Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “And the FBI?”

  “I’ll be talking to them today,” Kane said, as much a prediction as a possibility. “Let me get changed and I’ll walk you to the corner to catch a cab.”

  Toni didn’t look positive about his outlook, but she nodded. “All right.”

  Kane replaced his clothes with similar, black jungle fatigue pants, grey t-shirt, blue denim shirt. The most time intensive part was threading the knife scabbard and holster on the A-7 strap belt.

  Toni shook her head when he came out of the bedroom. “You really need to let me take you shopping.”

  “That would be a waste of time,” Kane assured her. “Where’s your cache?”

  Toni went to one of the prints leaning against the wall and retrieved a locked metal briefcase from behind it.

  “Do you want me to take it?” Kane asked.

  “The FBI won’t come back,” Toni said. “I’ll put it in the safe.”

  “Anything in there that might help us find your father?”

  Toni sighed. “It’s my clients, Will. Things they want kept buried, but also be prepared for in case they became public. That’s a big part of the job. And why I need you to work with me. It’s more about PR than the law. Even the Post is turning into a scandal rag. Lots of money being paid to keep certain things quiet.”

  “Otherwise known as blackmail,” Kane said. He wanted to add just like Damon but he preferred not getting his eyes ripped out of his skull this early in the day.

  “Protecting people from blackmail,” Toni clarified.

  “Where’s your father’s?” Kane wondered out loud.

  Toni didn’t follow his wondering. “What?”

  “Your father had to have his own form of cache, right? Sensitive information on people. Where is it? I doubt it was at the firm. Where did he keep it, Toni?”

  “I’ve considered that. The FBI went through the firm. Frankly, Father never trusted his partners enough to let them know his secrets. He didn’t trust me enough.”

  “Robert?” Kane asked, referring to her ex-husband and an ex-partner at the firm.

  “Definitely not,” Toni said.

  “Who then? Where? He couldn’t have counted on Damon. In fact, he probably had some leverage over Damon in his cache. Yazzie went to your mother thinking your father trusted her, right?”

  “That was a mistake,” Toni said. “I’m not sure father trusted anyone, Will.”

  “He went to ground somewhere,” Kane said. “His ERP.”

  “His what?”

  “Emergency rally point,” Kane said. “It’s where someone goes after they’ve been ambushed. The question is, where is your father’s? And where’s his cache? He had to have one.”

  Toni looked as tired as Kane. “I always felt like father had a secret life. A lot of men in his position do. A mistress stashed in an apartment. But it seemed normal in an abnormal way. It just was. I’ve got no clue what that was though. Maybe he just went to Central Park and fed the pigeons.”

  “I doubt that,” Kane said. “Thomas Marcelle would as soon stomp the pigeons as feed them.”

  It was a sign of how far Toni had separated that she didn’t disagree.

  Kane went on. “Your father has the paperwork, the deeds, that Yazzie wants somewhere and it’s not at the firm.”

  “I’ve got no idea, Will.”

  “Did Yazzie search your mother’s penthouse?”

  “She didn’t let him in, but she said enough that he accepted father wasn’t there and that he wouldn’t leave valuable documents at home.” Toni hefted the briefcase, indicating the conversation was over.

  Kane grabbed his map case and opened the door. He replaced the tell. And speaking of the NY Post, he heard Toni greet his landlord and upstairs neighbor after she went out the door.

  “Good morning, Mister Pope.”

  “Morning, young lady.” Pope was on the front steps, a stack of newspaper next to him on the left, a tea cup to his right. “And I told you before. Just Pope. No Mister.” He peered at Toni and Kane over reading glasses perched on his nose.

  “Morning,” Kane called out. He noted that the paper in Pope’s hand was the Post, which the old man still read despite his firing and the new owner, Rupert Murdoch, an Australian, doing exactly what Toni had complained about: shifting from serious news to sensationalism. The front page screamed:

  NO ONE IS SAFE FROM SON OF SAM

  “You two look bright and chipper this morning,” Pope said.

  Kane didn’t know what to make of that, but Toni was in a different league.

  “I was out late,” Toni said, “and I’ve had a stalker hanging around my apartment. I preferred coming here. Will kindly lent me his bed while he guarded my honor in the chair.”

  “Yes, of course,” Pope said. “I didn’t mean to suggest, well, let us say, oh, hell, I didn’t mean anything.”

  He was saved by a rare cab rattling along the cobblestone street. Kane waved it down. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said to Toni as she got in.

  “An interesting woman,” Pope said. “I’m glad she left that firm. She should do well on her own.”

  Kane checked his watch. It was early for diner time. He sat on the stoop, one step down from Pope. “How are you doing?”

  “Fair to middling,” Pope said. He looked like hell, his eyes blood shot with dark pouches underneath them. Skinny to start with, he seemed to have lost weight. “How goes your investigation?”

  “Fair to middling,” Kane lied.

  “I did more digging since last we spoke,” Pope said. “Trying to figure out why the IRA would consider violent action here in the States given their financial base is reliant on good will.”

  Kane waited.

  “The IRA isn’t a monolithic organization,” Pope said. “They’ve had schisms over the years, usually over policy, but one is significant. The vast majority of the time when referring to the IRA, we’re talking about the Provos or Provisional Irish Republican Army. Their main goal is to end British rule in Northern Ireland. But in 1969 a handful of members split away and formed the Official Irish Republican Army, also called the NLF—National Liberation Front.”

  “Communist?” Kane asked.

  “Marxist, so yes,” Pope said. “In Ireland they’re called the Red IRA. Same goal, kick the Brits out, but what they want after that is more of a people’s utopia.”

  “Right,” Kane said. “Like that’s going to happen. And?”

  “NORAID is Provo,” Pope said. “The Red IRA is grassroots and has no support here in the States. In ’74 the Reds moved away even further, with the most radical forming the Irish National Liberation Army.”

  “We’ll need a scorecard to keep track of these people,” Kane said.

  “Indeed. The NLA are led by a fellow named Kevin Flanagan. Under his leadership, they tried to assassinate the leader of the Provos not long ago but only succeeded in wounding him.”

  “No wonder the British still rule Northern Ireland,” Kane noted. “The Irish spend more time fighting each other.”

  “What I’m getting to,” Pope said, “is that if the Reds, Flanagan’s group, wanted to hurt the Provos, a bombing in the States that was blamed on the IRA would do the trick. Most Americans wouldn’t understand the difference between the two groups.”

  “Most Americans don’t know the difference between a hand grenade and a door knob,” Kane said.

  “A bit cruel, but true,” Pope said. “I love my adopted country but the ethnocentrism is a bit much.”

  “Watch the big words this early in the morning,” Kane said. “Hold on. There’s a disconnect. Why would this NLA try to kill me for breaking up the Provos arm shipment?”

  “If they’re pretending to be Provos, they might. They need money and arms here and the best way to do it is pretend to be IRA,” Pope said. “I imagine the communication lines are a bit sketchy between the States and Ireland, given that US and UK intelligence are watching.”

  A rough piece of the puz
zle that had been grating Kane’s mind clicked in place. “They went to Damon, but he saw through them. Refused to deal. Wouldn’t put them onto any of his arms dealers in New York. Then Damon disappears. They go to next in line: Walsh. He tells them about Marcelle. That’s who paid them the hundred grand with the proviso they take out me and Crawford. Jesus,” Kane muttered, surprised at the depth of Marcelle’s betrayal. “Marcelle didn’t even care what the Irish were here for. He just seized the opportunity and funded a terrorist operation.”

  “It does line up,” Pope agreed.

  “Can you get a projector?” Kane asked.

  Pope raised an eyebrow. “What size?”

  Kane pulled the film canister out of his ruck and gave it to Pope.

  “I can indeed,” Pope said. “When do you want to schedule the showing?”

  “Later this morning,” Kane said. “I’ve got to meet someone first. And whatever is on this, it aint gonna be pretty or entertaining.”

  “But informative?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN

  “Get on the other side,” Kane told Trent when he got to his booth. He’d spotted the big Town Car outside the diner, engine idling, tinted glass hiding Trent’s security as he approached Vic’s.

  “Good morning to you too,” Trent said. He didn’t move. He met Kane’s eyes, waited a few heartbeats, took a deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, then slid out and sat on the other side. He left the ashtray with several smoldering butts where it was. “Didn’t they teach you at that boy’s school at Bragg that routine is bad?”

  “You’re routinely an asshole,” Kane said, “so they don’t teach it at Langley, do they?” He pushed the ashtray across the table while he activated the tape recorder under the table top with his other hand.

  Trent sighed. “Let’s do without our usual witty repartee, shall we?”

  Morticia slid over, depositing Kane’s coffee and water, two cubes. She didn’t look at Trent.

  “Get me . . .” Trent began but his request faded as she glided away. “What did I do to her?” he wondered.

  “Start with breathing,” Kane said.

  Trent fired up another cigarette and then waved away any further small talk. “What do you have for me?”

  Kane retrieved the manila envelope containing images of the Westway map in Marcelle’s boardroom and passed it across.

  Trent opened it and thumbed through without removing the photos. “Good.”

  Wile-E passed by with a plastic tub to clear a table. He nodded at Kane and gave a questioning look at Trent. Kane kept his focus on the CIA man.

  “See?” Trent said. “That wasn’t hard.”

  “Transmitter off,” Kane said.

  “Are we going to share intimacies now?” Trent asked, but he pulled the radio out of his coat pocket and turned off the transmit, leaving the receiver leading to the plug in his ear live so he could hear his security.

  “Crawford?” Kane asked.

  “Leave him alone,” Trent said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s oil and gas from Texas,” Trent said. “My titular boss at the Agency is oil and gas from Texas. Do I have to draw it with crayons?”

  “Bush knows Crawford?”

  “I don’t travel in those circles,” Trent said. “Leave Crawford alone. He’s got connections and is not to be trifled with.”

  Kane moved on. “Radio-controlled bombs?”

  “I’m sure you know more about that than I do,” Trent said.

  “You’re just a wealth of information,” Kane said.

  “I do my best.”

  “What about Tucker and Shaw?”

  “The boys in suits? They work out of the New York field office. Nothing special about them. Minor schmucks.”

  “Then why are they getting warrants going after Thomas Marcelle?”

  “Ask them,” Trent said. “The FBI’s had a hard on for Marcelle ever since he let Damon off the hook in ‘67. I bet they have a stack of warrants for Marcelle already signed by a judge that just require the date and reason filled in.” He looked around the diner, at the early crowd. “You need to get better clientele here, Kane, if you want to make a go of it. Perhaps a new waitress with a better attitude.”

  “I like her attitude,” Kane said. “It’s a persona.”

  “A what?”

  “What do you have on IRA soldiers here in the city?”

  “’Soldiers’?” Trent chuckled. “I wouldn’t call anything the IRA has soldiers. Speaking of which, are your Nung mercenaries anywhere around? I brought a couple of extra guys in the car just in case they want to have a go around.”

  Kane waited.

  Trent finally shook his head. “Nothing on the IRA stateside.”

  “What about the Brits? Did you ask them?”

  “That’s a touchy area, given your recent actions,” Trent said. “But the word from our friends across the water is nil. You might be chasing a ghost that doesn’t exist.”

  “They exist,” Kane said.

  “Because of your boat excursion and the bomb that luckily, or unluckily, depending on perspective, didn’t go off?” Trent asked.

  Kane watched Thao pass a small paper bag of meds to a hooker who started to cry. Thao patted her on the shoulder and leaned across the counter, as much as his short stature would allow, whispering words of reassurance. Kane focused back on Trent. “Because they recently bought three TOW missiles in Boston for a hundred thousand dollars. I think they also scored a fifty-caliber machinegun with ammo. And small arms. And some demo.”

  Trent had been in the process of chain-lighting another cigarette from the half remaining of his latest one, but his hands froze. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Kane said.

  Trent finished lighting the cigarette. Tossed the remains of the old one in the ashtray. “When did this transaction go down?”

  “Last week. Tuesday. In Boston.”

  “Who sold it to them?”

  “The seller won’t be able to answer questions,” Kane said.

  “Fuck, Kane. You ever hear of questioning someone before killing them?”

  “Circumstances often dictate precipitous action,” Kane said. “And I didn’t say I killed anyone.”

  “Yeah,” Trent muttered. There was a deep furrow on his brow, which Kane guessed was his worried and thinking look. “What the hell are they going to do with TOWs? How many trackers?”

  “Don’t know.” Thao walked the hooker to the Washington street door. They hugged and she wandered into the sunshine of a new day without bursting into flame.

  “They could have just wanted the warheads,” Trent supposed.

  “A hundred grand is a bit much for eight-point-six pounds of explosive times three,” Kane pointed out. “Plus, they bought some C-4. Perhaps you can check with the Pentagon and see if they’re missing any?”

  “Right, like they’ll ‘fess up to that,” Trent said. “What the hell are these Irish idiots going to shoot a TOW at?”

  “No idea,” Kane said. “Sounds like you have a problem.”

  “Fuck you,” Trent automatically responded. “This is the boys in suits’ problem. The Agency doesn’t operate domestically. But thanks for giving me a heads up so I can duck my head when the shit hits the fan. Now take it to those whose jurisdiction this falls under. Didn’t you recently have a chat with our friends at the Bureau?”

  “You can call them,” Kane said. “I’ve done my duty.”

  “No,” Trent disagreed, standing up and snuffing out his cigarette. “I didn’t hear anything. Thanks for the photos.” He left quickly, brushing past the Kid and ignoring the young man’s smile and greeting.

  “Who was that jerk?” the Kid asked as he tossed the paper on the table. He noted there was no money waiting, so he sat down. “You okay?”

  “That was your government in action,” Kane said. “Or rather inaction.”

  “Looked l
ike a shithead. He’s queer, but won’t admit it.”

  “You can tell just by walking past?”

  “Sure.” The Kid shrugged. “It’s a thing. He’s giving off the repressed vibe.”

  “I thought it was just his asshole vibe,” Kane said.

  “There’s that too,” the Kid agreed.

  Morticia glided up. “Hey, sweetie. Can I get you something?”

  “No, thanks,” the Kid said. “How’d you like the car?” he asked Kane.

  “It was nice,” Kane said. Morticia rolled her eyes and moved off to serve some new customers, tourists who’d taken the wrong turn somewhere.

  Kane tried to be social and he’d checked the particulars on the walk from Jane Street to the diner this morning. “I met a friend who has a classic. An MGA Mark II Roadster.”

  The Kid frowned. Apparently, his automotive expertise was limited to domestic and muscle cars. “What kind of engine? Horsepower? Torque?”

  “No idea,” Kane said, his mind grappling with the tactical employment of TOW missiles in a murky strategic scenario. He belatedly pulled out his clip and peeled off a five. “Thanks.”

  “Take care of yourself,” the Kid said as he got up and left.

  Kane was not completely immune to self-preservation. He went to the pay phone on the wall across from the booth. Dropped a dime as he pulled his notepad out. Sofia Cappucci’s black card was sticking out. He dialed the number, rehearsing the message he’d leave on her machine.

  It rang. And rang. And rang. After six rings, Kane wondered if—

  The receiver clicked as it was picked up. “Who the fuck died?” Sofia Cappucci did not sound pleased.

  Kane was tempted to tell her, even though he wasn’t sure of the real names of the two victims.

  “It’s William Kane.”

  “’William Kane’,” she repeated as if searching her memory, but more screwing with him. A few seconds passed. “You’re in your diner, aren’t you?”

  Kane frowned. “Right.”

  “And?”

  “I’m still caught up in a case,” Kane started, “and I won’t be able to get to—”

  “Wrong.” The word was a whip.

  Kane waited.

  “I told you what your answer would be,” Sofia said. “This is not it. What are you doing when you leave the diner?”