Names.
Only names.
It explained the hastily written notes at seemingly inappropriate times, the innocuous questions from innocuous aides.
Names.
That was what they were after.
His own staff kept repeatedly going back into the papers.
This engineering head, that design consultant; this labor negotiator, that stats analyst. Always buried under and sandwiched between unimportant judgments.
They weren’t figures! They weren’t numbers!
Only people.
Persons anonymous!
But that’s what Trevayne was after.
And Mario de Spadante had said a lot of people might have to hang.
People.
Persons anonymous.
Was he one of them?
James Goddard watched a bird—a sparrow hawk—dip suddenly downward and just as swiftly come up from behind the trees and catch the wind, soaring to the sky, no quarry in his beak.
«Jimmy!… Jimmeee!»
His wife’s voice—full-throated yet somehow nasal—always had the same effect on him, whether it was shouting from a window or talking over the dinner table.
Irritation.
«Yes?»
«Really, Jim, if you’re going to commune, for God’s sake put the telephone outside. I’m busy on my line.»
«Who’s calling?»
«Someone named de Spad … de Spadetti, or something; I don’t know! Some wop. He’s on ‘hold.’»
James Goddard took a last look at his precious view and started for the house.
At least one thing was clear. Mario de Spadante would be given the very best efforts a «bookkeeper» could provide. He would tell him digit by digit the areas of inquiry Trevayne had asked for; no one could fault a «bookkeeper» for that.
But Mario de Spadante would not be privy to the «bookkeeper’s» conclusions.
This «bookkeeper» was not for hanging.
Paul Bonner walked through the door of the cellar café. It was like a hundred other San Francisco basements-with-licenses. The amplified, ear-shattering sound from the tiny bandstand was an assault on his sensibilities—all of them—and the sight of the freaked-out, bare-breasted dancers no inducement.
The place was a mess.
He wondered what the effect might have been if he’d worn his uniform. As it was, he felt singularly out of place in a sport coat and denims. He quickly undid his paisley tie and stuffed it into his pocket.
The place was crazy with weed; more hash than «grass,» at that.
He went to the far end of the bar, took out a pack of cigarettes—French, Gauloise—and held them in his left hand. He ordered a bourbon—shouted his request, actually—and was surprised to find that the drink was an excellent sour mash.
He stood as best he could in one spot, jostled continually by the bearded drinkers and half-naked waitresses, a number of whom took second glances at his clean-shaven face and close-cropped hair.
Then he knew he saw him. Standing about eight feet away in tie-dyed Levi’s and sandals, his shirt a variation of winter underwear. But there was something wrong with the hair, Bonner thought. It was shoulder-length and full, but there was something—a neatness, a sheen; that was it. The man’s hair was a wig. A very good wig, but by the nature of its in-place effect, inconsistent with the rest of his appearance.
Bonner unobtrusively raised the pack of Gauloise and lifted his glass in greeting.
The man approached, and when he stood next to Paul he leaned over and spoke through the noise close to Bonner’s ear.
«Nice place, isn’t it?»
«It’s … overwhelming. You look like you fit in, though. Are you sure you’re the right guy? No intermediaries; I made that clear.»
«These are my civilian clothes, Major.»
«Very appropriate. Now, let’s get out of here.»
«Oh, no, man! We stay. We talk here.»
«It’s impossible. Why?»
«Because I know what these vibes do to a pickup.»
«No tapes; no pickups. Come on, be reasonable. There’s no call for that sort of thing. Christ, I’d be frying myself.»
The unkempt mod with the neat hair looked closely at Bonner. «You’ve got a point, man. I hadn’t thought of it that way. You’ve really got a point!… The bread, please.»
Bonner replaced the Gauloises in his shirt pocket and then withdrew his wallet. He took out three one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the man. «Here.»
«Oh, come on, Major! Why don’t you write me a check?»
«What?»
«Get the bartender to change them.»
«He won’t do that.»
«Try.»
Bonner turned toward the bar and was surprised to see the bartender standing close by, watching the two of them. He smiled at the Major and held out his hand. Sixty seconds later Bonner was holding another assortment of bills—fives, tens, twenties. Three hundred dollars’ worth. He gave them to the contact.
«Okay. Let’s split, man. We’ll walk the streets, just like cowboys. But we’ll walk where I say, got it?»
«Understood.»
Out on O’Leary Lane the two men headed south, slowly weaving their way among what was left of the Haight-Ashbury tribes. The sidewalk stalls and curbside vendors noisily proclaimed the tribes’ acceptance of a laissez-faire economy. A lot of profit was being made on O’Leary Lane.
«I suppose, in line with your obvious cautions, you haven’t written anything down for me.»
«Of course not. Nothing to prevent you from taking notes, though. I remember everything.»
«That conference lasted damn near three hours.»
«I didn’t get to be Genessee Jim’s top accountant because of a bad memory, Major.» The long-haired man gestured left, toward an alley. «Let’s head in here. Not so frenetic.»
They leaned against a brick wall covered with semi-pornographic posters, mostly torn, all marked with graffiti; the light from the street lamps on O’Leary Lane was just enough to illuminate their faces. Bonner maneuvered his contact so the light was shining on him. Paul Bonner always watched a man’s face during interrogations—whether in the field or in a San Francisco alley.
«Where do you want to begin, man?»
«Forget the tea and cookies. Start with the major items; we’ll work back to the less important.»
«All right. In descending order… The F-90’s overrun—specifically, the design conversions of fan metals mandated by innovations called for in the Houston labs. They were first conceived of because of the flap at Rolls-Royce, if you recall.»
«What about them?»
«What do you mean, what about them? Those inno’s had a price tag of one-zero-five mill; that’s what about them.»
«That’s no secret.»
«I didn’t say it was. But Trevayne’s crowd wanted to know dates. Maybe there was a time lag you people haven’t thought about… But that’s not my bag. I’m no J. Edgar; I provide data, you evaluate. Isn’t that what that honky used to say?»
«Go on.» Bonner had withdrawn a spiral notepad and began writing.
«Next. Down south, Pasadena… The plants are eight months behind with the tool and dies for the big chopper armor plates. That’s a bad one, man. They’re so fucked up they’ll never find ozone. Labor troubles, pollution complaints, blueprint alterations, base-metal compos; you name it, they fell over it. Armbruster’s got to bail those plants out and still make it with the pure-breathers.»
«What did Trevayne want with this one?»
«Funny. He was sort of sympathetic. Honest mistakes, environment concerns; that kind of thing. He didn’t dwell on the bread; he seemed more interested in the boys who had the problems… Next. Right here in our beloved Northwest Pack. The lines up south of Seattle. As you know, there’s a little diversification going on; Genessee took over the Bellstar Companies and has thrown a mighty tax chunk into making them work. So far, it’s a large pair of snake-eyes.»