“You’re filth, De Spadante.” It was all he could think to say.
“I like that better than ‘not desirable,’ amico. It’s stronger, more positive, you know what I mean?”
“Have you finished?”
“Just about. I want you to know that the private troubles you got are going to stay very confidential. Your burdens are safe with me. No newspapers, no television or radio broadcasts; everything quiet. You want to know why?”
“I might be able to guess.”
“Yeah, sure you can.… Because you’re going to go back to Washington and wrap up your little subcommittee. Write a nice report that slaps a few wrists and makes a couple of people get fired—we’ll tell you who—and call it a day. You got that?”
“And if I refuse?”
“Oh, Christ, amico. You want to put your loved ones through all this rifiuti. I mean, what the hell, a little old man in Cos Cob and all those pictures of the drunken kid. They’d look terrible in the newspapers. And a matter of two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of uncut Turkish—the cops found it, you know what I mean? They couldn’t say they didn’t. Last, your pretty lady at the Plaza; that hotel security—he’s a very respected retired police officer—he wrote up exactly what he saw. You don’t even want to see it privately. It’d bring back all kinds of things; like the lady’s big drinking problem. That was very real; we got a doctor who helped her a few years back. You know how people think. They never really trust an ex-drunk. There’s always that possibility that she’s not so ex. Or maybe she just substituted another hangup. You know how people think.”
“Everything you say would be exposed for what it is. Lies.”
“Of course, you deny!… But enough of those items are solid, Trevayne. Real solid, you know what I mean?… And I read in a book once: accusations—especially with a little foundation, some background, a few photographs, they hit page one. Denials, they come later—on page fifty—between salami ads.… Take your choice, Mr. Trevayne. But think it over good.”
Trevayne watched the slow smile emerge on the fat Sicilian lips; the satisfied hatred in the tiny eyes, surrounded by rolls of flesh.
“I get the idea you’ve waited a long time for this, De Spadante.”
“All my life, you snot-nosed, velvet pig. Now get out of here and do what I tell you. You’re just like all the rest.”
38
Robert Webster received the telephone call in his White House office and knew it had to be an emergency. The caller said he had a message from Aaron Green and was instructed to deliver it personally. It couldn’t wait; Webster was to meet him within the hour. By three o’clock.
The two men agreed on the Villa d’Este restaurant in Georgetown; second floor, cocktail lounge. The Villa d’Este was an insane conglomeration of Victorian pastiche and Italian Renaissance, had six floors, and catered to a tourist luncheon crowd. No one of consequence in Washington arrived at the Villa d’Este until the late-evening hours, when a tourist couldn’t get a reservation unless he had a personal introduction from his senator.
Webster arrived first, in itself a bad omen. Bobby Webster made it a point never to be the one waiting. The advantage of immediate control was too often lost while listening to low-keyed but impressive explanations of tardiness.
And so it was when Aaron Green’s man finally showed up, fifteen minutes late. He spoke in rapid, short sentences, making his points apologetically but with an unmistakable air of condescension. He’d had a number of other calls to finish; Aaron Green expected him to accomplish one hell of a lot for a single day in Washington.
And now he could allocate the proper time to their immediate concerns.
Webster watched the man, listened to the understated but confident words, and suddenly realized why he felt uncomfortable, anxious. The man from Green was an operator, as he was an operator. He was comparatively young, as he was young. He was on his way up in the labyrinth world of conglomerate economics, as he was on his way up in the contradictory world of power politics. They both spoke well, carried themselves with assurance, had bearings that were at once strong and yet obedient to those to whom obedience was due.
But there was one profound difference between them, and both men knew it; it needed no elaboration. Green’s man was dealing from the position of strength; Robert Webster was not and could not.
Something had happened. Something that directly affected Webster’s value, his position of influence. A decision had been made somewhere, in some conference or over some very private dinner, that would alter the course of his immediate existence.
The emissary from Green was his first warning and the cause of Bobby Webster’s profound sense of anxiety. For he recognized the preliminary stay of his own symbolic execution.
Webster knew he was on the way out. He’d failed to control the necessities; the best he might hope for was to retreat and salvage what he could.
“Mr. Green is very concerned, Bobby. He understands that solutions have been agreed to without his having been consulted. It’s not that he expects to be called every time a decision is made, but Trevayne is a sensitive area.”
“We’re simply discrediting him. Linking him to De Spadante, that’s all. Deballing his subcommittee. It’s no big deal.”
“Perhaps not. But Mr. Green thinks Trevayne might react differently than the way you’ve anticipated. He might make it a … big deal.”
“Then Mr. Green hasn’t been given an accurate picture. It doesn’t make any difference how Trevayne reacts, because there won’t be any charges leveled. Only speculations. And none of us will be involved.… As we see it, he’ll be compromised to the point of ineffectiveness.”
“By associating him with De Spadante?”
“More than verbal association. We have photographs—they came out beautifully. They place him unquestionably at the hospital in Greenwich. They’re candids, and more damaging the longer they’re looked at.… Roderick Bruce will release the first of them in two days.”
“After De Spadante is taken to New Haven?” Green’s man was staring hard at Webster, his voice skirting the edge of insult.
“That’s right.”
“De Spadante will be very much in the news then, won’t he? Mr. Green understands he’s to be removed from the chessboard.”
“That decision emanated from his own associates; they consider it imperative. It has nothing to do with us, except that it happens to be advantageous to our objectives.”
“Mr. Green isn’t convinced of that.”
“It’s an underworld action. We couldn’t stop it if we wanted to. And with those photographs, properly documented by a couple of Greenwich doctors, Trevayne becomes implicated in the entire mess. He’s finished.”
“Mr. Green thinks that’s oversimplified.”
“It’s not, because no one’s going to claim anything. Can’t you see that?” Webster now utilized the tone of impatient explanation. It was useless.
The conversation was no more than a ritual dance. The best Webster could expect was that Green’s man—for his own protection—might carry back the total strategy to Green; that the old Jew would see the benefits and change his mind.
“I’m only an assistant, Bobby. A messenger.”
“But you do see the advantages.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
“I’m not sure. This Trevayne is a determined man. He might not accept … implications and quietly go away.”
“Have you ever seen anyone turned off in Washington? It’s a hell of a sight. He can yell all he cares to, but somehow no one wants to listen. No one wants to get touched by the leper.… Even the President.”
“What about him? The President.”
“The simplest part of the exercise. I’ll hold a group session with the aides, and together we’ll present a strong case for the President to extricate himself from Trevayne. He’ll listen to us; he’s got too goddamned many other problems. We’ll give him the options of doing it gracefully or with acid. He’ll ch
oose the former, of course. There’s an election in eighteen months. He’ll see the logic. No one’ll have to draw pictures.”
Green’s man looked sympathetically at Webster as he spoke. “Bobby, I’m here to instruct you to call it all off. That was the exact way Mr. Green put it. ‘Instruct him to call everything off.’ He doesn’t care about De Spadante; you say you can’t control that anyway. But Trevayne isn’t to be touched.… That’s the word. It’s final.”
“It’s wrong. I’ve thought this out to the last detail. I’ve spent weeks making sure every goddamn piece falls into place. It’s perfect.”
“It’s out. There’s a whole new set of circumstances now. Mr. Green is meeting with three or four others to clarify everything.… I’m sure you’ll be apprised.”
Webster understood the throw-away quality of the man’s last sentence. He wouldn’t be apprised of a damn thing unless they wanted something. Nor could he force his way into the newly formed circle. Alliances were being altered, or, conversely, made more interdependent, consolidated. Whichever, he was excluded.
Webster probed for survival clues. “If there are to be any substantial changes of policy, I think I’d better be informed immediately. I don’t like to use the bromide, but the White House is, after all, where it’s at.”
“Yes.… Yes, of course.” Green’s man looked at his watch.
“A number of questions will be directed at me. From a wide spectrum of influential people. I should have answers.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Green.”
“He should know it.” Webster watched himself; he didn’t want to appear desperate.
“I’ll remind him.”
He was being excluded, and in a manner that was far too cavalier, thought Webster. The White House was being excluded. It was a moment for audacity.
“Do more than ‘remind’ him. Make it clear that there are a few of us down here who wield pretty big sticks. There are some areas of Genessee Industries that we’re more knowledgeable about than anyone else. We like to think of them as our insurance policies.”
The man from Green abruptly looked up from the table and locked his eyes with Webster’s. “I’m not sure that’s an apt term, Bobby. ‘Insurance policies,’ I mean. Unless you’re thinking about double indemnity; that’s expensive.”
The moment sustained itself. Green’s man was telling Robert Webster of the White House that he, too, could be removed from the chessboard. Webster knew it was time to initiate the beginning of his retreat. “Let’s clarify; since there seems to be a lot of that going around. I’m not so concerned for myself; my credentials couldn’t be much better. I can go back to Akron and pick and choose. My wife would like that best. And I wouldn’t mind one bit.… But there are others; they might not be able to pick and choose. None of them has the White House on his résumé. They could be troublesome.”
“I’m sure everything will work out. For all of you. You’re experienced people.”
“Well, there aren’t that many—”
“We know,” interrupted the emissary from Aaron Green. The statement implied far more than the understated way it was phrased. “It’s time for me to go. I’ve still got a lot to do today.”
“Sure. I’ll pay for the drinks.”
“Thanks very much.” Green’s man got up from the table. “You’ll get those photographs back from Rod Bruce? Kill any story?”
“He won’t like it, but I will.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.… And, Bobby. About Akron. Why don’t you start preparing that résumé.”
39
The servants had turned on the table lamps in Aaron Green’s glass-enclosed porch with the potted plants everywhere. Outside, toward the rear, two yellowish floodlights lit up the snow-covered lawn—the burlapped shrubbery and the far-off, ghostlike white arbor in the distance. A silver coffee service was on the glass-topped round table between the white wrought-iron furniture, cups and saucers in their places. Several yards away on still another glass-topped table—this one a rectangle, longer, higher, and against the wall—was a selection of liqueurs with crystal brandy glasses off to the side.
The servants had been excused. Mrs. Green had retired to her sewing room upstairs; the lights in the rest of the house, except for the front hall and entrance, were extinguished.
Aaron Green was about to hold a meeting. A meeting with three men, but only one had been a guest for dinner. A Mr. Ian Hamilton.
The other two were driving out to Sail Harbor together. Walter Madison would stop by Kennedy Airport and pick up Senator Alan Knapp, who was flying in from Washington; together they would drive to Sail Harbor. They would arrive around ten o’clock.
They did. Precisely at ten o’clock.
At six minutes past ten the four men entered the glass-enclosed porch.
“I shall pour coffee, gentlemen. The drinks—the brandies—are over there. I do not trust these old hands to tip a bottle into those tiny glasses. I also find it difficult to read the labels; consequently, I do not indulge.… Perhaps it’s fortunate I can find my chair.”
“Absolutely nothing wrong with you but sheer laziness, Aaron.” Ian Hamilton laughed, going to the brandy table. “I’ll pour.”
Walter Madison accepted his brandy and sat at Green’s left. Hamilton brought Knapp’s drink to the round table and placed it at Green’s right; the Senator sat down promptly. Hamilton then pulled back the chair opposite Aaron Green and did the same, not too promptly.
“We could be sitting down for a hand of bridge,” said Madison.
“Or a rough game of poker,” added Senator Knapp.
“Perhaps baccarat unlimited might be more appropriate.” Ian Hamilton raised his glass to Green. “Your health, Aaron.… All our healths.”
“Also appropriate, my friend,” replied Green in his low voice. “These are times that require the best of health. Health of body and mind. Especially the mind.”
They drank, and Knapp was the first to replace his glass on the table. He was impatient but knew that patience was a valued commodity at this table. Still, he was a respected senator, a man this table needed. There was no point in feigning a composure he did not feel. He was not famous for his tact; tact was irrelevant to him.
“I’ll put my first card face-up on the table, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Green. I’m not leaving you out, Walter, but I think your position here is somewhat the same as mine. All we’ve heard is that Andrew Trevayne is not to be … ‘taken advantage of’ is the best way to put it. Walter and I discussed it in the car. There’s no point obscuring that fact. To be frank, I’ll be damned if I can understand. Bobby Webster’s strategy seemed to me a beautiful piece of work.”
Ian Hamilton looked over at Green, and after several seconds he nodded his head. It was a very slight motion; he was giving the old Jew permission to speak.
“Mr. Webster’s strategy was a beautiful piece of work, Senator,” said Green. “As the General’s brilliant maneuver might win a battle—to the great rejoicing of his command post—while in another section of the terrain the enemy mounts a blitzkrieg that will win the war.”
“You think,” asked Walter Madison, “that rendering Andrew completely ineffective … isn’t sufficient? Who else is fighting us?”
Ian Hamilton spoke. “Trevayne is in a unique position, Walter. He fully understands what we’ve done and why we’ve done it. What he may lack in hard evidence he’s more than compensated for by his perception of our larger goals.”
“I don’t understand that,” interrupted Knapp quietly.
“I’ll answer,” said Green, smiling at Hamilton. “We two are not lawyers, Knapp. If we were—I were—I think I’d say that our Mr. Trevayne has only bits and pieces of directly damaging testimony, but volumes of circumstantial evidence. Is that correctly put, Counselor Hamilton?”
“You may go to the head of the class, Aaron.… What Trevayne has done is something no one expected he would do. He threw away the book, the legal book. I suspect he threw it away very e
arly in his research.… While we were concerned with a thousand legalities, ten thousand items of cost and processing and allocations, Trevayne was going after something else. Individuals. Men in key positions he correctly assumed were representative. Remember, he’s a superb administrator; even those who despise him grant him that. He knew there had to be a pattern, a control process. A company as large and diverse as Genessee couldn’t function on the executive-board level if one didn’t exist. Especially under the circumstances. Strangely enough, Mario de Spadante’s people first perceived it. They purposely sent in contradictory information and waited to be called up on it. They weren’t. Of course, they didn’t know what to do with what they’d discovered. De Spadante crudely began making threats, upsetting everyone he came in contact with.… So much for De Spadante.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton.” Knapp leaned forward on the white wrought-iron chair with its floral-print cushions. “Everything you say leads me right back to Bobby Webster’s solution.… You imply that Trevayne has pieced together information that endangers everything we’ve worked for; what better moment to discredit him? Discredit him, we discredit his evidence. At least, sufficiently so for our purposes.”
“Why not kill him?” Aaron Green’s deep voice thundered across the table. It was an angry question and stunned Madison and Knapp. Hamilton had no visible reaction. “That shakes you, eh? Why? It is the unspoken thought, perhaps.… I’ve seen death closer than anyone at this table, so it does not shock me. But I will tell you why it is not plausible, just as this peddler Webster’s solution is not plausible.… Such men as Trevayne are more dangerous in death and forced retirement than they are in active life.”
“Why?” asked Walter Madison.
“Because they leave legacies,” answered Green. “They become rallying points for crusaders. They are the martyrs, the symbols. They cause the breeding of discontented rats that multiply and nibble away at your foundations! We have no time to spend stamping out their nests.”
Scruff Page 38