A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  "This is work?"

  "Well, yes and no. You'd be surprised how many big deals I've swung in places like this."

  "No!"

  "Whaddaya mean, no?"

  "No, I wouldn't be surprised."

  "Aha, my boy, see how fast you are learning the travel business."

  "I like it, I like it. Is it payday yet?"

  "You need some dough?"

  "No, just kidding, Rog."

  "Okay. But you know-anytime."

  "Yeah, I know. Thanks, but everything's solvent, honest."

  "Good. Hey. I talked to Campeau in Paris yesterday."

  "And?"

  "And he's anxious as hell to see you. He's got some terrific ideas. One of 'em is a World War Two tour that sounds terrific. You know, all the battle sites and lots of history and schmaltz."

  "I haven't seen Campeau in five, six years. How's he doing?"

  "Great. I told him you'd be coming over soon to firm up some deals for us. He was delighted. He said he wants to show you that Paris hasn't changed, not in the really important things."

  "That means broads and booze to Campeau."

  "So what do you think is important?"

  Morley smiled at his friend's mock seriousness. "Lost my head for a minute. Sorry. I'll be glad to see Campeau again. By the way, Rog, since you and he are as anxious to get going on this thing as I am, I think I'll leave Friday on that new Paris­ Miami flight. Sound okay to you?"

  "Great. Perfect. I'll call Campeau first thing tomorrow."

  "Yeah, but tell him I'll be at his place Monday morning, or

  I can give him a call Sunday if he'd like."

  Roger's eyebrows raised fractionally, but he didn't comment. Instead, he said, "He'll want to meet your flight, you know.''

  "I know, but I'd prefer not. Okay?"

  "Sure, okay. As you wish. I'll tell him you're coming in by local flight, time uncertain, and you'll call him Sunday. How's that?"

  "Perfect. Same old Rog, fast on the uptake."

  Again Roger held his comment. He signaled the waitress for a refill, and when she'd brought it and departed again, he pulled out a small note pad. "Now, Pat, here are my ideas on the kinds of things we might be able to do with Compeau and Gianella in Rome. I think those two will be enough on your plate this trip." He started ticking off notes he'd made on the pad. Morley listened carefully, tossing in a question or comment every so often. They were still sitting there when the after-work crowd descended on the place, still absorbed in their wet business meeting.

  Morley would have been even more pleased had he been able to sit in on another business meeting that was being held at about the same time in a large motel in downtown West Palm Beach. This meeting, which had started on a triumphant note, had finally degenerated into frustration. Dennis Conners was the principal purveyor of both moods.

  Krupa's contacts, with only a modicum of unfriendly persuasion, had come up with the location of the lock box for the key, and then with some illegal administrative assistance from a suborned official of the bank, they were able to get the contents of the box. The bank official was pretty nervous, but Krupa convinced him not only that his action was in his own best interests, but that he'd never get caught because the record owner of the box, the ex-owner, was a nonperson.

  The box did indeed contain seven spiral notebooks that in size and content appeared to be the code, contact, and procedure books for Cappacino's courier service. One was even marked "Santa," but it was only a ledger of dates and payments. Conners's immediate reaction was delight at being able to tell Matthewson that they had the books, but while he was waiting for Matthewson's man to arrive and pick them up, he took a closer look at them, and his optimism started to wane. At first he thought maybe they were too complicated, or maybe just too simple. Anyway, he couldn't make any sense out of them. Then he wondered if maybe there was a code key book missing. Finally, he reluctantly concluded that Cappacino, even in death, had reached out to give them one final frustration - the damn books were phoney! He didn't say anything to his men or to the courier who arrived in midafternoon with all the right passwords from Matthewson and left with the package of notebooks a few minutes later. The courier told Agrico "off the record" that he was taking them directly to the "big boss in Jersey." Conners hoped he was wrong, that he just hadn't found the key, but in his heart he was convinced the books were phony.

  And this guy Santa was making the day even more frustrating. Conners's optimism on this one was fading fast too. They had started out with all the obvious angles: people with Saint or Santa in their names, Cappacino's records and household accounts, neighbors, storekeepers. They had ended up with nothing.

  Conners and Agrico had started with Cappacino's apartment and then branched out into the rest of the building and started on the other nine condominium buildings in the area. They had not gotten very far today, but a disturbing pattern was already emerging: Cappacino had really played it cool. There was no clue in the apartment, everything was routine, and there was nothing in his building. His neighbors and the resident manager were friendly and cooperative with the "federal officers" conducting the "very confidential investigation," but it was clear that Dante had successfully avoided any social contact with them. They all assumed Ernie Pro had been his wife, and of course neither Dante nor she had ever done any­ thing to disabuse them of this assumption. The neighbors had not considered Dante's standoffish attitude or conduct offensive or even unusual, because so many absentee owners of Florida condominiums were similarly cool about relationships with other owners or tenants.

  Conners left Agrico to work on the other high rises in the area while he went back to meet Matthewson's courier, and it was too late to do any more that day. Krupa had a more interesting, but no more productive, afternoon. He'd used another of his contacts to get at the telephone records. Conners was really impressed by the strides this young man had taken in his year in this area; he'd really laid his lines out like the pro he was. He'd made a listing of all Cappacino's toll calls during the last year. There were quite a few intrastate calls, mostly to Miami and Tampa, and many more to Chicago, New York, New Jersey, L.A., Honolulu, San Pedro, San Francisco, and Seattle. They could all be checked out, but Conners decided it didn't make sense to spend much time on them now. Same with the less frequent but still numerous overseas calls, mostly to France, Turkey, Lebanon, and Morocco. It was the local calls that would tell the tale, those nontoll calls in the Palm Beach area - and of course, there was no record of these. No attempt had ever been made to bug Dante's phone or either of his apartments, not even the broad's, because Dante was too smart. Hell, he'd written some of the books on that subject. So the meeting ended on a falsely hopeful note, with predictions all around of happier days ahead. Conners joined in the optimism, but he had trouble believing in it.

  8

  Morley woke to a beautiful sunshiny morning Tuesday. He walked down to the ocean for a prebreakfast swim, a practice abhorred by natives in January but one that he found particularly invigorating this day. He dawdled a bit over eggs and toast and still made it to Hurst's Global Travel for the opening bell. Roger took obvious pleasure in introducing him to people and showing him around the office, finally leading him to a small but tastefully furnished room that had his legend on the door: PATRICK MORLEY, ASSOCIATE.

  Roger had already talked to Campeau and got him working on the Paris meetings, but he suggested that it might be better if Morley himself called that "crotchety old bastard Gianella" who might or might not respond to anyone else. So Morley called and firmed up his Rome appointments for Tuesday evening and Wednesday. Gianella, who was in a good mood, seemed genuinely delighted to hear from Morley and even passed on his regards to Roger. Roger was so pleased with the way things were shaping up that he suggested an early and long celebration lunch; Morley, similarly pleased, did not refuse him.

  Before he went home that evening Morley phoned Terry Rourke in Miami. Terry sounded happy. "How's it going, Patrick?
That merchandise okay?"

  "Super, Terry, but then I expected it would be."

  "I know that's some of your Irish blarney, but say it any way."

  "No crap, the stuff is first class."

  "Good. Good. What next, me boyo?"

  "Well, I'd like to put a couple of stops out, if I can."

  "Tell me where and what kind, and I'll tell you if ya can."

  "One's at the Pentagon. I'd like to be alerted if anybody comes around or if there are any mail or phone inquiries from somebody wanting info on my service record. Any kind of nibbling would be of interest."

  "Can do. Got a few contacts there. Sure one of them can handle it. Where's the other one?"

  "Santa Barbara. I'd like the same kind of coverage for anyone snooping around the courthouse - birth records especially - yeah, very 'specially."

  "No problem. Got a good man in L.A. who can cover that. But, Pat, you don't really want 'stops' do you?"

  "No, you're right, not 'stops,' just alerts. Let the bastards look if they want to, but let me know as soon as possible when they start looking. And of course I'd be interested in knowing exactly what info they got, if it can be determined without spooking the 'lookers.'"

  "Gotcha. I'll instruct my boys just that way. Any other problems? Those were easy."

  "I don't want to give you any hard ones, Terry, though I know you could knock 'em off easily."

  "Yeah, yeah. Thanks a lot. You've got my curiosity up about twenty-five feet high, but I know better 'n to ask what it's all about."

  "You're right, Terry, you do." They both laughed, then Morley continued. "In due time, lad, in due time. All I can do at the moment is assure you that you won't go to jail for anything you're doing for me. Now I don't know what the hell else you're doing that might be jailbait, but my stuff isn't. Okay?"

  "Yeah, I guess. You're a regular frigging fountain of information, pal, but mine is not to question why. Okay, Patrick, I'll be in touch soon as I get anything. Take care."

  "You too. And thanks. Tell Barb her husband 's a nice guy even if he doesn’t deserve her."

  "Yeah, I'll do that."

  "Oh damn, Terry. One last thing - incidental, but maybe important. Can you get me some background - I guess I mean organizational background - on the syndicate's Chicago setup? The current one, the one they call the 'Corporation."'

  There was a long pause before Terry came in. "Yeah, I can get background, names and numbers stuff, but I'm not sure I should. Are you playing around with those cuckoos? That's big league stuff, buddy. They play for keeps."

  "Not to worry, Terry. It's just that it'd be interesting to see if a couple names match up."

  "What're the names? I'll see."

  "I don't have them yet."

  "Hmmm. You are a close-mouthed bastard, Patrick. But all right, I'll see what I can do."

  "Thanks again."

  "Don't mention it, pal. Watch your rear end."

  "Sure. Sure. Good-bye."

  Later that afternoon, Conners and Krupa were sitting in lounge chairs near a corner of the motel pool, going over the events of the day. The atmosphere was heavy with disappointment.

  Krupa had been working at the banks today. Cappacino had two different checking accounts, one in Palm Beach and another in West Palm. Using the same cards and cooperative official, he was able to arrange access to "friends" in these other banks and had obtained all the Cappacino records, duplicated them (on the banks' machines, of course) and brought the copies back to the hotel along with the canceled checks Conners had taken out of Cappacino's apartment office. After a long and grueling session they had come up with zilch. There were lots of "cash" checks and quite a few made out to D. E. Prohaska. All the others were pretty routine, nothing to raise any doubts. The only "unusual" ones, using the term loosely, were a one-time payment to an attorney in North Palm Beach and a couple of sizable checks made out to a financial consultant firm in Miami. There was nothing that could be construed as payments to a bagman, nothing concerning any names or persons unknown or not easily explained. The records seemed to be a dead end.

  Conners had spent part of his day in the shopping centers at both ends of Singer Island, using the pictures of Dante and Ernie Pro to try to jog memories. It was no dice. People were friendly enough, but they just didn't recognize the man or woman, not even a TV repair shop that had made two service calls to Dante's apartment and been paid by check. Conners talked to the serviceman who'd handled one of those visits ­ the other one was made by a former employer, whereabouts now unknown - but he couldn't even place the man or the apartment. It had happened almost a year before, and the man was very busy and not very interested or bright. Bars, nightclubs, and restaurants were equally sterile. It was almost as if Dante had never left his apartment when he was in Florida. Maybe that was the answer.

  Agrico came out of the hotel into the pool area, wearing the closest thing to a smile that Conners had yet seen. He came over to their table and sat down, pulled out a cigarette, tamped it, put it in his mouth, and finally lit it. Conners just looked at him, straight on. Finally Agrico spoke, and it turned out that his grin was genuine. "Think I hit some pay dirt."

  "Good, tell us about it."

  "Y'know the old man's next-door neighbor? The one was out of town yesterday? Well, he got back and the manager told him I was lookin' for 'em, so he called me and left a message. This guy, his name is Farber, I think it's probably 'Farberg' if we was to know, anyways he's a talker. And nosy. We should hire this asshole to work any apartment we need covered. He's better'n a hunnerd bugs. Anyways, Farber says the old man and 'his woman,' he knew they wasn't married, don't ask me how, never had much company. In fact he didn't remember seeing anybody who visited them socially. Farber said the old man, 'old Casper' he called him, was pleasant enough whenever they met, but made it clear he didn't want to get chummy.

  "Now the woman, 'Dorothy,' was somethin' else. Farber said he'd talked to her quite often in the hall and at the pool, and a couple times she'd accepted his invite for a drinkie at his place. She was friendly as hell, but still cool, Farber said, like maybe she wanted to play but was scared to. Anyways, I'm sure Farber was tryin' to get into Ernie Pro's pants, and according to him she was about to drop 'em for him one time when something scared her off. Farber says he 'spects that 'somethin' was a guy who came lookin' for Dante. Farber didn't see the guy full on that time - oh yeah, they were in Ernie's place, so she answered the door - but a couple weeks later the guy came again when Farber and Ernie were at the pool, so he got a good look. The guy was about thirty, five ten or eleven, one sixty-five or so, slender, brown wavy hair, medium length. He was tanned like a native, that's Farber's words, looked well dressed. He didn't have any particular accent, not foreign, not Southern, not anything, but Farber says he talked like a well-educated man. Farber was sure he and Dorothy knew each other, but when he asked her right out, she said no, she'd never seen him before. Farber says he knew this was a lie because he'd got enough voice and back of the head that other time to know this was the same guy who'd screwed up his piece of ass that other day."

  "This Farber-what's he do?"

  "He's some kinda big landlord up in Jersey. Lives down here mosta' the winter. I figure he's gotta lotta dough and property he didn't earn, and he just sits around and drinks and chases pussy.''

  "Is he sharp?"

  "I dunno, Dennis. I guess so. He took a good long look at my phoney ID card. I almost shit. He seems to be smart enough. From what he told me, this guy made enough impression on him that he remembered a lot about what he looked like."

  "You said Ernie Pro seemed scared of this guy?"

  "Did I? I don't think 'scared's a good word. I'd say more like 'embarrassed.' Yeah, I think Farber said just that, that Dorothy seemed kinda embarrassed at this guy showin' up and findin' her playin' 'kneesies' or whatever with the old man's neighbor."

  "Now, Paul, what's your own judgment of this guy Farber and his story?"

  "I think
Farber's leveling, Dennis, 'cause I don't know why he wouldn't. I think he's a flag-waver who figures he's helping out the feds, who will forget the whole thing the next time a twitchin' ass bikini goes by. But I do think he's smart and I think his description of the guy - the visitor - is probably pretty good. Now whether the guy is Santa - who knows?"

  "Yeah, I agree with you. It's sure as hell worth following up." Turning to Krupa, Conners said, "Sal, check with Chicago and New York, and get New York to okay a check with Miami on the names and descriptions of 'official' visitors to Dante ­ over, say, the last year. Yeah. Paul, when was it this guy showed up?"

  "About six or seven weeks ago, Farber thought.''

  "Yeah, Sal, have 'em check that time frame especially.''

  "Okay."

  "And, Paul."

  ''Yeah.''

  "Good work. Any more missing people out there who might have known the old man?"

  "No. Not that I know of. But I think it might be good to have another go at Farber in a few days. He might remember more. I told him to try and he said he would. I'll hit him about Friday."

  "Good, but make it tomorrow, and when you see him I'll have a guy I want you to take along."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. He's an artist. I want him to do a sketch to the tune of this guy Farber's description of the visitor."

  "Hey. Great idea. Yeah. I'll tell Farber he's one of those cop artists like on TV."

  "Paul, you tell Farber nothing more. Let him do the talking. But make sure my man keeps drawing until Farber says the picture looks like Ernie Pro's visitor - then we'll get to work in earnest."

  Agrico was taken aback but adjusted quickly. He was used to obeying commands; it was just that it was the first time he'd seen this crisp, authoritative, steely-eyed side of Dennis Conners. But then very few people in the organization had. Agrico nodded assent rapidly. Krupa said nothing but was inwardly amused at Agrico's discomfiture; he was one of the few who had seen Conners in action before.