Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “If you hurt her Arachne, I’ll kill you.”

  “I’m sure you will try. But let’s not lose our heads, Jake. Perhaps we can work something out. I told you what to do. No police. Come alone. I’ll expect you within the hour.”

  Arachne ended the call. Scarne called Dudley Mack.

  “Fuck,” Mack said. “What are you going to do?”

  “Go to his apartment. He sounded unhinged.” He gave Mack the address. “What about Bimm?”

  “We’re at JFK now. Got his flight info from his secretary. Told her we were the livery service but lost the info. But his plane landed a half hour ago. He wasn’t on it. I don’t like it. But there’s another one due in any minute. Maybe the fat bastard missed the earlier one.”

  “Wait for it. If he’s not on it. Head to Arachne’s.”

  “No cops?”

  “That’s what he said. I’ll get her clear then we can call the damn Marines for all I care.”

  “OK. And, Jake. Remember, eyewitnesses and innocent bystanders can fuck up the best alibi.”

  Scarne got dressed. Grey slacks, white shirt, blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket, the Heckler-Koch automatic. Dressed to kill, he thought. The weapon was barely broken in. He’d only fired a hundred or so rounds at the range. But the last time a German-engineered pistol jammed Bismarck was chancellor.

  CHAPTER 34 – GRAVITY NEVER SLEEPS

  On the way down in the elevator, Scarne tried a few draws from the Safariland “Quick Gun” shoulder holster that Mack had given him as a birthday present. (The card read: “It allows you to replace your gun with one hand, so you won’t spill your drink.”)

  The cab made good time, although to Scarne the ride was interminable. Although he was now expected, recalling Mack’s dictum about witnesses he had the driver drop him at the garage entrance. He walked to the private elevator like he belonged there. He passed a Bentley saloon whose driver, a tough looking Asian, stared at him. Now, if only Arachne hadn’t changed the code. Probably should have told Dudley about the elevator, Scarne thought. Hell, it won’t matter in an hour anyway. He punched in the date and immediately heard a whine coming from the shaft. Damn! The elevator was on the top floor. He wondered if that would alert Arachne. The digital readout for the high speed lift quickly counted down the floors until the door opened. Scarne had his hand on his gun but the empty car yawned at him. He got in and pressed the button for the penthouse.

  Scarne stood to the side with his weapon out when the elevator door opened again. He peaked out and stared down an empty hallway. He walked through the apartment and headed toward the living room. He recognized the music coming from the apartment’s sound system: Broadway show tunes, apparently from the same collection that played the night of Arachne’s party. A real Johnny One Note, Scarne thought. As Maria from West Side Story wafted in the background, he made a mental decision to shoot out a speaker if anything from South Pacific came on.

  In the living area, Arachne was standing by a sideboard pouring a brandy into a snifter. Ignoring Scarne’s gun, he motioned the decanter toward Scarne.

  “Want one?”

  Scarne noted that there was already a tray on the sideboard with two empty cocktail glasses. They looked like margaritas. One of Emma’s favorites.

  “Jake, I’m actually glad you are here,” Arachne said. He took a long pull on his brandy. “This solves many problems.”

  “They are just starting for you, Arachne.”

  Scarne heard a low moan coming from the terrace. As he quickly moved past Arachne he noticed there were scratches on his face and the beginnings of a black eye. Emma Shields was lying on a lounger in a corner of the terrace, eyes closed, motionless. He went to her. Emma’s blouse was open, her braless breasts exposed.

  “Don’t worry,” Arachne said, walking out and leaning against the rail. “She’s merely unconscious. It will be a blessing in the long run. Or, I should say, the short run.”

  Scarne put away his gun, buttoned her blouse and wheeled on Arachne.

  “You were going to rape her?”

  “That wasn’t my original plan. I thought she’d fuck willingly. But it turns out my initial advances might have been a bit primal. I’m afraid I don’t take rejection very well. But I played the perfect gentleman. Apologized. Offered her another drink, to which I added a little something to make things go smoother. And it did. When she woke up she would have a little bruising and a wonderful memory. I would be solicitous, tell her how much I loved her and ask her to marry me. Off we’d go into the sunset.” Arachne took a sip of his brandy. “ But then you called. So, I gave her some more chloral hydrate to keep her quiet while I thought of Plan B. And, so, here we are.”

  Scarne moved in front of Arachne.

  “You miserable son of a bitch. I’m going to let the cops have you for Elizabeth Pearsall. But I want a piece of you for myself first.”

  Arachne merely smiled, then looked past Scarne and said, “You took your damn time.”

  Scarne didn’t turn. It was the oldest trick in the book. Except it wasn’t.

  “Please don’t move. Put your hands behind your neck.”

  The voice came from behind Scarne. It sounded vaguely familiar. He did as he was told. Arachne’s smile grew broader.

  “Jake, allow me to introduce Mr. Roddenberry.”

  Scarne turned slowly. A man he recognized immediately was standing a few feet away, holding a silenced automatic.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “Hello, my son.”

  Arachne looked confused, then said, “Oh. I forgot you two have met.”

  “Twice,” Sobok said.

  Scarne looked at him.

  “The race track?”

  “Well, we didn’t actually meet, but I watched from the stands. You are a difficult man to kill, Mr. Scarne.”

  “You are 0 for 2.”

  “The first time doesn’t count. I didn’t intend to do you serious damage. But your point is well taken. I’ve never even been 0 for 1, as you say. Now, please turn around and face Mr. Arachne.”

  When Scarne did, Sobok pressed the gun under his chin and quickly and efficiently relieved him of his weapon, which he pocketed.

  Scarne said, “Roddenberry?”

  “Private joke,” Sobok murmured in his ear. “He doesn’t get it.”

  Arachne looked past Sobok, as if expecting someone.

  “Where is Cong Bao? I told you to bring him.”

  “With the car,” Sobok said. “I thought it would go smoother without him. Too many gooks spoil the pot and all that.”

  “You’re sure you can handle this one by yourself.”

  “Quite.”

  “I hate it when people talk about you like you’re not even here,” Scarne said. “How about filling me in.”

  “It’s simple,” Arachne said. “You and Emma are lovers. She threw you over for me. You came here to confront us, overpowered me and in a jealous rage pushed her to her death. Then, wracked with guilt and grief, you killed yourself.” He looked over the railing. “It put you over the edge, literally.”

  “You just came up with all this?”

  “Yes. It’s not elegant. But I think it will do. Killing two women you love would be too much for any man to take. I can see from the look on your face that I have hit a nerve. Yes, I know about what happened down in the Keys in the Ballantrae matter. Don’t worry, Emma didn’t betray any confidence. But when you appeared on the scene I started asking questions and fortunately I have friends in high places who like to gossip. You are quite the tragic hero in some select circles. I actually met Ballantrae once. We hit it off, as you might imagine. After your upcoming suicide I will make sure that your part in that affair reaches a wider audience. The unwashed masses will eat it up. But tell me, how does it feel to kill a lover?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Scarne took a step toward Arachne. Behind him the gunman said, “Don’t even think about it.”

  Scarne stopped.

&nbs
p; “I’m supposed to just jump?”

  “I’m sure you will take some persuading. But I think Mr. Roddenberry doesn’t want to go 0 for 3. If I have to, I will help out. Any bruises I suffer will just augment the injuries that Emma conveniently has already supplied and add verisimilitude to my heroic battle when you overpowered me. As for any injuries you suffer, Jake, I’m afraid they will be obliterated by your impact on the sidewalk below.”

  “You can’t seriously think you can get away with this?”

  “A murder-suicide involving one of the world’s most beautiful and powerful women and her deranged lover? A tragedy that I courageously tried to prevent. It will play out for months. No one will look too deeply.”

  “Others know what I know.”

  “Then why aren’t the police here?”

  Because I wanted to be a fucking cowboy and didn’t tell them, Scarne thought bitterly. He knew Mack would see through Arachne’s story. But he couldn’t tell this madman that. He might simply have “Roddenberry” wait in ambush for Dudley before he had a chance to act. Dudley was tough, and there was Bobo, but this man was a pro; it could go either way. The only way Arachne could be dealt with for sure would be for Scarne to remain silent. But that would doom Emma as well.

  “The sympathy and publicity that this soap opera engenders will be invaluable,” Arachne continued. “I can picture an entire spate of reality shows. Nobody will remember who Trump is.”

  “You’re pitiful, Arachne. Next thing, you’ll be going to the Donald’s hairstylist.”

  Arachne flushed and edged toward Scarne, raising his hand. It was what Scarne had hoped. But before he could do anything Arachne smiled and stepped back.

  “Very good, Jake. But let’s get this over with.”

  Scarne played his last, desperate card.

  “Bimm won’t keep his mouth shut forever. He’s too greedy.”

  Arachne laughed.

  “Finally, we agree on something. He was indeed a liability. I’ll spare you the details, but as Lacuna would have put it, Bimm is sleeping with the fishes. From what I understand he became something of a tourist attraction. But look on the bright side, Jake. In a few weeks we’d be in my new apartment on Spruce Street and your fall would be 76 floors. Here it’s only 34. You may even be able to have an open casket. ”

  “You would do this to Emma?”

  “I would do it to anyone who gets in my way. Console yourself. She is asleep. Unfortunately for the both of you, gravity never sleeps, as they say.”

  Arachne looked at Sobok and nodded.

  Scarne whirled around but was too late.

  CHAPTER 35 – PATRIOT’S GAME

  The scream, more like a screech, woke up residents on the 15th, 11th and 7th floors as he passed by their windows. It was New York, so they all went back to sleep. From his vantage point Sobok followed the plummet all the way to the ground. Even at his height he could hear the crump.

  “I would have expected a splat,” Sobok said, picking up a nearby vase. He pulled out the flowers and poured the water over Scarne, who sputtered awake. “Come on, we have to get you and the woman out of here.”

  It took a moment for Scarne to get himself together. When he did, Sobok was pointing the silenced pistol at him.

  “Just a precaution Mr. Scarne. Believe it or not, we are on the same side now. Will you behave?”

  “Where is Arachne?”

  “Making a puddle down on the sidewalk.”

  Scarne staggered over to the rail and looked down. A woman was screaming. He could see other people converging on the scene as the building’s doorman nonsensically blew his whistle. Arachne didn’t need a cab, he needed a morgue wagon. He turned to Sobok.

  “You killed him.”

  “Apparent suicide. At least that’s how it will hopefully read.”

  “He might have landed on someone.”

  “I looked before he leaped.”

  The first sirens began warbling. Sobok unscrewed the silencer and put it and the gun away. He motioned to Scarne.

  “Try to rouse Miss Shields. We can take the rear elevator. Now, quickly. I want to clean up the drinks he spiked.”

  He walked away. Emma was still out like a light, but stirring. Scarne raised one of her eyelids and she tried to swat his hand. He pinched her ear, hard.

  “Owwww!

  Sobok was back.

  “Arachne left nothing to chance. They had margaritas, which would have masked the chloral hydrate’s salty taste. He undoubtedly had long experience doing this.”

  They pulled Emma off the lounge and dragged her toward the front door. One of her high-heel shoes fell off and Sobok picked it up. He also took off the other one.

  “I’ll never understand how can they wear these damn things,” he said.

  Scarne was almost all the way back.

  “What about fingerprints, DNA? Security cameras?”

  “You and the woman have been here recently, along with half the political bigwigs in the city, not to mention the household help.” Sobok smiled. “And I’m not worried about my fingerprints or DNA, even if they eliminated the other thousand people. I’m not on file anywhere. There are no cameras in the garage proper and none in Arachne’s private elevator. I presume he didn’t want a record of his trysts, especially if he planned rape. Did anyone see you come in?”

  “Just a chauffeur. He probably saw Emma, as well.”

  “Perhaps. But if asked, she will claim she left hours ago, after she told him they were through. News that must have pushed him over the edge, to use his phrase.”

  Sobok didn’t seem particularly worried about the chauffeur, Scarne noted as they had reached the rear elevator bank. Emma was starting to come to. Sobok entered the code and the doors slid open.

  “How do you know she will say that?”

  “She is not a stupid woman. And you will explain the situation to her.”

  They walked Emma into the elevator and Sobok pushed a button. The elevator began descending, fast.

  “High speed,” Sobok commented. “But I think Arachne would have preferred it.”

  “Where am I?”

  It was Emma. She lurched and Sobok caught her just as the elevator reached the ground floor. When the door opened, he transferred her to Scarne, handing him her shoes.

  “Follow behind. I’ll see if the coast is clear.”

  The strange little procession is sure to alarm Arachne’s driver, Scarne realized. He was about to warn the other man when he noticed that the chauffeur was still staring out the window. And hadn’t moved an inch. On closer observation he spotted the strange bend in the driver’s neck.

  Sobok was returning. Emma watched the tall man approach and then screwed up her eyes to focus on Scarne

  “Jake, what .…”

  “Be quiet, honey. I’ll explain later.”

  “There’s nobody around,” Sobok said. “I’ve flagged a cab. Here, let me help you with the lady.”

  “I presume that’s the late Cong Bao in the Rolls over there.”

  “Yes. A pity. I rather liked him.”

  “You never planned to go along with killing us,” Scarne said as the walked through the garage, Emma between them.

  “Arachne was a lunatic,” Sobok said. “I would never have taken on the assignment had I known what he had done on Staten Island. Initially I thought he was merely punishing some thugs for overstepping their assignments. I could live with that. Even killing you made sense.”

  “A lot of people would agree,” Scarne said.

  “But then Bimm, in his final moments, told me the whole story. It was he and Arachne all along.”

  Scarne could imagine what Bimm’s ‘final moments’ were like.

  “Arachne was becoming increasingly erratic,” Sobok continued. “The Three Stooges could have worked up a better plan than the one upstairs.” They had reached the street. “Now, let’s act inebriated and silly. All the activity is in the front of the building. With luck, nobody will connect three
drunks around the corner with a dead body.”

  “Who died?” Emma was slurring her words. She’d easily pass for a drunk. “Anyone I know.”

  “Osama bin Laden,” Scarne said.

  Sobok liked that. When they got to the street there was a cab idling. The driver was wearing a turban. Once inside the taxi, Scarne acted the drunk by singing “The Patriot’s Game,” the Irish lament that Dudley Mack had tortured him with for years. Sobok looked over at him.

  “I’m beginning to regret not shooting you.”

  Emma tapped the glass partition. The driver turned.

  “Yes, miss?

  “Osama bin Laden is dead,” she told the cabbie. “The bastard.”

  “I’m Sikh,” the man replied, nettled.

  “I’m feeling a bit woozy myself,” Emma replied, lurching back.

  The driver looked back quickly.

  “Do not throw up in my cab!”

  Sobok leaned forward.

  “Just drive.”

  He rattled off the address of Scarne’s apartment. Scarne looked at him. “Research,” Sobok said, shrugging. “Better not take her home until she gets her story straight. Now, while we have a moment, tell me how you tracked down Banaszak.”

  Scarne gave him the short version.

  “Priceless,” Sobok said. “A priest. So that is why you mentioned the sanctity of the confessional in the hospital parking lot. I wondered about that. But you still had virtually nothing to go on. I am impressed. It is what your Edgar Allen Poe would say is a wonderful example of deductive ratiocination.”

  “You were always one step ahead of me.”

  “Yes, but I had a crib.”

  “Where are my Fuck Me’s?”

  It was Emma again. Sobok glanced at Scarne, perplexed.

  “Her shoes,” Scarne said, struggling to put one of them on a foot she now playfully waved in his face. “That’s what women call them.”

  “Americans,” Sobok said, shaking his head. “Give me the other one.” He grabbed her other foot, which she wiggled. “Now, behave yourself Ms. Shields.”

  “Oh, suck farts,” she said, but then was mercifully silent for the rest of the ride, as the cab swept through Manhattan’s mostly silent streets, mowing down the spectral steam rising from dozens of manholes on their way to Greenwich Village. Scarne thought of the famous scene in Taxi Driver, with Robert DeNiro’s crazed Travis Bickle behind the wheel of a different cab. Bickle would appear sane beside some of the characters in our drama, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck, which was throbbing.