The Chessman

by Jeffrey B. Burton

“I imagine that you and I and St. Nick and the Coordinator will take a limo ride, chartered of course, for the night’s celebration, only I expect the chauffer will turn out to be the quiet charmer with the straight edge we met that first night. And I imagine we’ll be shuttled off to a safe house, somewhere out of the city, a place with a PC, an Internet connection, no nosy neighbors, and thick walls. And I imagine that I’ll have to make a mammoth down payment out of our remaining nest egg in order for them to kill you quickly…then they’ll find out how many pennies I have left while your personal caveman starts prying off a finger or two.”

  “He’s not my personal caveman.”

  “Speaking of cavemen, I’ll be right back.” Hartzell slid out of the booth nearest the kitchen at the Carnegie Deli and headed toward the entrance. It was the height of the dinner hour and the restaurant bustled with servers and those waiting to be served, but Hartzell, with his back against the wall, had either spotted the bald man or been allowed to spot the living steroid as he peered into the restaurant portion of the deli from behind a rack of pickle-scented candles and designer mustards.

  “Nick,” Hartzell said, reaching out his hand, “please join us for dinner.”

  St. Nick shook Hartzell’s hand in a vice-like alpha male grip. “I can’t impose on your evening out, Mr. Hartzell. I’ve been too big a nuisance already, but I’ve heard about this place and as long as I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d pop in and see what all the fuss was about.”

  Hartzell looked at the hanging salami in the window display. “You can’t come all the way to New York and not grab a Carnegie sandwich, Nick. Do you like Pastrami Hash?”

  “I’d kill for a Pastrami Hash.”

  “I’ll have the waitress bag that up with a slice of their famous cheesecake and a Pepsi.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Hartzell. That would be a helluva treat for me. Can I get that with a Diet Pepsi instead?”

  “Diet Pepsi?” Hartzell said. “That’s not living up to your image, Nick.”

  “I need to watch my girlish figure.”

  Hartzell marched to the counter, whispered to a clerk, pointed across the restaurant at St. Nick, and slipped the server a fifty dollar bill. He then dodged a flurry of customers on his way back to Lucy.

  “Is he always poking about like that?” Hartzell asked his daughter.

  “A lot more visible this past week.”

  “Time is getting short. They’re tightening the leash.”

  The food had arrived and Hartzell made a big production out of cutting up his baked meatloaf, but he wasn’t hungry. He got the sense that Lucy didn’t have much of an appetite either.

  “What are we going to do, Papa?”

  Hartzell had become increasingly paranoid. He’d gotten up early that morning, tossed in a load of wash, and then run the load through the dryer. After dressing in his freshly washed and dried Polo shirt and dress pants—which was a vast understatement in his world of style, but he mumbled some mush about Casual Friday in the two bean counters’ general direction—he woke Lucy and informed his daughter that he’d washed some stuff for her to wear. She took the hint and dressed accordingly. Hartzell figured he was going overboard and that the Chicagoans didn’t have his or Lucy’s clothes somehow bugged, but he knew these men played for keeps and today would be the only chance he and Lucy would get to discuss strategy before they made their break. He’d been having his dry cleaning delivered to work for a quick change on the days of his stairwell chats.

  Hartzell had called Lucy a little over an hour ago and spontaneously suggested they meet for dinner at the deli. He now leaned forward over his food and spoke softly. “Fiorella has us in a classic Morton’s Fork.”

  “What’s a Morton’s Fork?”

  “A hell of a dilemma. What to do when faced with two equally horseshit options, you know, choosing between a rock and a hard place. The concept was derived from the confiscatory tax policies of a fellow limey named John Morton, who was a Lord Chancellor in olden times. If you were living the life of Riley, Morton knew you had money for the king. If you lived in squalor, Morton knew you had money for the king squirreled away somewhere.”

  “Rich or poor, you were still screwed.”

  “Our particular Morton’s Fork is that we either get in bed with Fiorella or face a painful death or lengthy imprisonment.” Hartzell looked at his daughter. “Remember that first morning, Slim? When you told me to turn the tables?”

  “I didn’t know if you heard me.”

  “I did and set about doing just that, and compounded by these senseless killings, Fiorella has handed me enough dynamite to blow our Morton’s Fork to bloody hell.”

  Lucy’s face lit like a Klieg light. “What have you been doing, Papa?”

  “I’ve been working damned hard for our Chicago friends. Did more than was asked of me, above and beyond the call—one hundred and fifty percent. But while I showed them some of mine, Vince and David slowly showed me some of theirs. Had to for the purpose of our new business venture. And, ultimately, the two couldn’t hold back—they felt some psychological need to boast about what they’d accomplished in order to earn my admiration, which of course I dolloped out in spades. Shell companies, front organizations to hide Fiorella’s DNA, set up overseas. Phantom accounts. Their shipping lanes, if you will, bouncing assets from Brazil to Tobago into a half-dozen other buckets. The biggest bucket of all, The AlPenny Group, is spick and span. All quite ingenious. They gave me more than enough to get the Feds off on the right foot. Anyway, whenever I printed out a data model for them to review or a spreadsheet or flowchart or anything else of substance, I photocopied an extra set, along with bountiful copies of cricket scores in case anyone was counting sheets.”

  “You don’t like cricket.”

  Hartzell gave a hollow chuckle. “They think I’m nuts for the sport and whenever I’m asked about it I prattle on until all eyes glaze over. So a copy goes to Vince, a copy to David, and I leave my original printout with them after we’ve walked through the data points, but the pilfered copy here and there winds up in the filing cabinet, folded in half in the middle of some old prospectuses.”

  “You’re tracing your financial deals back to Fiorella?”

  “A trail of illicit breadcrumbs, Slim. Who’d have thought that all these years I’ve been here in New York working for Chicago. That documentation along with a heart-wrenching handwritten confession detailing my long-term relationship with Fiorella, my advising Fiorella that it was time for us to get out, my being stunned crosseyed at Fiorella’s subsequent actions, his ordering of Gottlieb’s death along with this financial analyst who had our firm in her crosshairs…and how at that point I began to desperately fear for my own life as well as the safety of my daughter and, in case I wind up mysteriously deceased or missing, this is what led to my demise. With these Chessman killings fingering him, the Feds will rain down shit on all things Fiorella. I don’t see bail in his tarot cards.”

  It was Lucy’s turn to lean forward. “Why did he have those two killed?”

  “Three reasons as far as I can tell,” Hartzell whispered back. “One, to buy them more time to understand my operation, so they can turn around in a year and set up a few bite-sized Drake Hartzells. The second reason is fairly obvious. These bastards are all psychotic. And sewage, like water, seeks its own level. Three is the tricky one. After we become missing persons, two things occur in quick succession. The first is that the dike breaks wide open and it’s Madoff time as the Street begins peeling back layer after financial layer. Secondly, the authorities will discover certain trinkets in our home tying me to Gottlieb and Kellervick.”

  A Boston investigator had already contacted Hartzell about Elaine Kellervick, regarding a scheduled meeting with him in New York City that she’d had in her appointment book. Hartzell told the detective how he was physically ill over the news of Elaine’s death, and that Elaine was coming to town to discuss a potential job offer. Although he didn’t know any specifics, h
e informed the man that Elaine didn’t sound happy in her current position and that, knowing the high quality of Elaine’s work, he was in the process of moving heaven and earth to create a spot for her before some other investment firm snarfed her up.

  “Hell,” Hartzell continued, “they’ll probably toss the weapons used in the murders inside my wall safe for good measure. Essentially, not only am I Bernard Madoff, I’m also the Chessman.”

  “The authorities search for us; meanwhile, Fiorella waltzes away with all the marbles.”

  “Only we’ll never be found on account of our being at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

  “So we beat them to the punch.”

  Hartzell nodded. “It’s imperative that we beat them to the punch. By the way, Slim, one of those shell companies I told you about now owns all of Andrew Pierson’s rental properties and vineyard, as well as our penthouse, where young Crenna is under the distinct impression he’ll be redecorating in a few months.”

  “Paul’s face when his uncle gets frog-marched into a squad car,” Lucy replied. “Priceless.”

  “I’m afraid all sorts of trials and tribulations lie on the road ahead for Boy Crenna, my dear.”

  Lucy’s face turned somber. “How do we beat them to the punch, Papa?”

  “For one thing, neither of us is getting within spitting distance of Seppi’s on Wednesday night. Friday evening we’re all taking in the White Sox-Yankees game. As it’s Chicago versus New York, we’ve been playing grab-ass all week and have a few hundred in side bets on the outcome. I’ll be sure to keep the drinks flowing all evening for Vince and David. We’ll come home, have a night cap, then pour the two middle-agers into bed. They’ll be out before their heads hit the pillows. I’ll run the shower while giving myself a passable buzz cut, give them enough time to achieve some solid REM sleep.”

  “What an interesting new look you’ll have.”

  “Something to go with my Buddy Holly glasses. I’ll have to wear my Yankees cap so Kerry won’t notice.”

  “Kerry,” Lucy said, realizing what her father was driving at. “You’re a mastermind.”

  “We’ll sneak up to the roof where he’s been instructed to meet us on the helipad with the JetRanger.”

  When the Coordinator audited Hartzell’s key drawer in his home office that first night, he’d held a key card up to Hartzell and asked him what that one was for.

  “Roof access in case of a fire. They passed those out to all tenants after 911 in case of another attack.” It had been Hartzell’s first lie in their new relationship.

  “I suppose if the sand niggers blow out a floor that cuts off the down stairwell,” the Coordinator thought aloud as he tossed the card back into the drawer, “you go up and hope for the best.”

  “Never been up there. Dread heights. I hear it’s windy enough to blow you over the edge.”

  When in fact Hartzell had, eight years earlier, sprung for the helicopter pad on top of the skyscraper. Only he and a fellow resident and real estate billionaire had key cards to the building’s rooftop. Chartering Kerry’s JetRanger had come in handy navigating above New York City’s traffic jams over the years, as well as blowing the socks off of potential clients. Friday night, it would come in handy one final time.

  “A package containing our new identities has been delivered to Kerry’s office. Kerry thinks it’s a box of Cubans, a surprise gift for a most special client we’re meeting later that evening, and has been reminded, repeatedly, that he must bring it along. I told Kerry we’ll be on the roof by midnight and that it’s of utmost importance for us to get to LaGuardia in order to meet this most special client of mine from Chicago, someone we dare not be late for. I told him that he won’t be flying us back, so once he’s out of sight, we’ll hop a cab to Newark International Airport.”

  “Newark Airport? Being extra cautious, Papa?”

  “The more head feints the better, Slim, in case Vince or David get up to vomit and notice we’re AWOL—in which case the alarm bells go off.” Hartzell shrugged. “Remember, no cell phones or laptops. Most of the new stuff has GPS built in, so, conceivably, they could track us, which would put a hell of a damper on the best-laid plans. No credit cards, either. I’ll have a pocket of cash to get us where we’re going. Our flight’s at eight o’clock in the morning, so we loaf in the lounge until then.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cambodia to start.”

  “Won’t they come after us?” Lucy asked. “He does run Chicago.”

  “Our new identifications come from a savant in Manila and he’s all but impossible to find,” Hartzell continued in a whisper. “But I have a little something in mind for our friend in Chicago to speed things along, an insurance policy to detonate events, so the fucker will never know what hit him. Thugs like Nick and the Coordinator will shuffle along to pleasing their new master—that is, whoever wins King of the Hill in a post-Fiorella Chicago.”

  “What’s the insurance policy?”

  “All that incriminating documentation I told you about, along with my handwritten confession itemizing my tenure with Duilio Fiorella, will be sent off to a couple of attorney contacts I have in high government positions. They’ll discover how Fiorella has directed the financial Ponzi scheme out of New York City all of these years, how Fiorella had Gottlieb and that poor Kellervick woman murdered, and then Fiorella had both of us silenced. They will see this as manna from heaven, windfall from God above, and there’ll be a fistfight to see which attorney gets to play Eliot Ness against Fiorella. And for the coup de grace I plan to place a brief but frantic phone call to one of them from my stairwell late Friday afternoon, before the game, begging a meeting first thing Monday, that it’s Richter scale time, I need his help, I can’t discuss it over the phone, but his boss’s boss should be present. Then, when I don’t appear for this most-urgent meeting, he’ll begin nosing about, and then he’ll receive this gift-wrapped bombshell of evidence as an early Christmas gift and…well, Slim, stick a fork in Fiorella, he’s a goner. He should have never picked on someone his own size.”

  “Who are these attorney friends of yours?”

  “One works out of the Governor’s Office. The other pit bull—the one I’ll call to set up Monday’s meeting with—he’s in the New York State Attorney General’s Office.”

  Chapter 37

  “No more crap about killing for love.” Cady answered the call a split second into Terri’s first ringtone as he exited the rail station, scanning commuter faces while he picked up his pace, knowing full well there would be a handful of agents tossed into the mix and fluttering about him at all times—a businessman here, a tourist there, the haggard-looking nurse over there—on the off chance that his encounter with the Chessman turned face to face. “With a hand in the freezer, Westlow, you’ve gone full Dahmer.”

  “That was self-defense, Agent Cady.” Westlow sounded hurt. “And I didn’t eat the rest of him for dinner, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Self-defense? You cut the man’s hand off.”

  Cady had received a five a.m. wakeup call on Terri’s cellular. The wakeup call consisted of two sentences. Those sentences being: “It would behoove you, Agent Cady, to be outside Penn Station at noon today. There’s something you need to see.”

  Cady scrambled. Called Agent Preston for two minutes. Skipped a shave and spent another two minutes in the shower. Five minutes later he was picked up in a Mercury and on the way to Union Station. In the back seat he spent another ten minutes on the phone with Assistant Director Jund. This was going to call for massive coordination with Federal Plaza—the New York Field Office.

  “I’m the first to admit it went awry,” Westlow replied. “Palma was one tough hombre. I’ll spot him that much. It got real ugly real fast after the enhanced interrogation.”

  “Enhanced interrogation?”

  “Well, he hadn’t been terribly forthcoming, not at first. A Greek Chorus of ‘Cock Off’ and ‘Fuck You.’ After I’d gotten
all I could out of him, I unsecured his hands from the table, one at a time, and then played nice and put the cuffs on in front. My bad.”

  “Table? You waterboarded him?”

  “It was a god-awful mess, Agent Cady; an inch of water on the floor, Palma’s soaking wet, seemingly exhausted, which made perfect sense considering what he’d been through. Before I leaned him upright, I explained that I was going to let him go—that he meant nothing to me, he was catch-and-release material. Evidently, Palma didn’t buy it. Not a lot of catch and release goes on in his world, I suspect.”

  “He fought back?”

  “Tell me about it. In a flash he’s got his cuffed hands around my throat. He jerks me in for a quick headbutt, but everything’s slippery at that point. If he’d tagged me good, that would have been all she wrote. So Palma’s got my neck in this iron grip—chubby fingers cutting off my oxygen. I’m feeling a bit woozy but it breaks through the haze that I’m still clutching the water hose I had hooked to the sink. I grab the back of his head with my left hand. Took me two tries and some shattered incisors as I jammed the hose down his throat. It was all I could do to twist the water back on before I passed out.”

  “You drowned Palma in your kitchen?”

  “Turns out filling lungs trumps old-fashioned strangling.”

  “You’re not right in the head, Westlow.”

  “Perhaps, Agent Cady, but we digress. You need to jump on the tube. Stat!”

  “You’re kidding,” Cady said, wanting to draw out the conversation. “I just stepped off the train.”

  “We’re on a tight schedule, my friend. Time is of the essence and you’ve only got twelve minutes.”

  “To go where?”

  “You decide. But I’m going to call back in twelve with more instructions and the reception’s shit in the tunnels. If you don’t answer, Agent Cady, enjoy letting the Gottlieb and Kellervick families know why you didn’t catch their killer. Best to hurry. And remember…I’ll be watching you at all times.”

  “Bullshit.”