To Save a Son

by Brian Freemantle

  “I think you just did,” said Waldo, world weary. “Jesus!”

  Schultz said, “Didn’t Scargo tell you what we’d told him? Not to approach them?”

  “Yes,” admitted Franks, dry-throated.

  “But you decided you knew best!”

  “My client doesn’t have to debate the matter with you,” said Rosenberg.

  Schultz sighed. “Do you have any idea, Mr. Franks, where Scargo’s wife might be? She was last seen leaving the brown-stone two days ago and she hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Long Island,” replied Franks at once. “Her mother has an apartment near Fort Salonga. I don’t know the address but I guess it would be in the book. The name is Spinetti.”

  “How do you know she’s there?”

  “Nicky told me yesterday. Said Maria wanted to get away for a few days.”

  “That her name—Maria?” asked Schultz, who was using the top of the filing cabinet to rest a pad upon.

  “Yes,” said Franks. The thought engulfed him, as he spoke, and he said, “Do you think she’s in danger? Anyone else? My wife and family are alone in Scarsdale!”

  “Mr. Franks,” said Waldo easily, “your wife and two children have been under FBI and U.S. Marshals protection since eleven o’clock this morning. We’ve known where she’s been from the time she left the Plaza to collect them at the airport.”

  Franks remembered Waldo’s early boast about surveillance. He said, “If you followed her, then you would have followed me to Mr. Rosenberg’s. And if your surveillance was that good, then you’d have been outside Nicky’s house today!”

  Waldo shifted, uncomfortable. “Crosstown traffic,” he said, nodding toward the lawyer. “We lost you. We had a man outside Scargo’s brownstone. Saw him leave this morning and stayed in the car, ready for him to come up from his parking spot and drive to the office. Our man never heard the shooting.”

  “And you expect me to be satisfied with the protection you’ve got at Scarsdale!” said Franks.

  “No,” said Waldo. “I don’t expect you to be satisfied at all. It’s just the best shot you’ve got, that’s all.”

  “I want to go there, right away,” said Franks.

  “At this stage you can’t enforce any sort of boundary restriction,” said Rosenberg.

  The telephone in the makeshift office was lodged on the windowsill. Schultz turned away from it and bent toward Waldo, so that neither of the other two men could overhear the conversation. Waldo nodded and looked up to Franks. “You know Scargo very well?” he said. “Were brought up with him?”

  “Yes,” agreed Franks doubtfully, not sure of the questioning.

  “We need a formal identification of the body,” said Schultz. “We’ve got people going out to get Mrs. Scargo now, but it’s going to take a while to get her back in from Long Island. Salonga’s way out.”

  “And he’s a mess,” said Waldo.

  “You can refuse,” said Rosenberg hurriedly.

  Franks frowned at his lawyer. “Why should I refuse?” he said. Looking back to Waldo, he said, “Of course.”

  They emerged from the cramped room back into the human flow, going against the tide toward the rear of the building. Nearer the attached mortuary the throng lessened and they were able to walk abreast. Franks said to Waldo, “Do you think they’ll try to kill me? Or my family?”

  “Your wife know anything?”

  “She held the proxy vote that enabled me to dissolve the company.”

  “Does she know anything?”

  “I suppose she does,” said Franks.

  “She could be hit, if she’s a threat,” said Waldo.

  Franks stopped, confronting the man. “Doesn’t anything move you?” he demanded. “You’re talking about killing with about the same emotion as you’d talk about a sandwich filling for lunch!”

  Waldo stared back at him patiently. “If I thought getting outraged and upset would help, Mr. Franks, I’d get outraged and upset. Emotion gets in the way of my job.”

  Franks felt Rosenberg’s hand upon his arm. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” said the lawyer.

  Waldo thrust through the rubber-buffered doors of the mortuary. Franks paused momentarily, and then followed. To the immediate left were other doors, topped by an “enter—do not enter” lighting arrangement—some sort of autopsy theater? Waldo went straight past, farther along the corridor, and then turned left, through a door. There was a mixed odor of antiseptic and formaldehyde, and it was cold. Directly inside the door a man sat at a desk. He was reading the Daily News, and there was a thermos flask near an adjustable lamp. The attendant was unscrewing it when they entered, but he resealed it when he saw them.

  “Mort,” greeted the FBI man.

  “Hi, Harry,” said the attendant.

  “Scargo,” requested Waldo.

  The man looked briefly at Franks and Rosenberg, as if he were trying to isolate the relative, and then led them to a bank of what appeared to be huge filing cabinets. He stopped at the third from the left and pulled at it. The tray emerged on smoothly oiled runners, and Franks stood just to one side, gazing in.

  Nicky’s body was encased in plastic, and Franks’ impression, absurdly, was that Nicky looked as if he were wrapped up like lettuce in a supermarket. The attendant jerked back the cover, and although he had nerved himself, Franks winced at the sight, unable to stop the grunt of shock either. Nicky was completely naked, his body appearing unnaturally white. The back of his head was almost completely blown away, a tangled mass of hair and bone and blood and visceral threads. His face was almost entirely untouched, just one small pellet indentation on his chin, and there was no grimace of pain or distortion, or sudden shock. The right arm had been severed just above the elbow and what remained of it was wrapped in a separate plastic container and laid where it properly belonged, to the right side of the body. There was a massive chest wound on the left, so there was just a hole where the breast and the shoulder should have been. As Franks backed away he saw that they really did tie identification tags on the toes. Nicky’s was to the right and he saw that the name had already been neatly inscribed in block capitals.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s Nicky.” Had he been responsible for that? For that mutilated butcher?

  Franks backed farther away from the mortuary cabinet, swallowing against the acid that rose in the back of his throat. “Christ!” he said. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see it was Rosenberg, guiding him away. The attendant thrust the drawer back into the wall and made some notation on the identification panel attached to the front.

  “Thank you,” said Schultz. “Now you see why I asked you to do it and not Mrs. Scargo.”

  Franks nodded, unable to speak. As they went out through the door the attendant had regained his desk and was opening the thermos top.

  They walked unspeaking back to the temporary office. By the time they got there the immediate sensation of sickness had gone, and Franks said, “I’d like to speak to my wife. Can I use that telephone?”

  “Go ahead,” said Waldo.

  Franks dialed the number and Tina answered at once, the stored-up words jumbling from her when she recognized his voice. “Eddie, what the hell’s happening! There are men here; FBI men and marshals. They say it’s to protect me and the children, but they won’t say why.”

  “Nicky’s dead,” he said abruptly, cutting her off.

  There was complete silence. Franks waited, but when there was no response, he said, “Tina?”

  “I’m here.” Her voice sounded quite strong. “How?”

  “Shot,” said Franks. “A shotgun.”

  “Oh,” she said, all emotion drained from her voice, even shock.

  “I’m at the police station. With the people who came to the hotel. Maria’s being brought in from Long Island. I suppose I should stay until she gets here.”

  “Yes,” said Tina, sounding quite controlled. “You should do that.”

  “Maybe she should come back to
the house?”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Awful.”

  “She won’t have to see?”

  “No.”

  “Poor Maria.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s going to tell Mamma and Poppa?”

  Franks hadn’t thought about it. Holding the telephone away, he said to Waldo, “Are there people with the Scargo family, up in Westchester?”

  Waldo nodded. “Same time as we put a guard on your wife.”

  Going back to the telephone, Franks said, “There are people looking after them. I suppose I’ll have to tell them.”

  Her hold went at last. He heard the sound of sobbing and then her obvious attempt to control it. “Oh, Eddie,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, not yet,” admitted Franks. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”

  “I don’t feel safe, Eddie. Not anymore. I want it to stop. Everything to stop.”

  “It will,” he said. “I promise it will.”

  “I want you with me.”

  “I’ll come as soon as Maria gets here.”

  “Please hurry.”

  Franks replaced the telephone and thanked Schultz.

  “What caused that death, Mr. Franks?” insisted Waldo. “What went on at that meeting yesterday?”

  “My client doesn’t choose to answer that question, not at this time,” Rosenberg said at once.

  “When?” demanded Waldo, speaking to the lawyer this time.

  “Is there going to be any prosecution of my client?” demanded Rosenberg.

  “I don’t decide that, do I?” said Waldo.

  “Do you intend holding him?”

  Franks blinked. It had never occurred to him that he might be physically detained: locked up. A criminal. He stared around the decaying, chipped building and wondered if the cells were somewhere here. Of course they were.

  “Not at this time,” said Waldo.

  “Has the district attorney involved in the case been told of the killing?”

  “Yes,” said Schultz.

  “I’ll make contact tomorrow,” said Rosenberg. “Who is it?”

  “Walter Ronan,” said Schultz. “You know him?”

  “Yes,” nodded Rosenberg.

  Everything was back to their idea of normality, thought Franks; sandwich-filling conversation. He forced his thoughts on, trying to go beyond these casual, unemotional men, the circle turning to his reflections in the car on the way here. All the fears had been justified. He’d despised Nicky and accused everyone of Hollywood fantasies, and they’d been right and he’d been wrong. And now Nicky—poor, frightened, cringing Nicky—was dead. Would Nicky be dead if he hadn’t forced the dissolution meeting? Of course not, decided Franks. So Waldo was right; he’d pressed the trigger. And done more than kill Nicky. Taken away the corroboration for his own defense against the charges that had been prepared so carefully and were now to be deliberated upon by some district attorney named Walter Ronan. Did he lunch at the same club, off Fulton?

  Franks looked helplessly toward Rosenberg, and said, “What’s going to happen?”

  The lawyer responded curiously, caught by the tone of Franks’ voice. “You can go home to Scarsdale. Tonight. Tomorrow we’ll meet at my office. Noon. By then I’ll have made contact with the district attorney.”

  There was the sound of movement from beyond the door and then a knock. It opened at once, and Franks saw Maria between two plainclothesmen. She walked sedately into the room, looking at him without any recognition. The place was too small to accommodate the agents who had escorted her from Long Island; they shuffled unsurely at the entrance and withdrew into the corridor.

  “Mrs. Scargo?” said Waldo.

  She nodded, looking at Franks. “It’s Nicky, isn’t it?” she said. “I thought it might be you, but now I know it’s Nicky.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Franks. Why weren’t there better words!

  “How?” she asked.

  “Shot,” said Franks. “Leaving home this morning.”

  “He said it would happen. You didn’t believe him.”

  “No.”

  “Do I see him?”

  “It’s better you don’t,” said Franks. When was she going to collapse?

  Maria looked at Waldo, seated behind the desk. “You a detective?”

  “FBI.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing now,” said Waldo. “There’ll be protection.”

  “Tina’s at Scarsdale, with the children,” said Franks. “Come and stay there with us.”

  “Do Mamma and Poppa Scargo know?” she said.

  “I’ve got to tell them.”

  “I think I should go to them. They’ll need someone.”

  “Come with me, then,” said Franks.

  “He said it would happen,” she repeated. “He said that if it happened to him he hoped there wouldn’t be any pain because he couldn’t stand pain. He was a coward, you see. He knew it, which made it worse.…” She looked around to each of them as she talked, as if she wanted them all to understand. “He said it was going to happen and I didn’t believe him, either.” And then she burst into tears.

  18

  The two agents who had brought Maria in from Long Island drove escort in a backup car. Schultz drove their vehicle, with Waldo in the front passenger seat. Franks was behind the driver, his arm around Maria. She had her head against his chest and reached across, as soon as the car began to move, taking his other hand in both of hers, needing the additional reassurance. Occasionally, unconsciously, she stroked his fingers. The dry sobbing—all the tears used up in the outburst of grief in the cramped office—was less now, but still shuddered through her every so often. The traffic that had occupied part of the earlier conversation was easier now, at dusk. Schultz drove hurriedly, both men constantly looking around them; the neon reflections of unseen, passing advertisements kaleidoscoped into the vehicle, tattooing them in strange colors. The car had a radio system, turned down so that the dispatcher’s voice was a blurred, indistinct mumble. They had to stop at a light on Second and Franks heard Schultz say, “Shit!” Waldo snatched at the microphone and said “close up” and Franks glanced over his shoulder to see the second protective car drive right up behind them, so close he thought there was going to be a collision. They were able to go faster on the FDR Drive, and Franks supposed there was some identification on the vehicles to prevent their being stopped by traffic police. They crossed the bridge and picked up the Bruckner Expressway, and Maria settled tighter against him. Beneath his arm her breathing became more even and he wondered if she was asleep. It seemed absurd, but she was in shock and people behaved strangely—absurdly—in shock. He looked down and in a brief illumination he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he looked she opened them briefly, then closed them again. Waldo and Schultz spoke only rarely to each other, their voices low so Franks couldn’t hear, and they never tried to talk to him during the drive. Waldo seemed to be making timed transmissions on the radio, and Franks guessed it was locked onto an agreed frequency, because the man never appeared to adjust it.

  Franks was being gripped by a feeling of unreality and concentrated on fighting it because what was happening wasn’t unreal. To think it was—to allow himself to think that it was a dream from which he would soon wake up—was trying to run away and hide. And Franks wasn’t going to run away and hide. He wasn’t going to do anything on his own anymore, because he’d promised Rosenberg that he wouldn’t, and he knew he needed the lawyer; needed him like hell. But he wasn’t going to let the bastards win by terrorizing him. He hadn’t been frightened of them at the misguided dissolution conference, and he wasn’t frightened of them now. He was frightened for Tina and the kids and Maria and the Scargos, but he wasn’t frightened for himself. Even though he had seen the mutilated, blasted body of Nicky Scargo, Franks couldn’t believe that anything like that could ever happen to him. Which was allowing the unreality he’d determined to
resist, Franks recognized.

  At last Waldo turned to the back of the car, and said, “You want to stop at Scarsdale first, to see your wife?”

  “Please,” said Franks.

  “The two guys in the car behind will stay over tonight,” said Waldo. “Come in to town with you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” said Franks. Would Rosenberg manage to find out what the district attorney intended doing by then?

  Waldo turned back to his radio, and when they approached the house Franks imagined it had been to warn the people already guarding it that they were approaching. As they swept in through the gates, Franks briefly saw a marked police car in addition to the undesignated vehicles at the entrance. The warned agents appeared to have alerted Tina, too. A man opened the door, squinting out to assure himself who they were, but Tina was waiting just inside. Maria got hesitatingly from the car, as if she was unsure where she was, and Franks had to guide her across the porchway. Tina held out her hands, wordlessly. The two women clutched each other in a silent embrace, and then Tina led Maria off to the main sitting room, to the right. Only Waldo and Schultz came into the house. Franks said, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes,” said Waldo.

  There was a tray in the smaller sitting room, where the main television was and where he and Tina sat in the evenings when they were alone. Franks poured scotch for them and brandy for himself, and said, “How long?”

  “How long what?”

  “All this?” said Franks, gesturing to the guarded grounds outside the window.

  Waldo shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

  “I can’t believe that they’d try to kill me,” said Franks, remembering the reflections in the car.

  “People never can,” said Schultz.

  Franks thought back to their consideration at the precinct house, where they’d withdrawn from the room to let Maria cry out her grief just to him. He gave another enveloping gesture and said, “Thanks, for all this.”

  “It’s the job, Mr. Franks.”

  “Did you mean what you said back there in the city? That there isn’t a chance of connecting Pascara and Flamini and Dukes with Nicky’s killing?”