“Really, Mr. Yocke. Mr. Liarakos is not—”
“Would he like to comment on this story?”
“If I say, ‘No comment,’ what will you say in the story you’re writing?”
“I’ll say that Mr. Liarakos refused to comment on the story.”
The phone went dead. She had put him on hold.
Jack Yocke put his feet on his desk and cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He cracked his knuckles. Aldana and Zaba. The A-to-Z connection. Too bad the Post wouldn’t let him make a crack like that in print.
She came back on. “Mr. Yocke?”
“Still here.”
“You may say this: In view of the gag orders issued in the Aldana case by Judge Snyder, Mr. Liarakos does not believe he is at liberty to comment on this matter.”
“Okay. Got it. Thanks.”
He was just finishing the story when the phone jingled. “Yocke.”
“This is Tish. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier.”
“Hey. I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner with me at the Graftons’ tomorrow night? I meant to call you last week, but I got called out of town unexpectedly.” The last sentence was a lie. He had intended never to call her again, but Mrs. Grafton had specifically asked him to bring Tish Samuels. He wondered what Mrs. Grafton’s reaction would be if she heard Tish’s little speech about her literary ambitions.
“I’ve been reading your Cuba stories. They’re very good.”
“Thank you. I was down there and all and real busy.”
“You apologize too much, Jack. Yes, I’d like to go to the Graftons’ with you. What time?”
You apologize too much. Only to women, Jack Yocke thought. Why is that?
Thirty minutes later he was in talking to Ott about General Zaba when he was summoned back to his desk by the telephone operator. “Your Cuban call is ready.” He had a call in for Pablo Oteyza, formerly known as Hector Santana.
Yocke picked up the phone. “Jack Yocke speaking.”
“Pablo Oteyza.”
“Señor, I’m the Post report—”
“I remember you, Jack.”
“Congratulations on being named to the interim government.”
“Thanks.”
“I sent you my articles on Cuba. Did you get any of them yet?”
“Not yet. The mail is still very confused. And I haven’t yet heard a megaton detonation from the north, followed by a tidal wave of reporters, so I assume you honored your promises to me about what you would and would not publish.”
“Yessir. I don’t think you’ll find anything embarrassing to you or the American government in the articles.”
“Or my American friends.”
“Right. Señor, I know you’re busy. It’s just been announced here that General Zaba was extradited and brought to Washington for trial. What can you tell me about him?”
“He was an associate of Chano Aldana. He used Cuban gunboats and naval facilities to smuggle cocaine. We gave the FBI agents all the evidence we have been able to assemble and let them interview Zaba’s subordinates. Your people were very pleased.”
“Will there be any other extraditions?”
“Perhaps. It will take time for the FBI and the American prosecutors to evaluate what they have. And to see if Zaba wants to talk. If the American government gets indictments for drug trafficking against other Cubans, my government will evaluate them and decide on a case-by-case basis. We made it plain to the FBI that people who were just following orders will not be extradited.”
“Any truth to the rumor that Zaba’s extradition was a quid pro quo for American economic aid?”
“Speaking for my government, I can say that the new government of Cuba and the government of the United States will cooperate on many matters. Economic aid is very high on our list of priorities.”
“You sound like a politician.”
“I am a politician, Jack. I look forward to reading your stories.” “Thanks for your time.” “Yes.” Oteyza hung up.
Jack Yocke tapped keys on his computer to bring up the Zaba story, then began to make insertions.
To say that Harrison Ronald was apprehensive when he drove to work on Friday night would be an understatement. After his second telephone conversation with Special Agent Hooper, he had walked the streets for an hour, then reluctantly retraced his steps back to his apartment.
He had gotten out his slab-sided .45 Colt automatic and stuffed a full clip up the handle and jacked a round into the chamber. With the weapon cocked and locked and under the pillow, he tried to get some sleep.
He couldn’t. He lay there staring at the ceiling and wondering who was saying what to whom.
Why in hell had he insisted on two more nights? Two more nights of waiting for someone to blow his silly brains out.
He had thought his nervous system had had all it could handle the other evening when he walked four miles from the Lincoln Memorial to McNally’s northwest hidey-hole. He had told the tale of the evening’s adventures to that little ferret Billy Enright, who left him sitting in a bedroom while he went to call Freeman.
He sat for an hour listening to every sound, every muffled footstep, waiting. Then Freeman had come in, inspected the bullet groove in his arm and cuts in his face and insisted that the wounds be cleaned and bandaged by a proper doctor. In the living room Billy had the television going, with the victims and blood and smashed car being shown again and again. When they had had their fill, Freeman and Billy drove him to some quack who had gotten himself banned for life from the practice of medicine by prescribing painkillers to rich matrons suffering from obesity and boredom.
All concern he was, Freeman that night. His face reflected solicitude, glee when he heard how Sammy Z had killed the guy in the backseat by crushing his larynx, laughter when he heard about the high-speed chase and the final, fatal crash. Keystone Kops stuff, slapstick. Ha ha ha.
“Ya did good, Z, real good.”
“Sorry about your merchandise, Freeman, but I didn’t think it was smart to go hiking down the street bleeding and all and carrying ten pounds of shit. And I had to ditch the car fast. It looked like Swiss cheese.”
“You did right, Z, my man. Don’t sweat it.”
“Sorry about the car.”
“Fuck the car. I’ll get another.” McNally snapped his fingers. “That
Tooley! I’d like to know who put that chickenshit cocksucker up to robbing me. No way that bubble-brain would dream that up by hisself.”
“I’ll ask around,” Billy Enright promised. “Put the word out. Maybe offer some bread for info.”
“Offer ten Gs,” Freeman said, taking a thick roll of bills from his pocket. He divided it without counting and handed half to Harrison Ronald. “Here. I pay my debts. You were working for me, so I owe you. Here.”
Harrison glanced at the stack and pocketed it. “Thanks,” he said, with feeling.
“Make it five Gs,” Freeman told Enright. “If we offer too much, people’ll be dreaming up tales. Five’s enough.”
So Harrison Ronald was in tight with Freeman. Maybe. In any event, McNally had tossed him the keys to a four-year-old Ford Mustang, and that was what he was driving this evening. And that wad of bills, when he counted it back at the apartment, consisted of forty-three $100 bills.
In tight — maybe. Ford had no illusions about Freeman McNally. He would pay forty-three hundred dollars to see the look of surprise on his victim’s face when he jammed a pistol up his ass and pulled the trigger.
If he had heard the rumor and decided Sammy Z was a cop, he would still be the same old Freeman McNally, right up until he grinned that grin and took care of business.