Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “I read McPherson’s book and saw the movie Gettysburg,” Scarne said. “I loved that line in the movie when Chamberlain tells his brother not to stand too close to him ‘or it could be a bad day for mother.’ He looked up at the portrait. “He doesn’t look at all like I pictured him. I guess I imagined him more like the actor who played him in the movie, Jeff Daniels.”

  “Don’t let Chamberlain’s dour expression fool you. He was in considerable pain when he stood for this painting. He was wounded at Petersburg in 1864, ‘low down’ as they used to say delicately, which means he was shot near where no man wants to get shot. Miracle he lived. And yet he was with Grant at Appomattox. By that time he’d been wounded four times and had six horses shot from underneath him. Then he went home, raised his family, was elected governor of Maine several times and then named president of Bowdoin. How that pleased him!” They reached the elevators. “Of course, the war never left him. His wounds constantly re-infected and he died of complications in 1914.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about Chamberlain,” Scarne asked.

  Something creaked behind the elevator door but nothing happened.

  “When I was a boy, I read a book, The Twentieth Maine, by John Pullen, and was hooked. Actually met him recently. Unbelievable luck. He wrote an article for one of our magazines and I asked him to lunch.” Shields smiled. “He died a couple of weeks later. Hope you have better luck.”

  Scarne laughed. “Have you visited the battlefields?”

  “When my son was young,” Shields said, “we took him to Gettysburg. We walked the town. Would you believe there’s still some bullet holes in the older buildings? Then we went out to Little Round Top.”

  As Shields spoke, Scarne took the opportunity to study the man. He was at least three inches taller than his guest. He might have lost weight recently. But he had a full head of white hair, and was immaculately groomed and dressed, with a brown tweed jacket and darker brown slacks. His tie was Ferragamo and his loafers Gucci. His thin face was set off with bushy eyebrows.

  “Josh ran ahead, like kids do, and spotted a monument. On it was the regimental crest of the 20th Maine, with a roster of the men who fought at that exact spot on July 3, 1863. He was so excited. I had regaled him about the battle many times. That was our best time together, other than our fishing.” Shields was quiet a moment. His features softened and his voice grew husky. “I recognized Chamberlain’s name right off, but then some of the other names from the book started coming back to me. Sergeants and privates even. I started to weep. My wife and son were embarrassed. Came out of nowhere.”

  “You weren’t crying for the soldiers,” Scarne said. “You were crying for the young boy who read the book.”

  Shields, whose eyes had glistened, gave Scarne an appraising glance.

  “Let’s have drink at the bar in the lounge before lunch. We’ll take the stairs. A man could give up drinking waiting for this damn elevator.”

  ***

  Once on the ground floor they walked through the billiards room. Two of the six green-felted tables were in use. Scarne was surprised; he’d never seen anyone playing at the club. Then he recalled a recent article in New York Magazine about a couple of Hollywood stars opening a new pool hall/wine bar in the Village. Billiards was now all the rage.

  The lounge itself, up a few stairs from the pool room, contained a dozen small tables arranged around a buffet featuring an assortment of meats and cheese, cold salads, chafing dishes with egg rolls and Swedish meatballs and bowls of various types of nuts. A large plasma TV hanging from a bracket in the far corner was tuned to a cable business news channel. An attractive blonde anchor was pontificating silently – the TV had been mercifully muted – above a continuous stock scrawl. No one sitting eating at the tables near the TV would have paid any attention to her anyway. Scarne knew for a fact that the woman, whom he’d met, barely knew the difference between a stock and a bond, let alone the esoteric derivatives that had recently brought the economy to heel. Scarne wasn’t a financial misogynist; the anchor’s well-coifed male counterparts were also universally clueless about the workings of the markets they allegedly covered. How else to explain their missing the greatest business stories in history while touting the brilliance of the financial “geniuses” whose activities threatened to destroy the world economy.

  Several people were standing at the bar, talking quietly amid the tinkling of ice and stirrers against glass. In the background was the faint clack of pool balls being struck or racked. Despite the faint aroma of the premium Brazilian Rosewood wax the club used exclusively on all its wood surfaces (adopted by Scarne for his own office), the bar area mainly smelled of old oak and cherry – and even older money. All in all, Scarne thought, not a bad place to be on a frigid day. Shields asked him what he wanted to drink.

  “Grey Goose martini, straight up. Twist.”

  “Make that two, Eddie,” Shields said.

  The drinks came, and they made small talk with the others at the bar, including a few well-dressed women who openly sized Scarne up. A shade over six feet tall, with a dark complexion and a face that would have been more handsome had he not taken his college rugby so seriously, Scarne knew he didn’t quite fit in. Most of the younger men at the bar were in decent health-club shape but they looked soft. He didn’t look soft, and the women noticed. Shields introduced him as a “friend,” and no one had the temerity to ask him what he did for a living. One by one, the crowd drifted off. Most walked up a small staircase to an intimate dining room behind the bar. Shields ordered two more martinis and told the bartender to send them to the main dining room on the fourth floor.

  “Eddie makes the best drinks in the house,” Shields said as they walked out. “You know what they say about martinis? They are like women’s breasts. One is not enough, and three are too many.”

  Scarne made a mental note to repeat that dictum to Evelyn.

  “Actually, at my age, Jake, two, in either category, may be too much.”

  ***

  The walls of the cavernous dining room were adorned with landscapes and portraits, creating a museum-like atmosphere. They were led to a corner table. Nearby, the Cardinal sat with the Police Commissioner, who glanced at Scarne and rolled his eyes. Scarne grinned at his old friend and sometime nemesis.

  “I reserved stone crabs for our appetizers,” Shields said as they were handed menus. “They don’t often have them and they go fast. Wonderful with ice-cold vodka. Of course, you can have anything you want.”

  “What did Pullen order?”

  Shields looked confused for a second and then laughed.

  “I love stone crabs,” Scarne said, turning to the waiter. “And I’ll have the bay scallops.”

  Shields ordered Dover sole.

  “I know you are curious about why I asked you to lunch, Jake. But before I get to that, I wonder if you would tell me something about yourself?”

  Scarne hesitated a moment, as if concentrating his thoughts.

  “Not much to tell. I’ve been doing private investigative work for almost eight years. I don’t always get my man, but it’s not for a lack of trying. I win more than I lose and I have references from people who don’t even like me.”

  Scarne realized he had been using the same spiel for quite some time. It sounded a little stale and a bit too pat. He’d have to work on another.

  “Some people think you are a bit of a cowboy.”

  “I come by that honestly,” Scarne said evenly. “I was born in Montana.”

  The crab claws arrived, along with martinis in frosted glasses. The claws were cold and plump, set off perfectly with lemons and the traditional mustard-laced dipping sauce. Both men tucked into the delicious meat.

  “I never feel guilty eating these,” Shields said, waving a huge claw. “Totally renewable. They pull off one arm and throw the crab back. The appendage regenerates completely in two years. Season is closed from May to October to give the buggers an additional break. Look at the si
ze of these. Even with one claw the crabs can defend themselves against most predators.”

  “Anyone ever ask the crabs how they feel about being so renewable?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Shields said as he vigorously split a shell with a nutcracker. “It all depends on one’s perspective. Hell is probably full of one-armed crustaceans with a long memory.”

  When their entrees came, Shields ordered a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay. The room began to fill up. Only an occasional laugh or rattling cocktail shaker rose above the murmurs of the well-to-do and politically connected diners. After they finished they both ordered coffee and brandy.

  “Tierney told me a little about your background,” Shields said as two waiters cleared their table. “And about your grandfather. He must have been quite a man. How in the world did an Italian submarine captain wind up in Montana?”

  “He liked to joke that they gave him the wrong charts. The truth is almost as good. His sub was rammed by a British destroyer in the Mediterranean. The crew was eventually rescued by an American merchantman. He wound up in a P.O.W. camp in Montana near my grandmother’s farm. They fell in love and after the war he went back to Montana, became a citizen and married her.”

  “He never returned to Italy?”

  “Grandpa loved the West. As a boy in Sicily he was devoted to dime novels about cowboys and Indians. He became a lawyer, eventually a judge. He always said he always wanted to find the British captain, to thank him.”

  “Don said your grandfather basically raised you.”

  “Yes. My parents died when I was very young and my grandmother soon afterward. So it was just the two of us.”

  “A plane crash. I mean your parents. Which you survived. It must have been quite traumatic.”

  “I barely remember it.”

  Which wasn’t quite true, Scarne knew. But those nightmares were less frequent now, replaced by those spawned by more recent horrors.

  “Why didn’t you stay out West?”

  “My grandfather thought I needed some polishing. He also wanted to keep me out of the hoosegow. My friends growing up were real cowboys and I had cousins who were real Cheyenne Indians. We were always getting into scrapes. A hundred years ago we’d have been hung from the nearest tree, Judge Scarne or no. So he sent me off to Providence College in Rhode Island.”

  “Why Providence?”

  “Good Catholic school. But mainly because he had cousins in the city, men he respected for having the good sense to leave Italy before the war while, as he put it, “I stayed to fight for that fat, bald shit Mussolini.’”

  Shields laughed.

  “Don said you also have an admirable war record. Marines, right?”

  Scarne felt the familiar feeling of withdrawal, the barrier going up, whenever his war was mentioned. He never considered blood, fear, filth and death admirable. Or some of the things he had done to other human beings. His medals were in a drawer. He wished he could put his memories in with them.

  “You guys had quite a chat, didn’t you?”

  Shields noticed the subtle change in Scarne’s demeanor.

  “Don’t be offended, Jake. I asked Don a lot of questions. He thinks highly of you and broke no confidences. For the record, he’s not the one who told me you were suspended from the District Attorney’s office for throwing a City Councilman off the balcony in City Hall. By the way, is that true?”

  Scarne smiled, his humor restored.

  “An exaggeration. I had him by his ankle.”

  Shields picked up his brandy glass.

  “I’d like to hear the reason.”

  “He bought off one of my witnesses with a patronage job. My case went down the tubes and a rapist, a cousin of a big contributor, went free.”

  “It cost you your career.”

  “But now people buy me stone crabs and brandy at fancy clubs.”

  “No regrets?”

  “Only that I didn’t drop the bastard. Is this a problem for you?”

  “Quite the opposite. I need someone who can shake things up, who is not afraid of … consequences. There is an element of danger in what I want you to do. Professional, for sure, and maybe more than that.”

  “Is this where I say, ‘danger is my middle name’ Mr. Shields?” Scarne smiled reassuringly at the old man. Everyone thought their problem unique and intractable. Must be woman trouble. Some gold digger has gotten her claws into the recent widower. Blackmail? He noticed that Shields wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be flip. Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about? I’m sure I can help.”

  Shields took a large swallow of his brandy.

  “I think Victor Ballantrae killed my son.”

  CHAPTER 4 – JOSHUA HIDLESS

  Scarne wasn’t sure he’d heard Shields correctly.

  “Victor Ballantrae?”

  “I take it you know who he is.”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone? Wall Street’s latest darling.” Up until now, the old man had seemed so rational. “Your own magazines have run glowing profiles on him. ‘At the Top from Down Under,’ was one story I recall.”

  Shields waved his hand dismissively.

  “At one time or another we’ve run glowing profiles on Ivan Boesky, Bernie Madoff and Allen Stanford. Business journalism is an oxymoron. We shill for these crooks until they’re caught. Then we blame the regulators.”

  Scarne thought the same but was surprised by the man’s candor.

  “Not what you expected from someone in my position, is it Jake? Let’s just say that I don’t agree with my brother’s editorial policy as it applies to Wall Street. And neither did my son.”

  “I heard about your recent losses, Mr. Shields. I’m sorry. I would have said something earlier but I didn’t think it was my place. We didn’t know one another. But I was given to understand your son died accidentally.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  Scarne saw Condon and the Cardinal glance in their direction.

  “When they told me Josh apparently drowned while fishing, I couldn’t believe it. I can see by the look on your face that you are wondering about his name. Yes, I named him after Chamberlain. Anyway, it’s always a shock when your child dies. But it seemed inexplicable. Josh was at home around the ocean. They said he got knocked over by a wave and panicked in the dark. A rip current surprised him. Or he got stung by a jellyfish. Maybe it was the tooth fairy. All sorts of theories. All nonsense. Nobody drowns in two feet of water in Miami! My boy was an excellent swimmer. For God’s sake, all he had to be was an excellent wader.”

  “Mr. Shields,” Scarne said gently. “Anyone can be unlucky.” Or stoned.

  “I know what you are thinking. But Josh rarely drank and there was no alcohol or drugs in his system. They said he might have had a heart attack or seizure, since there wasn’t much water in his lungs. And there were jellyfish stings on his body, even on his face. I understand how they would assume it was an accident.” Shields hesitated. “They even suggested suicide.”

  “Can you dismiss that possibility?”

  Shields took in a lot of air.

  “You have children, Jake?”

  Scarne shook his head.

  “Well, you’d be surprised how often parents think about their kids killing themselves. Rich or poor doesn’t matter. When Josh was growing up, and torn about his sexuality, my wife and I worried constantly that he might do something to himself. But it doesn't make sense, not now.”

  “Josh was gay?”

  “Yes. And happy in his own skin.”

  Scarne reserved judgment on that. Parents see what they want to see.

  “Was he in the family business?”

  “For a while, on the magazine. But he grated on my brother.” Shields took a sip of his brandy. “Please don't misunderstand me. Randolph didn't give a hoot about Josh's lifestyle. People in glass houses and all that. But Josh never met a CEO he didn't think should be indicted. He loved skewering them.”

  “In
cluding some of your advertisers?”

  Shields smiled ruefully.

  “The biggest. To be fair to Randolph, Josh could be a rant. He knew he was becoming an embarrassment to me. So he moved to Miami and joined the South Florida Times, what they call an alternative weekly.”

  “Were you estranged?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was quite proud of his independence. Children have to find their own way. It’s the way of things. He was doing good work down there. After oranges, corruption is Florida's biggest crop. With his business savvy, he got stories other reporters found too complicated. We used to discuss his scoops all the time. We were planning a fishing trip this spring.”

  Shields leaned forward.

  “If Josh wanted to kill himself, why take his fishing gear to the beach?”

  “To make it look like an accident, to spare you and your wife.”

  “His wallet, his keys and cell phone weren't among his things on the beach. And they weren’t in his apartment or car.”

  “Perhaps they fell out of his pockets...when he...in the ocean.”

  “Rubbish!” Shields waved his hand dismissively. “That’s what the police said. I told them that no surfcaster forgets to empty pockets. Everything goes in a watertight plastic bag. Taught him that myself.”

  “Someone could have stolen them after the fact.”

  “Cops said that too. Seemed logical at the time. But a thief probably would have used Josh’s credit cards right away, before they were canceled. There were no charges, ever. And I’ve left them active.”

  “What did the police say about that?”

  Shields gave Scarne a disgusted look.

  “Catch 22. Josh’s cards were either in the ocean or were stolen after he died. The fact that they weren’t used means they were probably in the ocean.”