He got out and went around the car. The Senator slid over and got out on the right-hand side, carrying his briefcase. “Put it back,” Dill said, “unless you want Harley and Sid to paw through it.”
“Oh,” the Senator said. “Yes. I see.” He put the briefcase in the Ford’s back seat. Dill checked to see that all four doors were locked. They started for the carriage house. The Oldsmobile blinked its lights on and off. Dill waved.
“Brattle will want to make sure that none of us is wired,” Dill said as he put the key into the lock of the door that led to the airless stairway. Before he opened the door, he turned to look at Ramirez and Dolan. “You’re not, are you?”
The Senator shook his head. Dolan said, “Shit, no.”
“We’ll probably have to unbutton our shirts anyway.”
“What about him?” Dolan asked.
“Brattle? We’ll make him unbutton his, too.”
It was five minutes past seven before Clyde Brattle arrived, accompanied by Harley and Sid. Dill had turned the air-conditioning on and the temperature was down to an almost comfortable 80 degrees. The Senator and Dolan had their jackets off. When Tim Dolan asked Dill why he didn’t take his off, Dill said he didn’t feel all that warm. Dolan looked at him curiously, but said nothing because of the knock at the door.
It was Dill who opened it. The knocker was the big man, Harley. Behind Harley was Sid and behind Sid, farther down the stairs, was Clyde Brattle.
“Just the three of you?” Harley said.
Dill nodded. “Just the three of us.”
“You don’t mind if Sid and me make sure.”
“I don’t mind.”
Harley and Sid came in, slowly followed by Clyde Brattle, who nodded at the Senator and Dolan, but ignored Dill. Harley headed for the rear of the apartment and its bedroom and bath. Sid went over the living room and kitchen. Dill went with him and watched him work. He decided Sid was very good. He knew where to look and what to look for and also where not to look. He wasted no time. In less than five minutes Sid was back in the living room. He shook his head at Brattle. Harley arrived a moment later and did the same thing.
Brattle smiled almost apologetically to Ramirez and said, “Senator, if you don’t mind we’d like you and Mr. Dolan to unbutton your shirts — just to avoid any unpleasantness later.”
“Of course,” Ramirez said, and started unbuttoning his shirt, which, Dill noticed, was custom-made. The Senator, his shirt unbuttoned, revealed a flat tanned chest and belly. Dolan’s unbuttoned shirt revealed a soft, white, strangely hairless body.
“You, too, Clyde,” Dill said, starting to unbutton his own shirt. Brattle smiled, took off his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt. His stomach was flat and untanned. Dill kept his jacket on, but pulled his shirttails out and held the shirt wide open for all to see.
Brattle smiled at Sid and nodded at Dill. “Pat him down anyway, will you, Sid?”
Sid found the pistol almost immediately and showed it to Brattle. “He’s got this piece is all,” Sid said.
After seeming to consider the find, Brattle shrugged and said, “I think everyone can get dressed now.”
Sid gave the pistol back to Dill, who put it away and started stuffing his shirttails back down into his pants as he turned to Harley and Sid and said, “So long, guys.” They looked at Brattle. He nodded. Harley and Sid left. For some reason no one said anything until their footsteps could no longer be heard on the stairway.
The Senator took over then. He placed Brattle in a chair, and himself and Dolan on the couch. He asked Dill if there might be something cold to drink, water if nothing else. Dill said he thought there might be some beer.
Dill came back from the kitchen with the last four bottles of Felicity’s beer and four glasses. He put them on the coffee table and let everyone help himself. Brattle poured his beer, tasted it, smiled his appreciation, turned to the Senator, and said, “So. I presume you’ve already talked to Jake.”
“Today, you mean?” Ramirez said, not giving anything away.
“How is he — still protesting his innocence?”
The Senator smiled. “At least he’s not a fugitive.”
Tim Dolan leaned forward, both hands wrapped around his glass of beer. “You’re here to plea-bargain, Mr. Brattle. Let’s hear what you’ve got to offer.”
Brattle made a small deprecatory gesture. “I offer myself, of course. A plea of guilty to certain indiscretions in exchange for a certain amount of leniency.”
“How much leniency?” Dolan asked.
“Say, oh, eighteen months?”
Dolan smiled, although in it there was nearly as much sneer as smile. “Instead of ninety-nine years, right?”
“I haven’t quite finished,” Brattle said.
“Go on,” the Senator said.
“In addition to myself, I can also give you Jake Spivey, whose culpability in this business is only a shade less than my own.”
“Spivey,” the Senator said. “Well, Spivey is, I think, already hooked. We can reel him in, take a look at him, and either keep him or throw him back.”
“Spivey is part of my package,” Brattle said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to keep him — small fry or no.”
The Senator looked at Tim Dolan, who made the corners of his mouth go down in an expression that said, So what if Spivey does a year or two — who cares? The Senator’s small nod replied that he didn’t.
“So far, Clyde,” Dill said, “you’ve offered us yourself and Jake. I don’t know if Jake’s a keeper or not. But you’re the real prize. The big fish. The trophy winner. Still, all we really have to do is get up, walk over to that phone there, call the FBI, tell them you’re here, and ask them to bring along the net. And that doesn’t require any bargaining or deal. Just a phone call.”
“That occurred to me,” Brattle said.
Dill smiled. “I’ll bet it did.” He turned to the Senator. “I think Clyde has something else to offer. Something irresistible.”
“An inducement,” Brattle said with a pleasant smile.
The Senator didn’t return the smile. He asked, “What?” instead.
Brattle reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a three-by-five card. He passed it first to Dolan, whose eyebrows shot up after he read what was written on it and whose surprise made him say, “Mothera God.” He handed the card to the Senator, who read it without expression and started to put it away in his pocket until he saw Dill’s outstretched hand. After only a slight hesitation, the Senator passed the card to Dill, who read the four names on it in a clear loud voice.
Two of the names were household words, providing the household listened occasionally to the evening network news, read the hard-news section of at least one daily paper, and bought or subscribed to almost any magazine other than TV Guide. The two other names were less well known, but still familiar and much respected by those who thought of themselves as Washington power brokers. The first less well-known name belonged to a man who was still an extremely high-ranking CIA officer. The second not so well-known name was that of another man who also had been a top CIA officer, but was now an expensive Washington lobbyist. The first household name was a White House deputy chief of staff. The second household name was the real prize: it was that of a former CIA superstar who had since gone on to become a U.S. Senator.
“What you’re saying, Clyde,” Dill said, “is that you’ve got the goods on all these guys.” And again, Dill read the four names, but this time in a normal, almost indifferent voice.
“I made all four of them rich,” Brattle said. “Wealthy, anyway.”
“You can prove it, of course,” the Senator said.
“I can prove it.”
Dill especially was surprised by Tim Dolan’s next question. And he felt the lads up in Boston would not only have been surprised, but also disappointed. Dolan’s question was: “And now you want us to help you jug these four guys?”