«Holy shit! Maybe I ought to call them back.»
«If I were you, I’d also insert an official memorandum in your files—dated yesterday—that upon reconsideration you withdrew your troops, because you believed the mission was beyond military constitutional authority. If there’s a congressional investigation, hang Pease, not yourself.»
«Goddamn, I will!… Mac, how did you know so much about L.A.—the Coast, and the Polo Lounge, and all those other things you talked about?»
«You forget, old buddy, they made a movie about me. I was the consultant for ten crazy weeks out there, courtesy of the Pentagon pricky-shits who thought it would do wonders for recruitment quotas.»
«They took a nose dive, everyone knows that. It was the worse damn flick I ever saw and I’m something of an expert. I mean, it was really terrible, and even though I hated your guts, I bled for you.»
«I hated it, too, but there were compensations only that place can provide… Call your troops back, Deucey. You’re being led down the fall-guy path.»
«I will, I will. I just have to find a way.»
«Pick up the phone and give the order, that’s all you have to do.»
«It’s not as easy as that. Christ, I’m countermanding the Secretary of State! Maybe I’ll just get sick—»
«You waffling, Deucey?»
«For God’s sake, I’ve got to think!»
«Then while you’re at it, think about this.» The Hawk unbuttoned his jacket and spread it open, revealing a tape recorder strapped to his chest. «A colonel I recently field-commissioned suggested I be ‘wired,’ that’s what he called it. Every word said in this room is recorded.»
«You’re scum, Mac!»
«Come on, General, we’re just a couple of old-timers, and I’ve got to survive, too… What’s that phrase? ‘If the devil don’t get you, the big deep will’?»
«Never heard it before.»
«Neither have I, but it kinda fits, doesn’t it?»
24
Vincent Mangecavallo walked across the white marble floor of the condominium in Miami Beach on his way to the apartment’s gym room. Once again he winced at the pink furniture that was everywhere—chairs, sofas, lamps, throw rugs, and even a living room chandelier made up of several hundred descending pink shells that looked as if it was going to crash down on somebody’s head any minute. Vinnie was no decorator, but the endless combination of pink and white did nothing for him except to suggest that the big famous decorator his cousin Ruggio had hired was also very big on ballet.
«It ain’t pink, Vin,» Ruge had said the day before yesterday over the telephone. «It’s peach, only you call it pêche.»
«Why?»
«’Cause pink is low price, peach higher, and pêche goes through the fuckin’ roof. Me, I can’t tell the difference, and to be frank, I don’t think Rose can either, but it makes her happy, y’know what I mean?»
«The way you live, Cugino, you should always make your wife happy. However, regardless, I appreciate your letting me use the place.»
«As long as you like, Vin. We can’t get down there for at least a month, by which time you’ll be back among the living. We got pressing business with the El Paso family—but, hey, look at the gym I built, steam bath and all.»
«At the moment, that’s where I’m heading when I get off the phone—I’m even wearing a pink towel-type bathrobe, kinda short.»
«That’s for the girls, I got blue ones in the gym.»
«What’s with the El Paso boys, Ruge?» Vincent had asked.
«They want the whole fuckin’ leather saddle market, which takes into account not only the fake dude ranches in New York and PA, but all the fancy fox hunt clubs in west Jersey and New England.»
«Well, with respect, Ruge, horses are like, Western, y’know? And saddles maybe should be like cowboys, huh? Western, right?»
«That’s bullshit, Vin. Most of that saddle stuff is made in Brooklyn and the Bronx. You give those paisan yippee-yie-yo-yos an inch, first thing you know they’ll be into the tracks, and that we can’t tolerate.»
«I see your point. I wouldn’t on the breath of my dead mother interfere with you.»
«Your mama’s not dead, Vinnie. She’s in Lauderdale.»
«It’s only an expression, Cousin.»
«Hey, Vin, guess what? Tomorrow I’m going to your memorial service! Ain’t that somethin’?»
«You gonna speak on my behalf?»
«Hell, no, I’m lowlife. But the cardinal’s gonna say a few words. Hey, a cardinal, Vinnie!»
«I don’t know him.»
«Your mama called and cried a lot and made an impact on the collection plate. He’ll speak.»
«She’ll make a bigger impact when I’m resurrected… Thanks again for the pad, Cugino.»
Mangecavallo paused beneath the pink-shelled chandelier, reflecting on the telephone conversation he had had with Ruggio two days ago. As then, he was on his way to the small elaborate gym, where he intended to studiously avoid the brand-new Nautilus equipment, as if by touching it a person could catch the clap. The sudden memory of that phone conversation, brought on by the faggy Easter egg decor, reminded Vincent that it was time to make another call. It was not a call he was overjoyed to make, but it was necessary, and perhaps the information he might be given would make him the happiest man this side of an honest amateur who broke a bank in Vegas. But there was a catch. The news of his being alive and well and pulling strings was restricted to a very few people, namely the scumball Wall Streeters on Meat’s agenda who would have mouths sealed in cement or later face the rest of their lives in various slammers without the money they figured to make, and his cousin Ruggio. Ruge was also a necessity, as Vincent needed a private residence where he could stay securely out of sight until the time came for Smythington-Fontini to pick him up and fly him to the point of his miraculous «rescue» in the Dry Tortugas.
However, Abul Khaki was not on that exclusive list, nor should he have been, but he, too, was now a necessity. In the world of international finance, Abul was every bit as devious as Ivan Salamander; what made him more dangerous, or successful, depending on one’s point of view, was the fact that he was not a citizen of the United States and had more offshore holding companies, like in the Bahamas and the Caymans, than anyone since the more successful pirates buried a couple of thousand trunks in the Caribbean. Also, as Khaki was an Arab from one of those sheikdoms that Washington was always trying to reach on the sly, he had certain built-in protections that came when the government concluded back-channel negotiations with politically unpopular people. People who, for instance, could broker a few thousand missiles and a King James Bible for three convicts and a prostitute from Damascus. Abul Khaki had a walking case of immunity.
When Mangecavallo learned of Abul’s unadvertised credentials, he entered into a liaison with the Arab that was beneficial to both men. Khaki had numerous shipping interests and tankers pulling into waterfronts everywhere, sometimes carrying more than oil, and after a few embarrassing local busts, Vinnie let Abul know that he and his friends had considerable influence down at the docks … «from New York to New Orleans and points in between—they’re locked up, Mr. Cocky.»
«That’s Khaki, Mr. Mangecuvulo.»
«That’s Mangecavallo.»
«I’m sure we’ll get to know each other’s name.»
They did, and, as is said, one thing led to another, including certain financial services rendered by Abul to his friend Vincent. And at the firm suggestion of the dons in the tri-state area and Palermo that Mangecavallo go after the directorship of the CIA, Vinnie went to Khaki.