were only three “real” sports: mountain climbing, bullfighting and auto racing; avocations during which participants ran the very real possibility of not surviving the day. Scarne thought Hemingway was stretching. Falling a thousand feet off the Eiger, being eviscerated by a snorting half-ton bovine or broiling alive in a racecar was less about defying the odds and more about defying the gods. Most people, Scarne suspected, would rather take their chances with 230-pound linebackers and 90-mile-an-hour fastballs. But such pursuits apparently weren’t enough for Ernest. Scarne believed that was why, in 1961, when life offered no more challenges, he inhaled a shotgun. But the man could write.

  “Well, if that’s the case.”

  “A once-in-a-lifetime experience, Jake. Come on. Let’s get to the track office and I’ll introduce you to Honker, then we’ll get you a car and driver.”

  They met Michael Honker in the track administrative office, a brightly lit room lined with photos of stock cars and drivers and various oversized sponsor decals. There was a large glass case containing dozens of what looked like Matchbox miniatures of race cars. Just about every desk had both a small checkered flag and an American flag.

  “Jake, this is Mike Honker. Retired F.B.I.”

  The NASCAR security man greeted Scarne with a perfunctory handshake. Scarne could sympathize with the man, up to a point. He was an interloper and had been mentally filed in a “pain in the ass” folder.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two alone for a while,” Arachne said. “I’ve got some calls to make, and I’m going to see about setting Jake up with a demo ride. Then maybe we can all grab some lunch.”

  “So, Mr. Scarne,” Honker said after Arachne left, “what can I do for you?”

  Scarne was prepared. Without mentioning the Pearsall girl’s murder, he told Honker that Arachne was concerned about rumors that there was underworld involvement in the NASCAR project on Staten Island.

  “There is also the possibility that certain politicians may have been paid off to facilitate the deal.”

  The security man looked indignant and Scarne decided to ease off a bit.

  “We don’t think NASCAR would countenance anything like this, but we are realists about how things are done in New York City, as I am sure you are. Some of the folks you have to deal with across the country probably aren’t boy scouts. We understand. Accommodations have to be made or nothing would ever be built. But we want to be aware of anything out of the ordinary. No surprises.”

  “You have anything specific?”

  Just a few murders, Scarne thought.

  “No, just talk.”

  Honker relaxed. He recognized a fishing expedition when he saw it.

  “Talk is cheap, Scarne. But I guess I can keep my eye out for anything suspicious. Got any names?”

  “Nathan Bimm.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Real estate guy on Staten Island. Supposed to be deeply involved in the track plan.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Salvatore Lacuna.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Wit Banaszak.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Quasimodo.”

  “Doesn’t ring .…” Honker caught himself. “You’re a wiseass, aren’t you, Scarne?”

  “Only when I’m awake.”

  They sparred for another half hour. Scarne was soon convinced the trip was a waste. He wondered why Arachne thought Honker would be useful. The security man’s phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver and listened.

  “Your demonstration ride is ready, Hot Shot,” he said, hanging up. “Maybe we can pick this up after lunch?”

  Well, maybe the day wasn’t a total waste, Scarne thought. He was itching to get in a stock car.

  “Sure.”

  “Follow me.”

  They walked down a corridor to a smaller office. A gangly string bean of a man at least six inches taller than Scarne rose from his desk as they entered.

  “This is Chuck Graebe,” Honker said. “He runs our guest passenger program, or whatever they call it. I’ll leave you in his capable hands. I have work to do. See you at lunch, Scarne. They’ll tell you where to go.”

  He walked out without another word.

  “Glad to meet you Mr. Scarne,” Graebe, putting out a hand.

  “Jake will be fine.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Graebe said with a grin as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder, from which he extracted a document. He handed it to Scarne. “It’s a standard release. You can read it if you want, but basically it says that if we injure or kill you, there’s nothing you or your heirs can do about it, even if they find the pieces.”

  “Sounds eminently fair to me,” Scarne said, signing the last page of the three-page document. He assumed Graebe’s morbid sense of humor was part of the act designed to hype the upcoming milk run.

  “Great, let’s get you suited up.”

  Scarne followed him to a locker room, where an attendant instructed Scarne to strip to his underwear and then helped him put on a fire-proof suit, gloves and boots. The blue suit was constrictive and Scarne immediately began to sweat.

  “It’s our latest. Made primarily of Nomex, but we added a layer of Carbon X, which increases its fire protective qualities but reduces breathability,” the man said. “So it tends to keep heat in as well as out. Try not to move around too much and you’ll be all right. Some of the drivers lose 10 pounds over a three-hour race. But you’ll only be out on the track a half hour, if that. Now let’s get a helmet that fits.”

  Five minutes later, Scarne and Graebe walked out on the track, feeling like he should be looking for moon rocks.

  “That’s your ride over there,” Graebe said, pointing to a red-and-blue stock car emblazoned with decals. “It’s specially fitted out to take a passenger, but in all other respects it’s a race-quality stock car. And you’re going out with one of our top drivers.”

  “You ever take one of these rides?”

  “Me? Nah. They’d have to cut a hole in the roof for my head.”

  CHAPTER 26 – SOUTH PACIFIC

  Graebe walked Scarne over to the stock car. A blond-haired man dressed in a red racing suit was leaning languidly against the rear fender. A helmet lay on the trunk next to him. He had a broad, pleasant face and smiled when he saw them.

  “Howdy, Chuckster,” the man said.

  “Hey, Crash, how’s it hanging? This here’s the condemned man. Jake Scarne, this is Crash Crane.”

  “Crash?”

  “Actually, it’s Lex Crane.” The driver stuck out his hand. “The boys have been bustin’ my balls over a little accident I had last time out.”

  “Crash has been off the circuit for a couple of weeks. They’re working on his car and his double vision is clearing up, the docs say. Mishap wasn’t his fault. Some rookie cut him off and he fishtailed into a wall.”

  More chatter to give the paying customer the impression of danger. Arachne had mentioned that demo cars ran at about 60% of their capability. Scarne knew what a “real” stock car could do in the right hands. He doubted whether he’d get up to 120 miles an hour today. Fast, surely, but with the car’s suspension and safety features, not to mention the banked turns on the track, probably less risky than a Manhattan cab ride.

  “Hey, it happens,” Crane said magnanimously. “Was a rook myself once. Only way to learn is to make some bonehead mistakes. Kid was real sorry. Apologized up my tailpipe. Come on, Jake. Let’s get you in the car.”

  Scarne’s astronaut feeling continued when, with help from some of the pit crew, he wedged himself
through the open passenger-side window and sat. One of the crew leaned in and adjusted his safety harnesses, explaining the releases as he did so. He made Scarne test the releases twice before securely strapping him in. Then he attached a restraining device from the back of his seat to his helmet. Scarne practiced the helmet release and nodded to the crewman.

  “Ok, you’re all set,” the pit man said cheerily. “If something happens, just unhook and get out through the window and get as far away from the car as you can. Leave your personal belongings and carry-on luggage behind.” He then attached the net that takes the place of glass on both sides of a stock car.

  Crane slid effortlessly into the driver’s seat and was quickly buckled up. Scarne was startled to note that there was no steering wheel!

  “Haven’t you forgotten something, Crash?”

  “What?” He laughed. “Oh, that. Don’t need it. We’ll only be going a little bit over a hundred. These things can steer themselves at that speed.”

  Scarne was at a complete loss for words, but just then a technician reached in with the small steering wheel and snapped it into place on the column.

  Crane laughed.

  “Just funnin’ with you, Jake. Tight quarters. Couldn’t squeeze in from the window with the wheel in place. And we don’t start the engine until the wheel is securely locked. All set?”

  Relieved, Scarne said he was and Crane depressed the heavy clutch and flipped a toggle switch. The 700-horsepower engine roared to life. The astronaut feeling didn’t seem that silly to Scarne now. Crane moved the gear shift into first.

  “They rib the civilians with the ‘condemned man’ stuff,” Crane shouted as they pulled out.

  “I liked the double vision part,” Scarne shouted back.

  “Yeah. That’s a new one. Best was when I borrowed a friend’s seein’ eye dog and strolled up to the car. Passenger about shit. You don’t look like the type that gets jittery, so just sit back and enjoy. Might push it up to 140 if that’s OK with you. In a race that’s like going through the drive-in at McDonald’s. But it’ll give you a little feel of what it’s really like.”