“Where’s your tape player, Phil? I need to check these.”
“Ernhardt took it back. Please, I wouldn’t have hidden them if they weren’t genuine.”
That made sense. “See, Phil? That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? Well, maybe a bit. I may contact you in the future with questions about Ernhardt. If I do, maybe we can accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative in the reinforcement department. What do you say?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever.”
I picked up my bat and left. I interrupted the ride back to the hotel only to ditch the bat in an alley. For the rest of the trip, I reflected on how easily violence had come to me. True, you could say that Phil had “deserved it,” and I had acted with restraint, but surely those were the justifications of every torturer. The most disturbing aspect of it was that I didn’t want to tell Oshie about it, and maybe that was the ultimate litmus test for wrongdoing.
Back in my hotel room, I phoned Jim Hernandez at Capital Investigation Services. “I talked to the guy who took the computers. Everything’s fine. Thanks for a good job. If I need any more assistance I’ll call you.”
In the morning, Phil would take the computers to his techie guy, and he’d find nothing. But I’d found out that Alex, unwittingly or not, was a conduit of information that went through Lou Bernier to Cliff Ernhardt. That was, as they say, a situational advantage. Plus, I’d recovered the tapes. A celebration was called for, so I opened the minibar and ate what must have been a thirty-dollar bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. Then I called home.
Oshie’s voice took me home like some wondrous teleportation machine. Instantly it seemed as if I was sitting across from her at our kitchen table, the kids’ voices carrying in from the backyard. I could see her smile as she congratulated me on recovering the tapes and then frown just a little as she puzzled with me about why Dougie hadn’t left notes for his story. Was it just his native paranoia that had overridden standard working practice, or had he left notes and I’d failed to find them?
We discussed this and more pleasant issues for too short a time, and then Oshie put the kids on the line. Daiki regaled me with the wonders of “Silver Blaze” and “The Adventures of the Lion’s Mane.” Ren informed me that he was the best hider of all his friends and we discussed the possibility of hide-and-go-seek becoming an Olympic sport. Regretfully—more regretfully than I cared to dwell on—I said goodbye to them all and was left back in my hotel room, alone.
I unpacked the tape player I’d bought and settled in to listen to more of Dougie’s tapes. I’d listened to part of tape number one and all of five others. Deciding to plow through the rest of the tapes in order, I slotted in the otherwise untitled tape number one and fast-forwarded to where I’d left off oh so long ago, when the world was innocent and so was I.
The tape had started off with Cliff Ernhardt pontificating on the need for good right-wing spin doctors, and Dougie stroking him and urging him on. It continued in that vein and I really had to force myself to listen to it. In the end, it was a wasted effort in bile suppression, because I learned nothing new. I’d listened to tape number two, “The Setup,” and tape number three was boring beyond belief. Tape number four was “Finances,” which I’d also already heard. Tape number five, however, shocked me with a clue that would prove to be one end of the thread that unraveled this whole sad—no, tragic—story. Listen to this:
Cliff Ernhardt: I want to thank you so much, both on my behalf and also on behalf of my principals, for your generous donation.
Dougie: It was just a friendly gesture. And on behalf of my principals, we hope this is just the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial relationship.
Ernhardt: Well, a quarter of a million dollars is an extremely friendly gesture. And I can assure you and your principals that we are open to a continuing relationship.
Well, holy shit! I mean, holy shit! One question had been answered, namely, what Dougie had done with at least part of his money. But other questions had risen like zombies from the grave. Why? How? Who? What the fuck?
I paced the hotel room, completely oblivious to where I was. Or even, for that matter, who I was. I was conscious only of the tortured logic circuits of my brain as they arranged facts, asked questions, rearranged facts and reached conclusions that became new facts. Dougie gave a huge sum of money to a slimeball named Cliff Ernhardt. Why? Access. Access to what? To the machine behind Ernhardt, the would-be controllers of the political and economic agenda of the country. Because? He wanted a story, and the story presumably would have scandalized the nation. Maybe Ernhardt had tipped Dougie to a scandal that would have seriously damaged, maybe destroyed, the machine. And maybe, just maybe, the people who were the machine realized that Dougie was on the verge of destroying them. And so they destroyed him.
My brain stopped. It had spit out an answer and awaited new instructions. Who or what would give it the new instructions? My other brain? Stupid brain! Stupid brain! I pounded the heel of my left hand against my head, then again, harder. Finally my logic circuits skipped ahead a bit and resumed activity.
The bastards. The dirty rotten bastards. The dirty rotten slug-fucking bastards. They most definitely would pay for this. They would regret the day they’d fucked around with Dougie Tarkenen.
At this point I realized that my hotel room was much too small for the magnitude of the pacing I needed to do. I grabbed my coat and went outside, where I could engage in a pace of epic proportions. It was dark and it was cold. I walked. I walked until it was less cold and less dark. I was conscious of not a single thought until I looked at my watch and saw that it was seven in the morning.
The neighborhood was one I’d never seen before. Down the block and on the other side of the street was one of those family-run coffee shops that caters to the earlier-than-normal working person. Warm and well lit, it drew me across the street and up to the slightly fogged glass door. I went in.
As the door closed behind me, I stood for a moment and savored the warmth and the smell of coffee. The place was surprisingly full of very, very pale faces, most of which were intently scanning the sports section of the Ottawa Times. In a booth eight down from the door, by the window, I spied a familiar face. At one end of the counter was a serve-yourself coffee pot. I poured a cup and approached my acquaintance, who was staring morosely out the window. As I slid in opposite him, I said, “Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in the world, I had to walk into this one.”
Phil Trimmer startled and looked at me. Panic showed momentarily before he got himself under control. “What the hell do you want?”
“Phil, I thought at the very least I’d have bought myself some civility.”
His eyes moved constantly around the café, either because he was afraid to look at me or because he was afraid of being seen with me or because for him fear was a character trait. “Look, I appreciate that little present you left me. I spent some of it on a wheelchair. But I don’t think we should be seen together.”
“You’re probably right. But I may want to continue our business relationship. What’s the best way to stay in touch with you?”
He looked at me for the first time. I could almost see the wheels of avarice turning behind his eyes. “I hang out at Big Frank’s sports bar. Phone me there. If I’m not there you can leave a message. Say, ‘Tell Phil to phone his mother.’” He stood and limped toward the door, not a wheelchair in sight. Some people were hopeless exaggerators.
I was aware of two burgeoning sensations: the glimmering of an idea and the pangs of extreme hunger. I dealt with the latter first. As the waitress refilled my coffee cup, I ordered a plate of corned beef hash with two fried eggs on top. Ten minutes later the hunger pangs were considerably weaker and the mental glimmering was considerably stronger.
I’d been searching for a way to approach Cliff Ernhardt. I could, of course, walk up to him and introduce myself as a friend of Doug Tarkenen and say I was hoping to finish the story that Dougie had been working on, the one that
was going to expose Cliff and his friends to the whole world as dollar-addled rutting weasels, but I could see that that plan was not completely assured of success. Hmmm.
Then it hit me. A glancing blow that fortunately did no visible damage. Cliff Ernhardt was facing a murder charge, a situation that presumably made him feel vulnerable and thus less prone to completely rational thought. Suppose I approached him as a friend of Gerry Steadman who had information related to the murder, information that Steadman had given him that could clear Ernhardt or maybe implicate him further? I could decide which later. Why did I think I could get away with this? Because no one seemed to know much about Steadman, so I could easily be a friend from the old days. Besides, I didn’t have a better idea.
Three hours later I found an intact payphone on Laurier Avenue and dialed Ernhardt and Associates. I introduced myself as Jimmie Johnson and said I wanted to speak to Mr. Ernhardt. Of course, he was in a meeting. “And what,” the secretary enthused, “is this regarding?”
“Regarding the murder of Gerry Steadman. I’ll phone back in an hour. Please make sure that Mr. Ernhardt is available.”
I hung up and phoned Big Frank’s sports bar. Someone answered and when I asked for Phil, I heard, “Phil, are you here?” and then, to me, “Who is it?”
As maternally as possible, I said, “Tell him it’s his mother.”
“Which mother?”
Somewhat less maternally, I said, “The mother that’s going to cut off his allowance if he doesn’t quit fucking around.”
That message was apparently relayed because Phil came on the line. “What?”
“We need to talk. Be out front in ten minutes and I’ll pick you up in a cab.”
My confidence in Ottawa cabs was only slightly misplaced, and fifteen minutes later we picked up a disgruntled Phil Trimmer. “Son, it’s been so long since we’ve had a nice visit. I thought we’d go for a walk.”
“My legs are still sore.”
“Exercise will do you good.”
I paid off the cab in the middle of a busy shopping area and stood impatiently while Phil levered himself painfully out of the backseat. “How much longer are you going to play the sympathy angle?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better. You don’t do the baby-seal thing very well. I want to talk about your boss. I understand Ernhardt is in the frame for Gerry Steadman’s murder. What do you know about it?”
“Not a lot. Ernhardt had me do a background check on Steadman, but I couldn’t find much. When Steadman got whacked it was a real shock. But I can guarantee you that Ernhardt didn’t do it.”
I leaned over so I could look directly into his face. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because Ernhardt is a bullshitter, not a killer.”
Phil might lack character, but I felt he was a pretty good judge of it. “What have the cops got on Ernhardt?”
He shrugged. “Ernhardt was there the night Steadman was shot, although he swears he left him alive. But Steadman left some papers, documents of some kind, that point to Ernhardt. I’ve leaned on my usual sources at the cop shop, but they’ve got this locked up tight. No one’s saying anything.”
“What did Ernhardt tell you about Dougie Tarkenen?”
“He thought Steadman might be giving Tarkenen information. I looked into it but couldn’t find any contact between them. How your friend got those tapes is a mystery. But Ernhardt was really worried about the tapes.”
“How worried?”
“Look, I know your friend is missing, but like I said before, if Ernhardt’s a killer, I’m a rubber ducky.”
I placed my hands on his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake, which shouldn’t have caused him to wince, but it did.
“This is important. Let’s say you’re right about Ernhardt not being a killer. But he played with some pretty heavy hitters and some of them might not have shared Ernhardt’s delicate sensibilities. Any names come to mind?”
“No. These guys are legitimate businessmen, for Christ’s sake. Well, mostly legit. I’m sure some of them have tax issues and some of the politicians may not have reported all their campaign donations. But that’s business as usual in this town. Nothing to get all heavy-handed about.”
I stared at the horizon as I thought this over. No conclusions were reached. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to approach Ernhardt, posing as a friend of Steadman’s named Jimmie Johnson. I’m going to tell him Steadman gave me information that could clear Ernhardt or maybe put him more squarely in the frame. I haven’t made up my mind yet. If Ernhardt says anything to you about it, like getting you to tail me or anything, I want to know about it. Right?”
A pained look disturbed Phil’s countenance, which I would like to report was a departure from its normal cheery openness, but I can’t.
“Jesus, Swanson! There are so many ways this could go sideways. I said he’s not a killer, but the guy’s facing a murder rap. You rattle his cage and all bets are off. And what if the cops find out? I’ll be fucked if I’m going to stand up for you for obstruction of justice, or fraudulent impersonation, or whatever the fuck they want to make out of it.”
“I thought we had a congenial employer-employee relationship. All I’m asking you to do is relay things to me. Things your ex-boss tells you that your new boss—me—might find useful. What’s the problem?”
He grumbled and shifted from foot to foot and looked at the sky. Finally he said, “How much?”
I knew I had him. “Phil, I think you’ve seen that I’m a pretty generous guy. I’m sure we can come to an agreement on the value of anything you give me. You have my number at the hotel? Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a phone call.”
I left Phil to his equivocations and set off in search of another payphone. It took awhile, so my second call to Ernhardt and Associates was twenty minutes late. But maybe it was better if I came across as a little bit unreliable. In spite of my tardiness, I was quickly transferred through to Cliff Ernhardt. After some obsequious and unpleasant pleasantries, Ernhardt came to the point. “Mr. Johnson, I understand you have some information about the Steadman murder. Shouldn’t you go to the police?”
“Of course. But the fact is, my information came from my old friend Gerry Steadman. It could help your case. And if you knew Gerry, you know he understood that information is never free. I feel I have to honor his memory by handling this the way he would have.”
“You mean a quid pro quo. All right. I have some free time this afternoon. Why don’t you come by my office?” He quickly realized the downside of that scenario. “Actually, it might be more, uh, relaxing if we met out of the office.”
“Yeah. I’ll meet you in the bar of the York Hotel. Tomorrow morning at ten.” I hung up.
As I walked away I remembered something Dougie had once said. “The art of the hunt demands the appropriate camouflage.” In those days he was referring to army camouflage gear that had been properly stained, bloodied, and broken in. The present situation demanded something different.
I headed for Harry Rosen.
Twelve
WHEN I WALKED OUT OF the store I was almost strutting. Resplendent, as they say, in a three-button houndstooth jacket setting off pearl-gray slacks, with the ensemble well accessorized by Italian loafers and a tie that didn’t say “Fuck you” all over it. I had my old clothes in a bag and almost threw them into a trash receptacle before realizing that midnight would come to the ball eventually.
Back at the hotel, I approached the desk clerk and embarked on another scam. Where was this coming from? “Hi. I’ve got a friend coming in today and I said I’d get a room for him. Can I get a room for Jimmie Johnson for five days?” I pushed my credit card across the counter.
“Certainly, sir. Smoking or non?”
“Non. And by the way, his boss is expecting him today, and if he doesn’t show he’ll be in trouble. If anyone phones for Jimmie, would it be okay not to say he hasn’t arrived yet? Just say that he’
s not in his room and you’ll take a message?” I put on my most heartfelt look, which, I can assure you, is the very quintessence of heartfeltedness. “You wouldn’t be telling a lie. He wouldn’t be in his room. Unless, of course, he was, in which case you wouldn’t say that.”
The desk clerk gave me a resigned look, which I took as acquiescence. “Room 427. Would you like a key, or will he pick it up?”
“Maybe I’ll take a key, and if I don’t hook up with him, there’ll still be one at the desk.” I got another resigned look along with the key.
In my room, I carefully hung my new clothes in the closet and, resplendent, as they say, in my underwear, sat down to finish my homework. I needed to listen to the rest of the tapes before meeting Ernhardt. I needed anything on him I could get. The last tape I’d listened to was number five, during which I’d discovered that Dougie had given Ernhardt a quarter of a million dollars. But I hadn’t finished listening to it. It was still in the machine, so I pressed Play. Ernhardt was still speaking. He had just told Dougie that he and his people, whoever they were, were open to a continuing relationship with Dougie and his people, whoever they were supposed to be. He continued, “And over the next few months, as we get a better understanding of your needs, we can begin to design a program to deliver certain things. And as expenses arise, we can discuss reimbursement, but please understand that ongoing program funding is even more important than specific expense funding.”
Dougie: Of course. And what I think we need here, Cliff, is a two-pronged approach. We need to develop a regulatory regime that will give my offshore clients the access to oil they need, and more generally, we need to change the government here. They just aren’t sympathetic to our needs. Have your people given any thought to that?
Ernhardt: Of course. Regarding the regulatory issues with getting oil offshore, we’ve been working for some time with some of your western colleagues, and we’ve made a lot of progress. You know, of course, who I’m referring to.
The Fourth Betrayal Page 11