by Jerry Ahern
“Us?”
“Me. The President. Yourselves, whoever. You’d come to the rendezvous separately, your identities unknown to all personnel involved, leave on the mission, return for debriefing and be returned to your false identities with no one the wiser. It’d work, Hughes. And you can make it work.”
“I’d have to talk it over with Cross and Babcock. It’s not the sort of decision I’d make on my own even if I could.”
“Then you’ll consider it, sir?”
“Yes, I’ll consider it. But I’ll need to present it to Cross and Babcock. If either of them doesn’t go with it, the idea is off. They were the best men for such a team when I picked them and that hasn’t changed. There should really be a fourth man.”
“I’m allowed the three of you. No one else. No one else can be trusted enough to be brought in. If you need a fourth man and you think I could be of some assistance, I’ll be there. I’ve got Airborne and Ranger and Special Forces behind me. My military record’ll be open to you. And obviously, if it ever came to that, regardless of my rank, you’d be the mission commander. You’ll try, then?”
Hughes sipped at his beer. The band was coming out for its next set. They looked like young kids. “Where’s Cross and where’s Babcock?”
“Abraham Cross was in Rome, playing piano at a hotel bar. I assume he’s still there. Lewis Babcock’s involved with something in Chicago. I’m not sure what, exactly. He’s taken up private practice of the law again, but went to Chicago very suddenly about three days ago. We’re trying to look into it.”
“I’ll look into it. I’ll need to talk with Lewis first in any event, because without Lewis’s help I wouldn’t have a prayer of convincing Cross. And with Lewis’s help, my chances won’t be that much better in any event. Where in Chicago?”
“I have the address locked in my office safe. I can get it to you in the morning. I have a plane waiting at Clark County Airport near Athens to take me back to Virginia. Call you at nine?”
“All right.”
“I’ll order the immediate transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars into your checking account to cover your travel expenses. It’ll be there by morning.”
“I’ll give you the number,” Hughes began.
“No need, sir. I already have it. I’ll try to dig out more information on Cross if that’d be helpful.”
“Not at this stage. But I have one question. How do we die?”
For the first time, Brigadier General Robert Argus burst out laughing.
Chapter Five
Lewis Babcock’s feet were freezing and he stomped them against the pavement just like he’d seen the cops on the beat do when he’d been a little boy. Maybe it had helped them, but it hadn’t helped him.
Behind the brick fence before which he stood in the snow and the wind lay a community within a community within a community. It was Madison Park, an exclusive residential enclave within Hyde Park on the South Side of the city of Chicago.
There wasn’t a gun in his pocket, but he wished there were. Once already a private security patrol car had stopped, the searchlight on the side of the car catching his face. The two security officers had gotten out of their car, approached and asked politely—more politely than usual, he imagined when they saw that the black man they were gently rousting wore expensive clothes—why he was waiting here, if there was any trouble.
He had given them a convincing, premeditated lie. “I’m a friend of the Collins’ and my brother was picking me up, but he must be running a few minutes late. Must be the damned weather.” He had shot his cuff dramatically and studied his Rolex wristwatch intently, long enough for them to note the expensive timepiece, thus adding to the impression that he was respectable. He had learned that to some people, it mattered not at all who you were, but merely how much you were worth; that was the measure of respect.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Collins?”
“No. I don’t know a Lawrence Collins. Albert Collins.”
“Thank you very much, sir.” One man had nodded to the other and both had returned to their car, killed their light and half skidded, half driven away.
Babcock had checked for a name in the complex beforehand, anticipating that his presence would be questioned.
He had waited some more and this time he checked the time with genuine interest. If Cleophus Butler didn’t show in another five minutes, he would give it up.
And then the car came around the corner, the glare from the headlights catching the falling snow, the headlights washing across the opposite side of the street and then settling down along the middle, cars parked end-to-end on both sides, some of them so heaped over with snow it looked as though they hadn’t been moved for days or longer.
The car slowed down.
For the umpteenth time, he wished he had a gun in his overcoat pocket.
The car came to a full stop. He heard a power window cracking ice as it began its rolldown, then after a second heard a voice from the darkened interior of the Cadillac asking, “You Lewis Babcock?”
“I’m Lewis Babcock.”
“Get in the car, brother.”
“You Cleophus Butler?”
“Get in the car, man, or the car leaves without ya.”
Babcock shrugged his shoulders under his coat and started toward the curb, climbing the precarious hillock of frozen slush and snow, skidding down, balancing against the hood of a Lincoln Towncar, then onto the street. He stopped beside the open front window. “So?”
“Get in.”
He heard the click of a doorlock going up and he reached for the front-door handle, opened the door and peered inside. Under the dome light, he could see a skinny, acne-scarred face a few shades lighter than his own, the hair obscured with a knit cap that was full of lint. The man—face, clothes—didn’t go with the car, which was new, even smelled that way as Babcock slipped in on the passenger side and slammed the door shut against the cold, his eyes scanning the rear compartment before he did so to make certain he wasn’t getting in over his head. He heard the lock button click down closed, studied the outline of face and hands and shoulders in the greenish light emitted by the dashboard. And now the new-car smell was mixed with something stronger, body odor. The mixture, with the heat blowing full on, was more than mildly nauseating.
“Mr. Butler. Ernie’s wife Thelma said you might be able to shed some light on what was going on.”
“Women talks shit a lot, man.”
Lewis Babcock said nothing.
“What you to her? Some kinda private eye—or maybe she you private ass?”
Now Babcock spoke. “Thelma and Ernie are old friends, Mr. Butler. If it matters, I’m a lawyer and when I heard about Ernie’s difficulties, I offered my assistance, realizing full well that Emie could never have done the sort of thing of which he’s accused.”
“You sound white.”
“You don’t.”
The car was starting to move, Babcock feeling the hairs starting to stand up on the back of his neck, something he had discovered was not merely the invention of some writer of fiction.
“Where are we going, Mr. Butler?”
“I got some friends that always grooves on meetin’ outa town brothers. ”
“That’s a charming offer, but I’m afraid I can’t meet your friends now. Perhaps some other time. But my schedule’s rather tight. Ernie’s pre-trial hearing is the day after tomorrow.”
“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, lawyer. And watch you ass or you won’t live to enjoy nothin’ else.”
“Indulge me in aquestion,” Babcock said casually. “Do you know what really happened to the cocaine Ernie and the other police officer were transporting to Eleventh and State?”
Cleophus Butler just started to laugh, the Cadillac picking up speed. Lewis Babcock had parked his rented Ford near the high school a few blocks away, and he suspected where Butler was taking him. “Do you know, Mr. Butler?”
“I know. But nobody gonna tell you, Oreo. One more dead p
ig don’t matter shit to me.”
Lewis Babcock said quietly, “I see,” then threw himself across the seat toward Cleophus Butler, his left hand slamming Butler’s head against the rolled-up window, his right hand grabbing for the wheel. Butler shouted an obscenity, Babcock slamming Butler’s head into the window again, harder this time, his body weight going against the man so his left foot could reach the brake. The Cadillac was rocketing forward, sideswiped an anonymous half-snow-covered sedan, ricocheted away from it and peeled away the fender of a Mercedes. Butler’s hands were grabbing at him, Babcock’s left elbow smashing back into the face, Babcock hoping he’d missed the nose, not wanting Butler dead.
The Cadillac swerved left, half climbing another car, Babcock finally having the break as he cut the wheel right, the Cadillac half falling from the other car, Babcock throwing his body weight down on the brake, the Cadillac skidding now, out of control, body slamming another car on the left with its rear end, wedging itself tight totally blocking the street as it shuddered once and stopped.
Babcock grabbed for the key, killing the ignition, pocketing the key. Butler was starting to stir. Babcock, on one knee on the seat, hands at Butler’s throat, shook the man violently. The face was a mass of blood but Butler was still conscious. “The life of Ernie Hayes matters to me, motherfucker. Who stole the cocaine, iced Ernie’s partner and set him up for the fall? Talk!” Babcock backhanded Butler across the nose, spreading it over onto Butler’s left cheek, Butler crying now. “Who?!”
“The Devil’s Princes, man—all right?”
“Who in the Devil’s Princes?”
“Randy Jones, Tyrone Cash and Balthaszar Roman—all right!”
Babcock started patting him down, finding the bulge of a gun, ripping it from Butler’s waistband. “Why? I mean, fine, all that cocaine. But why set up Ernie?”
“You pig buddy busted Tyrone maybe a year back and Tyrone got his ass kicked. And when he started crazy-talkin’ that Randy Jones’s sister told the cops on him, Tyrone went after Randy’s sister with a belt and got him a coupla licks on her face until you buddy pulled him off her. Then Tyrone went after you buddy with the bat, and that’s when he got his ass beat. All right?”
“What about Randy Jones? Didn’t he do anything about this Tyrone going after his sister?”
“Shit, man, nobody mess with Tyrone. Randy’s sister a whore anyway, man.”
Sirens were in the distance and they might be for this, Babcock thought. There were lights coming on in some of the buildings on both sides of the street. “They still got the cocaine, Butler?”
“I dunno, man!”
Babacock backhanded him again. “They still got it!?”
“Yeah—yeah—too much to dump on the street too quick.”
Babcock let him collapse into the seat. “I’m leaving. You tell the cops or your pals in the Devil’s Princes you told me anything, even mention you ever heard of me, and I’m putting it out on the street you spilled your guts on the Princes and Tyrone and all the rest of his bad asses, right? And you know what’ll happen to you. Understand?”
“I never seen ya, man.”
Babcock kept the gun; it felt like some kind of a .25 automatic in the darkness. He slid back across the seat and tried the door. It still opened and Babcock stepped out into the snow and the cold. He hunched his shoulders down, pulled his collar up, thrust his gloved hands into his pockets still holding the gun. He’d dump it at the first likely looking trash can….
Seamus O’Fallon watched the sun rise. It would only last for a few seconds, and then the sun would be lost in the deep grey overcast. The headaches had kept him up the rest of the night after the attack on the RUC barracks. They had driven to the harbor and taken the waiting launch northwest, slipping between Ireland and Scotland, the seas poundingly heavy with the storm, and the yacht that had been waiting to take them aboard precious little more comfortable until it had gotten underway. Then the swells hadn’t been so bad. But by then the headaches had returned and there had been no sleep for him.
Young Martin had been up all through the night as well, throwing up. O’Fallon could hear the head going each time it was flushed.
The first time, Seamus O’Fallon had done the same. But for a different reason: too much whiskey celebrating. If young Martin made it through this next one and still kept his balls, O’Fallon thought, then Martin would be one of them truly. But the problem was, of course, that none of them would make it out alive from this one. The British would never let them. But all the blood would be on British hands, not theirs.
He lit another cigarette with the butt of the last one, cupping it with his hands against the wind, the deck rolling beneath his feet, spray washing up here on the wind as they would hit into a wave, but not as badly as it did over the prow. It was cold, he knew, but he didn’t feel it. The headache took care of that and everything else.
Chapter Six
Abe Cross stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He’d actually gotten up, felt semi-awake, and it wasn’t even eleven forty-five yet as he sneaked a look at the Rolex on his left wrist. He spit out the last of the toothpaste, rinsed, then dug around in his Dopp kit for the dental floss, found it and tock a piece and began working it between his teeth. This Doris Knight sounded like a real winner, with a fakey name like that. And she would be ticked that her regular pianist had gotten the axe. Probably fake blonde hair, fake fingernails and falsies and a voice that sounded like a parody of itself. He shrugged his shoulders, finished with the floss.
Naked, he walked out of the small but adequate bathroom and toward the bed. There had been no time to unpack and he rummaged through his things to find clothes—underpants, a pair of black socks, a black long-sleeved knit shirt, black slacks. He wondered if there was a dress code for persons who worked for the line aboard the Empress. There’d be one for evening, of course. He didn’t have to wear some kind of god-awful uniform, did he? He stuffed his feet back into the black loafers he’d worn the previous night and went over to the dresser, ran a comb through his brown hair a few times and snatched up his cigarettes, his cabin key, his lighter and his little Swiss Army Champion, pocketing all. “Handkerchief, ’ he muttered, rummaging through his things again, finding one and stuffing it in his pocket. There was no need for wallet or passport and he had been told that all his meals were included in the deal so he didn’t need money. Cross grabbed up the black leather satchel in which he carried his music and let himself out.
Unlike earlier that morning when he had come aboard, the corridor bustled with activity, stewards and housekeeping staff moving in and out of cabins open and unoccupied. Sailing tonight, there would be much to do, passengers due on board any time throughout the afternoon he guessed. When he’d been making his way to his cabin, he’d spied a coffee shop and had logged away its location for future reference. He made his way toward it now, hoping it would be open for the convenience of the crew.
He took the elevator up to what he hoped was the right deck and exited, orienting himself, aiming himself in what he hoped was the right direction. After a moment’s wandering, he found the coffee shop. It was closed. “Shit.” He shrugged, consulted the deck plan in the glassed-over metallic frame near the coffee shop doors and found the Seabreeze Lounge. A glance at his watch again showed that it was five to twelve anyway. If this Doris Knight person was already on the prod over him, he didn’t want to make it worse. He despised working as an accompanist even for four sets a night.
The Seabreeze Lounge doors—big etched-glass affairs with brass-ringed fake portholes somehow set in the upper third, the etching showing fantasy dolphins and palm trees and curling waves—were open wide, but no real seabreeze would be possible here because it wasn’t an open deck amidships, and one had to content oneself with staring through Plexiglas. Tenders bringing baggage and stores aboard were all there was to be seen.
Cross entered the Seabreeze Lounge. It was the nice thing about being a pianist. Pianos were so big
they were easy enough to find. This one—a concert grand with glass sides and glass top, looking for all the world as gaudy as something the great showman Liberace would have used in Las Vegas—was on a raised stage at the far end of the double-football-field-sized room, glass doors like the ones through which he had entered nearby to it, but closed. A mirror-backed bar ran along his left as he approached the piano, tiered rows of tables on his right. He was crossing a tiled dance floor.
The colors here, glistening blacks and silvery greys and subdued pinks, were classic art deco, as were the idyllically slender nudes with chignoned hair who posed in miniature splendor holding up discreetly sized lamps as though they were something vastly more important than they were.
Two shirt-sleeved men were working behind the bar, bottle counting and filling, two women helping them, drying and polishing glasses. There was no sign of Doris Knight and there had been no easeled announcement beside the lounge doors of her performing.
He approached the piano.
A woman’s voice—kind of raspy sounding—called to him and he turned around. “You the guy who’s replacing Lenny Brooks?” It was one of the women behind the bar.
“If he was the last pianist, then I’m the guy.”
“I’m Helen.”
“I’m Abe. Good to meet you, Helen.”
“If you want some coffee or some sweet rolls—you know, Danish?—just go through those doors. Doris isn’t here yet.”
He looked where the red-haired woman pointed. Portholed doors, but mahogany colored, at the end of the bar nearest the piano. He set his music down against the lip of the stage and headed for the doors, shooting Helen a wave, going through the swinging doors. It was a kitchen. Apparently the lounge served late-night meals. It wasn’t large enough for much of anything else. But there was an urn of coffee and an urn of hot water, beside the latter a bowl of tea bags. And there were Styrofoam cups and napkins and there was a tray covered with white linen napkins. He lifted them back. Fresh Danish that even smelled good. He took a Styrofoam plate and two rolls, avoiding any with nuts or coconut, and some coffee. There was no sign of cream or milk for the coffee, only sugar, which he never used.
