Two tracks later Pete switched off the music and sat down.
“There’s more like that. What do you think? Don’t hold back.”
“They’re good. You’re great. You know that. Want the truth? You’ve made it. It’s the best music you’ve ever made and I’m fucking jealous not to be involved with it. But you know, it also pisses me off because I was better’n you back then, that was my problem, just being on the same stage as you. I had a bigger voice and you had a prettier act. I look at the old promos and what I see is you crowding me out, wagging your ass and making me look like a stiff.”
“I didn’t know you hated me, dear.”
“That’s stupid. I didn’t hate you, not now nor then. Just under your spell like everyone else. You took over, it went with your personality, lead singer, director, lording it, and I withdrew from the competition.”
“That’s why you started hiding behind those old native drums, eh, Barry?”
“Yeah that’s exactly how you managed to belittle me, snide bugger. I need another beer.”
Barry got up clumsily and lurched over to the bar, trying to open the fridge. Pete came over and moved him aside.
“I’ll do that. This is my house.”
“Don’t shove me. And you don’t have to remind if it’s your bloody mansion, you bloody snob.”
To emphasize this remark, Barry pushed Pete away with a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Pete pushed back. It suddenly got worse and escalated into a real scuffle, with both men almost losing their footing as the punches were thrown. They were now fighting in an ugly unprofessional style, both puffing and gasping, until Barry backed onto the chair, lost his balance and slid to the ground, kicking away a small table so the lamp and other items on it crashed on the parquet floor. Pete backed away and stood there, heaving for breath and quite shocked at what had happened.
Carol and Tony rushed into the room and assessed the scene. Carol’s first thought was to attend to Barry and check out his condition. She felt his pulse and wiped his brow, but she felt compelled to apologize for him too.
“I’m so sorry, Pete. I should have known he was building up to a fight. He’s been in his comfy cocoon up north all these years, and seeing how you live got him worked up. He’s not really nasty at heart.”
“S’alright, Carol. I know him well enough too. He’s certainly not in condition for brawling but I’m glad he’s still got the cocky attitude. It’s good. You know it’s good for both of us. What do you think, Turnbull, feeling better?”
“You can bring that champagne on now, Sport,” said Barry with a grin.
Pete quickly checked out the look on Carol’s face, and nodded at her.
“It’s okay folks. You can go back to the bridge game. The boys still have a bit to catch up with. He’s right as rain, Carol, don’t worry about him.”
CHAPTER 24
FBI Headquarters, Manhattan – Monday
During most of the years FBI Agent Cortez had slaved the small stuff in the bureau, hoping there’d be some news about Leonard Rivkin, he wondered if he had quietly given up but not admitted it to himself. It wasn’t hope, it was habit. Now the note was in front of him, undeniably black and white, he had a chilled ghostly feeling that both hope and denial were over.
The dead had stirred. Someone had gone into the Rivkin file.
The note was written casually by a computer clerk who had no idea of the jolt she was delivering, and he moved around on the office computer screen until he stepped into the basement in which he’d placed the bait. He felt the glow of triumph as he realized that his guess was on target. That sooner or later, with the growing availability of computer database, and renewed curiosity about the sixties, some person from somewhere would be looking for this name. Now he had to confront it, he didn’t know what to do.
Someone else needed the computer, standing over him snapping a sheaf of paperwork with urgency and irritation, so he decided to take an early lunch break, get away from the usual Monday morning pressure, go home and study his private notes on the case.
***
Over a microwaved something that he didn’t bother to take out of the container, Cortez flipped with his free hand through the reference books he’d collected on the subject of Leonard Rivkin, his own personal Houdini. He needed a refresher course, not in the desire for justice that would never go away, but in the logistics and other details. He wasn’t hiding official papers, but some of these were over ten years old, and would have been assigned to the basement files, and hard to reach, so he had made duplicates where necessary. The ADIC didn’t have to know.
He decided to trace the source of the enquiry at the office at the end of the day when most of the agents had gone, and take it from there. He had no idea who it could be and he pondered the possibilities. Some sixties nostalgia buff writing a story, a serious journalist maybe, a family member? He started to shake with anticipation, looking forward to a few hours to himself on the computer.
***
Cortez was walking towards his desk when he saw the big girl waving at him. He looked at her enquiringly without changing course.
“Hey, Cortez, you got another break-in on that code number. Just after you went to lunch,” she chirped.
He stopped on a dime then managed to wave back and casually nod his okay.
This was uncanny. Seven years of nothing, now two enquiries in a day. He rushed to his desk, glanced at the details on her note, then sat down at the big computer and turned it on. He couldn’t wait for privacy. Not for the first time Cortez marveled at the power of the bureau’s technology as it quickly revealed that the first enquiry had come from a Los Angeles based security group.
He wasn’t quite sure what kind of business this implied, so he tracked down the company profile, which revealed an organization with offices in New York, Miami and Los Angeles that provided guards to the entertainment business among other things. It was a top level service, ranging from personal bodyguards for big name celebrities in movies and music, long term or one night only, down to club bouncers and full units of security men to control special events, including sports and stadium concerts. The company also checked background references for security purposes for their clients. They even did private eye work for the right people. He got the impression that it was a cover for some heavy duty clients, something like Kroll.
Cortez started to tingle. He could see a connection. Either Rivkin was a prospective employee whose background was being checked, or someone else was looking for him. This was a hot trail. He decided to set up a contact with the security company pronto because he sensed he could get away with this without revealing his hand.
Now he watched the invisible wheels of the FBI surveillance machine turning out the identity of the second enquiry. He’d expected it to be the original enquirer, with a follow up, but he squirmed in his chair from the bolt of electric shock when he saw the name of a Los Angeles newspaper. What was going on? Did this mean that his fugitive was in that city?
Cortez was already packing a bag in his head as he nosed further into the source of the enquiry. It actually came from a local independent weekly publication, using the computer system of a big media syndicate out West that owned both papers. And there was a source. A staff investigative journalist, name of Ann Stapleton.
Cortez let go of his breath, hadn’t realized he’d been holding it this long. He was staggered by these two great strikes of fortune. Action at last.
He did some more checking in this challenging system to look further into the paper, not expecting much, but there was all the information right in his face, meaning the FBI had tabs on this journal. Cortez wasn’t surprised when he read more of the interesting details. The paper was one of those recent trendy vehicles for alternative areas of the city’s lifestyle, like the old New York Village Voice, from underground theater to controversial local and seemingly anti-right wing national politics. The writer herself contributed a regular column on new music, the club scene and indepen
dent movies.
Cortez indulged himself in guessing that she might be writing some sixties flashback piece which featured The Veils and their drug bust, and needed to know more about the dealer on the scene. It was likely she didn’t know who he was or where he was either. But why this story now, and what was the connection to the security investigator? That last word lit a bright bulb in his head. It couldn’t be just a coincidence. He had to jump in before some other jackal sniffed out his prey.
His mind was racing. Here he was, a veteran agent losing his common sense from excitement. He hadn’t felt emotions like this for years.
He calmed himself down and came to a quick conclusion. No way could he do this officially, and he had to do it alone. Cortez had taken such a lone ranger position on this long forgotten manhunt he wouldn’t know how to requisition for the trip. Besides, vengeance wasn’t in the Bureau’s official conduct rules, and it was only a long shot.
He had some uncollected sick days and a long weekend coming up. He quickly got to work organizing his trip to L.A., drew up a list of items to take care of. On a piece of paper with a pen. This was for his eyes only. Once he’d ticked off most of the items he dialed the number in L.A. on a direct line so the security company couldn’t trace it. Cortez wanted his visit to be very casual. A special plane trip from the east coast would tip anyone off. Paranoia was a justified job requirement here.
The next move was easy. The enquiry came from a V. Axle and in a moment Vince was on the line, happy to hear a response so quickly, and volunteering information without any questions from Cortez, who stood up and started pacing as Vince explained that a company client wanted to trace Leonard Rivkin who was now using a different name. The client had no address or other I.D., just a rough description: age, height, color of eyes. It had been some years since the previous contact. Something to do with unfinished business. The man had recently been seen in Los Angeles, during this current week in fact, but there was no way to trace his location without some help.
***
So he was still alive. Cortez recognized this amazing fact with a series of physical reactions. To his surprise he found he was shaking again and his suddenly weak legs forced him to sit down. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his other hand as he politely continued the conversation with Vince, setting a time to visit his office the day after tomorrow.
Yes, he lied, Mr. Leonard Rivkin had been an employee of his organization and he was happy to help Vince’s client locate a former business associate, but it would have to be confidential, hence a personal meeting was more appropriate. He was sorry not be able to schedule something today but important meetings with out of state clients at his downtown office made that impossible. However, tomorrow around mid-day perhaps, he would call and confirm that early in the morning. He was shocked at himself, this reasonable professional, that he had so suddenly decided to catch a plane tonight, whatever it took.
Cortez smiled to himself when he thought of the reaction he would get from Vince seeing a handsome well-dressed black man waiting in the company lobby. Cortez always enjoyed this one.
He had to play a stealth game with this new connection, helping to find the man he was actually seeking himself. Cortez wanted to collect all the input first, including Ann Stapleton and a hunch she might be more clued in on Rivkin than this guy. Who had seen him and where? How did the client get to hear about it so fast?
Cortez remained calm and efficient after putting down the phone, but he wanted to scream out in rage because Leonard Rivkin was still alive after killing a government agent, his mentor and closest friend in the Bureau. He’d never forgotten what it was like to see Norman lying down there, white and cold, his skull crushed with what the autopsy showed to be one brutal blow with his own baseball bat.
Rivkin had guaranteed both his insurance and vulnerability by taking off with his own file. What was inside it no government agency would want to share with the public.
Cortez had sat for over an hour with his friend’s body, killed and abandoned in the safe house by a man he’d done so much to help. Protecting him from his previous masters who considered him disposable. Any exposure could be deadly, and Rivkin knew that.
There was never any sign of him during the long time Cortez spent looking, years of endless phone calls, useless leads, boring checks of voting records, drivers licenses, social security, state by state. It was a solid wall of nothing.
What finally came to Cortez was the acceptance that Rivkin had created his very own witness protection identity and escaped into it. Probably got a fake passport and left the country. It was no solace. And it didn’t mean he gave up hope, but at least he began to contemplate the relief of sleeping all the way through a night.
Now, Cortez sharply reminded himself, snapping out of those shadows, it was time to put on the mask that would serve him for the next ten days. Settle the score. Move swiftly, decisively, leave no tracks and return to his desk a satisfied man.
Cortez tried to slip quietly away for his vacation, but the now too helpful file worker hailed him loudly on the way out.
“Hey, have a good time, Cortez. I thought it was hot and humid as hell in Key West Florida this time of year.”
“Hey, I’m working on my tan.”
CHAPTER 25
Pete’s House, Virginia Water
The two aging rockers had drunk their way through most of a magnum of very good champagne and into a nice rosy mood, feeling much better after their fight. They had experienced a stimulating workout, of adrenalin and emotions, and made a bridge between their apartheid lives.
“Yer know, I had to say that about singing better than you, Pete, didn’t I? It was choking me, because it’s bloody true and you know it is. You were way ahead of me in your vision of where the band was going, that was your gift, Pete. I was the big voice but you were a marketing genius before anyone knew about it.”
“Don’t forget Colonel Parker.”
“Oh, I beg his fucking pardon. And modesty doesn’t suit you, darlin’. You knew enough to get rid of Mark before anyone noticed he was there, pounding the keyboards with his pudgy fingers, great in pubs, but you knew where The Veils could go. Not to mention old Tony, with his fifties beat thing. I would have been next, no doubt. If we ’adn’t landed in the nick.”
“Don’t feel sorry for Mark. A happy polar opposite, he sends me a card every Christmas with a family portrait. Manager of the bank, big pay, pension, set for life.”
“Death, you mean.”
“Yeah, well, you could say that. And as for Tony, well, look at him, lord of the manor. But you’re exactly right. We never resolved the issue. We were just kids though, flapping our egos around. Is that what it’s about, your turning up like this?”
“It’s connected, I suppose. It’s always been about the competition, rubs off on everything. I remember you always got the girls I’d noticed first, wham you just worked the moves faster. You wiggled your ass and stunned them with your intellect.”
“I think time has affected your imagination. I don’t remember any of that.”
“Actually I was getting worked up because I’m convinced you know where Leonard Rivkin is and you won’t tell me because you know what I’d do to him.”
“Well, I don’t. Didn’t ask. Don’t care.”
“Don’t tell me that, Pete, I don’t believe you. You, not curious? Don’t blag me. You’re dying to know where he is, what he’s been doing all these years, who he really was, why he snitched on us? Admit it.”
“Barry, you gotta understand. I cannot allow myself to be thrown into chaos by the reappearance of a ghost. I just can’t.”
“Denial, thy name is Pete Stebbings.”
“And neither should you, you owe it to Carol. Christ man, you’d be dead or in a straitjacket and you’re gonna put her back through that again? If you do, you’re a raving selfish bastard.”
“Alright, back off. You made a good point.”
They fell into a silence w
hile Pete poured more chilled champagne. Barry slurped his noisily, not aware of the judgmental flicks Pete’s eyes were throwing him. The silence was not uncomfortable, benign acceptance across the great divide, a calm brought on by time. They’d started as brothers, it seemed possible after the long journey they could end up the same.
Tony, consummate butler, had probably registered the silence from very close to the keyhole, his entrance was so perfectly timed.
“Food’s on the table, gentlemen.”
Barry was on his feet surprisingly fast. His body responded to the key word in a similar way to his fellow pharmaceutical travelers, the lab rats. He knew where the kitchen was and disappeared in that direction. Pete and Tony lingered behind, Pete filling his glass one more time. Tony made an er sound to indicate he wanted to speak, and Pete listened.
“You alright with them staying a couple of nights then?”
“Course. It’s pathetic to think of sending them back up the M1 in that thing. I saw it out there. Anything you can do with it, Tony? One of your local mechanics could maybe fix a few things, like an oil change? Don’t let ’em get carried away.”
“I’ll take care of it, guv. Nice thinking.”
Pete grunted as if to wave away the compliment, out of character as it was. He led the way to his dining room. Tony following up with the champagne bucket and Barry’s glass.
***
Carol looked around the table and agreed with herself that this was one of the best evenings she’d ever had. Tony and his mum had made her feel part of the domestic family, Ling Pai had not stopped smiling and already given her a package of aromatherapy aids for bath and bed, including a lavender filled little pillow for her eyes, which she was supposed to keep in the freezer.
Along with that she’d watched a gourmet three-course meal being prepared and been given taste treats of everything, plus several glasses of champagne, then the delicious dinner itself. The best part was seeing Barry unraveled from his usual uptight anger on a short fuse, loose-limbed and chipper.
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