FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  Scarne had most of his screws on tight, which is why he left his car in the garage and took a cab to the meeting. He did not want to return to find his Fusion on blocks.

  The cabbie gave him a strange look when he got out.

  “Don’t you want me to wait, mister. This ain’t the best neighborhood.”

  “No, thanks.” Scarne gave the man an extra $20, knowing his chances of picking up another fare in the area were slim. “I’ll be fine.”

  The walk through the park to the swimming area reeked of danger. There was just enough light from a few working park lamps to make it really spooky. Scarne passed several men sitting on benches or lounging around a tree. As he passed one group he heard someone say, “bastardo blanco estúpido”. He couldn’t argue with that. At one point two young punks moved to block his path. He opened his jacket to show his gun. They shrugged and moved aside. He heard them laughing as he walked on. They were probably better armed than he was but couldn’t be bothered. They’d wait for easier pickings.

  When he reached the north end of the massive old bathhouse, he stopped and waited. It was 12:15 before Barry Hine came out of a clump of trees and walked up to him.

  “You got the money?”

  Scarne patted his inside jacket pocket.

  “Right here. What do you have for me.”

  Hine walked closer. He was a skinny kid, emaciated really, with scraggly blond hair and a wisp of a beard on his chin. Scarne had seen enough drug addicts in his time to recognize one of them.

  “Let me see it.”

  Scarne took the envelope out and fanned the bills.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Yeah. Hand it over and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Barry. Is this a set up?”

  “Fraid so.”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem very fair, does it,” Scarne said calmly. “And just how did you expect to take the money?”

  Barry Hine sneered.

  “You’ll see, tough guy. Skeets, Rocco, you can come out now.”

  He looked expectantly at the bathhouse behind Scarne, and then smiled when he heard a door creak. Then, there was a sound like two melons squished together. Hine’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

  “Hey, Jake, look what I found.”

  Scarne turned and smiled at Bobo Sambucca, who walked out of the bathhouse toward them holding two unconscious men. The huge man had them by their collars and dragged them along like two sacks of potatoes. He did not appear to be straining. Scarne turned back to Hine.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “What did you do to them?” Barry croaked.

  “They hit their heads,” Bobo said.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Not yet,” Scarne answered. “Nor are you. But the night is young.”

  Barry Hine stared at the gun now in Scarne’s hand.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  The druggie’s knees were visibly shaking.

  “I haven’t decided whether to just shoot you, or let my associate have some fun. Or maybe let you talk your sorry ass out of this. Your call, Barry.”

  Scarne walked over and frisked Hine. All he had was a rusty switchblade.

  “You really ought to take care of your equipment, Barry,” Scarne said, putting the knife in his pocket. “This is a disgrace.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Everything you can tell me about Willet.”

  “Sure, sure. And believe me, it’s worth the grand.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “God, Barry. You are thick. I think the drugs have fried your brain. Or maybe you got your head banged around at Rikers. That’s where you were when I first called, right?”

  Hine nodded.

  “A pussy marijuana beef,” he said. “Some rookie cop wet behind the ears busted me.”

  “Don’t you just hate it when that happens, Barry. So, forget the thousand bucks. You are singing for your life. That’s the deal now.”

  One of the men Sambuca was holding moaned. Bobo bumped their heads together again and the noise stopped.

  “Sorry, Jake” Bobo said. “Losing my touch.”

  That did it for Barry. He started talking so fast Scarne had to slow him down. When he finished, Scarne said, “So, you gave Willet some knockout drops to use.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did he find you?”

  “I go to Bronx Community.”

  “Well, well, a college boy. How long have you been going there?”

  “Six years.”

  “Six years! I thought it was a two-year college.”

  “It is. But some of the teachers, like Willet, fix it so I can stick around. Better for business, you know. He says I’m gonna graduate Magna Cum Turtle.”

  Scarne had to laugh.

  “Did he tell you who the drugs were for?”

  “Nah. And I didn’t ask. I figured some chick he wanted to fuck.”

  “Any other drugs?’

  “No. That was the only time he asked for drugs. I offered him some other stuff, but he said he wasn’t into it, you know.”

  “I have to tell you, Barry, that doesn’t sound like information worth a grand. I think your situation is still precarious.”

  “There’s more.” Hine’s nasally voice was desperate. “Good stuff, I swear.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He wanted fake passports.”

  “Aha,” Sambuca said.

  Scarne turned to his friend.

  “That’s my line, Bobo.”

  “Beat you to it, Jake. You can’t have all the fun.”

  Scarne looked at Hine.

  “You forge passports?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “I know a guy.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “I don’t know where he lives. He hangs around in a bar in my neighborhood.”

  “What bar?”

  Now, Hine looked really worried.

  “Hey, man, you can’t roust him. He’ll know I ratted. I do a lot of business in that bar. Even if he don’t kill me, I’ll lose my livelihood.”

  “Barry, it should be obvious by now that I’m not particularly concerned about your life or your livelihood.”

  “You don’t need him. I paid him for copies of what he made. Thought they might come in handy, you know?”

  “You are a piece of work, Barry,” Scarne said, shaking his head. “You were hoping to blackmail Willet.”

  “I thought they might be worth something to him, sure. But he disappeared. And I ain’t going to the fuckin’ Caribbean to look him up.”

  “The Caribbean?”

  Hine was calmer. He was pretty sure he was going to survive the evening.

  “Yeah. I think I know where he went. Someplace in the Caribbean. Martinique, I think. Saw some brochures in his apartment when I dropped off the passports. If I show you the passport copies, are we square?”

  “Plural? Passports? How many did he need?”

  “Just two. One for him and one for his chippie.”

  “Did you meet the girl?”

  “No. He just gave me some photos of both of them taken in a drug store or something.”

  Scarne knew he would see the passport photos soon, but he had to ask.

  “What did she look like?”

  “A fuckin’ knockout, man. Blond, long hair. Great face. You could tell she’d have a body to go with it. Nobody looks that good without the whole package.”

  “About 21-22?”

  “Yeah, I guess. You know her? Fuckin’ Willet really lucked out for an old fart.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Scarne said, resignedly. He waved his gun. “OK, let’s go. We’re going for a ride.”

  Hine’s face dropped again.

  “Jesus, man, I gave you what you want,” he whimpered. “I don’t wanna die.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “You’re watching too much cable, Barry. We’re going to your place. I want those pass
port copies. After that you can go back to a life of petty crime.”

  “Hey, Jake, what do you want me to do with these two sacks of shit?”

  Scarne turned to Sambuca, who was alternately raising each thug off the ground like a human barbell.

  “Good exercise,” Bobo explained.

  “Got their weapons?”

  “Yeah. Nice Glocks. Dudley can use them.”

  OK. Take the guns, leave the cannoli.”

  “You just had to say it, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry. Just throw them in the pool.”

  As they walked out of the park from the opposite side Scarne had entered, they could hear cursing and thrashing in the pool. Bobo Sambuca’s car, one of the hearses in Dudley Mack’s funeral home fleet, was idling at the curb.

  At the sight of the hearse, Barry Hine’s knees buckled. Scarne grabbed him and said, “Relax, kid, you’re still going to make it to graduation, if you don’t die of old age first.”

  The man behind the wheel of the hearse got out.

  “Any problems with the locals, Muscles?” Bobo asked.

  The driver, an obvious weight-lifter who was only slightly smaller than Bobo, shook his head.

  “What a surprise,” Scarne said.

  “Jake, this is Sal Scungili. We call him Muscles.”

  “Muscles Scungili? You ever think about opening up a seafood restaurant?”

  “Nah. I just drive for Mr. Mack.”

  ***

  Barry Hine lived in a run-down garden apartment on the ill-named Tiffany Street between the Oak Point Freight Yard and the Hunts Point Sewage Treatment Plant. Scarne took Barry into his apartment alone. He did not expect anything funny from Hine, especially with Bobo and the other side of beef waiting outside in a hearse.

  When Barry opened the door to his place, a large tomcat padded over and started rubbing against his leg. He picked it up and turned to Scarne.

  “He’s hungry. Mind if I feed him?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Barry went to cupboard and opened it. He reached in. The cupboard was filled with different brands of premium cat foods. Barry took out two cans and filled the animal’s bowl, and also put out some water. The cat start eating greedily.

  “Expensive cat food,” Scarne commented.

  “Got a discount,” Barry replied, smiling. “Off the back of a truck.”

  They went into a surprisingly neat bedroom, where in addition to a bed, there was a table with a laptop computer and printer. They looked new and Scarne wondered if they were also stolen. Barry went over to the printer and lifted the front off, as if he was going to change the ink or paper. It was hollow. Inside were packages and vials of presumably illegal substances. But there was also a manila envelope. He handed it to Scarne and they went out to the kitchen and sat at a table. Scarne opened the envelope. In it were photostatic copies of two passports, flattened open to the I.D. pages.

  It was the first time Scarne had seen a picture of Willet. It made no impression on him one way or the other. The other photo did. Belying the old saw that no one looks good in their passport photo, Alana Dallas was as beautiful as she appeared in any of the photos Maura and Anastasia had supplied.

  “These aren’t their names,” Scarne said.

  “Yeah,” Hine said. “Me and my friend asked Willet about that. He said Brandeford was his real name and he wanted the broad to travel with it, too. Said he’d make it official soon, anyway. Tell you the truth, I think he was in love with her. Can’t say I blame him. She’s fuckin’ hot looking, ain’t she?”

  “Did you know he probably used your drugs on this girl?”

  “Shit, no, man! I told you before I figured he needed them for a date or something. Guess they kissed and made up. You should be glad it all worked out.”

  “You sure those brochures you saw were for Martinique?”

  “I’m not positive. They were lying on a table. I barely glanced at them.”

  Scarne fingered the passports, which looked as if they were expert forgeries. He wondered how hard it would be to track down Brandeford, whoever he really was. The name meant nothing to him. And Alana Dallas was obviously no longer a prisoner. She was an active participant, an accomplice, in whatever the hell was going on.

  “These passports are the old type,” Scarne said. “The new ones have a chip in them for identification and tracking purposes. They are much harder, if not impossible, to forge.”

  “Yeah. I know. But old passports are still valid until their expiration dates and these won’t expire until next year. By then someone will have figured out how to beat the chip thing. My man is already working on it.” Hine was almost proud. “Impossible, my ass. Nothing the Government does he can’t beat.”

  Scarne had a thought. He reached in his pocket and took out $200. He threw it on the table.

  “When your pal beats the chip, give me a call,” Scarne said, thinking that such excellent fake passports could come in handy in his own business, not to mention Dudley Mack’s. “I may be able to throw some work his way.”

  “You mean my way,” Hine said, smiling.

  Scarne laughed.

  “You know, Barry, I’m getting to like you.”

  “You like me enough to give a couple hundred more? Those two guys you beat up are friends of mine. I haven’t even paid them yet. And you took their guns.”

  “What the hell?” Scarne took out another $400 and threw it down on top of the other bills. “I got more than I expected from you and I guess we all have to live. But keep your mouth shut about all this.”

  “Who would I tell? Willet is in the wind.”

  “Don’t even brag about it, Barry. I’m serious. You have any more copies than these?”

  “No.”

  “I hope you’re telling the truth, Barry. Because I’m taking these. There may be other people looking for Willet. And they are nowhere near as nice as Bobo and I. They are the kind of people who like to tie up loose ends. They’ll turn you into cat food.”

  Scarne could tell from the look of fear on Hine’s face that he’d made his point.

  ***

  It was almost 4 AM when Bobo and Muscles dropped Scarne off in the circular driveway in front of his apartment building in Greenwich Village. The doorman did not even bat an eye when he got out of the hearse. He was used to Scarne’s sometimes unconventional arrivals.

  “Thanks for your help, boys,” Scarne said, reaching into the hearse to shake their hands. “Sorry I kept you out so late. Tell Dudley to give you the rest of the day off.”

  “Sure you don’t want to come with us to Coppelia’s for some huevos rancheros, steaks and a couple of mojitos, Jake.”

  Coppelia’s was a Cuban all-night diner in the West Village on 14th Street.

  “Fuck the mojito’s,” Scungili said. “It’s tequila time!”

  “Some other time,” Scarne said, laughing, thinking he could probably sell tickets at Coppelia’s when Bobo Sambuca and Muscles Scungili showed up in a hearse.

  CHAPTER 20 - CALLING IN A FAVOR

  It was almost noon when Scarne got to his office. Evelyn was undergoing her medical procedure and had the day off, but Noah was in his office. Scarne put two coffees and a bag of donuts on Sealth’s desk and told him about the biopsy.

  “Jesus, I hope it turns out OK. Do you think she’ll mind if I tell Juliette?”

  “They’re pretty close. I think Ev would appreciate the support, whichever way it goes.”

  Like most tough men who took their health for granted, the occasional work-related wounds aside, the thought of serious illness frightened both Scarne and Sealth, especially when it concerned someone they cared about deeply.

  “Jules is real Catholic. She’ll break out the Rosary beads. I think she even has a Novena for this kind of thing.”

  “Can’t hurt,” Scarne said.

  Then he told Sealth what he found out from Barry Hine.

  “The son-of-a-bitch was going to mug you for the dough,” Sealth said. �
��You can never trust a druggie.”

  “This one may come in handy. He’s our druggie now.”

  “I bet he got quite a shock when he saw Bobo. And this Scungili character. Dudley must employ people by the pound.”

  They broke out the coffees and donuts.

  “This will probably ruin my lunch,” Sealth said.

  Scarne looked at him. Noah shrugged.

  “Well, maybe not. So, what’s our next move?”

  “I’ll call Anastasia and bring him up to speed, and then I’m going to track this guy Brandeford. If he used the passports, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “You going to contact that gal you know in Washington, what’s her name?”

  “Rasmussen, Anne Rasmussen.”

  “You ever see her?”

  “Just keep in touch on the phone, emails, the occasional text.”

  “She still got the hots for you?”

  “I don’t know about that. But I’m sure a visit to D.C. would be worthwhile.”

  Sealth laughed.

  “Man, if I recall, you sucked a deadly virus out of one of her boobs and saved her life. I’d be on the Acela to Washington quicker than the Sioux on Custer so she could show me some gratitude.”

  “She doesn’t owe me anything,” Scarne said. “Besides, I’m kind of involved with someone right now.” He got up. “Enough gossip. I have to make some calls. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did the stakeout go?”

  Sealth had been in and out of the office for most of the past two weeks.

  “Film at 11. The aggrieved wife will be very happy. And very rich.”

  ***

  The Defense Clandestine Service was a fairly new department set up by the Pentagon to monitor foreign threats. Scarne personally believed that there were too damn many intelligence operations being run by the Government. In fact, he had long argued that the Department of Homeland Security was an unnecessary bureaucracy created in panic after 9/11 to give cover to the incredible incompetence and outright dereliction of duty of existing Government agencies, when a general housecleaning would have been more productive. No heads rolled after the debacle, which, he believed, was one of the main reasons that heads continued to roll in the Middle East, compliments of the murderous thugs of I.S.I.S.