Harrison Ronald poured himself another cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. He glanced out the dirty window at the building across the alley, then resumed his seat at the kitchen table and flipped to the comics. After he scanned them and grinned at “Cathy,” he picked up a pencil and began the crossword puzzle.
Harrison Ronald liked crossword puzzles. He had discovered long ago that he could think about other things while he filled in the little squares. Today he had much to think about.
At the head of his list was Freeman McNally. He knew that McNally had been laundering money through Harrington’s S-and-L. What would McNally do now? McNally’s operation was taking in almost three million cash a week. About a fourth of that amount went to the West Coast to pay for new raw product, and a big chunk went to salaries and payoffs and other expenses. Still the operation produced a million a week pure profit—a little over four million a month—cash that Freeman McNally had to somehow turn into legitimate funds that he and his immediate cronies could spend and squirrel away.
It was certainly a pleasant problem, but a problem nonetheless. It would be interesting to hear Freeman’s solution.
In the year that Harrison Ronald had spent working for the organization he had acquired a tremendous respect for Freeman McNally. A sixth-grade dropout, McNally had common sense, superior intelligence, and a cat’s ability to land on his feet when the unexpected occurred, as it did with a frequency that would have appalled any legitimate businessman.
Many of McNally’s troubles were caused by the people who worked for him: they got greedy, they became addicted, they liked to strut their stuff in front of the wrong people, they became convinced of their own personal invulnerability. McNally was a natural leader. His judgments were hard to fault. Those people that he concluded were a danger disappeared, quickly and forever. Those errant souls whom he believed trainable he corrected and trusted.
Like every crack dealer, McNally was in a never-ending battle to protect his turf, the street corners and houses where his street dealers sold his product. This was combat and McNally had a natural aptitude for it. He was ruthless efficiency incarnate.
And like every crack dealer, McNally was in a cash-and-carry business that demanded constant vigilance against cheaters and thieves. Here too McNally excelled, but he had been blessed with a generous dollop of paranoia and a natural talent for larceny. To Harrison Ronald’s personal knowledge, poorly advised optimists had attempted to swindle Freeman McNally on two occasions. Several of these foolish individuals had received bullets in the brain as souvenirs of their adventure and one had been dismembered with a chain saw while still alive.
But although Freeman McNally had many attributes in common with other successful crack-ring leaders, he was also unique. McNally intuitively understood that the most serious threat to the health of his enterprise was the authorities—the police, the DEA, the FBI. So he had systematically set about reducing that threat to an acceptable level. He found politicians, cops and drug enforcement agents who could be bought and he bought them.
Consequently Harrison Ronald Ford was in Washington undercover instead of riding around Evansville, Indiana, in a patrol car. He wasn’t known as Harrison Ronald Ford here though, but as Sammy Z.
Mother of Galahad, 23 Across. Six letters, the last of which is an E.
Ford had arrived in Washington a year ago and rented this shithole to live in. After two weeks of hanging around bars, he got a job as a lookout for one of McNally’s distributors. He had been doing that for about a month when who should come strolling down the street one rainy Thursday night but his high school baseball buddy from Evansville, Jack Yocke.
He had leveled with Yocke—he had no choice: Yocke knew he was a cop—and the reporter apparently had kept the secret. Ten months had passed, Harrison Ronald was still alive, with all his arms and legs firmly attached, and he was now personally running errands and delivering product for Freeman.
He was close. Very close. He knew the names of two of the local cops on Freeman’s list and one of the politicians, but he had no evidence that would stand up in court.
It would come. Sooner or later he would get the evidence. If he lived long enough.
Elaine. Elaine was the mother of Galahad.
If that fox Freeman McNally didn’t catch on.
Damn that Yocke anyway. Why did that white boy have to pick today to call? Oh well, if worse came to worst, Jack Yocke would write him one hell of an obituary.
The late Judson Lincoln had lived in a modest three-story town house in a fashionably chic neighborhood a mile or so northeast of the White House. T. Jefferson Brody wheeled his Mercedes into a vacant parking place a block past the Lincoln residence and walked back.
He was expected. He had telephoned the widow this morning and informed her of his interest in discussing the purchase of the business that had belonged to her deceased husband. She had apparently called her attorney, then called him back and proposed this meeting at two p.m.
Mrs. Lincoln had sounded calm enough on the phone this morning, but that was certainly nothing to bank upon. This would in all likelihood be a tense afternoon with the sniveling widow, probably some brainless, ill-mannered brats, and for sure, one overpaid fat lawyer anxious to split hairs and niggle ad nauseam over contractual phrasing. Looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon would be the question of who had killed Judson Lincoln, prominent black businessman and civic pillar to whom we point with pride. And police. They would be in constant contact with the widow, asking every question they thought they could get away with.
Oh well, T. Jefferson could handle it.
After pushing the doorbell, Brody adjusted the twenty-dollar royal-blue silk hanky in his breast pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t need to offer it as a repository for the contents of the widow’s nose, but.… He straightened his tie and made sure his suit jacket was properly buttoned and hanging correctly under his knee-length mohair topcoat.
The door was opened by a black woman in a maid outfit that was complete right down to the little white apron. He handed her his card and said, “To see Mrs. Lincoln, please.”
“I’ll take your coat, sir.” When Brody had shed the garment, the maid said, “This way, sir.”
She led Brody fifteen feet down the hallway to the study.
Mrs. Lincoln was a tall woman with chiseled features and a magnificent figure. Her waist, Brody noted appreciatively, wouldn’t go over twenty-two inches. Her bust, he estimated, would tape almost twice that. Judson Lincoln must have been out of his mind to go chasing floozies with this magnificent piece waiting for him at home!
Then she smiled.
T. Jefferson Brody felt his knees get watery.
“I’m Deborah Lincoln, Mr. Brody. This is my attorney, Jeremiah Jones.”
For the first time Brody glanced at the attorney. He was about twenty-five with slicked-back hair, miserable teeth, and a weasel smile. “Yes, yes, Mr. Brody. Deborah has told me of your client’s interest in her husband’s business. Such a tragedy that took him from her so early in life.”
As Brody feasted his eyes upon the widow, it occurred to him that she seemed to be weathering her husband’s unfortunate demise very well. Just now she made eye contact with Jones and they both smiled slightly. She turned back to Brody and, it seemed to him, made a real effort to arrange her face.
“A tragedy,” Brody agreed after another look at gigolo Jones. “Ahem, well, life must go on. Sorry to disturb you so soon after … ah, but my clients are anxious that I speak to you about their interest in your husband’s business before you … ah, before you …”
The beautiful Deborah Lincoln took her attorney’s hand and squeezed it as she gazed raptly at Brody.
“… They want to buy the business,” Brody finished lamely, his thoughts galloping.
Yes, indeed, Deborah Lincoln. Yes, indeed, you need a man to comfort you in your hour of need. But why this pimp in mufti? Why not T. Jefferson Brody?
“I have an excelle
nt offer to lay before you.” Brody gave the widow Lincoln his most honest, sincere smile.
Negotiations with Deborah Lincoln and attorney Jones took all of an hour. Brody offered $350,000, the attorney demanded $450,000. After some genteel give-and-take, Mrs. Lincoln graciously agreed to compromise at $400,000. Her attorney held her hand and looked into her eyes and tried to persuade her to demand more, but her mind was made up.
“Four hundred thousand is fair,” she said. “That’s about what Judson thought the business was worth.”
She gave Jones a gentle grin and squeezed his hand. When they weren’t looking his way, T. Jefferson Brody rolled his eyes heavenward.
It was agreed that tomorrow afternoon Mrs. Lincoln and Mr. Jones would come to Brody’s office to look over the lease assignments, bill of sale, and other documents. Brody would have the check ready.
After shaking hands all around, Brody was escorted from the room by the maid, who helped him with his coat and held the door for him.
Down on the sidewalk, with the door firmly closed behind him, Jefferson Brody permitted himself a big smile as he walked toward his car.
The door was opened by a young woman with a scarf around her head. “Yes.”
“I understand you have an apartment for rent?” Henry Charon raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes. Come in, come in. It’s too cold out there. What is it, forty-five degrees?”
“Nearer fifty, I think.”
“It’s upstairs. A bedroom, bath, living room, and kitchenette. Fairly nice.”
They were standing in the hallway now. The New Hampshire Avenue building was old but fairly clean. The woman wore huge glasses in brown, hornrim frames, but the optical correction in the glass was so large that her eyes were comically enlarged. Charon found himself staring at those brown eyes, fascinated. She focused on one thing, then another, and he could plainly see every twitch of the muscles around her eyes.
“I’d like to see the apartment, please.”
“The rent’s nine hundred a month,” she apologized. She had a pleasant voice and spoke clearly, articulating every word precisely. “Really obscene, I know, but what can we do?”
Charon grimaced for her benefit, then said, “I’d like to see it.”
Her eyes reflected her empathy, then she turned and made for the stairs. “Just moving to town?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, you’ll like Washington. It’s so vibrant, so exciting! All the great ideas are here. This is such an intellectually stimulating city!”
The apartment was on the third floor. The living room faced the street, but the bedroom looked down on an alley that ran alongside the building. The grillwork of a fire escape was visible out the bedroom window, and he unlocked the sash, raised it, and stuck his head out. The fire escape went all the way to the roof.
He closed the window as his guide explained about the heat. Forced-air gas, no individual thermostats, temperature kept at sixty-five all winter.
“You must come look at the kitchen.” She led him on. “It’s small but intimate and reasonably equipped. Perfect for meals for two, but you could do food for four quite easily, six or eight in a pinch.”
“Very nice,” Henry Charon said, and opened the refrigerator and looked inside to humor her. “Very nice.”
She showed him the bathroom. Adequate hot water, he was assured.
“The neighbors?” he asked when they were standing in the living room.
“Well,” she said, lowering her voice as if to tell a secret. “Everyone who lives here is so very nice. Two doctoral students—I’m one of those—a Library of Congress researcher, a paralegal, a freelance writer, and a public-interest attorney. Oh, and one librarian.”
“Ummm.”
“This is the only vacancy we’ve had in over a year. We’ve had five inquiries, but the landlord insisted on a hundred and fifty a month rent increase, which just puts it out of so many persons’ reach.”
“I can believe it.”
“The previous tenant died of AIDS.” She looked wistfully around the room, then turned those huge eyes on Charon. He stared into them. “It was so tragic. He suffered so. His friend just couldn’t afford to keep the apartment after he passed away.”
“I see.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Consulting, mostly. Government stuff.”
He began asking questions just to hear her voice and watch the expressions in her eyes. She was studying political science, hoped to teach in a private university, got a break on her rent to manage the building, the neighborhood was quiet with only reasonable traffic, she had lived here for two years and grown up in Newton, Massachusetts, the corner grocery on the next street over was excellent. Her name was Grisella Clifton.
“Well,” Henry Charon sighed at last, reluctant to end the conversation. “You’ve sold me. I’ll take it.”
A half hour later she walked out the door with him. She paused by her car, a weathered VW bug. “I’m delighted you’ll be living here with us, Mr. Tackett.”
Henry Charon nodded and watched her maneuver the Volkswagen from its parking place. She kept both hands firmly on the wheel and leaned toward it until the moving plastic threatened to graze her nose. On the back of the car were a variety of bumper stickers: ONE WOMAN FOR PEACE, CHILDCARE BEFORE WARFARE, THIS CAR IS A NUCLEAR FREE ZONE.
On Wednesday afternoon Jefferson Brody concluded that Jeremiah Jones wasn’t much of a lawyer. While Mrs. Lincoln examined the original oil paintings on the paneled mahogany and the bronze nude that Brody had paid eleven thousand dollars for, Jones looked over the legal documents, asked two stupid questions, and flipped through the two full pages of representations and warranties that Mrs. Lincoln was asked to make as seller of the business without taking the time to read them carefully. Jones was a sheep, Brody decided. A black sheep, he chuckled to himself, pleased at his own wit.
Mrs. Lincoln signed the documents while Brody’s secretary watched. Then the secretary notarized the documents, carefully sealed them, and separated them into piles, one pile for Mrs. Lincoln and one for Brody’s clients, whose identities were, of course, still undisclosed. The documents merely transferred the business to the ABC Corporation, which was precisely one day old.
“You understand, I’m sure,” Brody commented to Jones, “why my clients have not given me the authority to reveal their identities.”
“Perfectly,” Jones said with a wave of his hand. “Happens all the time.”
Brody produced the cashier’s check of a New York bank in the amount of four hundred thousand dollars. After Jones had examined it, it went to Mrs. Lincoln, who merely glanced at it and folded it for her purse.
Jones glanced at his watch and stood. “I’d better run. I have an appointment at my office and I think I’m going to be late. Deborah, can you get home in a taxi?”
“Of course, Jeremiah. Oh, why don’t you take this check and have your secretary deposit it for me? Could you do that?”
“If you’ll make out a deposit slip.”
“Won’t take a minute.” Mrs. Lincoln got out her checkbook, carefully tore a deposit slip from the back, and noted the check number on it. Then she turned the check over and endorsed it. This didn’t take thirty seconds. She handed both pieces of paper to Jones. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. I’ll call you.”
Jones shook hands with Brody and left.
“Well, Mr. Brody, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Deborah Lincoln said. “I’ll ask your secretary to call me a taxi.”
T. Jefferson stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Please call me Deborah.”
“Deborah. It’s such a shame that the tragedy to your husband … I hope the police weren’t too rough.”
“Oh,” she said with a slight grimace, “they certainly weren’t pleasant. Almost suggested I’d hired it done. They said it was a professional killing.” She tried to grin. “It certai
nly didn’t help that Judson was killed on the stoop of his bimbo’s house, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand,” Brody said gravely and reached for her hand. She let him take it.
“You know, I’m not sure how to say this, but I have the feeling that things will go well for you from now on.”
“Well, I hope so. With the business sold and all. That certainly is a load off my mind. I know nothing at all of Judson’s business, Mr.—”
“Jefferson, please.”
“Jefferson, and your people paid what the business was worth, I believe.” She took her hand back and looked again at the paintings and the sculpture. “Such a nice office.”
“What say—how about I buy you dinner? Could I do that for you?”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why, Mr.—Jefferson. So nice of you to ask. Why, yes, I’d like that.”
Brody looked at his watch, a Rolex. “Almost four o’clock. I think we’ve done enough business for today. Perhaps we might go to a little place I know for drinks, then dinner afterward, when we’re hungry?”
“You’re very thoughtful.”
The evening turned out to be one of the most pleasant that T. Jefferson Brody could remember. The beautiful black woman with the striking figure was a gifted conversationalist, Brody concluded, a woman who knew how to put a man at ease. She kept him talking about his favorite subject—T. Jefferson Brody—and drew from him a highly modified version of his life story. Professional triumphs, wealthy clients, vacations in Europe and the Caribbean—with a few drinks in him Brody waxed expansive. As he told it his life was a triumphant march ever deeper into the palace of wealth and privilege. He savored every step because he had earned it.
After dinner—Chateaubriand for two of course—and a $250 bottle of twelve-year-old French wine, Jefferson Brody seated the widow Lincoln and her magnificent rack of tits in his Mercedes and drove her to his humble $1.6 million abode in Kenwood.
05.Under Siege v5 Page 13