by Nan
“God knows, I’ll never forgive him, but I’m still worried.”
“This just in! Phyllis Elgin has arranged bail for Deadeye Don.”
“Bail? Why bail? Cal didn’t press charges.”
“There was a shooting, ma’am. One human being tried to kill another human being with a weapon even more deadly than a table next to the service area.” He grabbed hold of Libby. “Why won’t he press charges?”
“Because they’re friends,” she said. “Life is not an eye for an eye.”
“He has to press charges!”
“No!”
Steven was nearly out of breath. “You’ve got to make him do it. I’m the one Donald was trying to kill.”
Libby thought Steven had gone over the edge. She was afraid he had slipped into paranoia the way a coin slips into the crevice of an overstuffed sofa. “Donald would never try to hurt you.”
“Jerry and Barry and Freddy and all the people whose names end in Y think they can keep it a secret from Mr. Macho. It’s not exactly the greatest press in the world. Faggot Son Fucks Banker.”
Libby felt ill. She held onto the wall.
“I want my father to defend me. I want him to fight for me.”
“You and Donald?” She felt dizzy. “For how long?”
“Only since I asked him for money.”
Libby put a hand to her mouth. The only thing worse than having sex with Donald was having money with Donald.
“I know,” Steven sighed. “It’s tacky beyond belief. You can imagine how desperate I must have been.”
“Does Phyllis know?”
“Everybody knows. By this time, they’re writing folk songs at Régine’s. Everybody knows except for dear old dad.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, of course you didn’t know. You’re the one I needed the money to get away from. You’re the last one I wanted to find out.”
Steven always had a little extra hurt saved up for her. But this time he had outdone himself. “Where were you planning to go?”
“Not far. Chez Marie is up for sale. Only two blocks away.”
Libby didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But that would have been unfair. He deserved to see her cry. After all, he had won.
* * *
Birnbaum came back upstairs looking for Libby. He saw Dr. Derek come out of Cal’s room. “Everything okay?”
The young Irish doctor was making a notation in the file. “It will be if you people leave me alone.” He looked up. “Do you think the President knows all the trouble he’s causing?”
“The President isn’t causing trouble. I am.” Birnbaum glanced toward Cal’s room. “I need Mr. Dennis out by eight in the morning so that we can seal off this floor.”
“You’re a real pain in the posterior, Special Agent Birnbaum. I’ve been tripping over your people all day. What the hell is going to happen here tomorrow?”
Birnbaum smiled. “How about letting me handle that?”
“And how about you letting me handle my patient?” Dr. Derek pointed to one of the sheets in his file. “I certainly hope you protect the President better than you take hemo profiles.”
“What do you mean?” Birnbaum looked at the page. It was a list, according to blood type, of everyone who worked at Libby’s. Standard information in the event live donors were required. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is the very first name on this list. Steven Dennis. Look at that. You’ve got him as O-negative. That can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
The doctor pulled back the file. “Because if he was O-negative, then Cal Dennis couldn’t be his father. Their blood types are incompatible. Any first-year medical student could tell you that.”
* * *
Birnbaum pushed past a line of ticket buyers in the lobby of Radio City Music Hall. He flashed his badge and told the guard he wanted to see the manager.
“You one of the guys from the sixteenth precinct?”
“Treasury Department.”
The manager, who was even younger than the guard, came out chewing nervously on a wad of gum. “So now I got to hire from Treasury, too? You going to give me a discount on my taxes?”
“I don’t want a job.”
The manager squinted. “Don’t tell me you’re a narc?”
“I want to see Mr. Goldberg. His office said I’d find him here.”
The manager nodded. “They all bring their lawyers. Like they were going to court instead of Radio City.” He knocked three times on the glass door. “I’ll tell you this. Billy is clean. And the Hall is clean. Always has been.” Two muscular men who looked as though they had been squeezed into their sharkskin suits opened the door.
As Birnbaum walked into the Grand Foyer, the first thing he saw was the graceful staircase sweeping down from the mezzanine. His eyes clouded over with childhood memories. The giant mural rising to a gold-leaf ceiling. The gleaming Art Deco balustrades and railings. The carpeting as lush as a remembrance by Proust.
Hots was walking back and forth in front of the enormous candy counter. He shouted into his cellular phone, “Christie, darling. Let me be the judge!”
Music wafted in from the auditorium as Billy Joel began rehearsing “Pressure.” Birnbaum approached Hots. “Mr. Goldberg . . .”
Hots put his hand over the receiver and waved Birnbaum aside. “I only accept summonses on Simchas Torah.”
Birnbaum held out his ID. “I have to speak to you.”
Hots continued his phone conversation. “Jesus, Christie, what do you mean how do I know?” He began pacing again. “There are thirty people in the whole world and twenty-nine of them are yentas. Huey is coming in his maroon-sequined jacket, and Whoopi is still sorting through the latest shipment from Goodwill. Wear the green, darling. It’s stunning. You can’t go wrong. Green is the color of Kermit and money.” He motioned for Birnbaum to get out of his way.
“I want to talk to you about Libby Dennis.”
Hots stopped pacing. He nodded that he was winding up the phone conversation. “I’ll say a brocho, sweetie. I love you.” He disconnected the call, then quickly dialed another number. “One second, please.” Then, angrily into the receiver, “Who the fuck has the keys to the candy counter? And fast!” Hots motioned Birnbaum over to the staircase. They sat down. “You want a candy bar?” he asked.
“Thanks.”
“They’ll be down in a minute.”
“That’s okay.”
“You know what you want or you need time to browse?”
“I know what I want,” Birnbaum said.
Hots leaned back and stared up at the cylindrical chandeliers. He took a deep breath. “So. You find a fly in your soup or something?”
“Something.”
“Fuck you.”
Birnbaum sat back. He spoke softly. “I hate it when people say that to me. It’s as though they were really saying that nothing I had ever done in my life mattered and that I was totally unimportant.”
“You’re absolutely right. But it’s easier just to say Fuck You.”
“What makes you think you have all that power?”
Hots smiled. “I have the key to the candy counter.”
Birnbaum grabbed Hots by the collar. “But I have the key to your ass.”
“Hands off, T-Man, or else I’ll make you poster boy at the Centers for Disease Control.” Hots shut his eyes until Birnbaum let go of him. “You want to talk to me, I strongly suggest we engage in safe talk.”
“Who is Steven Dennis’s father?”
“You call that safe?”
A huge woman in a bright red flowered dress stomped her way across the foyer as though walking through a field of mud. In one hand she held a large circular ring filled with dozens of keys that jangled with each step. “You want candy?” she asked.
Hots got up and walked quickly to the counter. “I want a Baby Ruth bar.” He looked back at Birnbaum.
“Does she
have Milk Duds?”
“I got ’em,” the woman said. “One Baby Ruth. One Milk Duds.” She unlocked the glass door, took out the candy, and slammed them on top of the counter. “You name ’em, I got ’em.”
“Put them on my tab.” Hots took the candy while the woman locked the counter and trudged back across the lobby.
“Want some?” Hots asked, ripping the paper on his Baby Ruth.
“No. You?” Birnbaum held out the box.
“No.” Hots bit into the candy bar and shook his head. “Those fucking Swiss. What the hell do they know about chocolate?”
Birnbaum nodded. “Can you believe what they charge for these things today? A buck.”
“A buck and a half at my movie. But I’ve got a candy store a block away. I buy whatever I want for fifty cents before I go in.”
Birnbaum chewed on a Milk Dud. “You and I both understand that client confidentiality is second to national security.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you realize that members of the President’s immediate family must be protected around the clock. We’re not as worried about them getting killed as we are their being kidnaped and held hostage. You can understand what a terrible position that would put the President in. God forbid he should have to surrender Cleveland in order to get Steven back.”
Hots pointed toward the auditorium. “You ever listen, really listen, to Billy’s lyrics? That song, ‘Pressure,’ it gets to me every time.”
“I know you’ve been a good friend to Mrs. Dennis. But we’ve still got one hell of a file on you. To save time, we know who you bought and who bought you. We know all about the drugs. The boys in Albany can get you on so many counts of tax evasion they could make you head of the IRS. In other words, if we were putting up crucifixes on the West Side Highway, you’d go first, Mr. Goldberg.”
“Hots. My friends call me Hots.”
“Now here’s the good news. I promise that Mrs. Dennis will never know the truth came from you. Not because I like you, Mr. Goldberg . . .”
“I hate being called Mr. Goldberg! It makes me feel like a goddamn old man. My father was Mr. Goldberg.”
“She won’t know you told me, Hots, because I don’t want her to know that I know. Not yet anyway.”
“I can’t go to jail. It would kill my mother.”
“I didn’t say jail.”
“Why the hell are you asking me, Birnbaum? You already know.”
“I want to hear somebody say it.”
“What good would it do anybody to find out? Leave it alone. Nobody knows.”
“You know.”
Hots crumpled the candy wrapper and threw it down the stairs. “So now you know. So what?”
Birnbaum stood up. “Shh!” He put his box of Milk Duds into his pocket. “Loose lips sink ships.”
* * *
Although the meeting at Headquarters was scheduled for seven-thirty P.M., Birnbaum went into the Briefing Room just before seven. He carried a file that had TOP SECRET stamped in red on a cardboard cover.
If Secret Service Headquarters was the most secure place in the City of New York, the Briefing Room was the most secure place at Secret Service Headquarters. It was a square, white, windowless area with four bare walls. There was no desk, no place to put down papers or hang up a coat. The floor was not carpeted. All corners were visible. There were six rows of white folding chairs. Electrical outlets were on eye level. Locked. There was no switch to turn the lights off because the lights were never turned off. There was no thermostat in the room. Temperature and access were controlled by a computer behind a glass panel on the back wall. The computer projected film footage, schematics, and kept the room under surveillance around the clock.
The only thing the computer couldn’t do was read Birnbaum’s mind. He sat down and stared at the file in his lap. TOP SECRET. Even if the computer could read his mind, it hadn’t been programmed for irony.
As head of the New York field office, the largest in the nation, Birnbaum felt entitled to have major problems. But this time he had a problem more appropriate for the Chief Rabbi of Judea. Or, at the very least, Solomon himself.
He entered his access code on the remote control and waved the unit toward the computer. The lights dimmed automatically as he coded in the instructions for a schematic of Fifty-fifth between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. He signaled for enlargements until, like God pushing aside the clouds, he had a clear view of the parcel of land that was Libby’s.
Birnbaum had to make a decision. Tell or don’t tell. It was very simple, like most difficult decisions. Once he realized that he had no choice at all, his genes took over for his brain. He began to consider the question of why he had no choice. At which point, the problem of the problem became more intriguing than the problem of the solution. It was pure Talmudic torture and he loved every minute of it.
Even before the door opened, the projector shut off and the lights came up full. Anders stood in the doorway, holding his file marked TOP SECRET. “I want to see you. I’ve got the FDA on my ass.”
“Too bad. You should have gotten a butterfly or a nice big heart.”
“They’re only willing to approve the food if they prepare it in advance, seal it in metal containers, and put it under guard. Or if they purchase the ingredients, post a guard, watch the cook . . .”
“Tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“I did. But they haven’t approved that yet either.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want the FDA there. Anything happens, I blame them. My men will be stationed in the kitchen. We can check for atomic dust. All that crap. But I want one of your men as a taster.”
“That went out with the Middle Ages. And why one of my men?”
“Because I’m not losing a White House agent. That’s what regional offices are for.”
While Birnbaum stared at Anders, the room began filling up. The men knew that a seven-thirty meeting meant everyone in place by seven-thirty. If you arrived precisely at seven-thirty for a seven-thirty meeting, you were late. By seven twenty-five, everyone was there.
To someone walking in off the street, presuming someone could walk in off the street, the occupants of the room appeared to be attending a management seminar for successful young entrepreneurs. A supposition not entirely off the mark. Each agent was the CEO for his own business: himself. Each agent was his own corporation under contract to the government. With a top pay scale, before sliding into a desk job, of $36,000 per annum, each corporation had only one client: the President of the United States.
The Secret Service didn’t offer the rough and tumble camaraderie found in patrol cars or locker rooms or fighter squadrons. There was no common enemy, no war to be won, nothing but battle after battle after battle. Agents were not trained to protect themselves or their colleagues. Their unique moment of truth was not the split-second during which they had to decide whether to kill or be killed. It was the split-second during which they had to decide to be killed.
Anders took out his remote, entered the access code, and dialed up the West Side Heliport schematic. “Pads, please.”
Each agent’s pad was a single three-by-five card on which he was expected to note all pertinent information. On one side only. It was a technique held over from Anders’s days at the FBI.
As the lights dimmed, and Anders focused the schematic, Birnbaum glanced from face to face wondering which of his rookies to appoint court taster. He wondered which of Anders’s men would eventually be assigned to Steven, to defend and protect, even to die to save the little shit from being taken hostage.
Conaway reported to Anders on his meeting with Assistant Chief DeVito, head of Manhattan South. “We decided not to pull a Yellow Alert since we were mobilizing under 1,500 men. The Blue Alert goes into effect two hours prior to arrival. DeVito’s still catching crap from the yo-yo who heads the Bureau of Traffic Operations because we want to go uptown on Second Avenue. They
’re afraid of confusing New York’s finest because we’re traveling uptown on a downtown street.”
Anders had already switched to a schematic covering Second Avenue up to Fifty-fifth Street. “This is not a course in abnormal psychology,” Anders said. “I am not interested in reaction or motivation. My concern is results. Did we get the choppers?”
“Two choppers with videocams for roof sweeps.”
“Plus ours,” Anders said, pointing to Moran. “I don’t want any blank screens in the video van.” To Conaway. “Sharpshooters?”
“Usual UN sites. Six counterassault teams will cover the block between Fifth and Sixth.” Conaway smiled. “DeVito will give us as many shooters as we want. They don’t come out of overtime.”
“I am not interested in the fiscal problems of the City of New York.”
As Conaway continued, Birnbaum winked at him. Conaway was too good a man to be the taster. “After assessing, I decided it would not be necessary to seal all manholes since the motorcade route has not been released.”
“Trashcans . . .”
“Trashcans and mailboxes will be removed on the block between Fifth and Sixth and all manhole covers and sewers will be secured on that block.”
“How many mounted units did you get?” Birnbaum asked.
“Two at the UN and I ordered six for the block.”
“Good,” Birnbaum said. “There’s still nothing better than a man on a horse.”
Davis raised his hand and stood up. “I drove the route four times today. We checked for construction sites, had a run on tenants in all buildings on the route, and I foresee no problems. We should be able to go from A to B in well under three minutes.”
“How much under?”
“We’re talking a route approximately one mile. At thirty miles per hour, that’s two minutes.”
Davis was one of Anders’s men. But he was too much of a pro to wind up babysitting Steven at leather bars or Turkish baths.
Anders raised his remote and dialed in the schematic of Libby’s. “I want our security screen in place two hours prior.”
“I’ve scheduled a briefing at ten o’clock,” Birnbaum said.