And I says to myself, Uh-oh.
The lieutenant says to me, "You got a real handle on what it's all about, Sergeant."
And 1 laugh. I don't know what's happening. two miles away and I say so.
"I mean out on the line," the lieutenant says.
"Oh, that," I says.
"Ever hear of CRIP?" he asks me.
I had heard some vague stories about a mixed outfit made up of North Viets who had defected to our side and called themselves Kit Carson scouts, plus infantry guys, some leftover French Legionnaires, and, some said, even some CIA, although you could hear that about anything. What I heard was that they were pretty much assassination squads. Our own guerrillas, like the Green Berets and the SEALS, which is like the Navy berets. Anyway I said no, because what I heard was mostly scuttlebutt.
"It's Combined Recon and Intelligence Platoons. Special teams. We keep them small, four or five people. You know how that goes, everybody gets so they think like one person. You move around pretty much on your own, targets of opportunity, that sort of thing. I think it would be just up your alley."
"I got ten weeks left," I said, and I said it like You must be nuts.
But it was funny, I was interested in what he was saying. I mean, this lieutenant was recruiting me, asking me to do another tour, and I was listening to the son of a bitch. And he went right on.
"We have a low casualty rate because everybody knows what they're doing. You go out, you do your thing, you come back, everybody leaves you alone."
"That's about what I'm doing now," I said.
"That's what I mean, you're perfect for CRIP. We need people, like you."
I'm getting a little pissed. "What's in this for me, Lieutenant? just sticking my ass out there to get whacked off for twelve more months? Shit!"
He says, "So what's back home? You work eight hours, sleep eight hours. Shit, Sergeant, all you got left is eight hours a day to live. Tell me this isn't better than bowling."
I told him I'd think about it and I got shacked up for two days and went back down to the squad.
The 347th day: We had this kid, a replacement, his first time on the line. I don't even remember his name. Anyway, we're rushing this hooch and there's a lot of caps going off and the kid twists his ankle and down he goes and he starts screaming. We all just stay down and all I'm thinking, as many times as I told this kid, "You go down, keep your mouth shut no matter how bad you're hurt," and he's losing it all.
They zero in on him but Doc gets to him first and he's dragging this kid by the feet, trying to get him behind something, away from the fire.
I hear the round hit. It goes phunk, like that.
I was hoping it was the kid but no such luck. Doc took one round, dead center.
Then the kid freaks out and runs for it and they just cut him to pieces too:
What a waste, what a goddamn awful fucking waste.
Later on, the GR's come in with their body bags. Doc is lying beside a tree. He looks like he's taking a nap and I'm sitting beside him and this guy comes up with the bag and plops it down beside Doc and zips it open.
God, how I hate that sound. I hate zippers.
"Don't put that on him," I say, and I grab that goddamn green garbage bag. "Don't put that fuckin' bag on him."
"Hey, easy, pal, okay," the Gunner says. "He's gone. We lost him. Let them take him back."
You can't cry, you know. Nobody cries up here. You cry, everybody thinks you're losing it. Doc had eight days. Eight fucking days to go. All that time, all that experience. All stuffed in a fucking garbage bag.
The 353rd day: Ever since, I been thinking a lot about Carmody and Flagler and Jesse Hatch. Doc Ziegler. Some of the others. The lieutenant's right; it is kind of a waste, spending a year on the line and then leaving it just when you really get so you know what you're doing. I've never been a pro before at anything. But I know how to fght these motherfuckers. I feel like I'm doing something positive, accomplishing something. You know, in my own way, doing something to turn this thing around, getting even for Jesse and Doc and the lieutenant, all the rest of them.
And one more thing. I wouldn't want to tell them this, or anybody else. I like it. I'm going to miss it . . . getting a gook in my sights, squeezing off, watching the fucker go down. Shit, man, that's a jolt. That's a real jolt. There's not another jolt in the world like it.
59
PYRAMIDS
I took a couple of wrong turns before I found DeeDee's street. A red Datsun Z sat in the driveway and there were kids playing hide-and-seek in the yard next door. From the outside of the house, everything appeared normal. Obviously death had not made its presence known to the neighborhood yet.
Lark answered the door and ushered me inside. The house was dark, oppressive, silent. The rituals of passage had not yet begun. There were no flowers, no covered food dishes from the neighbors, no mourners sitting silently, trying not to stare at the casket.
Lark sat on one of the hard, uncomfortable antiques, her hands folded in her lap, looking at the floor, unsure of how to act in the presence of tragedy. I could tell it was a role uncommon for her, that she was accustomed only to the good things in life. Tragedy thus far had passed her by.
"Dee's sleeping," she said, after moments of strained silence. "The doctor gave her two shots before she quieted down. I don't know how long she'll be under. A couple of hours, at least." She paused, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. "Mr. Seaborn called. Thanks for telling him. He seemed to be honestly concerned."
"I'm sure he is," I said, trying to think of something more significant to say. "I just came by to see how she's holding up."
"Hard to say," Lark said. "I don't know what's going to happen when she wakes up. She was in shock when the doctor got here." She looked up at me suddenly and asked, almost with desperation, "Was Tony breaking the law when it happened? I think Dee's more worried about that than anything. Not for herself. She doesn't want people to remember him . . . badly."
"I can't say for sure," I said, "but it's possible."
"How did he die?"
"I'm not sure about that either," I said, and trying to avoid telling her a bald-faced lie, I added, "He could've drowned. Apparently he was in the water for some time. He washed up near Saint Somethings Island, wherever that it."
"Saint Simons," she said. "It's south of here, about fifty miles."
"They're doing the autopsy there," I said.
She shuddered when I said the word. Then she looked up suddenly. "I almost forgot," she said. "Mickey was by. He said if I saw you to tell you he needs to get in touch. He says it's very important."
"Do you have my number?" I asked, getting up to leave. I had really wanted to see DeeDee and had little else to say to Lark. She nodded. "I'm staying at the Ponce." And she nodded again. "Well," I said, "if I can do anything . . . "
"You did the toughest thing of all," Lark said. "It was nice of you, telling her that way instead of . . . "
The sentence seemed to die in her mouth, as if she were unsure how to finish it. I put my arm around her and hugged her until I felt the tension begin to ease. It was a hug I could use, too, just feeling someone close to me, to share a moment of caring with.
"You ought to have somebody here with you," I said.
"No, not yet. Dee wouldn't want that."
I left and drove back to the Warehouse. The Stick's black Pontiac was lurking in front. Inside the converted supermarket Stick was reading a computer printout.
"You're back early," he said. "Did'ya get my message?"
Obviously he had not heard about the events at the track and I wasn't in the mood for details. It was only midafternoon but I felt like my cork had been pulled for the day.
"I'm dead," I said casually.
"A lot of people are having that trouble these days," he drawled. "How are things at the track?"
"There was an accident," I said. "Three horses went down."
"What!"
"One of the horses split a f
oreleg in the stretch and took two other nags down with it."
"Are the jockeys okay?" he asked.
"Busted up but they'll live. Lost two of the horses."
He whistled through his teeth, but that seemed to be the extent of his interest.
"And how are things at the bank?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Stick answered with a smile. "I tumbled on to how they're using the bank to wash their money. The bad news is, as far as I know, what they're doing is legal."
"Impossible!" I snapped.
"Well, to some extent it's legal," he said, amending his original comment. "The account Cohen uses is in the name of the Abaca Corporation. According to Charlie One Ear, Abaca owns Thunder Point Marina, Bronicata's restaurant, the Porthole, the Jalisco Shrimp Company, etcetera. I checked the account and there are daily deposits, but never more than a couple thousand dollars."
"That's inconsistent with what Lark told you."
"Hang on," he said, "I'm not through yet. I only had that one account number, so I decided to check the daily tape. That's a chronological list of all the deposits made at the bank each day. Lo and behold, there're ten deposits for ten grand each, all within seconds of each other." He made a grand gesture with his hands and smiled. "Pyramids," he said.
"Pyramids?"
"Cohen has this thing for pyramids."
"I don't understand."
"It's simple, once you tumble on to it. Cohen puts a hundred C's in, Abaca shows a deposit of only ten grand. It only gets complex when you start trying to decipher the whole system."
"Well, try, 'cause you've lost me," I said.
"First, let's assume that Seaborn is in collusion with Cohen. Cohen is using the bank as a washing machine. The whole point is to move a lot of cash through the bank without making the IRS suspicious, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"That's where the pyramids come in. What happens, let's say Cohen makes his daily deposit . . . ten grand, for the sake of discussion. The deposit goes into the Abaca Corporation. That's the base company, okay? But the computer is programmed to immediately dispense that money, by percentage, into several other accounts. It never appears as a ten-grand deposit because the computer spreads it over ten other accounts before making the deposit. "
"Does it always go into the same accounts?" I asked.
He shook his head. "There's a code designation on the account number that tells the computer what set of accounts the money goes into and what percentage goes into each. Then each of those accounts is spread over five or ten other accounts. So what they got is pyramids."
"So every dollar that goes into the bank is diverted into so many other accounts, you don't see any big sums going anywhere and it doesn't wave any red flags at the Lepers," I said.
"Exactly," he said. "If you weren't looking for something, you'd never tumble over it. Thing is, they seem to be using these accounts for legitimate purposes. Payrolls for Triad employees, accounts payable and receivable for the Bom Dia restaurant, Jalisco Shrimp Company, Thunder Point Marina . . . the Seaview Company, Hojan and Rajah, whatever that may be . . . hell, there could be a couple of hundred accounts. This Cohen is a genius. If he had to, he could probably legitimately account for most of the money going into these pyramids."
"There's got to be a reason for going to all that trouble," I said. "There's got to be some skimming accounts, or payoff accounts."
"Yeah, I agree," he said. "But what are they? We're looking at one pyramid off another here. Creative bookkeeping compounded by creative computer technology. So maybe some of these accounts are payoff accounts or skim accounts; there's no way to tell which ones."
Stick was right.The system, although devious, was not illegal. What was illegal was using the bank to channel illegal monies from gambling, prostitution, narcotics, and whatever else, into legitimate accounts and then siphoning off some of those accounts without reporting the income to the IRS. The big question was how they were doing it.
"We'll never unravel it all without a key list of all their accounts," said the Stick.
I said, "Stick, we're close to nailing them. Cohen must have this defined somewhere. It's far too complex to keep in his head."
"Probably in a computer of his own," said Stick. "And there's no way we can access a private terminal."
"Then one damn thing is for sure," I said. "We've got to keep Cohen alive. He's got the key to the puzzle."
"Wanna put 'em under protective custody?" Stick said. "I can't think of anything else to do. We're baby-sitting 'em around the clock now."
"Yeah, and so far it hasn't helped any of them," I said.
There was one other possible answer. We could offer to put Cohen in the witness protection program if he would cooperate with us. And I know what my answer to that proposal would be if I were Cohen. I'd tell me to get stuffed.
60
THE COCKTAIL HOUR
I suppose the most spectacular view in town comes with the tallest building—that's if you have the money to make the view worthwhile. Babs Thomas had them both and the taste to do it right. The penthouse was like a glass box surrounded by gardens. Glass walls everywhere: the living room, bedrooms, kitchen, even the bathrooms. Floor-to-ceiling drapes provided whatever privacy was necessary, although the only danger of eavesdroppers seemed to be from low-flying aircraft.
The penthouse was lit by slender tapers, an effect both unusual and stunning, since the glass walls reflected every flickering pinpoint and then re-reflected it, over and over, bathing the rooms in a soft, yellow glow.
There were at least thirty couples there, Babs' idea of a few friends, all of them old-monied and well pedigreed. I assume only a death in the family would have been a suitable excuse for missing the soiree. That or, as in the case of Charles Seaborn, the bank examiners.
Babs, a vision in yellow silk wearing a white hat with a brim wide enough to roller-skate around, swept over to me as I entered, pulled me into a neutral corner, and filled in my dance card for me, advising me on who was worth talking to and whom to skip.
My top priority was to meet the remaining members of the infamous Committee.
Arthur Logan, the lawyer, was forty and looked sixty. Poor posture made him appear almost humpbacked, his face was pinched into a perpetual frown, and his eyes were paranoiacally intense and busy, like a man who expects to hear bad news at every turn. Ten minutes of conversation proved him to be as senile in mind as in body, a man so fanatically conservative that even Calvin Coolidge would have found him an anachronism. His wife, also singularly unattractive, appeared to have lost her chin somewhere along the way. She complemented him by smiling and keeping her mouth shut.
On the other hand, Roger Sutter, the big-shot journalist, was just the opposite, the epitome of the young man on the go. His handshake was painfully sincere, his gaze intense, his attitude open. He talked to me for five minutes before he figured out I wasn't there to invest money in Dunetown, then his gaze became less intense and began to wander from one female rear end to the other. His wife, who let me know she was the best tennis player at the club thirty seconds after we met, was busy flirting with the men in the room.
Charming.
No wonder the city had fallen prey to Tagliani. Dutch had said it the night I arrived. Dunetown had been entrusted to wimps. Were they involved with Seaborn and Cohen?
Doe caught me by surprise. I was ordering a drink when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and she was standing there. My knees started to wobble again.
The big surprise was that Chief was with her.
He sat tall and erect in his wheelchair, and while time seemed to have taken its toll, the old man still looked like everybody's grandfather ought to look, his white hair cresting a craggy face that was indomitable.
I knew the Findley background well. I should have, it was a story I had heard repeated often enough. Chief's grandfather, Sean, an Irish collier, had emigrated to Dunetown, won a waterfront tavern in a card game and parlayed that into the c
ity's first million. After that it was cotton, banking, real estate, God knows what else. The same flint that had fired old man Sean had also struck wit and wisdom in every crevice of Chief's face and his eyes were as fiery and intense as ever. Only his body seemed to be failing him.
"Hello, Chief," I said. "Been a long time."
"Yes," he said, "and a sad one."
I knew the breed well enough to know that Chief would not mention Teddy or my unanswered letter. Apologies come hard and infrequently to men like that; they're not prone to admitting mistakes. Or maybe Chief just didn't see it the way I did; maybe he had just closed the book on that chapter.
"Doe tells me you're in government service," he said, with obvious sincerity. "That's quite admirable."
That was the end of our conversation. A moment later someone pushed past me to pay homage to the old warrior, and then someone else, and someone else, until I was gradually edged out of the circle. Doe eased her way to my side. I could feel the sexual electricity humming around her. Time had not changed one thing—they were still the lightning people.
"Where's Harry?" I asked.
"He canceled out at the last minute. There was an accident at the track. Some horses were killed."
"I know, I was there."
"It must've been just horrible," she said, then added hurriedly, "Albert's coming in ten minutes to take Chief home. I'll meet you out on the terrace after he leaves." She turned abruptly and wormed her way back into the circle of sycophants.
Suddenly I was alone and staring across the room at Sam Donleavy. I shouldered my way toward him through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation along the way. The women cheeped like sparrows, while the men sounded more like trumpeting elephants. Donleavy seemed relieved by my company.
"It's hot in here. Let's step out on the terrace and get some air," he suggested.
Lightning was playing in the clouds south of the city and the wind was jangling a delicate glass wind chime near the door. You could feel rain in the air.
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