“I suppose, in line with your obvious cautions, you haven’t written anything down for me.”
“Of course not. Nothing to prevent you from taking notes, though. I remember everything.”
“That conference lasted damn near three hours.”
“I didn’t get to be Genessee Jim’s top accountant because of a bad memory, Major.” The long-haired man gestured left, toward an alley. “Let’s head in here. Not so frenetic.”
They leaned against a brick wall covered with semi-pornographic posters, mostly torn, all marked with graffiti; the light from the street lamps on O’Leary Lane was just enough to illuminate their faces. Bonner maneuvered his contact so the light was shining on him. Paul Bonner always watched a man’s face during interrogations—whether in the field or in a San Francisco alley.
“Where do you want to begin, man?”
“Forget the tea and cookies. Start with the major items; we’ll work back to the less important.”
“All right. In descending order.… The F-90’s overrun—specifically, the design conversions of fan metals mandated by innovations called for in the Houston labs. They were first conceived of because of the flap at Rolls-Royce, if you recall.”
“What about them?”
“What do you mean, what about them? Those inno’s had a price tag of one-zero-five mill; that’s what about them.”
“That’s no secret.”
“I didn’t say it was. But Trevayne’s crowd wanted to know dates. Maybe there was a time lag you people haven’t thought about.… But that’s not my bag. I’m no J. Edgar; I provide data, you evaluate. Isn’t that what that honky used to say?”
“Go on.” Bonner had withdrawn a spiral notepad and began writing.
“Next. Down south, Pasadena.… The plants are eight months behind with the tool and dies for the big chopper armor plates. That’s a bad one, man. They’re so fucked up they’ll never find ozone. Labor troubles, pollution complaints, blueprint alterations, base-metal compos; you name it, they fell over it. Armbruster’s got to bail those plants out and still make it with the pure-breathers.”
“What did Trevayne want with this one?”
“Funny. He was sort of sympathetic. Honest mistakes, environment concerns; that kind of thing. He didn’t dwell on the bread; he seemed more interested in the boys who had the problems.… Next. Right here in our beloved Northwest Pack. The lines up south of Seattle. As you know, there’s a little diversification going on; Genessee took over the Bellstar Companies and has thrown a mighty tax chunk into making them work. So far, it’s a large pair of snake-eyes.”
“Those are the rocket plants, aren’t they?”
“Rockets, propulsion fuel, pads, launch tracks … the Peenemünde of the Pacific, as we affectionately call that mess.”
“They’re necessary. They’ve got to keep functioning …” Bonner caught himself.
“Ah, so, Mr. Moto!… Don’t burden me with evaluations, man. Remember?”
“I know; not your bag.… So what about them?”
“So they’re a loss leader, and I do mean the leader of the losses, Charlie. And for a very good reason that Trevayne suspects. Genessee has no business buying from itself.”
“That was thrown out of court.”
“My turn to evaluate.” The long-haired, wigged accountant laughed. “The court was thrown out of court. Because a few other people made evaluations.… Trevayne wants more information on Bellstar. Only, here again, like Pasadena and Houston, he’s mining some personnel files. Frankly, I don’t dig; they’re not going to tell him anything. Wrong turn on his part. He doesn’t pass ‘Go.’ ”
Bonner wrote in his notebook. “Did he get any more specific?”
“No, man. He couldn’t. Your Mr. Trevayne is either very dull or very cozy.”
A drunk careened off the wall at the far end of the short alley. He was a tourist, obviously; dressed in a jacket, slacks, tie, and an American Legion barracks cap. He leaned against the brick, unzipped his trousers, and proceeded to urinate. The accountant turned to Bonner.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. The neighborhood’s going to hell. And if that’s a tail, Major, I’ll grant you’re imaginative.”
“You may not believe this, man, but I hate those professional heroes.”
“I believe you, man. You look like you hate good.… I know a quiet mahogany a few blocks west. We’ll finish up there.”
“Finish up! We haven’t begun! I figure you’ve got about two hundred and ninety dollars to go.… Man!”
“We’ll make it, soldier-boy.”
An hour and ten minutes later, Bonner had just about filled his small spiral pad with notes. He was getting his three hundred dollars’ worth—at least in terms of the accountant’s recollections. The man was amazing; he was capable—if he was to be believed—of recalling exact phrases, specific words.
What it all meant would be up to someone else, however. All Bonner could make of the information was that Trevayne and Company covered a lot of ground but didn’t do much digging. However, again, that could be an erroneous conclusion on his part.
Others would know better.
“That about does it, Major,” said the Genessee executive from under the long, false hair. “Hope it gets you a pair of ‘birds’; that is, if you’re really a soldier type and not some kind of crusading nut.”
“Suppose I was the latter?”
“Then I hope you nail G.I.C.”
“You can be flexible, I see.”
“Pure rubber. I’ve got the objectives of a scavenging mongrel. I’m my cause.”
“That must be nice to live with.”
“Very comfortable.… And I’ve got you boys to thank for that comfort.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes, man! A few years ago I really dressed like this. I mean, I meant it! Protests, peace marches, walkathons for the dried-up Ganges, every man was my brother—black, white, and yellow; I was going to change the world.… Then you mothers sent me to ’Nam. Bad scene, man. I got half my stomach blown out. And for what? The pious, plastic men with their square-jawed bullshit?”
“I’d think that kind of experience might have renewed your energies; to change the world, I mean.”
“Maybe some, not me. I lost too much meat around the middle; I paid my dues. The saints are pimps, and Jesus Christ is not a superstar. It’s all a bad scene. I want mine.”
Bonner rose from the small, dirty barroom table. “I’ll pass the word. Maybe they’ll make you president of Genessee Industries.”
“It’s not out of the question.… And, soldier, I meant what I said. I want mine. If Trevayne’s in the market, I’ll let him bid; I want you to know that.”
“It could be dangerous for you. I might have to blow out the other half of your stomach. I wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.… But I’m fair about such things. I’ll call you first and give you a chance to meet the price.… If he’s in the market, that is.”
Bonner looked at the accountant’s enigmatic smile and the somewhat crazy expression on his face. The Major wondered whether the evening was one hell of a mistake. The Genessee man was toying with him in a very unhealthy way. Bonner leaned over, his hands gripping the sides of the table, and spoke firmly but calmly.
“If I were you, I’d be awfully careful about fishing on both sides of the river. The natives can get very unfriendly.”
“Relax, Major. I just wanted to see you spin; you spin like a top.… No sweat. I like what’s left of my stomach.… Ciao.”
Paul pushed himself up. He hoped he’d never have to see this strange, unhealthy young man again. He was the worst type of informer—and usually the best at his job: a sewer rat who scurried around the tunnels of filth and had no fear of the sunlight, only a certain disdain. His only commitment being himself.
But then, he’d admitted that.
“Ciao.”
20
The young attorney, Sa
m Vicarson, had never seen Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a silly thing to want to do, he supposed, but he’d promised himself. And now he had two hours to himself, before the five-thirty session in Trevayne’s room. The subcommittee chairman had called the two hours a bonus for extraordinarily good behavior during the Genessee conference.
Sam Vicarson suggested they be given Academy Awards instead.
The taxi pulled up to a clam bar with baskets filled with seaweed and large hemp nets piled in front.
“This is where the wharf begins, mister. Straight north, along the waterfront. Do you want to go to someplace special? Di Maggio’s maybe?”
“No, thanks: this’ll be fine.”
Vicarson paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. He was immediately aware of the heavy odor of fish, and wondered—since the whole area had a contrived appearance—if it was piped in. He smiled to himself as he started down the street with the curio shops and the “atmosphere” bars, the fishing boats bobbing up and down in their slips, nets everywhere. A half-mile travelogue prepared by a very knowledgeable Chamber of Commerce.
It was going to be fun. It was going to be a fun two hours.
He wandered into a number of shops, and for laughs sent postcards to several cynical friends—the most atrocious postcards he could find. He bought Trevayne and Alan Martin two grotesque little flashlights about three inches long and shaped like sharks; the mouths lit up by pressing the dorsal fins.
He strolled out to the far end of a pier, where the boats had an authentic look about them; or, more correctly, the men around them seemed intent on making their living from the water, not from the tourists. He started back, stopping every twenty yards or so to watch the various crews unload their catches, hose down the slicks. The fish were fascinating. Different shapes; odd speckling of colors amidst the predominant grays; the lidless eyes so wide, so blank, so dead yet knowing.
Vicarson looked at his watch. It was almost four-fifteen. The Mark Hopkins was a twenty-minute taxi ride, and he wanted to allow himself time for a shower. That left him just about fifteen minutes for a drink at one of the waterfront bars.
That had to be on his wharf agenda.
As he looked up from his watch for a second time and increased his calculations, he saw two men standing perhaps fifty feet away. They were looking at him. They quickly turned and began talking to each other—too rapidly, too artificially. Then Vicarson realized what he’d just done. The San Francisco sun had caused a glare on his watch, so he’d turned to recheck the time in his own shadow; he’d made the movement at the last second. The men hadn’t expected it.
Vicarson wondered. Or was Trevayne’s constant reminder of caution causing his imagination to overwork?
A group of Girl Scouts accompanied by a large contingent of adult guides began filling up the base of the pier. They were preparing an assault march to the far end amid squeals of laughter and parental reprimands. They started out; the tourists backed away to let Troop 36, Oakland Brownies, pass through.
Vicarson headed into the group, loudly apologizing as he worked his way through. He reached the last rows under the critical eyes of several adults and emerged within ten yards of the street. He dashed into the thoroughfare and turned right, entering the flow of human traffic on the waterfront side.
Two blocks south he saw a crowded café which advertised “Drinks on the Bay” and rapidly walked through the door. The bar was in the shape of a horseshoe, the open end by the front entrance, the bar itself following the odd contours of the building, extending out over the water.
“Drinks on the Bay,” indeed.
Vicarson positioned himself halfway around the horseshoe so he could observe both the north side of the dock and the street. He ordered a Fisherman’s Punch and waited, wondering if he’d see the two men again.
He did. Only when they came into view they’d been joined by a third man. A large, somewhat obese man in his fifties, or thereabouts.
Sam Vicarson nearly dropped his frosted glass of Fisherman’s Punch.
He’d seen the third man before; he wasn’t likely to forget, in spite of the circumstances of the meeting—perhaps because of them.
The last time—the only time—he’d seen the large man was on a golf course in the middle of the night three thousand miles away. At Chevy Chase in Maryland. This was the man who’d hammerlocked the drunken Congressman from California and slapped him to the ground.
Trevayne stood by the hotel window and listened to Vicarson’s description but kept his own counsel. The young lawyer had described Mario de Spadante. And if he was correct, if De Spadante was in San Francisco, then there were side issues coming into play with Genessee Industries that he hadn’t considered.
Mario de Spadante had to be scrutinized. The “construction boy from New Haven who, with hard work and the grace of God, had made good” bore immediate looking into. Trevayne hadn’t made any such connection before. There had been no reason to look for one.
“I’m not mistaken, Mr. Trevayne. It was the same man. Who the hell is he?”
“I may be able to answer that after a few phone calls.”
“No kidding?”
“I wish I were.… We’ll go into it later. Let’s talk about this afternoon.” Trevayne crossed to an armchair; Alan Martin and Sam sat on the couch, papers on the coffee table in front of them. “We’ve had time to mull it over, get a little perspective. What’s your opinion, Alan? How do you think it went?”
The middle-aged accountant glanced at his papers. He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke first with his eyes shut. “Goddard was running scared but did his damnedest to conceal it.” Martin opened his eyes. “He was also confused. He kept pressing his fingertips on the table; you could see the veins working. Here, I made some notes.” Martin picked up a clipboard from the coffee table. “One of the first things that threw him was the Pasadena labor settlement. I don’t think he expected it. He wasn’t happy when Sam pushed his boys for the name of the AFL-CIO negotiator.”
“What was his name?” asked Trevayne.
“Manolo. Ernest Manolo,” answered Vicarson, looking down at his papers on the coffee table. “The contract wasn’t too rough from a local-conditions viewpoint, but if it’s used as any sort of national guideline, consider it a giveaway.”
“Will it be?”
“That’s up to Manolo and his crowd, I guess. Goose-and-gander reciprocity will be the issue,” replied Vicarson.
“You mean the AFL-CIO delegates that kind of authority to this … Manolo?”
“Manolo was a medium-paced starter, but he’s rising fast. Not much is delegated to him. He just takes. He’s a firebrand—crusader type. Like Chavez; but with the benefit of an education. Economics, University of New Mexico.”
“Go ahead, Al.” Trevayne took an envelope out of his pocket.
“I think you fuzzed Goddard when you didn’t pursue a number of Genessee’s underestimates. He had the files on the Pittsburgh Cylinder Company; the Detroit armature run; the alloy steel—also Detroit; the Houston laboratories; the Green Agency, advertising, New York; and God knows what else. He was ready to throw volumes at us, justifications.… I did get the design-unit head, though. In Houston. His name never appeared in any of our files before. Ralph Jamison. Goddard couldn’t figure that one out; a lousy lab man behind a one-hundred-and-five-million-dollar conversion.… Then he practically put his fingers through the table when we asked for the Bellstar projections. That’s understandable; Genessee had antitrust problems with Bellstar.”
“Speaking as the most brilliant practicing attorney here,” said Sam Vicarson with a grin, “if the Bellstar decision had been rendered by anyone but old Judge Studebaker, it would have been challenged months ago.”
“Sam, why do you say that? I’ve heard it before.”
“Oh, Lord, Mr. Trevayne, ask any trust lawyer who knows his books. The Genessee-Bellstar brief was filled with holes. But Joshua Studebaker was given the case. Old Josh is a little-known benc
h tradition, but a tradition nevertheless. He might have gone farther, but he prefers to sit in his chambers up in Seattle. He’s a quiet, up-from-slavery legal diamond. He’s black, Mr. Trevayne. When you talk about little kids being whipped, and rickets, and scratching the ground for a potato that’s divided, you’re talking about old Josh. He’s really been there. Even Justice would rather not challenge him.”
“I never realized that.” Alan Martin was fascinated by this newly acquired information. “I never heard of him.”
“Neither did I,” said Trevayne.
“It’s not surprising. Studebaker’s assiduously devoted to being a private person. No interviews, no books; articles involving only the most complex legalistics in superacademic law journals. He’s spent forty years or so complicating and uncomplicating legal decisions.… Some say he’s slipped in recent years—they’re beginning to understand him.”
“You’re saying he’s untouchable?” Trevayne asked a question.
“For a number of reasons. He’s a genius; he’s black; he’s eccentric-in-his-fashion; he’s got a positively frightening grasp of legal abstractions; he’s black. Do I draw a picture?”
“He’s black and he made it,” said Alan Martin with resignation.
“To the very-most top of the mountain.”
“You’re leaving out a pretty important piece of information … or judgment,” said Trevayne.
“Why did he render the decision?” Sam Vicarson leaned forward on the couch. “I told you his rep is in legal complexities … abstractions. He used the phrase ‘mass human endeavor’ in balancing, then overriding, obvious Genessee irregularities. He justified certain questionable economic relationships by ascertaining the necessity of ‘compatible motives’ in large-scale financing. Lastly, he threw the hooker: in nothing words, the government hadn’t proved the need for viable competition.”
“What does that mean?” asked Alan Martin, his eyes betraying a complete lack of understanding. “Other than that you read the goddamn papers?”
“Nobody else had the loot.”
“Which has nothing to do with the legality of the situation,” said Trevayne.”
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