“Crazy little woman. You crazy woman.” He put one knee on the bed and pulled her up and engulfed her, laughing in his throat.
“Damn you, Frank.” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
He searched her face. “He didn’t say anything about complications or anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Well a man my age——”
“Men twice your age become fathers.”
“A kid—did he say it’s a boy?”
“It’s too early.”
“I thought they had ways.”
“We’ll have to wait a little while longer. The baby’s not due till May.”
“Son of a bitch.” He bounded off the bed, looking for his slippers. “Celebrate,” he said; then he stopped. “Can you drink? I mean——”
“I want a great big Scotch on the rocks.”
“You got it.” He went.
They didn’t switch on lights in the living room; a soft glow came in from the buildings across the avenue. She watched Frank settle down with his feet on the coffee table. He reached for his drink. “To your very good health, little Anna—the both of you.”
She lifted her glass. “Frank Junior.”
“Yeah.” He was delighted. “Frank Junior.”
“And confusion to our enemies.” She drank ceremoniously. She coughed on the Scotch and put the glass down. “I was telling you about the follow-up column in the Times. There was a squib about some of those radicals the FBI arrested a few years ago, the ones who broke into some FBI office and stole their files and put them on a bonfire?”
“I read about that in the slammer.”
“C.K. blackmailed that secretary to get the files on Merle and the other three men. You wanted those four because they were the witnesses against you.”
She saw it when he made the connection. His eyes changed. “Well now—well now.”
“Eleven, twelve hundred names and addresses in those files,” she said. “We make a joke out of the whole Justice Department. We make chaos all over the country. We show them who’s running what. Nobody ever again will work up the nerve to testify.”
Frank took his feet off the table. “And for a little bonus, yeah, we collect the new files on those four gentlemen.” He got to his feet and spread his arms wide. “Anna, I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
New York City: 10–16 October
1
HE CALLED BRADLEIGH FROM A PHONE BOOTH IN GRAND Central Station. “How’s it going, Glenn?”
Bradleigh was cool. “Where are you?”
“What difference does that make?”
“You’re supposed to be acting like a good boy. Staying out of trouble.”
“I’m not in any trouble. I’m calling because I’m curious, that’s all. Any developments?”
“Curious. Are you. Well our friend Gillespie walked in.”
“Walked in?”
“Just like that. Came in here with a fairly wild story …” Bradleigh went on talking.
A girl outside the phone booth was staring at him. He realized he was grinning like an imbecile. He turned away. “I wonder what got into him.”
“Do you?”
“You’re a bit chilly for a man who’s just scored a triumph.”
“I’ll tell you something, Fred. One of our bugs had been tampered with. In Gillespie’s office.”
“Oh?”
“We lost the transmission on his conversation with that computer blackmailer I mentioned.”
“You’re not making much sense, Glenn. You’ll have to go a little slower.”
“How much do you know about electronics?”
“About enough to change a light bulb when I have to. Why?”
“Whoever set Gillespie up knew about the microphones in his office.”
“So?”
“You knew about them.”
“I suppose I did. You did mention it to me. Has Gillespie dropped some goodies?”
“Enough to keep the FBI busy for about ten years, I imagine. We’re still extracting it, still collating. It’ll be a while before we’re sure what we’ve got but it’s a rich vein. It’s all unsupported for now, of course. But it’s the biggest break we’ve had since Joe Valachi turned inside out.”
“Congratulations. Maybe it’ll give you enough to nail Frank Pastor again.”
“Sure—in five years or so after his lawyers exhaust all their delaying tactics and Pastor runs out of public officials to buy.”
“You sound jaded.”
“Well it’s a little outside my bag you know. I just protect them. Interrogation is the FBI’s job. I’d like to see Pastor put away but right now I’m not too happy about the idea of having to nursemaid C. K. Gillespie. He’s not my favorite sort of client.”
“Look on it as penance.”
“Why the phone call?”
“Maybe I’ve been doing a little investigating on my own, Glenn.”
“You damn fool. You bloody idiot. If you——”
“Pipe down. You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“What gift horse?”
“Who do you think gave Gillespie to you?”
“So it was you.”
“I’m the computer programmer.”
“You bastard.”
“I’m taking them apart, Glenn …”
“Oh you stupid bastard. You’ve gone bananas.”
“… by the seams.” He couldn’t help the tight little smile. “And I may have some good news pretty soon for Benson and Fusco and Draper.”
“What kind of news?”
“I’d rather give it to them personally.”
“Nothing doing. No addresses, no phone numbers.”
“I’m not asking for addresses or phone numbers. You’re in touch with them, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“You can get a phone number to each of them. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Shit.”
“It’ll be a pay phone. No bugs. No traces.”
“How can I trust you now?”
“Am I going to sell them out, Glenn? Use your head. I only want to talk to them. They call me from anywhere they like—in pay phones five hundred miles from wherever they live. I’ll send you a check to pay their expenses if you want. Just have them call me.”
“You’ve got to give me more than this to go on.”
“I can’t. Not now. Later.”
Bradleigh said, “What the hell do you think you can accomplish? You can get yourself killed, that’s all.”
“I could do that just by standing still and waiting for them to find me. Come on, Glenn, come on.”
“What about Jan and Ronny? What about—”
“They’re safe. They’re fine.”
He heard the exhalation of Bradleigh’s breath. “Maybe I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ask them if they want to talk to you.”
“Tell them it could save their bacon. Tell them: it could mean they’ll be able to come out of hiding.”
“In a pig’s eye.”
“Who gave you Gillespie?”
“That was a fluke but don’t rub it in.”
“It wasn’t a fluke, Glenn.”
After a pause Bradleigh said, “I don’t know you at all, do I?”
“I’m not a bad fellow.”
“You’re a fucking lunatic.”
Mathieson said cheerfully, “I’ll see you.”
2
Ramiro was a big heavy dark cigar-chewing jowly sour-faced man at the wheel of an overshined twelve-thousand-dollar automobile. It slid in at the curb and Mathieson watched Ramiro get out, turning the fur collar of his coat up against the drizzle.
The passenger emerged from the far side of Ramiro’s car—a short truncheon of a man with vanishing gray wisps of hair and a rigid coin-slot mouth.
“Vince Damico,” Homer muttered by way of identification. “Manages the restaurant-linen supply business.”
From the front seat of the rented Plymouth they watched Ramiro and Damico go into the restaurant.
“They eat here every Wednesday?”
“And then they go upstairs and play poker.”
“It’s a gambling joint?”
“No, just a friendly poker game. Lou Tonelli runs the restaurant. He hosts the game every week.”