by Barry, Mike
“What happened?” one of them said, leaving the other standing at a distance of some ten to twenty yards back, arms crossed, looking in the distance. Standard technique. Two men to a car but one would do the work, the other stand by. Halve the effort. Next call they might switch. Two to a car, Wulff thought, was the biggest waste of manpower possible but all of the large cities worked that way. Patrolmen’s unions; “Two men to a car were necessary for protection,” they stated but it meant for all practical intents and purposes that all of the time, half the team was not working. “Lose control?”
“I got cut off,” Wulff said.
The cop looked at him with interest. Wulff for the first time in some hours became aware of his appearance; the marks of the struggle with Versallo had really not been sponged off by the quick washing he had done. Spatters of blood were on his clothing; his face was probably ringed by it. The cop’s eyes flickered. Bad news, Wulff thought.
“Who cut you off?” the cop said.
“A man in a Cadillac. I didn’t get his license number, didn’t get anything; I was having too much trouble trying to control this thing.”
The cop looked over at the van, resting on its roof, already beginning to settle upon it. One of the wheels like a finger stroked at the air. “Let’s see some identification,” he said.
“Identification?”
“License,” the cop said, “registration. Credentials. Proof that you had a right to drive that thing.” In what was obviously an unconscious gesture his hand reached down, caressed the police revolver, then went up to his chin as if in a gesture of denial. His partner now was watching the scene intently.
“Don’t have it with me,” Wulff said.
“You don’t look like you have any injuries to me.”
“I don’t. I was lucky.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you in, friend,” the cop said. “Who are you anyway?”
“I’m from out of state.”
“I gather you are. I gather you’re from way out of state. You still haven’t answered me though.”
“I don’t think I want to,” Wulff said quietly.
The cop was completely involved now. Any indifference that had been in him as he had walked over had been burnt out by curiosity, and what Wulff saw was just a trace of fear. He motioned to his partner who came over slowly, trying to show Wulff how little concerned he was, but Wulff noticed that this one curled a hand around his club.
“No identification, no license, no registration, won’t identify himself, won’t go into any of the circumstances of the accident,” the cop said.
“I told you about the accident. I got cut off.”
“Stands mute. Looks to me like he’s been in one hell of a fight too. Whose blood is that, friend?”
“Mine,” said Wulff, “I got cut when it rolled over.”
“I don’t think so,” the cop said and then turned to his partner. “Think we got to take him in?”
“I think we’d better do just that.”
“All right,” Wulff said, “let’s go then.” It was a strange feeling being on the other side of a process that he had gone through hundreds of times, feeling the control of the situation shift completely away from him, feeling now as if he were merely an object which these cops were manipulating, manipulating quite protectively of course. It was always interesting to see things from the other side.
The odd thing was that he still felt like a cop and he wanted to tell them that their procedure was all wrong. In light of this situation; the wreck, his appearance, the complete absence of credentials, they should not be standing here idly discussing his disposition, telling him of their planned move. He could be any kind of a felon. They should have had their guns out and already in the process of handcuffing. But the Chicago police were hesitant. Probably their public-relations department was still working to bring back a sense of confidence in them. They had had a rough time, no one believed in them anymore.
“Let’s take him in then,” the partner said. He still had his hand on his club, reconsidered this, went at last for the gun and took it out slowly as if he were plucking a grape, showed it to Wulff. “There doesn’t have to be any trouble,” he said, “all you have to do is cooperate.”
“I’ll cooperate,” Wulff said, “don’t worry about that. I want to cooperate to the fullest extent of the law.”
“This man is funny,” the partner said. “This man has an original and delightful sense of humor. Should we show him what we think of his sense of humor?”
The cop who had made the original approach looked discomfitted. He looked for the first time, in fact, as if he had no idea of how to proceed. “I don’t want any difficulties,” he said to Wulff, “there don’t have to be any problems—”
“There aren’t any problems,” Wulff said. “I want to see Patrick Wilson. That’s the federal attorney’s offices.”
“I don’t know nothing about federal attornies,” the cop said, “I don’t know anything about Patrick Wilson.” He extended a hand. “I can cuff you,” he said, “but if you’ll cooperate it won’t be necessary.”
“I told you I’ll cooperate.”
“Let’s cuff him,” the partner said. He looked at Wulff in an unpleasant, sidewise way, his eyes suddenly squinting. “Come on, we’ve got a man who won’t identify himself, has no credentials, looks as if he’s been in a violent episode of some sort.”
“All right,” Wulff said. He extended his arms. The partner stopped in mid-speech, looked at him dubiously. People who assumed the position of being handcuffed were obviously a rarity to him. Either that or he did not particularly like the idea of bringing in Wulff in cuffs and had used this merely as a threat. He seemed to be calculating one thing against the other in his mind: what would they think of this in headquarters? The only thing demonstrable so far was that the perpetrator had been involved in a one-car accident.
While he was thinking about this, Wulff pushed past the two of them, walked toward the police car. He kept his hands up all through this to make clear that there was no attempt to flee. His stride was measured and regular. Comforting. In a way it was comforting to be back in police hands again. He had never realizeduntil this moment how it must look on the other side of the fence, why many wanted apprehension, why there were some cases that literally ran toward you begging to be taken in. It was easy; it sure as hell shifted the responsibility. And that was what he wanted right now. For the moment, he did not want to think.
He moved steadily toward the police car. Traffic on the expressway had not halted although cars tended to slow down as they neared the police car with its rotating blinker, drivers peering out to see if they could catch a glimpse of a corpse or two without holding up commuting schedule. They could hardly be blamed for that, Wulff thought, it broke up the routine. A spectacular highway accident was fun for everyone except the victims: it gave the cops something to do, the insurance companies things to investigate, motorists the chance to feel how lucky they were. He opened the door of the police car, wedged himself in in the center and, folding his arms, waited for the police to come.
They showed up in just a minute, the heavier one slightly out of breath from the climb up the incline. One got into the back with Wulff, the panting one became the driver. Doors slammed and the car came out of the pit at forty miles an hour, accelerating. Within the insulated surfaces, spilling out behind them Wulff could hear the sound of the siren.
“I just want to tell you that we don’t like any of this,” the cop next to him said, “the whole thing stinks. Why don’t you give some identification?”
“I’ll give it when I’m ready,” Wulff said. “I want to see Patrick Wilson.”
“Nobody knows who Patrick Wilson is here.”
“You tell them at the booking. Patrick Wilson, do you hear me?”
The cop leaned forward, said something to the driver which under the sound of the siren was inaudible. Probably, Wulff thought, he was trying to find out who t
he hell Wulff was talking about. Then again, maybe he thought that Wulff was crazy and wanted to split this confidence in the way that cops did every so often.
Either way, it didn’t really matter, did it? It was a good feeling to be back in custody, to let the sense of all of this shift from him. He had had enough of coping, let them cope for the moment. Let the agencies worry about the problem; they were well-paid enough. With a sigh, with a felon’s sense of gratitude Wulff sank back into the slick material of the rear seat (shiny, cheap and uncomfortable but you could bet that it would resist any attempts to scar it with a knife) and let them take him where they would. The bastards.
Chapter 16
Calabrese lived in a mansion at the end of Michigan Avenue. Most of the people with his money, at his social level had long since fled to Evanston or Urbana but Calabrese was a city boy, and anyway he liked to keep an eye close on his operations, all of which were in the city. So it was still Chicago. But he was sealed in.
He was sealed in by a twenty-four hour security force that numbered at least ten men (the exact number was a secret of course), by gates, by an alarm system and by one of the nastiest patrol dogs Randall had ever seen, a dog so vicious that it appeared to have its own keeper who was paid to do nothing but stay with the dog full-time and minister to it. It was the keeper with whom Randall started his negotiations; forty-five minutes later it landed him in Calabrese’s study where the man himself rolled a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and studied Randall with a curiously calm, kindly expression. He might have been a whimsical old businessman devoted to philanthropy, who took a fatherly and detached interest in everyone who came to his door, a man who regarded humanity from the sidelines with mingled wonder and scholarly concern, and this was in a sense true although it was not quite all of it.
Calabrese was about seventy years old and was such a remote, patriarchal figure that to the best of Randall’sknowledge even Versallo had dealt with the old man only over the phone and then, perhaps three or four times a year to get approval for this thing, clearance on something else. Nevertheless, Randall had been able to run the gauntlet and get into the man’s presence within forty-five minutes. This was a tribute either to Randall’s charm and determination or to Calabrese’s whimsical old philanthropist’s willingness to humor a would-be visitor but Randall did not think that it all ended there.
He sat on the couch under the old man’s gaze and tried to keep himself as calm as possible, forced himself to meet Calabrese’s eyes. He had heard it told that Calabrese preferred people who were not in awe of him and not easily intimidated, and he would do the very best that he could to oblige although it was very hard to sit there calmly under the gaze of the most important distributor and chieftain in the midwest, a man who had been to Versallo what Versallo was to Randall. Randall had had a rough day. The shock of seeing his boss dead, the trip to the guardhouse, the interview with the police had left him drained. Still, he had all of this yet before him. If he did not succeed with Calabrese everything that had gone before was meaningless, and it would be as if everything had been nothing. Versallo would die unavenged, Randall’s future would disappear, everything would fall apart.
He suspected that if he failed with Calabrese he did not, at least, have a long, bitter, lonely future to await him. Calabrese would take care of the future for him.
“I don’t understand,” Calabrese said now in that gentle, low voice of his. Randall might have thought that Calabrese got it out of the movies except that everyonewho had any sense knew that the Calabreses were the reality from which the glittering sentimental fantasies came. “What do you want of me? And how did you get hold of a valise with that amount of uncut heroin?”
“That’s part of what I can’t tell you,” Randall said.
Calabrese’s eyes narrowed and he did not, suddenly, look quite so benevolent and whimsical. “If the source of that valise is what I think it is,” he said, “it doesn’t matter whether you tell me or not. That shipment has caused many people a great deal of difficulty.”
“Of course,” Randall said, “you can have it.”
Calabrese’s eyes broke out of their narrowness and widened considerably. “Have it?” he said. “You must doubtless be out of your mind. The unfortunate murder of your employer must have unsettled you completely.”
“Of course you want it,” Randall said. Already he felt off-guard and helpless. Class was class; he admitted it. He was running out of class with a man like Calabrese. He could not, in any terms deal successfully with a man like this; he would always come out feeling like a fool. The only thing was to go stolidly ahead. This man was not born on Michigan Avenue surrounded by pewter. Once he had been a struggling, sweating little man like all of them. Concentrate on that, he thought. Remember he’s the same as you, they all are. This did not help.
“But I don’t want it,” Calabrese said, leaning forward slightly. “I will talk to you very frankly although I do not want you to think even for a moment that I am conceding to you that I am who you seem to represent me as being. I am just a simple, common businessmanwho has many interests and I am seeing you as a favor to my staff who you have given quite a difficult time. And besides that,” Calabrese said with a little glint that made Randall nauseous, “if you ever cause me any difficulty I will have your heart ripped out from your chest cavity, barehanded. There are people I know who can do this kind of a job and even enjoy it.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Calabrese said and raised a hand. “But nothing. Assuming that I am what you think I am, why would I want this amount of uncut heroin coming into my distribution sources, eh?”
“I only offered it to you for help you might give me,” Randall said stubbornly. Concentrate on the one main objective. “If you don’t want—”
“You’re stupid,” Calabrese said in a slightly louder voice. “All of you men are stupid. It’s a miracle that you get anything done. Shut up and think for a moment. Do you know what this supply would do to the market?”
“Make you richer.”
“No,” Calabrese said, “it would not make me richer.” He put the cigarette he had been holding into his mouth and looked at an exquisite gold lighter on the desk before him, then as if rejecting the very concept of smoking, shook his head, broke the cigarette and threw it into an ornate wastebasket to his right. “It would make me poorer. It would be as if a massive convoy of enemy airplanes were to fly over downtown Chicago, dropping millions of dollars of perfect counterfeit currency into the south side. How long do you think the economy would last?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if they simultaneously appeared in Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Dallas? What if a hundred million perfect counterfeit dollars were to fall into the hands of the population of Watts or Harlem? Have you thought of that?”
“I guess,” Randall said after a moment’s pause and he really did think this through because he saw for the first time what Calabrese was getting at and with it was an enormous and valuable insight, “it would destroy our economy.”
“Of course it would,” said Calabrese. He fumbled inside his jacket, took out a pack of cigarettes and extracted another, looked at it sadly for a moment and then broke this one too across and threw it into the wastebasket. “It’s the only way I can control the habit,” he confided. “I go through seven packs an afternoon, just breaking them up and throwing them away like this but it’s better than dying, isn’t it? I don’t believe in drugs, you see. It,” he said again in that other, more pedantic tone, “would destroy the economy, because it would utterly wreck the objective medium of exchange which is the clear, visible outcome of the most delicate, profound, wonderful system mankind has ever known, which we refer to crudely as supply and demand. There is less currency than desire at any given moment, you see. Currency. However, the transferred desire and energies that would otherwise lead us straight to anarchy are transferred over to the pursuit of the abstract, currency.
> “But if you meddle with that,” Calabrese said, “you risk destroying everything. That was actually considered and rejected, by the way, as an actual means of sabotage during the Second World War. They were going to flood the Berlin of 1942 with marks. The presses were ready to roll and the best, the most expert counterfeiters the government was able to buy or to take out from the prisons for the war effort had prepared plates which were absolutely indistinguishable from the reality. It went up to the highest levels of the security service and only at the last moment was the plan rejected. Do you know why?”
“I think I’m beginning to.”
“I think you are as well,” Calabrese said. “Because there are certain means of warfare which are absolutely intolerable, even worse than poison gases, and this would be one of them. It was decided, finally, that it would be better to risk losing the war and still inhabit the world which we do inhabit then to win it in a way which would have changed everyone’s reality. Of course,” Calabrese said after a pause, “there was also the possibility that if we did it to them they would have the capacity to do it to us, and no one was willing to take even the smallest chance that such would be the case. Decency prevailed, you see. It usually does.”
“And that’s why you don’t want the contents of that valise,” Randall said.
“Exactly,” Calabrese said, “that is why I do not want the contents of that valise. You have, by presenting it to me, already put me into a nearly impossible position. I must arrange for its disposition, and yet how trustworthy would be even the best of those who I would elect to dispose of it? You are going to send an old man to the lake himself on a very sad journey, Randall, and I am not pleased with that. Also, I hate physical exercise of almost any sort.”
