by Ross Thomas
John Jacob Spivey rose from behind the large old-fashioned black walnut desk that was placed in front of the tall windows. He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, his big head cocked slightly to the left, his shrewd blue eyes fixed on the approaching Dill. He’s still round and plump and pink, Dill thought, and from here he still looks like the neighborhood bully who’s bigger and smarter than anyone else. Then Jake Spivey smiled and chuckled and transformed himself into the most likable man in the world.
There was warmth in the smile, genuine interest in the expression, and keen anticipation in the eyes once they abandoned their calculating blue stare and began twinkling. He hasn’t got a shred of self-consciousness left, Dill thought. He’s no more aware of himself than he is of his big toe. It’s you he’s interested in, Dill. What would you like? he wants to know, and how do you feel? And what do you think? And where in the world have you been?
Spivey had begun nodding as Dill neared the desk. It was a nod of pleased confirmation. “You know what we did, Pick?” he asked. “We went and got older on each other.”
“It happens,” Dill said as he accepted the hand that Spivey extended over the desk.
“You met Daffy.”
“I met Daffy.”
“She’s from back East,” Spivey said. “Massachusetts. Went to school back there.”
“Holyoke,” Dill guessed, and smiled at Daphne Owens.
“Not even close,” she said.
“Sit down, Pick. You’re gonna stay for lunch, aren’t you?”
“All right. Thanks.”
Now settled back into his old wooden swivel chair, Spivey looked up at Owens. “Sugar, would you mind letting Mabel know there’s gonna be three of us for lunch?” He turned to Dill. “Mabel’s the cook.”
“Anything else before I go?” Owens asked.
Spivey looked solicitously at Dill. “You wanta do a little coke or something?”
“What about a cold beer?”
“I got beer right down here in this little old built-in icebox,” Spivey said as he reached down, opened the door of a small desk refrigerator, and brought out two cans of Miller’s.
“No coke, then?” Owens asked.
“Don’t believe so, sugar,” Spivey said and popped open the beer cans. “Not right now anyway.”
“I’ll see you at lunch, Mr. Dill.”
“I hope so,” Dill said.
She turned and started walking toward the double doors. Spivey watched her go with obvious appreciation, then smiled, turned to Dill, and handed him one of the cans of beer. “I think I might haul off and marry that one,” he said.
“You two’ve got a lot in common, Jake: background, taste, education, age.”
“Don’t forget money,” Spivey said. “She ain’t got any and I got a bunch.”
“That should make it a perfect match.”
Spivey leaned back in his swivel chair and examined Dill carefully. “Haven’t done all your mourning yet, have you?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Takes time, Pick. Lord, it takes time.” He sipped some of his beer. “How long’s it been now?”
“Seven years, almost eight.”
“Genoa, right?”
“Right.”
“I was with Brattle and you were with, what was her name? Lorna, Lana? Lena?”
“Laura.”
“That’s right. Laura. You all split up?”
“You heard, huh?”
“Nope. You just look sort of split up. Divorced. What happened?”
Dill shrugged. “Terminal boredom, I guess. She went out one night to see a play—Chekhov, I think—and never came back.”
Spivey grinned. “No shit? Chekhov?”
“The Cherry Orchard.”
Spivey shook his head in either amusement or commiseration. “She was one handsome woman. Know who reminds me of her?”
“Your Miss Daphne. I noticed it, too.” Dill drank from the can of beer. “Let me tell you why I’m here, Jake.”
Spivey nodded, interested.
“The Senator wants a deposition from you.”
“No problem there, but you’re gonna be plowing up the same old cotton. I’ve already talked to Justice more times than I can count. The IRS has got me on permanent audit. Even Treasury sent some tall drink of water down here, and he and I went round and round for three days. The only ones who haven’t dropped in on me is the fucking CIA, and I expect they’ll come sneaking over the wall one of these nights just to find out what I’ve been telling everybody else.”
“They’ve located Brattle, Jake.”
The blue eyes opened a little wider and the wide mouth split into a charming but skeptical grin. “Found Clyde? Clyde Brattle? Where was he this time, Cape Town? Rangoon? One of the Tripolis? Downtown Tulsa maybe? Shit, Pick, they been spotting old Clyde here, there, and over yonder for months now. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think old Clyde’s dead.”
“You hope so anyway.”
“Well, I can’t say I’d be in the front rank of mourners.”
“But you would be off the hook.”
“I ain’t exactly wiggling on one now. Where’d they claim to have spotted him?”
“London.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“Whyn’t they pick him up? Hell, he’s extraditable.”
“They lost him.”
“Who the fuck are they?”
“The Brits.”
“Well, no wonder. Look, let’s get this thing over with. You say you want a deposition for the Senator? Let’s do her.”
Dill looked around the room. “Where’s the tape recorder?”
Spivey shook his head sadly. “Pick.”
“What?”
“It’s been running from the second you walked in.”
Dill grinned. “I should’ve known. I’ll just start then.”
“You start and then Daffy’ll give the tape to one of the girls to get typed up and Xeroxed and sworn to and all.”
“Okay,” Dill said, “here we go.” He paused, counted silently to fifteen, and then began. “This is the sworn deposition of John Jacob Spivey given freely on this day of August whatever it is, ladies, at his home at the right address on Beauchamp Lane and so forth.”
Dill put his beer on the desk and opened the file on Jake Spivey. He looked at the file and then up at Spivey.
“Your name is John Jacob Spivey.”
“Yes.”
“Your age?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“You are an American citizen, living permanently at the above address.”
“Yes.”
“Your occupation?”
“Retired.”
“Your previous occupation?”
“I was engaged in the purchase and sale of defensive weaponry.”
“For how long?”
“Seven years, almost eight.”
“And before that?”
“I was a contract employee of a government agency.”
“Which agency?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Where were you employed?”
“You mean where did they hire me or where did I work?”
“Both.”
“I was hired in Mexico City and I worked in Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.”
“For how long?”
“From 1969 to 1975.”
“What was the nature of your duties?”
“The oath I took when employed by the CIA precludes me from revealing the nature of my duties unless I request and am given written permission by the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Have you sought such permission?”
“Yes.”
“Was it given?”
“It was refused.”
“When was the last time it was refused?”
“On June fourteenth of this year.”
“Why did you ask for the permissi
on?”
“I did so at the request of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“And the permission was denied?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to violate your oath at this time?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“On the grounds that it could be self-incriminating, and I cite the Fifth Amendment.”
“When did you first meet Clyde Tomerlin Brattle?”
“In 1970, around March or April. I’m not exactly sure of the date.”
“Where was this?”
“Bangkok.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He was my supervisor.”
“Your case officer?”
“My supervisor. He instructed me in the duties I performed in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia whose exact nature I am prevented by my oath from disclosing.”
Dill grimaced and drew a finger across his throat. Spivey, smiling broadly, reached beneath the desk and cut off the tape recorder.
“Jesus Christ, Jake.”
“What’d you expect?”
“It’s canned.”
“You goddamn right it’s canned—by Dump, Diddle and Squat, which is what I call those jackass lawyers of mine up in Washington who’re sucking me dry. When’s the last time you got a bill from a lawyer?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Well, here’s some advice. Sit down before you open it—or better yet, lie down, because sure as green apples give gripe you’re gonna faint dead away.”
“But all that crap about an oath.”
“I took an oath just like I said. Does Langley deny it? Hell, no, they don’t. They just deny I ever worked for ’em.”
“They don’t deny that either,” Dill said. “They just refuse to confirm it.”
“Pick, I don’t really give a fuck about any oath I took for those fuckers. I was twenty-three years old then and when I quit ’em I was thirty and an old man. I mean old up here.” Spivey tapped his forehead. “Up here, I was a hundred-and-two. They paid me one thousand bucks a week, which back then was serious money, and I did stuff I wouldn’t do now and stuff I don’t even let myself think about much anymore. But what I did I didn’t do for God, flag, or country. I did it for one thousand bucks a week cash money and believe it or not, I paid a price. What price, you’re thinking, right? Well, old buddy, I never got to be twenty-four or twenty-five or twenty-six or any of those good years, because one day I was twenty-three and six months later I was a hundred-and-two going on a hundred-and-three.”
“Poor old Jake.”
Spivey shrugged, suddenly indifferent, even bored.
“So what would happen if you violated your so-called oath?” Dill said. “I mean, what do you think would happen?”
“Not much,” Spivey said. “There might be some juicy headlines for a day or two, but there’d never be any trial or anything because Langley’d slam the lid down tight. Just like they did before—all in the interest of national security. Hell, Pick, Vietnam’s old hat now. You got a generation coming of age that thinks of Vietnam, if they think of it at all, like you and me used to think of World War Two. Ancient history. When you and me were twenty-one, the war’d been over for twenty-two years. Twenty-three maybe.” He paused. “You want another beer?”
“Sure.”
Spivey took two more cans of Miller’s from the desk refrigerator and popped their lids. Dill took a long swallow and said, “Okay, you want to start again?”
“What now—Brattle?”
“Brattle.”
Spivey moved his hand underneath the edge of the desk. “Okay, we’re rolling. Now.”
Again, Dill counted silently to fifteen and asked his first question: “Clyde Brattle worked for the CIA how long?”
“Twenty years.”
“He was a career employee?”
“Yes.”
“When did he resign?”
“He didn’t resign. He was fired in seventy-five.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you guess?”
“I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think a guess would be admissible.”
“Did it have something to do with funds under his control?”
“That would be pure speculation on my part.”
“Were the funds misappropriated?”
“I heard they were, but that’s only hearsay.”
“Your disclaimer is noted. How much money was involved?”
“Somewhere around five hundred thousand, I heard.”
“Dollars?”
“Dollars.”
“When did you leave the employ of the CIA?”
“In April of seventy-five just after Saigon fell.”
“Where were you then?”
“When it fell? In Saigon.”
“Where was Clyde Brattle?”
“He was there, too.”
“Neither you nor Brattle made any attempt to escape?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were no longer in the spook trade. We were by then simple businessmen.”
“Describe the nature of your business, please.”
“We formed a company that bought surplus equipment from the new Vietnamese government and sold it on the open market to whoever wanted to buy it.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“Defensive weaponry, transportation, communications.”
“What kind of weaponry?”
“Small arms. Mortars. Light artillery. Some rolling stock—jeeps and trucks. Field communications gear. Some helicopters. Whatever they wanted to get rid of. They needed money bad and we had some and knew where we could get a whole lot more.”
“You and Brattle put up the money to form your company?”
“Yes.”
“How much did he put up?”
“Close to four hundred thousand.”
“And you?”
“All I had. One hundred thousand.”
“And the profits were shared how?”
“A quarter for me, three-quarters for Clyde. That’s because I had the contacts.”
“The Vietnamese contacts.”
“North Vietnamese. Except by then it was all one big happy country, North and South alike.”
“And who did you sell the surplus American weaponry to?”
“It wasn’t American. It was Vietnamese. They fought a war. They won the war. The spoils were theirs.”
“But it was of American manufacture?”
“That’s right.”
“So who did you sell it to?”
“Whoever would buy it.”
“For instance.”
“People in Angola, Ethiopia, Lebanon, Yemen, both South and North, Bolivia, Ecuador, and a little, but not much, to some folks in Uruguay.”
“How much of this American-made, Vietnamese-acquired equipment did you sell?”
“About a hundred million dollars’ worth.”
“And your share of the profits?”
“You mean just mine?”
“Yes.”
“I cleared a little over four million after expenses, which ran sort of high.”
“And Brattle. How much did he net?”
“I’d say around sixteen million after expenses.”
“And this went on for how long?”
“You mean Brattle and me?”
“Yes, your association, your partnership.”
“For about five or six years.”
“Then what?”
“Then he wanted to get into some funny stuff and I got out.”
“What kind of funny stuff?”
“Computer technology, sophisticated weaponry, guidance systems, all kinds of new stuff you could get hold of in the States, but could never get the okay to sell. Clyde said we could sneak ’em out. I said fuck it and quit.”
“Strike the ‘fuck it’ and substitute ‘no thanks,’ please. And so that
’s what you did—you quit?”
“That’s right.”
“Was Mr. Brattle upset?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly humming ‘Blue Skies.’”
“Was there any unpleasantness?”
“I had to get some lawyers and he got his and they all hemmed and hawed at each other and I came out with a net of about thirteen million, which was all reported to the IRS, where I’m under permanent audit, like I told you.”
“When’s the last time you saw Mr. Brattle?”
“About a year and a half ago.”
“Where?”
“Kansas City. He had some routine papers for me to sign. I flew up there, signed them, and had a drink with him. Then I flew back here.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“It was shortly after your meeting with him that he fled the country, right?”
Spivey laughed his loud hoorah laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’d have to say old Clyde was sort of forced to flee.”
“Strike the laughter,” Dill said. “You know why he skipped, of course.
“Because they wanted to arrest him for doing business with the wrong folks.”
“Where do you think he is now?”
“Dead,” Spivey said.
“Let’s assume he isn’t dead,” Dill said. “Let’s assume he’s arrested and brought to trial. Would you be willing to testify against him?”
“I have no comment to make at this time,” Spivey said, moved his left hand underneath the edge of the desk, and switched off the tape recorder. He studied Dill for several moments. “You offering me immunity, Pick?”
Dill nodded slowly.
“Put it in writing?”
Dill shook his head no.
“Give me a few days to think about it?”
Again, Dill nodded.
Spivey grinned. “You think I got another tape recorder going, don’t you?”
Dill smiled and nodded.
CHAPTER 11
They had lunch in the “family” dining room, which was large enough to hold a carved oak sideboard, a matching china closet, and a table that seated twelve—or up to sixteen with all the leaves in. To get to the family dining room, Spivey led Dill through the “company” dining room, whose table could easily seat thirty-six, although Spivey said he never used it because he didn’t know three dozen people he’d actually want to sit down and eat with.
They sat at the end of the table farthest from the kitchen or—as Dill later observed—the pantry. The family dining room overlooked the pool, which was oblong in shape and had been added as an afterthought in the early thirties just before pools started taking on the forms of kidneys and boomerangs. It was a big pool, at least forty by seventy, and Dill thought it resembled the municipal one he and Spivey had learned to swim in at Washington Park.