Montaro Caine: A Novel

by Sidney Poitier

  “Very important.”

  “Be there as quick as I can,” Rothman said.

  Less than half an hour later, Rothman used his own key to let himself into an apartment located above a used-record store in Greenwich Village. The apartment was small but tidy and well-insulated from the sounds of Thompson Street below.

  “That you?” The same familiar voice called from the bedroom as Rothman shut the door behind him.

  “Yeah, hon.”

  Michen Borceau’s secretary, Gina Lao, had changed from her work outfit to the halter top and shorts she usually wore to the gym. She embraced Rothman and kissed him forcefully. When he had freed himself from Gina’s arms, his tone became more businesslike. “So, what’s up?” he asked.

  “I think something major is happening,” Gina said.

  “How major?” asked Rothman.

  “Major major,” she said. “Want me to fix you a drink?”

  Rothman shook his head. He had already been wondering how he might explain the aroma of Gina’s lavender perfume on his jacket and he didn’t want to explain the scent of alcohol as well. It wasn’t like Gina to ask to see him outside of their usual rendezvous times, so he assumed that Gina had to discuss something that was related to Fitzer Corporation and, unlike his erratic boss Montaro Caine, he didn’t feel he needed to drink while discussing business.

  “This may sound crazy,” said Gina. “But I think Caine has found a miracle material.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rothman’s tone was curt.

  “I don’t have all the pieces, so I can’t give you the whole picture, but from what I can tell, it sounds like something amazing.” Gina was more animated than Rothman had ever seen her as she went on to discuss all that she had overheard Borceau saying about the slivers of coins that Caine had asked him to analyze. Caine had warned Borceau to keep all aspects of the analysis secret. “Don’t discuss this with anyone,” he had said. But that hadn’t kept Borceau from discussing the matter with himself out loud and at length and sometimes in French, a language Gina had studied in college.

  Still, the more Gina told Rothman about what she had heard Borceau saying, the more skeptical he became. He furrowed his brow. Then, he chuckled.

  “This material, have you actually seen it?” he asked Gina.

  “No.”

  Rothman’s chuckle grew into a hearty laugh.

  “Alan!” Gina snapped sternly.

  But Rothman couldn’t help smiling. He could sense what he felt certain to be Caine’s desperation, which would inevitably lead to what Rothman had been helping to plan for more than a year—Richard Davis’s takeover of Fitzer with Rothman as his second in command. “What’s that son of a bitch up to now?” Rothman wondered aloud.

  “I don’t think you should laugh this off, Alan,” Gina said. “I heard exactly what Borceau was saying. He said ‘miracle material.’ ”

  “Miracle material?” Rothman laughed. “Out of where? Caine’s desperate and your boss is a drunk. It’s a diversion tactic, honey. I know how Caine’s mind works. I’ve been studying it for years.”

  “Alan, yes, he’s up to something, but it’s not what you think. Just listen …”

  “He’s up to exactly what I’ve been saying all along. Games, playing for time.”

  “I don’t think so.” Gina sat Rothman down on her couch and told him about the man and woman who had visited Caine and Borceau.

  “They shut themselves off in the lab, just the three of them,” Gina said. “Michen wasn’t even allowed in.”

  As Gina continued to talk, Rothman became increasingly curious. “This man and woman, who are they?” he asked.

  “Their names are Herman Freich and Colette Beekman,” said Gina.

  “What’s their business?”

  “I’ve got no clue.”

  “Had Borceau ever seen them before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “So, this ‘material,’ ” Rothman asked, “where is it now?”

  “It seems like the man and woman brought it with them when they came and took it with them when they left. But Caine kept some slivers of it for Michen to analyze.”

  “And your boss analyzed these microscopic slivers Caine conveniently left for him and found them to be made of miracle material?” Rothman asked.

  Gina was growing irritated. For years, she had been attempting to plot ways to secure herself a more important position at Fitzer, which had a lot to do with why she had been sleeping with this smug married man for the past year. And now, this same man was dismissing all she had learned with his trademark smirk. “Stop jumping to conclusions,” she told him. “Don’t be so sure of yourself all the time. Something bizarre is happening and I think it’s for real. Borceau has been in the lab working by himself night and day.”

  “You mean he’s been drinking night and day,” Rothman said, but Gina waved off the remark. “He won’t let anybody in there,” she said. “Before he went to meet Caine at his hotel, he seemed so fired up I thought he was going to explode. ‘Miracle material,’ he kept saying. Miracle material.”

  “Well,” said Rothman, “don’t you think it’s a little unusual for this miracle material to suddenly pop up and find its way into our lab just when Caine is hanging on by a thread?”

  “It didn’t just ‘pop up.’ He’s known about it for twenty-six fucking years, Alan.”

  Gina’s reply jerked Rothman to attention.

  “Are you ready to listen now, hotshot?” she asked.

  “All right,” replied Rothman. Now, he found that he actually did need a drink. He got up to fix himself one in the kitchen before he sat down again beside Gina on the couch.

  “So, okay, where did he find this material?” Rothman asked.

  “In a coin,” Gina told him.

  “A coin?”

  “Yes, a coin.”

  Rothman listened as Gina told him about the call Caine had asked her to make to Dr. Chasman. “Then, I called Nancy and asked her for a rundown of his appointments in case Michen wanted to reach him in a hurry, and she told me about his meeting with Dr. Mozelle,” Gina said. “Mozelle’s not Caine’s regular doctor. In fact, Nancy had never heard of him.”

  “What about Freich and Beekman?” Rothman asked. “Are you sure Caine didn’t know them?”

  “Positive. They had to be strangers because he ordered Lawrence Aikens to dig up everything he could about them.”

  “Aikens?”

  “I’m sure he’s come up with something by now. We need to find out what it is.”

  “Aikens is a creature of Caine’s. He won’t tell us anything.”

  “I know,” said Gina. “But if he has information you need, there might be other ways of getting it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Aikens has an assistant,” said Gina.

  “Right. Curly Bennett,” said Rothman. “But he’s Aikens’s boy.”

  “Yes, but he’s also very ambitious and he doesn’t think Aikens appreciates him. And then there are other things.”

  “What are other things?”

  “Like he’s young and single and likes to hit on women at company parties.”

  Rothman was beginning to get the idea. “I see, and what else?”

  “What else does there need to be?” Gina asked.

  Rothman noticed the familiar curl at the corner of Gina’s mouth, and from the sensuous movement of her lips he knew immediately what she had in mind. As Gina leaned into him, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he didn’t stop to look to see who was calling him. He could be a little late to dinner tonight, he thought, to hell with his wife and her parents.

  23

  WHEN CURLY BENNETT RETURNED HOME TO HIS ONE-BEDROOM apartment on East 37th Street, he felt pleased with himself, much the way he always felt after a fruitful day on the job. He and Aikens had, once again, greased the palm of the janitor to obtain the books they had seen at Cordiss Krinkle’s subleased Manhattan apartment and had deliv
ered them directly to Montaro Caine. The apartment was a mess and Curly doubted that the tenants would have noticed a few missing books. While Aikens had stayed with Caine to pore over the books, Curly went back to his office where he tracked down addresses for Cordiss in Paris and San Remo. All things considered, this had been the kind of day Curly liked. In the absence of any recognition from the executive suite, he stood ready to give himself a generous pat on the back.

  The landline was ringing as he entered his living room. That phone rarely rang; he hoped there wasn’t an emergency at the office; his plan was to nap for an hour before venturing across town for his weekly poker game. He snatched the receiver from its cradle.

  “Curly Bennett here.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone startled him. “Hi there, Curly Bennett. Gina Lao here. Remember me?”

  How could he forget? “Gina. Of course I remember you.”

  She had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her at Fitzer accompanied by Michen Borceau. He had wanted to talk to her then, but though they had crossed paths several times at company headquarters, no graceful opportunity had presented itself. The nature of his business had taught him to proceed cautiously in such matters with a fellow employee. He wasn’t able to talk to Gina until six months later at a company party at the Hilton, where they were formally introduced.

  At the party, Gina picked up his scent almost immediately, and with mild flirtatious glances, she let him know. Encouraged, he began to close in gently as the evening wore on. But soon he noticed that, with each step he took toward her, she drifted farther away. Finally, Curly labeled her a high-end tease and dismissed any thoughts of her. Now, rumor had it that she was dating Alan Rothman, a slick creep who made Curly even more dubious of Gina’s character.

  “Curly, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” Gina said now.

  “Oh no, not at all.”

  “I’m so glad. I need your advice on something.”

  “Advice on what?”

  “Well, the phone’s so impersonal; I wonder if we could meet for a drink.”

  “Depends on when and where,” Curly said. “I’ve got a poker game tonight.”

  “Oh my goodness. Curly, it won’t take long—a half hour, forty-five minutes at the most. Would you mind coming to my apartment? I would really appreciate it.”

  Despite his cautious instincts, Curly felt an instant response in his groin, as if some involuntary message had been reflexively dispatched to his testicles.

  “Do you still live in the Village?” he asked as he swallowed hard.

  “I do,” she said. And after she had given Curly the address and hung up her phone, she placed a call to Alan Rothman.

  24

  A LITTLE MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS EARLIER, DURING ONE long, tedious train ride home from her grandmother’s house in Omaha, Nebraska, to her mother’s apartment in Lincoln, seven-year-old Cordiss Krinkle had counted telephone poles as the flat, gray landscape streaked past her window seat. Then, when the telephone poles no longer interested her, she reached across to the seatback pocket in front of her and picked up a copy of a giveaway travel magazine. Browsing through it, Cordiss was quickly captivated by eight pages of color photographs of laughing children who were about the same age that she was—they were splashing each other on the beach, playing in parks, reaching out to a grinning ice cream vendor who was teasingly holding a bouquet of Popsicles before them. Cordiss studied the pictures enviously.

  The article was entitled “San Remo, Jewel of the Mediterranean,” and the city did appear to be a jewel; it seemed to contain everything that was missing from the world Cordiss knew—laughter, friendship, beauty, love. That moment, that day, on that train, her life was transformed forever. The children from those magazine pages became the friends Cordiss didn’t have. One face in particular, that of a saucer-eyed boy with a turned-up nose and a mischievous half smile, drew her attention like a magnet. He became her secret friend in her faraway world. She confided in him, shared with him her innermost dreams. Even as a teenager, whenever she felt lonely or sad, her thoughts would return to that boy with the big, round, wondrous eyes.

  Now, as she gazed out at the sun-drenched Mediterranean coast from the balcony of her San Remo apartment, Cordiss thought of that boy. Where was he now, she wondered, and how could he still hold such a special place in her heart? During the course of their relationship, Victor had never quite believed Cordiss when she told him that she was first attracted to him because of his eyes, which resembled those of an Italian boy she had once seen in a magazine. He didn’t realize that she had been telling the truth until they arrived here in San Remo and Cordiss had said, “Finally, I’m home.”

  As Cordiss stood on the balcony, a buzzing sound snapped her head around. She looked first at the door, then over to Victor, who was watching a soccer match between AC Milan and Palermo on TV. Victor didn’t know much about the teams or the players or even the sport itself, but he was a competitive man and he could relate to the players’ vigor and their tenacity. He had gotten so involved in the action on the TV screen that he didn’t notice the door buzzer the first time it sounded. Victor was still on the couch, hooting in approval as Milan’s striker rammed a header past the Palermo goalie, when the buzzer sounded again. This time, Victor grudgingly got up from the couch, walked to the front door, and yanked it open. Two unfamiliar men, one slightly taller than the other, were standing shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, glaring at Victor from behind tinted sunglasses.

  “Buon’ giorno,” Victor said, smiling inquisitively.

  “May we come in?” the taller of the two men asked.

  Victor recognized the accent as American. His smile disappeared. “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “We’re here to see Cordiss Krinkle,” the shorter man said politely.

  “What about?” Victor asked.

  “An important matter,” replied the taller man.

  “Who are you, and what is this very important matter?” Victor’s tone was challenging and sarcastic.

  “Something of great value to Miss Krinkle and to you, Victor.”

  Victor started slightly at the sound of his name. “Do you guys have names?” he asked, recovering his cool. Victor received no reply. He looked the two men up and down. Something about their conservative dress, dark shades, and quietly intimidating manner reminded him of the soldiers from the Carlino family whom he would see now and then in the Mafia-owned restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen where he had worked as dishwasher, busboy, and waiter.

  “Why don’t you let us in?” the taller man asked.

  Victor stood his ground. “First, tell me who you are and what you want.”

  “Inside,” the shorter man said, nodding toward the living room.

  “Bullshit, mister. Right here. And make it fast,” Victor said.

  “Look, Victor,” the tall man began.

  “Or fuck off,” Victor interrupted, his voice rising.

  “Stolen property, Victor,” the shorter man said coldly. “That’s one of the things we’re here to discuss. Twenty years in prison is another.”

  Victor felt a hot flush at the back of his neck; then, the nerve endings came alive in the pit of his stomach.

  “Dr. Howard Mozelle,” continued the shorter man, “Anna Hilburn, Herman Freich, Colette Beekman, Montaro Caine, the coin or coins—you name it, we’re here to talk about all of it.”

  Victor’s heart galloped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, so you may as well just get lost.” Whatever they wanted, Victor told himself, whatever had brought them here, he had faced far worse back in New York—some of his boyhood pals had served time on Rikers Island; he’d seen two mob hits in Hell’s Kitchen; once, when he had borrowed money from one of his mentors, a man named Johnny, and hadn’t paid it back on time, he’d wound up choking on a gun that Johnny shoved against the back of his throat. He comforted himself by noting that these men had not mentioned Franklyn and Whitney Walker
—apparently, he and Cordiss had done a good job of hiding them away. Nevertheless, he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

  Cordiss was the one pissing ice water now. She had drifted in from the balcony and was standing motionless in the center of the room. She was barefoot, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt with no bra underneath, and she hadn’t put on any makeup, but she seemed completely unconcerned with her appearance—as if she were truly at home here, as if San Remo was where she had always belonged and the two men standing in her doorway were old friends.

  “They’re cops, Victor, let them in,” she said. “We have nothing to hide.”

  Still, Victor, his fears hidden behind his belligerent façade, continued to stare the two men down.

  “Not until I see some I.D.,” he said.

  The taller man gave a condescending smile, assessing Victor in his baggy Italian pants and sleeveless shirt as if he were some sort of gigolo or a Hollywood version of a blue-collar ladies’ man. “We’re not cops, Victor, but if you don’t talk to us, the next people you talk to will be cops.”

  “Then who are you?”

  The taller man spoke. His eyes were fierce and predatory. “My name is Alan Rothman. This gentleman is Carlos Wallace. We’re businessmen.”

  “Come in, Mr. Rothman, Mr. Wallace,” Cordiss said. Victor stepped aside while Cordiss moved to the TV and switched it off. Victor glanced longingly at the black TV screen, peeved that he wouldn’t get to see the end of the game.

  “Sit, gentlemen.” Cordiss pointed Rothman and Wallace to the couch and took a seat across from them in an overstuffed chair. Victor sat on the edge of the table that served as a TV stand. Stay cool, he told himself, just as he had told Cordiss many times before. Whatever happens, stay cool. He wondered why Cordiss had become so much better at following his advice than he was.

  “How did you track us down?” Cordiss asked.

  Rothman smirked, thinking of how easy it had been for Gina Lao to get the information they needed from Curly Bennett. “You should’ve used a pseudonym at the airport,” he said. “For a few bucks, people remember a name like Cordiss Krinkle.”