“Mr. Tobin ended up spending several years in prison,” Wolfe said, “and he was recently paroled.”
“That was about six months ago.” Lon nodded. “And when he did get out of the slammer after serving three years of a five-year sentence, Cameron wrote that he should have been put away for life.”
“Tough talk,” I said.
“Yeah, and apparently Tobin did some pretty tough talking himself when he was residing with the state. Other prisoners said he had told them he would ‘get that column-scribbling son of a bitch’ if it’s the last thing he did.”
“How has the former police officer kept himself occupied since his release?” Wolfe asked.
“He and his wife live in an apartment up in Yonkers, where he works part-time in a florist shop run by an old friend. Cameron Clay still hammers away at him though, claiming that little job he’s got is just for show, that he doesn’t really need the money because of all the bribes he got from brothel owners whose establishments he protected—and patronized—when he was on the force.”
“Is there any truth to that charge?”
“There always were rumors that, in addition to his brutality, Tobin was on the take from a variety of, well, entrepreneurs,” Lon said, “although nothing was ever proved; it was all hearsay.”
“Mr. Cohen, how would you characterize the police department’s opinion of Michael Tobin today?”
That drew a smile from the newspaperman. “A damned good question. Officially, the department decries and abhors Tobin’s actions and reiterates its strong stance against the use of force in the questioning of suspects. However, if you happened to be in a saloon drinking with a bunch of beat coppers and asked what they thought of Tobin, you’d get a far different response.”
“Such as ‘we need more like him’?”
“Right, Archie. In fact, one of our reporters, who did not identify himself as such, went into a bar where a lot of police hang out and brought up the Tobin case. The members of the force he talked to said that, in general, they’re against strong-arm tactics, but almost all of them allowed as to how people like Tobin are sometimes necessary. ‘Too damned many bleeding hearts out there protecting the perps, and some of those bleeding hearts are on the newspapers’ is how one patrolman expressed it.”
“So it’s fair to say that Cameron Clay would not win a popularity contest if everyone in the New York City Police Department had a vote?” I asked.
“No question about it. We’ve received letters from at least two dozen cops, most of them unsigned and most purporting to be from the rank and file, complaining about Cameron and charging that he’s ‘anti-police.’ We haven’t heard from higher-ranking officers, who tend to be much more diplomatic—or should I say political?”
“The higher the station of an individual within any organization, the greater the tendency to hew to the company line,” Wolfe said.
“It would be interesting to know how your old friend Inspector Cramer feels about Tobin,” Lon said. “Not that I am about to ask him.”
“Nor am I,” Wolfe said. “Who is next on your list?”
“His eminence, City Councilman Millard Beardsley of Harlem.”
I laughed. “He’s the one who organized that protest march and sit-in at the Gazette building last year.”
It was Lon’s turn to laugh. “Beardsley claims it was a spontaneous event organized by his constituents to protest the way Cameron Clay had treated the councilman in his columns. But, of course, it was general knowledge that Beardsley himself orchestrated the circus.”
“Just how has your columnist treated Mr. Beardsley?” Wolfe asked.
“He’s been pretty rough on the guy,” Lon said. “He invariably refers to Beardsley as ‘New York’s worst councilman’ and he has written that ‘one of the great mysteries in our town’s long and checkered history is how the man keeps getting reelected.’ Oh, and he also noted that ‘It’s only fitting that Beardsley has the same name as Millard Fillmore, our nation’s most forgettable president.’”
“Has Mr. Beardsley indeed done a poor job as a local legislator?”
“I would say that his record has been mixed at best. As Cameron has often pointed out, he has the worst attendance record—by far—on the council. And it has long been an open secret around town that Beardsley has taken money under the table from constituents who want favors ranging from getting zoning variations to getting their property taxes reduced. Cameron likes to refer to him in print as ‘Millard “My Palms Are Open” Beardsley.’
“On the other hand, Beardsley does fight for his constituents, much more so than any other councilman I can think of. But Cameron never touches on that, so he has hardly been even-handed.”
Wolfe scowled. “Has Mr. Beardsley ever brought suit against either the columnist or the Gazette?”
“No, but he did excoriate Cameron in a City Council meeting some months back, referring to him as ‘Mr. Cameron “Screw the Blacks” Clay.’”
“Do you see Mr. Beardsley as being capable of doing physical harm to Mr. Clay?” Wolfe asked.
“I would say it’s unlikely,” Lon said. “Although, given the councilman’s alleged ties to organized crime, he could certainly put out a contract on Cameron Clay and keep his own hands clean.”
Wolfe made another face. “Proceed.”
“Next up in the I Hate Cameron Clay Club is one Roswell Stokes, Esq., lawyer to the disreputable,” Lon said. “Or ‘Defense Lawyer Unmatched,’ as one local magazine headlined a fawning profile on him.”
“I don’t read Clay’s column very often,” I said, “but I do recall him dubbing Stokes ‘Mr. Malpractice.’”
“All that and much more,” Lon continued. “He has been riding Stokes unmercifully for years, blasting the lawyer’s overwrought theatrics and his list of clients, many of whom come from the ranks of the syndicate.”
“But he usually wins, right?”
“He’s got a good batting average, that’s for sure. After one well-publicized case in which he got a mobster off, Cameron wrote that ‘Another scoundrel of the first order has escaped the clutches of the law, thanks to some questionable antics from the slickest, sleaziest representative of the bar this city has ever seen. Hats off to Mr. Malpractice and a miscarriage of justice, yet again.’”
“I assume Mr. Stokes has never chosen to initiate a lawsuit against his habitual tormenter,” Wolfe said.
“Yeah, he probably figured going up against Cameron Clay and the Gazette in court would do him more harm than good,” Lon said. “But he has taken a few shots of his own from time to time. In an interview with the Post last year, he was quoted as saying, ‘This city has one too many newspaper columnists, and something should be done about it. I will leave you to figure out who that individual is.’ When the Post writer pushed Stokes to get specific, he simply—and pompously—said, ‘I rest my case.’”
“Does anyone at the Gazette review Mr. Clay’s columns before they run?” Wolfe asked Lon.
“They go through the copy desk, of course, and I get carbons as well, which I go over. But the desk is under orders not to change anything of substance unless they get a specific directive from the managing editor or from me.”
“Do either of you ever order a change or a deletion?”
“Almost never. Our editor and publisher—he holds both titles—issued a memo several years ago saying that the columns should run as written unless a factual error has been found.”
“And Mr. Clay does not make so-called ‘factual’ errors?”
Lon chuckled. “Not technically. He’s accurate with specifics—dates, times, and so on. The names he calls people—nincompoop and knucklehead come to mind—don’t qualify as inaccuracies.”
Wolfe drained the second of his beers and exhaled a bushel of air. “I believe you have one more name to bring to us.”
“And you a
re going to love this one. It is Cameron’s ex-wife—his third ex-wife to be precise—Serena Sanchez.”
That brought a scowl from Wolfe. He hates nothing more than cases involving what he terms “rancorous domestic relations.” Not that we had a case here, but the very idea of feuding spouses was enough to make him grimace, and this was definitely a situation involving feuding spouses. But even Wolfe, who rarely deigns to read Cameron Clay’s column, had to know about the very public split between Clay and his latest ex-wife, the temperamental Spanish mezzo-soprano Serena Sanchez. It had been trumpeted in every paper in town, often with the two of them glaring at each other at some dinner or other public function.
“Are you going to tell me this woman threatened Mr. Clay?” Wolfe demanded, glowering at Lon Cohen.
“That is exactly what I am going to tell you. I’m not sure what you know about this woman, but she is known as the ‘Valencian Volcano’ because of her … well, her explosive nature. You know how it is with opera singers.”
Wolfe did not know, and did not care. He has no use whatever for music, which he calls “a vestige of barbarism.”
When Lon got no reaction from Wolfe, he plowed on. “Okay, here’s the background: A few years ago, Cameron Clay and Serena Sanchez met at a reception following a Metropolitan Opera performance of Carmen, which has long been Serena’s signature role. For some strange reason, the two of them seemed to hit it off instantly, call it chemistry, if you will, although alcohol may have had something to do with the attraction. Anyway, she had recently been divorced from her husband, an Italian shipping tycoon, while Cameron Clay and his second wife, a foreign correspondent for the Baltimore Sun, recently had split up.
“The two became enamored with each other right there at the reception, it was the damnedest thing, or so people who were present told me. They couldn’t keep their eyes—or hands—off each other. They were married six weeks later.”
“Disgusting.”
“Granted, and also ill-advised. Their marriage was a train wreck from the beginning. She found him uncouth and wedded to his job, which he certainly is, and he quickly realized that her theatrical actions were not an aberration, but rather her everyday behavior. She caused scenes in restaurants and hotels, chewing out waiters, desk clerks, and bellhops.”
“I seem to recall that a columnist on one of the other papers said her actions made the recently deceased Maria Callas look like a gentle pussycat by comparison,” I said.
Lon nodded. “That certainly was true. In recent years, Serena Sanchez has become the diva to end all divas. And when the couple split after only a few months, their ensuing hatred for each other became legendary. After their mutually agreed-upon divorce, Cameron has often peppered his columns with snide remarks about Serena, things like, ‘Gentlemen, do not—repeat do not—marry a diva, whatever else you do. I’m living proof. After a short time being wed to one, I aged ten years,’ and ‘I see a minimally talented opera singer will be performing at the Met this fall; that’s one production you might consider taking a pass on.’”
“That’s called playing hardball,” I said.
“Yes, Archie, but I’ll have to say that Serena Sanchez gave as good as she got. A year or so after their split, when she arrived at JFK to sing at the Met, she was greeted by members of the New York press and TV corps. Not surprisingly, Cameron Clay was not among them. She answered all their questions politely, then asked one question of her own. ‘Is that guttersnipe columnist still employed by one of your newspapers?’
“That quote didn’t make it on the TV news clips or the other papers, although one columnist for a tabloid—who just happened to be a heated rival of Cameron’s—gleefully picked up the quote verbatim, following it with his own words: ‘Now who in the world could Miss Sanchez be talking about?’
“Now, if I may be so presumptuous as to anticipate your question,” Lon said to Wolfe, “I think Serena Sanchez is quite capable of doing harm to her former husband. Case in point: In one of their frequent public scenes, this in a midtown eatery of some note, she shouted ‘I will kill you!’”
“A meaningless outburst from a woman given to histrionics,” Wolfe said with a flip of the palm.
“All right then, try this on for size: Years ago in Madrid, the diva shot a man who she said was stalking her. He was wounded, but recovered, and because he had such a shady past vis-à-vis women, the Spanish court did not charge her.”
Wolfe’s face made it clear that he was disgusted with Serena Sanchez, so he did what he often does in these situations: He changed the subject.
“Does Mr. Clay do all of his own reporting? And if so, is it primarily by telephone?”
“Oh no, like a lot of columnists, particularly ones whose stock-in-trade is gossip and exclusive news tips, he always uses a ‘legman.’”
Seeing Wolfe’s expression of puzzlement, I cut in. “A legman is usually a young reporter, one commonly referred to as a ‘cub,’” I said. “He—or sometimes she—chases down leads, rumors, and so on. Do I have that right?” I asked, turning to Lon.
“Essentially, yes. That is not to say Cameron doesn’t have a lot of pipelines, he does. They can be public relations men, cops, taxi drivers, city hall functionaries, even grifters. And he, like other columnists, has been known to pay for juicy tips about who’s sleeping with whom and why a certain local businessman no longer resides in the family abode on the Upper East Side.”
Wolfe buzzed for more beer. I didn’t know how much more of this seamy stuff he could take.
“The current legman is a lad of about twenty-five named Larry McNeil, who, if memory serves, came to the Gazette straight out of Columbia,” Lon went on. “Normally, these young reporters work for Cameron for one or two years and then go on to city desk assignments, either with us or other papers in town or elsewhere.
“Larry is something of an exception as he’s been on the job for a little over three years. Cameron has said, ‘He’s the best of the bunch, and I’ve had a lot of good ones. If anything ever happened to me, he could take over and the readers would hardly notice the difference. Now that’s saying something, because I am a true original.’”
“Mr. Clay does not suffer from false modesty,” Wolfe observed.
“We’ve got plenty of big egos on the paper,” Lon said, “but his is probably the biggest of them all. I know that I have imposed upon you tonight with all of this Cameron Clay business, but I have yet another favor to ask of you.”
Wolfe raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“I would like you to see Cameron Clay and determine whether he has reason to fear for his safety.”
“Has he reported these threats to the police?”
“I suggested that course of action to him, but he was adamant against it. He said, ‘Hell, the way the cops feel about me, they wouldn’t give me the time of day.’”
“Mr. Cohen, I don’t know what help I could possibly be,” Wolfe said. “If one individual is determined to kill another, virtually nothing can be done to prevent the act.”
Lon nodded. “You are right, of course. But in talking to him, maybe you can figure out whether there is a basis for his fears.”
“Why would he talk to me?”
“Because he has respect for you. When he turned thumbs-down on the idea of reporting the threats to the police, he said, ‘What about your private-eye friend? I’d be interested to know what he thinks of all this. Maybe he could see me.’”
Wolfe took a deep breath. He hates to work, and he particularly hates to work when there is nothing financial to be gained from the effort. On the other hand, his respect for Lon Cohen is second only to his respect for Saul Panzer, a freelance operative we often use and a poker player who is even better than Lon. Wolfe was in a pickle, and I was interested to see how he would get out of it.
“It has been a long evening,” Wolfe said, rising. “I must excuse myse
lf. You will hear from me or from Archie tomorrow. Good night.”
After he left the office, Lon turned to me. “Well, what do you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t have a good track record at predicting my boss’s actions, but I can tell you this: Our bank balance is reasonably healthy because of an embezzlement case Wolfe just solved for a good-size accounting firm, so that is on the negative side of the ledger. But Wolfe likes you and always has, so that’s on the positive side.
“Back on the negative side is his distaste for work, especially when there is no pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, and that trumps any positives. In other words, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Thanks for nothing,” Lon said. “Wait—what am I saying? Tonight, I’ve had a better meal than I could get almost anywhere else in the world, to say nothing of a cognac fit for the gods, and stimulating conversation to boot. Shame on me for complaining.”
“I couldn’t have said it any better myself, old friend. Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and awaken to see what the new day brings.”
Chapter 3
When I turned in that night, I had absolutely no idea what Wolfe’s answer would be. Part of me did not want to get involved with Cameron Clay in any way. The guy obviously was a jerk, and he would almost surely get under Wolfe’s skin. My boss is hard enough to live with in the best of times, but with somebody like Clay in the brownstone, he would be more cantankerous than ever.
The next morning after breakfast, I sat at my desk balancing the checkbook, pleased with the numbers. We were in better shape than we had been in some time, thanks to that aforementioned case in which Wolfe—with my assistance—nailed a too-greedy-for-his-own-good accountant.
I figured that alone might be sufficient for Wolfe to give Lon a thumbs-down. When we’ve got a healthy bank balance, my boss likes to sit back and do nothing more than to enjoy the fruits of his labors—i.e., reading books three at a time, perusing orchid catalogs, doing Sunday Times crossword puzzles, and meddling in the kitchen, where he will often argue with Fritz over the ingredients to be used in a specific dish, such as whether to put onions in a shad roe casserole. Fritz is for, Wolfe against.
Stop the Presses! Page 2
