“No,” Citron agreed, “not much, although at forty-two I don’t see how that’s particularly important.”
“You never forgave me, though, did you?”
“For what?”
“For dumping you with the Gargants during the war.”
Citron shrugged. “You had all those Germans to kill, and by the time I was five and old enough to be aware of anything, I was very fond of the Gargants. They had a lot of cows.”
“But afterwards, when you were seven.”
“You mean England.”
“It was supposed to be a very good school.”
“It was, but I had sort of a French waiter’s accent, and I also missed them.”
“The Gargants?”
“The cows.”
“I’d like to make it up to you, Morgan.”
“Now?” He paused, the wonderment on his face mingling with suspicion. “Whatever for?”
She smiled. “Atonement.”
“What’s the real reason, Gladys?”
“You’re my son.”
“I’m just somebody you met a few times over the years. How’d you find me, anyway?”
“Were you trying to hide?”
“No.”
“Craigie Grey mentioned your name to someone who mentioned it to someone else who mentioned it to us. I’d been trying to locate you for more than a year — ever since those wire-service stories moved out of Paris. I even talked to a Miss Tettah with Amnesty International in London, but all she had was a post-office-box number in Venice. Then we tracked down that young man in Provo.”
“The Mormon missionary.”
“He told us about your watch. He said you were a saint.”
“The Mormons always were saint-happy.”
“He said you saved his life.”
“He exaggerated.”
She picked up a gold-plated letter opener and experimentally pressed its sharp point against the ball of her thumb. “Was he really a cannibal like they all said — or was it just French propaganda?”
“Why?”
She shrugged again. “It’s our kind of story.”
“ ‘Dictator Dines on Human Liver and Lights,’ right?”
She put the letter opener down. “We cater to our readers,” she said. “We have to compete with television for their wandering attention. Therefore, our features need to be a trifle provocative.”
Citron looked around the large office. “You seem to be prospering.”
“They pay me one hundred and twenty-five a year, if you’re curious. That young man I sent to fetch you?”
“He’s sweet.”
“He’s also the most junior on our editorial staff. I pay him sixty a year, mostly for his absolutely devastating sources.”
“I can imagine.”
She rose, walked around the desk, leaned against it, and stared down at her son. “I’ll pay you fifty thousand for your story, your by-line.”
“It’s not worth that.”
“We’d fancy it up a little.”
Citron smiled and shook his head.
“I could come up with another five thousand. That’s tops.”
“Sorry.”
She moved back around her desk and sat down. “We’ve already spent a fortune on it, Morgan. It has some interesting angles. For instance, we managed to get someone into the prison about three months ago. A warder there in the section d’etranger was about to retire on a ridiculously low pension. He sold us a fascinating rumor — all about how the Emperor-President had fed foreign prisoners on human parts.”
“I’m speechless,” Citron said.
“No you’re not. Confirm it and I can up the offer to seventy-five thousand.”
“For ‘My Son, the Cannibal,’ n’est-ce pas?”
When she didn’t reply, Citron rose, went around the desk, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Gladys, you really never should’ve left the spooks.”
She stared up at him. The stare was cold now. “They paid for your rather expensive education.”
“And I’ll always be grateful.”
He turned and moved to the door, but stopped when she called to him.
“Morgan.”
He didn’t turn back. He merely waited with his hand on the doorknob.
“We’ve got too much invested not to run with it.”
“You could kill it.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Well, good-bye, Gladys,” and then frowned as if trying to remember something else he had forgotten to say. “Oh, yes,” he said finally, “and thanks for the watch.”
Citron left the offices of The American Investigator and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. He didn’t bother to give Dale Winder a shout. Instead, he walked a couple of blocks, went down into Harry’s Bar, and ordered a bottle of Beck’s.
Chapter 10
Draper Haere was in his downstairs cubicle-like office working on one of his diseases when Morgan Citron finally reached him. To keep his staff occupied and the payroll met during slack political seasons, Haere handled the direct-mail solicitations of a half-dozen organizations that were trying to cure, or at least alleviate, diseases of the heart, the lungs, the eyes, the mind, and the nervous system. The mailer he was editing when Citron called was for an organization that claimed to be easing the suffering of disabled children whom Haere always thought of as the crippled kids. It was his favorite disease. Haere rendered his services at cost and over the years had raised substantial sums. He was not at all sure that the money was being well spent.
When his secretary told him Mr. Citron was on the line, Haere picked up the phone and said hello.
“I’ve been trying to get you,” Citron said.
“I was in a meeting,” Haere said, remembering with much pleasure and no guilt his meeting in the Sir Galahad Motel. “What’ve you got?”
“Something I think we’d better talk about.”
“Right. Where are you?”
“Harry’s Bar.”
“Give me fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“Fine,” Citron said.
It took Haere thirty-five minutes to reach the underground parking garage in the Century City complex that housed Harry’s Bar. He would have made it sooner except he had trouble finding his car. Because he walked so much, Haere sometimes didn’t use his car for days and frequently forgot where he had parked it. The car was an immense sixteen-year-old dark-green Cadillac convertible that Haere had accepted in lieu of a fee from one of his first clients, a Congressional candidate who had tried vainly to swim against the Republican tide in 1968. It was only the second car Haere had ever owned, and because it ran faultlessly with minimum maintenance, other than the new batteries he had to keep buying, Haere saw no reason to replace it. Haere was really not much interested in cars, although he had once dickered for a Model T Ford of doubtful provenance that supposedly had been purchased in 1923 by William Jennings Bryan.
Most of the lunch trade was gone when Haere entered Harry’s Bar and joined Morgan Citron at a table near the entrance. Citron had a cup of coffee in front of him and also an empty sandwich plate.
“Sorry I’m late,” Haere said.
“I had something to eat. You want anything?”
Haere shook his head. “I usually skip lunch.” He looked around. “Shall we talk here?”
“I don’t see why not.” Citron signaled a waitress, who brought a fresh pot of coffee and a cup and saucer for Haere.
When she had gone, Haere said, “Well?”
“Those two guys who dropped by to see you last night?”
Haere nodded. “The FBI agents.”
“Well, they’re not.”
“Who says so?”
“Their verification section.”
“Here in L.A.?”
“Right.”
“You called?”
“Yes.”
Haere smiled his appreciation. “You’ve got one suspicious mind, haven’t you, friend?”