Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)

by George V. Higgins

  “We’re very expensive,” he said. “We employ all of the most modern laboratory techniques and scientific devices available. The people that my nephew and I hire are the very best at what they do. And they’re paid accordingly. I have to tell you, as I tell almost everyone else who comes to see me with a problem similar to yours — and I don’t mean to sound as though I’m minimizing it — I know it’s very painful for you. That you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t. But I also have to tell them, as I must tell you: It doesn’t make good sense, economically, for you to seek out the kinds of services we offer, at the prices we have to charge, for what amounts, really, to a fairly simple surveillance exercise. If you want him followed and watched, there are dozens of other, smaller operations that’re fully equipped to handle the job, and charge about a third of our normal fee.”

  “Mister Badger,” she said, “when I say it’s started up again, I mean it’s started up with her.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You, ah, do?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know it for certain, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. It’s started up again. With Christina Walker.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh dear, dear, dear. How did this come about?”

  29

  Lawrence Badger late the same morning reached Alton Badger’s office on the northerly side of the thirty-eighth floor just as Carla Hamilton emerged, closing the door behind her. She was in her early thirties, about five-seven, with a stocky body which she covered carelessly in cold weather with pilled, shapeless sweaters and sturdy tweed skirts, and in warm weather with tee shirts and polyester pants. She was wearing a white Mickey Mouse tee shirt and orange pants and she looked merry.

  “What’s he doing in there, Carla?” Lawrence Badger said warily. “Is it safe for me to go in?”

  “Oh,” she said, giggling, “I think you’ll be all right. He’s having a wonderful time for himself.”

  “Has he got someone with him?” Badger said, putting his hand on the knob. “One of those crazy people from across the river there, playing with computers?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, giggling. “He’s all by himself. He’s playing baseball today. Really having a good time.”

  “Baseball,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s the interleague trading deadline, you know? It’s midnight tonight. And I guess, well, I’m not really up on it and everything — I’ve been playing chess with this guy out in Norman, Oklahoma, and he’s really got me so I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, you know what I mean? Because he is really good. But I guess what it is is that one of the owners in the Ober League’s in Hong Kong, and he’s claiming a rules violation. Something about a trading deadline? Because it’s tomorrow there.”

  “I see,” Badger said.

  “And the owner up in Ottawa,” she said, “he’s saying that the guy in Hong Kong deliberately went there and crossed the international dateline to invalidate the deal he wants to make today, and he’s also filed a protest. And naturally Alton, as the commissioner, he has to decide.”

  “I thought,” Badger said, “I thought Alton was an owner.”

  “Well,” she said, “he is. But the commissioner, the regular commissioner was in that TWA hostage thing and he’s still recovering. So Alton’s filling in for him as interim, see? It’s just ’till he gets out. The regular commissioner.”

  “Do you think, Carla,” Badger said, “you know him pretty well and all. Do you think there’s any possibility actually that my nephew is, well, not in his right mind?”

  She giggled again. “Alton?” she said. “Alton’s fine. He’s just enjoying himself.”

  “Well,” Badger said, “that makes good sense. Whistle while we work. Nice talking to you, Carla.” He opened the door and went in.

  Alton Badger’s office provided a view of Back Bay, the Charles River and MIT beyond. In the foreground along the windows there was a counter that ran the entire twenty-foot length of the office. On the counter there were six computers: three IBMs, two Compaqs and an Apple MacIntosh. Each of them was connected to a phone modem next to it.

  At the easterly end of the office there were two laser printers. The one nearest the corner was quiet. The one next to it was coughing out documents at the rate of eight pages per minute. Next to them there was a conversation grouping of four orange barrel chairs around a glass coffee table. On the wall behind the chairs were three large abstract posters in pastels advertising concerts at Salzburg in 1980, 1981 and 1982. They were framed in chrome.

  Along the westerly wall, there was another counter holding two facsimile machines, an Associated Press silent teletype machine, a Telex receiver, a Dow Jones ticker and a large telephone console. Next to the counter, in the southwesterly corner near the door, there was a large Xerox copier. On the wall over the counter there was a map of the world eleven feet long by four feet wide.

  Against the wall on the other side of the door there was a small refrigerator. Next to that there was a wet bar. Over the bar there was a large picture of Clayton Moore attired as the Lone Ranger, astride the great horse, Silver, with Jay Silverheels as Tonto aboard Scout, the paint, just behind him; the two men were looking intently at something that had caught their attention beyond the right margin of the poster.

  In the center of the room there was a butcher block table twelve feet long by four feet wide. There were draftsman’s lamps clamped to each end. Over the center of it, suspended from the ceiling, was a circular fluorescent light contained in a brushed aluminum conical fixture. Yellow plastic stars and white plastic comets were pasted on the fixture. On the table there were nine precise piles of documents, the complete Britannica Micropaedia, a Sony TV AM/FM set with a three-inch screen, a rack of six meerschaum pipes with yellow stems, a tin of Cake Box Tobacco, a green tin of Sail tobacco, a large glass ashtray with a cork pipe-knocker in the center, a small telephone console and two separate phones. There were backless posture chairs on each end and on each side of the table. In front of it there were two oatmeal tweed swivel chairs.

  Alton Badger was standing at the MacIntosh computer, staring at the screen. He was thirty-four years old. He had dark red hair cut moderately long, and a full dark red beard trimmed moderately short. He was five feet, ten inches tall. He weighed one hundred and sixty pounds. He wore a white broadcloth shirt with a gold collar pin and a nubby wool khaki tie. His trousers were tan chino. He wore brown jodphur boots. He was chuckling.

  Lawrence Badger cleared his throat. “Uh, Alton?” he said.

  Alton laughed delightedly. The laser printer nearest the corner of the room spat out a printed sheet. “Come in, come in,” he said. He did not turn around.

  Lawrence sat down in the swivel chair nearest the left end of the long table. “What are you doing?” he said.

  Alton turned around, grinning. “Larry,” he said, “it’s beautiful. Yesterday there was a leak. Hans Lloyd up in Ottawa’d come to an agreement, secret, of course, after about three weeks of argle-bargle with Tom Denise down in Atlanta, where Tom will give him Dan Quisenberry in exchange for a player to be named later. And the two of them decide they’re going to wait until today to announce it, so Bert Magazu won’t find out about it and pull off something of his own to counteract it. Because of course the player to be named later was going to be Bill Madlock, who Bert doesn’t want on Tom’s team, playing in the same league as his.

  “But,” Alton said, “Hans can’t keep a secret. Hans likes to gloat. He said enough on the phone to Harry Cohen in New York, so that Cohen figured out something was up. Harry got ahold of Bert in Los Angeles. Bert’s on his way to Rio at the time. He can’t make a deal of his own, and he can’t claim Quisenberry on the waiver wire until Tom and Hans actually announce the deal. See, you have to waive down in your own league before you can ship a player to the other league. But failure to block a waiver deal — claim the player — is assent to it, and Bert has to catch a plane. If he does that, since it’s a good long flight,
by the time he gets himself checked in, in Rio, the league office here will be closed, and so will be the deal. So, you know what he did? He flew instead to Hong Kong, where it’s tomorrow, and the first thing he did was get on the wire and file notice that no more waivers can be made because the deadline’s past where he is. Which Hans in Ottawa said he couldn’t do because the deadline isn’t past where he is, and where Tom is. And Bert’s manipulating the rules. At which point Magazu filed a protest of any deal that might be made here, today, under Rule 8A, which says the interleague trading deadline ends at midnight, July sixteenth, and it’s now July seventeenth in Hong Kong. Which is where he is, and now we’ve got this great brouhaha over whether the league is in the eastern time zone of the United States, or wherever any owner happens to be at any given time.” He chuckled. “So,” he said, “I decided to suspend the transaction and gave both sides forty-eight hours to file briefs. And now Magazu’s hired Flowers, Wilson and Malloy in Washington to present his case. And they’ve asked for extra time to master the league rules. Really wild stuff going on.”

  “You spend your time on this,” Lawrence said.

  Alton laughed again. “My time,” he said, “and also my money. You know where the Boston Badgers are now, even as we speak? First in the Ober League, is where, because of Carlton Fisk hitting homers like he has, and Gooden, naturally. This year I win the pennant. That’s what I am going to do.”

  “How much money’s involved, again?” Lawrence said.

  “Close to eighteen hundred bucks,” Alton said defensively, lowering himself onto the backless chair. The laser nearest the corner produced another document. The one beside it continued to disgorge sheet after sheet.

  “Alton,” Lawrence said, “is there any chance, perhaps, we might do some work today?”

  Alton reared back. “I’m working right now,” he said. He gestured toward the printer that was working steadily. “I’ve got Cyclops on the Frolio case. Time you get back from lunch today, I’ll have every nominal Model Nine-ninety owner between here and the Iron Curtain listed, catalogued, profiled, back-checked, with capsules of their key personnel.” He paused. “I’m not saying,” he said, “I’m not saying when we get all that data, we’ll have the whole issue solved. That we’ll know for sure exactly where the leak is, or which one those purchasers of record is the straw reselling them. All I’ve got for sure so far’s a pretty strong link between an outfit called Dynamics A.G., Zurich, that I never heard of before, and a retailer in Madrid, name of Ashir Mohammed. And I don’t know what use anybody named Ashir Mohammed in Spain could possibly have for twenty Model Nine-nineties. Only thing the damned things’re good for’s weapons design-slash-defeat. And the Spaniards aren’t into that, least as far as I’ve found.

  “But we’ve at least got a start on things, and by tomorrow we should have enough of a lead so the Bureau’ll be satisfied Frolio’s as concerned about this as the Agency is. Which for now’s got to be all we can hope for — Jackie’s company gets indicted for shipping those units to the East, he’ll be in big-big trouble. They’ll suspend all his government contracts until the case is tried, and by the time that happens, he’ll be belly-up. There’s no way to win that.”

  “Is what you’re doing legal, Alton?” Lawrence said.

  Alton shrugged. “Mostly,” he said. “Obviously Frolio doesn’t mind. He gave me their codes. The, ah, some of the others, well, they might not be strictly aware of what Cyclops can do, but they’ve got some idea. And they know I’ve developed it. I think, my guess is that as long’s the Bureau and the Agency think you’re probably on their side, they’re not going to set up a stink. Unless you ask them if it’s okay, browse a little in their files. In which case, then they would. But anyway, it doesn’t, Cyclops doesn’t leave a trace. No footprints, you know, Larry? Cyclops leaves no spoor.”

  “So you’ve often said,” Lawrence said. “But, if it did, if perhaps some one of your, ah, sources, without your knowledge has devised something that would let them know when Cyclops has been in, would we have a problem?”

  “Negative,” Alton said. “I reprogrammed Cyclops last month when I heard, maybe NCIC’s putting in some kind of new detection. And what I did, I set it up so if Cyclops senses something wrong, which it would have to do, any system they might use, Cyclops terminates and calls for Morgan Le Fay. Which I’ve got standing by as back-up, set to go. Nobody can detect Morgan Le Fay, Larry. Nobody can find Morgan.”

  “Then why not just use Morgan?” Lawrence said. “Why take this chance you’re taking?”

  “Overkill,” Alton said. “Morgan’s too meticulous. Therefore: slow. And besides, she isn’t that good at getting into things. Taking things out of things? Yes. Morgan’s great at that. But getting access in the first instance? Morgan’s too careful. Takes too long. We can’t goldplate this stuff, you know. Time is money, Uncle.”

  “Yes,” Lawrence said. He steepled his fingers. “Alton,” he said, “what I came in to see you for. I had a visitor this morning. Woman by the name of Barbara Gleason. Husband’s name is Terry.”

  “Ah,” Alton said. “How is our old pal, Terry? Still dodging slanders from unkind persons, think he took a dive in The Friary case?”

  “You think he did it?” Lawrence said. “Got his hair wet, I mean?”

  Alton shook his head twice. “Uh uh,” he said. “Terry’s glands got the better of his judgment, sure, but he tried that case clean and mean. Wasn’t anything he could do about Tibbetts. You and I both know that. It’s just that it looked so bad when he got himself involved with Walker’s sister. Very poor judgment, his part, but when his zipper’s closed, Terry’s an honorable man.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Lawrence said. “That’s what I told his wife. Who thinks he’s having an affair. She said he’s, they’re living apart while he concentrates on that rackets trial in the federal court. ‘He claims it’s because I’m a restless sleeper,’ she said, ‘but I know it’s more than that. He’s got another woman. He’s at the Parker House.’ ”

  “Most likely, then, he is,” Alton said. “Wives’re good at finding out little things like that. They’re generally right. And he has done it before.” He paused. He studied Lawrence’s face. “You, ah, didn’t take the case, I assume.”

  “I’m not sure,” Lawrence said.

  “Larry, Larry,” Alton said, his eyebrows going up. “Domestic relations? Really, Larry. Has it finally happened to you? Have you finally lost your mind?”

  “Well,” Lawrence said, “I’m not really sure, but probably not. You see, some of the things she told me made me think that there might be considerably more going on, some greater implications in her husband’s indiscretion, if he’s being indiscreet, than she really understands. That might be of considerable interest to us.

  “The woman in question, she thinks,” Lawrence said, “is Christina Walker. Again.”

  Alton’s eyebrows came down. “That is interesting,” he said. “After all the hot water he got into before with her, why would he do it again? Guy’s got a decent practice going now. Everything’s nice and peaceful. What’s he need another commotion for now? Is he that much in love, he looks her up again?”

  “Or did she look him up?” Lawrence said.

  “And if so,” Alton said, “why? Why would she do that? He’s still married. The wife smoked her out the last time she got hooked up with him. Lawfully wedded spouse won that one, hands down. Why seek more punishment? Christina shouldn’t have a lot of trouble finding a suitable man. Terry’s a nice guy and all, but he’s a good deal older’n she is, and she knows there’s trouble there. Christina isn’t stupid. Why do a thing like that, which is?”

  “Well,” Lawrence said, “what I thought might perhaps be the explanation is that she’s not interested in resuming their romantic entanglement. That she might have something else in mind, and that he just happens to be the only person she could think of, or one of the relatively few persons, maybe, who could help her.”

 
; “Where’s her brother now?” Alton said. “Is Beau James still in the pokey, or did he get out?”

  “I don’t know,” Lawrence said.

  Alton made a note on a yellow pad. “How about Sam Tibbetts,” he said, making another note. “He got out, last spring. Do we know where Sam is these days?”

  “No, we don’t,” Lawrence said. “Some of my old friends probably do, since they keep up with things. But we certainly do not.”

  “You mean: Claire Naisbitt,” Alton said.

  “Well,” Lawrence said, “I would have said ‘Neville,’ but yes, Claire would be who would know. Or Fiona, far as that goes. Either one of them could find out pretty fast.”

  “Sam was Christina’s main man long before The Friary case, and she got involved with Gleason,” Alton said.

  “That is correct,” Lawrence said. The printer nearest the corner produced two more sheets of paper.

  “But Sam was supposed to have a lot of money squirreled away some place, when he got put in Bridgewater,” Alton said. “Armored cars from here to Rhode Island. Lots and lots of money, that nobody ever found.”

  “So John Bigelow believed at the time,” Lawrence said. “John was very exercised about that fact, when Sam was committed for observation instead of being convicted and put in prison for life. He calculated Sam’s share of the Contingent’s loot was over half a million dollars. And how much was the actual take from The Friary, all that dope and stuff? We never found that out, but it was over half a million. Almost had to be.”

  “Probably ’way high,” Alton said. “Still, though, certainly more than enough so that some people’re still probably quite interested. Longhairs shifted their attention from pouring chicken blood into Selective Service files, started knocking off armored cars and then stealing people’s drugs, tacked a lot of people off. Even if the money’s gone, they’re probably still mad.”