by Louis Begley
Interesting, interesting, Scott mused. This was before you made your discoveries. Certainly before Brown had any wind of your interest in him. Why do you suppose Slobo would be already on your case? And if he was on your case, why do you suppose he let it drop once you were whisked away by those Bonackers?
I’ll ask him next time we meet, I answered, and will let you know what he tells me.
—
An exploding handgun. Tranquilizing darts. What next? I asked myself. The elements of a plan were slowly and vaguely forming in my mind but hadn’t jelled into something complete or recognizable. I knew that I was likely to have to turn the tables on Slobo by surprising him somehow, but when I tried to visualize the encounter with him my mind became a blank and remained one even if I assumed, as I had when I put on my tough-guy act for Scott, that it would take place at Harry’s house in Sag Harbor. Alternatively, my thoughts would stray obsessively toward the scene of the revenge killing in the Mato Grosso. Alberto Ferreira puts out the word that he’ll be sitting on his porch every evening, ready to receive the thug who’d murdered his predecessor. Sure enough, one evening the guy arrives, tosses a hand grenade, and for good measure empties the magazine of his Smith & Wesson. Is Ferreira dead? Hell no: the figure in the rocker was just a dummy dressed to look like him. Meanwhile the real Alberto Ferreira lets the murderer have it with both barrels of his 12-gauge shotgun. So brilliant! Why wouldn’t it work for me? Great military leaders don’t try to re-invent the wheel. They study the great campaigns, whether it’s Hannibal crossing the Alps or Napoleon marching on Ulm. Why couldn’t I borrow a window display dummy from Ralph Lauren’s men’s store, where I’d spent a fortune buying a shearling coat (and inscribed to the salesman and his husband a copy of my second book), stick a wig and some clothes on the dummy, sit him down in the studio in Sag Harbor, in the very spot where Harry must have been, and lure Slobo in?
I knew the answer. The terrain and the enemy were too vastly different. To boil it down to one fact only, there was no porch in Sag Harbor on which I could rock and expose myself to Slobo’s fire. Only the general concept of the trap with me as bait applied. The rest was a wild array of unknowns that I must match by flexibility and diversity of arsenal. I didn’t think that Scott would be able to produce the dart I might need. If he did come up with one, it was apt to be too weak or too strong. There was another source I thought of as I was preparing to go to bed in the back bedroom of his flounder house. Susie the veterinarian! Divorced from a guy I’d played lacrosse with, she’d made a specialty of big animals and worked at the Bronx Zoo. I called her in the morning and asked if I could see her on my way from the airport. Even a modest literary celebrity, if combined with Hollywood success, is a great help when it comes to wasting the time of busy people. She gave me the directions to the Wildlife Health Center on the zoo grounds and said she’d be at her office.
Yeah, it’s warm here, she said, we keep it that way for our smaller clients. The big guys, my special pets, we don’t usually see here. We make house calls, she laughed. Go ahead, take off your jacket. I’ll take mine off too.
I’d always thought she was pretty, but I’d never seen her look as well. Under the white coat she’d removed she had a gray sleeveless top, and I noticed that she didn’t shave her armpits. Was this a new development, I wondered, or had I never had occasion to look? There was a smell of fresh sweat in the air, without a doubt her sweat. I found I was powerfully aroused, and forced myself to remember the purpose of my visit and, of course, Kerry. Meanwhile she chatted away, telling me she’d never been happier at work, that she and my former teammate Hugh were on good terms, they had an occasional drink together and made out for old times’ sake but except for one time nothing below the waist, how she met guys here and there, mostly in the neighborhood bars in the East Village where she lived, and that she was planning a trip to Patagonia with a couple of colleagues.
If you do that, I told her, let me know. I spent a little over a month there last winter. Just think of me as your private trip adviser. Which brings me circuitously to the reason for my visit. Have you had experience with a big animal—I don’t mean an elephant or a hippo, but for instance a big ape, an orangutan—who’s gotten overexcited, however that happens, and is putting some person, let’s say a member of the zoo staff, in danger? I have the impression, God knows from where, perhaps from the Times, that at such moments an imperturbable person in a white coat, such as you, rushes in and tranquilizes the assailant. Is that true? How does it work?
She laughed again, and asked whether I had taken to writing mystery stories.
Not exactly, I told her, but it’s a parallel interest.
The dart, she said, is basically a flying syringe. The point—if you like, the needle—penetrates the skin and a little metal ball in the back of the syringe, driven by inertia, pushes the liquid into the animal. All sorts of tranquilizers and muscle relaxants are used. Curare, the agent that Amazon tribes were always putting on the tips of their arrows that they shot through blow guns, is the most famous and the best. If there isn’t an overdose, the subject is temporarily paralyzed. Can’t move, but retains sensation. The trick is not to administer too much unless a respirator is on hand because if the paralysis is too profound it affects the lungs and the subject will be asphyxiated. So yes, the little man or the little lady can rush in with a dart gun and stop the big cat or the orangutan or the wildebeest from doing its thing. The trick is to not administer too little or too much, and that is of course directly related to size, weight, and so on.
Music to my ears, I said. How fast do these things act?
Depends on the agent and the dosage. You can speed up the action by poisoning the needle part of the dart itself. That gets the drug into the bloodstream faster. But once the dart is in and injects the fluid the entry into the bloodstream is pretty quick anyway.
She saw the expression on my face and added, You’re loving this stuff, aren’t you?
I am, I am, I answered, but there is one thing I don’t understand. Why don’t the police use darts in most cases instead of live rounds?
Mostly stupidity, she said, at least in my opinion. The line they spout is that a standardized dose could kill a smaller-than-average person, and that the time it takes for the dart to be effective—it’s a matter of seconds—is too long. Someone will have to explain to me why the risk of an overdose is less acceptable than five rounds fired from a Glock, and how massive a volley you’ve got to fire to stop in his tracks a determined criminal coming at you with a firearm or a machete. If you want to know my bottom line, cops don’t see themselves swaggering around with a dart gun. They want the real McCoy.
Susie, I said, will you make up for me, or buy for me if they’re available ready-made, two or three darts, preferably laced with curare, that will temporarily—by that I mean anything between five minutes and half an hour—paralyze a man of my build but heavier, weighing a little over one hundred ninety pounds? The stuff needs to act fast, in fact almost instantaneously. Will you do that for me?
Holy shit, Jack, she exclaimed, what are you up to? What is this for?
All right, I said, I’ll tell you the unvarnished truth. There’s a guy, a professional killer, with those specifications, who’s going to try to kill me. Probably in ten days. I don’t want to get police protection, and I’m not sure I have enough to go on to obtain it, but believe me I haven’t lost my mind and I know what I’m talking about. Of course, I could shoot the bastard, or use my knife on him, but for a whole lot of reasons, none of which is humanitarian, I may not want to. So please do this for me. I’ll owe you big.
Big enough to take me away from all this for a romantic weekend in Paris?
Before I could answer, she slithered into my lap. Her body burned through mine. And I had guessed right. That smell was of her sweat. She kissed me, thrusting deep with her tongue.
Wow, I said, when I had disengaged from her mouth, this is a subject we must revisit if I survive this guy’s
visit. So the darts had better be good.
They will, she replied. But don’t fuck up. I’m not sure what I mean by it, but don’t fuck up, don’t let anyone know for instance I gave you those darts. It might cost me my license and perhaps time in the big house.
I won’t, I told her. When can I have them?
The day after tomorrow, she said. Give me your address. I’ll drop them off, together with a dart pistol. And you don’t need to be there to receive the package. I’ll wait for our getaway.
—
Some nut called this morning, Captain Jack, Jeanette told me when I got home. A foreigner. He asked to speak to you and when I said you were out of town he went like, Oh yeah, tell him he’s dead meat. I was about to yell at him but he hung up.
He is a nut, Jeanette dear, I said, and an unpleasant one. I intend to take care of him in short order. In the meantime, here is what I think you should do. You’ll recognize his voice, won’t you?
Yes.
Well then if he calls again just hang up. Doesn’t matter how often he calls. If he leaves a message, don’t erase it. Second: don’t let any repairmen or similar types into the apartment unless I’m here and you’ve checked with me first. If there’s an exception to that rule, I’ll tell you. Third: deliveries of food, cleaners, and so on, only let into the kitchen deliverymen you know. If it’s somebody new and I’m not at home, tell the elevator man you want the delivery held downstairs until I come back. If I’m at home, call me and let me take a look at the deliveryman.
Yes sir, Captain Jack, she said mournfully. Are you scared of this nut?
No, I’m not, I replied, but I don’t want either you or me to get in trouble because we don’t take precautions.
I resolved to get Kerry to adopt a similar set of rules for her apartment and to follow those that Martin had prescribed, and wolfed down the lunch Jeanette had prepared. I’d read the Times on the plane so I took a second cup of coffee with me to my study and called Simon Lathrop. It had occurred to me that Brown must be content to have his legal flank secure, with Will Hobson in control of J & W. It was time to rattle his cage and initiate some activity at the firm.
Abner Brown is a real bastard, I told Simon. It’s astonishing that Harry was able to get along with him—no, put up with him—for so many years.
No doubt you saw the foulmouthed rough version, Simon replied. I know it exists. In fact Harry described it. But there is another side that’s all quirky charm and considerateness and, don’t forget it because it’s all important if you want to understand Harry, a truly remarkable talent for business and very high intelligence. A highly sophisticated collector, with genuine personal taste! And not just his admirable Renaissance bronzes. Early Florentine painting as well, a major collection. That’s one side of the equation. On the other were Harry’s love for handling the most challenging business problems, of which Brown had plenty, his ambition, which made him want to get the Brown business and hang on to it, and his loneliness. Until you came back from Afghanistan, for many years, Brown really furnished Harry’s life.
And after all that, Brown turned on him, I interjected. Turned on him viciously.
Simon laughed and said, That is definitely not out of character. On the contrary!
All things considered, I continued, my conversation with him went pretty much as expected. You’ll be interested to hear that he flatly denies having asked that Harry stop working on his matters because he thought Harry had lost his marbles. Instead, he gave me to understand he fired Harry because Harry had confronted him about illegalities Harry had discovered. That is very different from the story that Will Hobson gave me.
Indeed, Simon said, after a silence, very different. What you’re saying squares with other anomalies in Hobson’s activities. None of this could have happened when we still functioned like a real partnership and partners—especially the seniors—really kept an eye on what was going on inside the firm. Now the chairman and his handpicked management committee can play it pretty close to the vest. But I’m ready to convene another meeting of the senior group in the firm for the purpose of starting a formal inquiry. It would not be unusual to ask an eminent outsider, a former federal judge or U.S. attorney, to head it up. You’re no longer asking that I delay?
Not at all, I replied. So far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better.
—
I told Kerry almost everything about the visit to Brown Tower and what I’d learned about Slobo from Scott, leaving out my speculations about Slobo’s likely course of action. She grew very serious and, for the second time since I’ve known her, began to cry. I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I don’t want them to kill you, was what she repeated over and over. Why can’t you be reasonable? Let’s take what you have—Harry’s notes that you’ve put in that safe-deposit box included—and go to see the U.S. attorney. If you let me look at the notes I’ll confirm that it’s the dynamite we think it is, but even without a look, knowing Harry, I’m sure it’s very serious stuff. Let them start an investigation into Harry’s death, into Brown, and let them give you serious police protection. You owe me this, Jack. You’ve told me you love me, you’ve said you want to marry me, and I want to marry you too, you have no right to act like some crazy Wild West sheriff who’s got to get his man. You’ve been to Iraq, you’ve been to Afghanistan, it’s enough!
The only answer I could come up with was that she had to trust me. Slobo wouldn’t kill me, I’d kill him. And then we’d live happily ever after.
And what if Slobo doesn’t come after you alone, she wailed, what if this isn’t some sort of shootout where you can show you’re the fastest gun in the West, what if you go to Sag Harbor and they toss hand grenades in through the window or do any of the other things where it won’t matter how strong, how brave, how clever you are? Do you think Harry would want you to die that way?
I’ve gone beyond the point of no return, I answered. Having told Brown to send me Slobo so I could kill him, I can’t back out.
You’ll be dead, and he’ll just laugh, laugh, and laugh.
There was nothing to be done.
I told her that Scott was coming to town that weekend and we agreed to take him to the ballet and dinner afterward on Saturday. The following weekend, though, Western Industries, her big client, was holding a management retreat in Edgartown, on Martha’s Vineyard. Having been asked to give a presentation on corporate legal compliance, she was obliged to go. I congratulated her, and said I’d take advantage of her being busy to scoot over to Sag Harbor and arrange for some planting in the garden. We slept together that night joylessly, holding on to each other for dear life, and that was the pattern until she left for Martha’s Vineyard. I drove her once again to the Marine Terminal where she caught the shuttle for Boston’s Logan Airport. Western Industries’ jet was taking her and the top management from there to the Vineyard. On the way to the terminal, I told her I’d be there to pick her up when she returned on Sunday evening. I don’t think she was fooled by this attempt to reassure her.
—
Right after Kerry left for the office, I checked messages on my landline. I found there was one. I thought it might be Slobo. But no, it was my agent, asking if I’d be willing to appear on Lou Brennan’s Sunday morning show on Fox News. He’s gotten a sneak look at your new book and would really like to talk to you about it. I think I know the answer, but still…
She thought, quite reasonably, that wild horses couldn’t drag me to a Fox News show—and indeed they wouldn’t have, under normal circumstances. But this, I realized, could be a godsend.
Do you mean this coming Sunday?
Yes, his producer knows it’s short notice, but they’d really like it.
All right, I said, tell him I’ll be there!
I didn’t think Kerry or Scott would mind if I disappeared for part of the morning.
—
Television hosts interviewing an author have rarely read his books. This interview was different. Brennan seemed to have read m
y book and liked it, and was so eager to talk about it that I thought we’d never get to the one subject that I wanted to talk about. Finally we did: my plans for the weeks and months to come, which I narrowed down to my plans for the following weekend. I laid them out laboriously, brooking no interruption. Filibusters succeed on talk shows almost as well as in the U.S. Senate.
I’m going to my house in Sag Harbor, I announced, quite alone, to do some planting in the garden but mostly to attend to unfinished family business. The house belonged to my beloved uncle, Harry Dana, who died last January in circumstances that have not been elucidated to my satisfaction. I am working hard to make them generally known and understood. That won’t interfere with my routine.
You have a routine you follow? Brennan interjected.
Absolutely. It may be the result of my Marine Corps training and experience. I’ll get to my house around ten on Friday night, make myself some scrambled eggs, wash them down with bourbon, and go to sleep. Of late, I’ve made it a habit to sleep in what was my uncle’s studio, in the garden, which is, incidentally, where he died. The next morning, I’ll run on the beach. Gibson Lane, in Sagaponack. Then I’ll putter around in the garden, do some writing, take a nap in that studio, and go out to dinner. And after dinner to bed! Sunday morning, same deal, unless it’s raining, in which case I’ll be in my studio writing. I’m a maniac for routine, and I’ve adopted some of my uncle’s habits. Some are downright silly. Like not ever locking the front door when I’m in Sag Harbor. There’s nothing in that house to steal, unless you count a twelve-year-old TV set. And if anybody wants to mess with me, they’re welcome!
—
Brennan seemed content and so was the producer, and I was delighted. If there was one TV channel Brown and his minions watched it was surely Fox News. I’d announced my schedule loud and clear. All they had to do was to make sure Slobo knew it. I was ready for him. As he’d promised, Scott brought the booby-trapped revolver. It’s a beauty, he said. I saw its brother tested. It’s just the kind of explosion you want. The guy loses a hand and little else—oh, maybe an eye if he’s unlucky. He didn’t bring the darts. The lab claims the results aren’t uniform enough for them to recommend the use of curare. I thanked him, and said not to worry. Susie had dropped off her darts and something told me that what was sauce for an orangutan was also sauce for Slobo.
