«I promised Cora I’d pick up some scrod on my way home,» said the attorney without expression to his guards as they proceeded down the corridor.
«We get scrod,» said the man on Sam’s left, looking straight ahead, in his voice a mild complaint.
«She feeds Paddy Lafferty porterhouses,» added the guard on the right, more than a mild complaint in his voice. «Char-grilled.»
«All right, all right, we’ll also stop and get a couple of steaks, okay?»
«Better get four,» suggested the left guard in a quiet monotone. «We’re relieved at eight o’clock, and those gorillas will smell the porters.»
«It’s the rim of fat,» opined the right guard, his focus rigidly forward. «It lingers so good for a long time.»
«So be it,» agreed Devereaux. «Four steaks and the scrod.»
«What about potatoes?» asked the left guard. «Cora’s not too big with potatoes, and everybody likes potatoes.»
«After six o’clock Cora don’t cook potatoes so good,» said the RG, permitting himself a slit of a smile on his impassive face. «Sometimes it’s a little rough finding the oven.»
«I’ll bake ’em,» said LG.
«My Polish associate can’t live without his ‘cartoffables.’»
«That’s kartofla, you dupa. My Swedish associate shoulda stayed in Norway, right Mr. D?»
«Whatever.»
The elevator doors parted and the threesome walked inside, where they were startled to find two uniformed men who had obviously ridden to the penthouse by mistake, since they made no attempt to get off. Sam nodded politely, turned to face the closing panels, and then blanched, his eyes widening in astonishment. Unless his practiced lawyer’s vision had deceived him, both uniformed officers at the rear of the elevator had small swastikas attached to their shirt collars! Pretending to have an itch at the back of his neck, Devereaux turned casually to scratch, his eyes taking in their necks. The small black emblems were swastikas! He briefly locked eyes with the man in the corner who smiled, the friendly grin somewhat diminished by the absence of several teeth. Sam quickly turned his head back to the front, his confusion mounting—then suddenly the explanation was clear. In New York’s Broadway parlance, Boston was a «tryout town.» Obviously, there was a World War II play, probably at the Shubert or the Wilbur, presenting its wares in Bean Town before assaulting the Big Apple. Still, these actors should know better than to appear off the stage and on the streets in such costumes. On the other hand, he had always heard that actors were a breed apart; some lived their roles twenty-four hours a day. Wasn’t there an English Othello who actually tried to kill his Desdemona in a Jewish delicatessen one night on Forty-seventh Street over a pastrami sandwich?
The doors opened onto the crowded lobby and Devereaux stepped out; he stood in place, glancing around, as his guards flanked him. The threesome proceeded rapidly toward the building’s entrance, dodging bodies and a plethora of attaché cases, finally emerging on the wide pavement, where Aaron Pinkus’s limousine awaited them at the curb.
«You’d think we were in Belfast, coverin’ our asses from all those bomb-throwin’ lunatics,» said Paddy Lafferty behind the wheel, as the three passengers plummeted into the rear seat, Devereaux vised between his two barrel-chested protectors. «Straight home, Sam?» continued the chauffeur, as he swung the huge car into the flow of traffic.
«Two stops, Paddy,» replied Devereaux. «Scrod and steaks.»
«Cora’s doin’ her thing, eh, boyo? She cooks a mean porter as long as you remind her to get it off the fire quick enough. Otherwise you’ve got nuked gristle, and floatin’ in bourbon, it is. But you better make it three porters, Sam. My orders are to stay and bring you back into town by eight-thirty.»
«That’s five porters,» said the Polish praetorian.
«Thanks, Stosh, but I’m not so hungry—»
«Not you, the relief.»
«Oh, yeah, they’ll smell ’em. You know why, don’t you? It’s the border of fat that sizzles and hangs around—»
«All right,» cried Devereaux, trying to find a pause in the rapid conversation so as to ask what he felt was a fairly vital question. «Scrod, five porters, rims of sizzling fat, and the goddamned relief’s olfactory senses—it’s all settled. Now why is Aaron bringing me back into town at eight-thirty?»
«Hey, boyo, it was your idea, Sammy, and I tell you, Mrs. Pinkus thinks you’re the darlin’ of the day.»
«What for?»
«You got that fancy invite to the art gallery soiree—how do you like that? I heard her say soiree, which means you get pickled at night after work and nobody cares.»
«Art gallery …?»
«Remember, lad, you told me it was that fancy-dan client who thinks his wife has the hots for you, which is fine by him, and then you told Mr. Pinkus that you didn’t want to go, and he told Mrs. Pinkus, who read that the senator was going to be there, so now you’re all going.»
«That crowd’s a bunch of leeching fund-raisers and political vultures.»
«They’re top society, Sammy.»
«Same thing.»
«Then we go back with you, Paddy?» asked the guard on Devereaux’s right.
«No, Knute, there won’t be time. You take Mr. D.’s car here. Your relief can follow us in their own.»
«What’s with the time?» Stosh objected. «Just drop us off downtown. Mr. D.’s car is very shaky in the turns.»
«You didn’t get it fixed, Sam?»
«I forgot.»
«You’ll have to live with it, Stosh. Nothing suits the boss better than driving his little Buick like he’s doing now from the office, but not Mrs. Boss. This is her chariot, especially with the license plate he happens to hate, and especially for a wingding like tonight.»
«Leeches and politicians,» muttered Sam.
«Same thing, huh?» said Knute.
MacKenzie Hawkins squinted through the windshield of the stolen Oldsmobile at the limousine’s license plate directly in front of him. The raised white letters across the green background spelled out the name PINKUS as though the announcement should strike fear in the hearts of observers. It would help if the name were somewhat more threatening, thought Mac, nevertheless glad that he had spotted it in front of Devereaux’s place of employment, the name itself one the Hawk would never forget. For weeks during the young lawyer’s initial work on behalf of their former corporation, Sam had kept yelling, What would Aaron Pinkus think? until Mac could not stand it any longer and confined the hysterical attorney to quarters just to get some peace. This afternoon, however, a brief telephone call to the law office confirmed the fact that Sam had come home and somehow—God knew how—made peace with one Aaron Pinkus, whose name was anathema to the Hawk.
From there it was a simple matter to show his newly trained and newly sheared aides-de-camp a six-year-old photograph of Devereaux and order them to stay riding on the single elevator that went up to the penthouse floor until the subject appeared and subsequently to follow him at a discreet distance wherever he walked, keeping in touch with their commanding officer over the walkie-talkies he supplied them from his flight bag. Don’t get any ideas, caballeros, because stealing government property is a thirty-year offense, and I’ve got your stolen car with your fingerprints all over it.
Frankly, Mac thought that Sam would head to a friendly bar after work. Not that his former legal liaison was a heavy drinker—he was barely a decent one—but he did like a nip or two after a hard day in the field. Well, goddamn, the Hawk had thought when he saw Sam emerge from the building under protective escort. How suspicious and how ungrateful could a man be? Of all the unmitigated, detestable strategies to employ—convoys! And to bring in his employer, the obviously equally detestable Aaron Pinkus, was downright treasonous, definitely un-American! The Hawk was not sure his newly acquired aides-de-camp were up to a new strategy. On the other hand, a good combat officer always brought out the best in his troops, no matter how raw they were. So he glanced at them, scrunched beside him in the front seat—he certainly could not permit a potential adversary to sit behind him in a foxhole.