Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  After the hearing the impression of enforceable legality was maintained, Howard being taken to Eastham by Brennan and Seymour with Farr to follow separately. This gave Farr the opportunity to thank the district attorney.

  “It was as much for my benefit as yours,” said Schuster. “There was a lot of theatricality, but there was a formal charge, and my ability to bring him before a court at any time I see fit is established.”

  “I still appreciate it,” said Farr.

  Schuster smiled—the first time the man had relaxed since they’d met. He said, “I’ve got a son just two years younger than Howard. It frightens the hell out of me that the same thing could happen to him. I wish you luck, with what you’re doing.”

  “I’m not sure where I’ll need it most: with Howard’s cure or with the investment operation they want me to set up.”

  “I think you’re going to need a lot of luck. Period,” said Schuster. “I meant what I said.”

  “I know,” said Farr.

  An hour after the departure of the FBI men with his son, Farr set out but he did not hurry, wanting Howard to be formally admitted and settled in before he arrived. Outside Boston he recognized signs for such places as Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket—to both of which he’d ferried with Howard when he first came up to St. Marks—and Hyannis and Chatham. They’d particularly enjoyed Chatham, he remembered, liking the way it had been maintained by the zoning restrictions and not spoiled by hamburger parlors and shopping malls. He wondered if they’d ever do things like that again. He drove for almost an hour along Route 6 until he saw the first turnoff to Eastham and realized he hadn’t bothered to get directions to the sanatorium. He chanced exiting and was relieved when he stopped at the nearest gas station to learn he’d made the right choice. Following the guidance of the attendant, he found the correct side-road and then an even smaller lane without difficulty.

  Brennan’s car was parked on the graveled area that ballooned out at the top of the drive, but Farr was more intent upon the drive itself and the entrance through which he’d had to pass to reach it. The gates were controlled from a small guardhouse and had to be opened and closed after each arrival or departure, but they were only about twelve feet high and the guard who admitted him was a white-haired, frail old man who was obviously eking out some retirement benefit. The wall which stretched away on either side of the gate and presumably encircled the premises was even lower—not more than ten feet, Farr guessed. The grounds were heavily wooded, restful, he thought, for people recuperating, but it seemed to him that the foliage and undergrowth provided excellent cover for anyone who decided to escape.

  Farr went past Brennan’s vehicle and found the FBI man waiting for him in the entrance hall. Beside Brennan there was a tall, bald, dome-headed man who had adopted an apologetic stoop in an attempt to minimize his height. He wore a striped blue suit that had clearly been ready made: the sleeves were far too short, so that his arms projected bonily beyond them.

  “Dr. Morton Halpern, the director,” identified Brennan. As Farr shook hands with the head of the sanatorium, Brennan added, “I’ve explained to Dr. Halpern about this morning’s hearing …” Seeing Farr’s frown, he went on, “About the commitment being binding.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it in my office?” invited Halpern.

  “Jim and I will wait outside,” said Brennan.

  Farr followed the stooped Figure into an office directly adjacent to the hallway with a view from the front of the house down the driveway, practically as far as the gate.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you,” said Farr. “Have you heard from Dr. Silver?”

  Halpern nodded. “He telephoned and sent the case notes up with Brennan.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be easy.”

  “It rarely is,” said Halpern.

  “Dr. Silver said you had to want to give it up. From what I’ve seen of Howard, I don’t think he does.”

  “I don’t think any of us can guess at this early stage what he does or doesn’t want to do,” said the doctor, with professional caution.

  “He seems to be in a great deal of pain. Discomfort, certainly.”

  Halpern shook his head. “It’s one of the greatest problems, at the beginning of a detoxification. Heroin is the only physically addictive drug and that fact is vastly magnified in the mind of every addict. Actually, it’s more difficult to give up cigarettes than it is to kick heroin. The discomfort is no worse—and often far less—than with bad flu. I sometimes prescribe a tranquilizer, and from what I’ve been told it might be necessary in this case, but more often than not the supposed pain that these people suffer is self-induced. They make themselves hurt, believing that they’re going to anyway. That’s the real problem, not just with heroin but with cocaine abuse, as well. Psychological dependence is always greater than the physical. It’s no problem getting them off. All you need for that is a locked room. The problem arises when they finally accept that their upset is self-induced and we have to convince them not to want to use anything again. That they don’t need it …” Halpern gave another of his habitual headshakes. “Which really compounds the difficulty, sometimes, particularly with an intelligent addict—and all the indication from the reports is that Howard is intelligent. You can get that sort of person off and you can counsel and talk, and nine times out of ten their reaction is ‘Hey, this is easy. If I can get off as easy at this, then why shouldn’t I do it again because now I know how easy it is to stop?’”

  “That isn’t very encouraging,” said Farr.

  “I’m not trying to be encouraging. I’m trying to be totally honest and totally objective, so that you understand from the outset how it’s going to be.”

  “Dr. Silver said it was difficult to estimate how long it might take.”

  “It’s impossible,” confirmed Halpern.

  “You said you wanted to be totally honest?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s the relapse rate? What could I expect from Howard if you straighten him out and he’s cured?”

  Halpern looked down at his desk before replying, head shaking again. “About ten percent,” he said. “Some of my people say fifteen.”

  “Relapse?” pressed Farr.

  “No,” said the director. “Having gone through detoxification, only about ten percent stay clean afterward.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Howard might be one of the ten percent,” said Halpern.

  Farr couldn’t imagine so, from what he’d already seen.

  “I’m frightened he’ll try to run,” he said. “Everything was set out for him by the judge, but he seemed stupid, mumbling like some fool. I’m not sure he understood.”

  “It’s not uncommon for them to try to run, certainly in the early days,” admitted Halpern.

  Farr gazed beyond the director through the window and into the grounds. “It doesn’t look particularly secure.”

  Halpern smiled, unoffended. “It’s not a prison, Mr. Farr. It doesn’t set out to be and neither should it appear to be. When it comes to the bottom line, these people have got to help themselves, and they couldn’t be convinced to do that in a completely prisonlike atmosphere. Because of Howard’s particlar circumstances, for the initial period—two or three weeks, maybe—he’ll sleep in a locked and constantly monitored dormitory ward. My staff is extremely efficient. It won’t be obvious to him, as it isn’t obvious to anyone else, but during the day he’ll be under pretty constant surveillance. I told you that it isn’t uncommon for people to try to run. The last one really to succeed was nine months ago—a girl, and we recovered her with the help of the local police in five hours.”

  “I’m not sure Howard will make it.” Farr needed the confessional. “In fact, I doubt it very much. And I’m extremely worried.”

  “That’s pretty common, too, among parents,” assured Halpern. “You shouldn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. Stop asking yourself where you failed: wh
at’s happened to Howard doesn’t mean that you have, not particularly.”

  “I could have given him more time.”

  “We could all give our kids more time,” said Halpern. “Maybe it would help. Maybe it wouldn’t. I’ve treated kids who’ve been cosseted and pampered and rarely out of their parents’ sight and who’ve started to score because their family was too attentive.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Come to visit, although not too often, which would overpower him. Don’t sit in judgment and have ‘how could you?’ conversations, which I know is difficult but is important. Start trying to think about it as an illness, which it often—although not always—is.”

  “I’d like to see him, before I go?”

  “Of course,” said Halpern at once.

  Howard’s room was at the back of the building and, as Farr proceeded along the corridor behind the director, the gradual transition from ordinary hospital to the tighter-security unit was as obvious as it had been in the Boston detention cells. In Howard’s ward area there was even a man at a control desk with a closed-circuit television monitor suspended in front of him. It was the man at the control desk who unlocked the door to let Farr in to see the boy.

  Howard was in his familiar hunched pose, the filthy training shoes kicked off and lying in the center of the room. There was a wide-apart mesh over the windows and, beyond, the window was open, so the smell had not yet had the opportunity to permeate the room.

  “They going to look after me here? Give me something?” demanded the boy, without any greeting. “Christ, I hurt.” He whimpered, as if some audible proof were necessary.

  “It’s a hospital,” said Farr. “They’ll look after you.”

  “I want something,” whined Howard. “Tell them to give me something.”

  “You understood what was said in court?” demanded Farr, wanting to get out of the cul-de-sac.

  “That wasn’t a court.”

  “It was an official hearing, before a judge. You were ordered here and I’ve agreed to it.”

  “Do a deal? Spread a little money around maybe?” smirked Howard.

  “No,” said Farr, remembering Halpern’s injunction and refusing to be annoyed. “I did not do a deal. All I tried to do was to get you sorted out.”

  “Told you how to do that in the other cell.” said the boy.

  “I want you to do something,” said Farr. “I want you to promise me that you’ll cooperate. That you’ll do everything they ask of you here and not try to fight them or anything stupid like that. If you don’t—if you’re stupid—you’ll end up back in court. You understand that?” As he spoke, Farr remembered the warning from Silver: Drug addicts will cheat and lie and deceive and steal and promise not to do it again when they get caught—and the moment you blink they’ll do it all over again.

  “Sure,” said Howard, glib despite his discomfort.

  “I’ve seen the Dean at Harvard. There’s still a chance of a place,” said Farr.

  “For an ex-con!”

  Shit, thought Farr; it had been a mistake to tell him. He said, “I thought if you showed an effort here … if the court could be told you were genuinely cured and properly contrite … that some sort of probation might be possible.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” sneered the boy.

  It was better to appear naive, decided Farr. He said, “That’s what I thought. We’ll have to see.”

  Howard’s look of curiosity heightened Farr’s unease. “You tell Jennings everything?” he demanded. “About the buy?”

  “No,” said Farr, continuing the part of the fool. “I just said I hoped to get you treatment.”

  “You sure you haven’t set up some deal!”

  “No deal,” insisted Farr. “Don’t think you’re getting any special breaks.”

  “How long do I stay in this dump?”

  “The doctors decide that.”

  “Great!” said Howard. “I go through a detox to get me fit to appear before a court that’s going to throw me into the slammer and lose the key. What a choice!”

  “It’s a choice you made,” said Farr. Halpern had advised against criticism: damn! He said, “I’ll come up to see you as often as I can.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “If I considered it any trouble, I wouldn’t,” said Farr. “Stop trying to be hip and smart. You’re neither.” Careful, he thought.

  “Were those the words in your day? Hip and smart?”

  “They still translate.”

  “We going to do the generation-gap bit?”

  “Not unless you want to.”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Why!” He was going against all the advice and they were the experts and he wasn’t, so perhaps it was wrong, but surely he was allowed the one question?

  Howard smirked again, unfolding his body, delaying the reply. “Because it feels good,” he said.

  “No. It can’t be that. That’s too trite. You can’t have done what you’ve done—everything you done—just because it feels good! Children suck sweets and eat ice cream because it feels good.”

  “And they masturbate and try to touch girls’ tits and do dope because it feels good, too.”

  Farr stood staring down at his son, helpless to reply. He’d behaved exactly as Dr. Halpern had told him not to, which meant he was a fool. But the conversation had convinced him that Howard was more likely to be among the ninety percent failures rather than among the ten percent successes. He said, “I’m going to leave you now.”

  “The man with the key to freedom!”

  “I’ll come—” Farr stopped short of saying “often,” remembering Halpern’s warning. “Like I said I would,” he finished awkwardly.

  “Like the song says, I’ll tie a yellow ribbon around the old oak tree!”

  Farr recognized that Howard was openly goading him now, prodding for some outburst. “It’s a song about a hero,” he allowed himself; then he strode from the room and stood directly outside, watching the attendant resecure the door.

  The walk back to the front of the sanatorium allowed Farr sufficient time to recover, so that he was completely in control of himself by the time he reached Halpern’s office and thanked the man.

  Only Brennan remained, patient as always, in the front hall. “Jim’s gone on ahead, to get things organized.”

  “Organized?”

  “I told you that you were going to get backing,” reminded Brennan. “Thought you might like to meet the team.”

  “Fine,” said Farr, his mind still occupied by the latest encounter and not really interested in what the FBI man was suggesting.

  With Brennan in the passenger seat, he regained Route 6; they drove for some way back toward Boston before there was any conversation. It was Brennan who initiated it.

  “So Howard’s in care.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Farr. “I’ve already thanked Schuster, this morning. I guess I owe you some thanks, too. So thank you.”

  “We’ve kept our side of the bargain,” said Brennan.

  “Yes.”

  “Now we expect you to keep yours.”

  Farr looked quickly sideways and then back toward the road. “Just wait to see how well I do it!” he said, with a determination hardened by the recent confrontation with his son.

  Brennan gave the directions when they regained Boston, guiding him not to the FBI offices as Farr had expected but to a small feeder road off Bedford Street. It was dark by now, so Farr wasn’t properly able to study the outside, but from the surroundings he guessed it was one of the old Boston houses, with a history attached to it. Brennan opened the door with his own key, shouted “Hi!” and, without waiting for an answer, carried on across the hallway and thrust open double doors leading into a large central living room. Farr saw Seymour first, already approaching to greet them. Behind the lofty man were four other people. One was a woman, and disoriented as he was, Farr still thought at once how attractive she was.
Beautiful in fact.

  6

  He seemed to be going through a period of constant introductions, thought Farr. This time it was Seymour, already established in the room, who made them, politely bringing the woman forward first. Her name was Harriet Becker and she had an easy smile, a firm handshake and dark hair which fell fully to her shoulders. Farr wondered what part she was to play, but it was a fleeting reflection, because Seymour hurried him on. Harvey Mann, the next in line, was a thickset, bespectacled man who didn’t smile and whose handshake was cursory. William Batty, by comparison, grinned eagerly out of a young, anxious face and said, “Hi, good to meet you.” The last of the party was Harry Jones, older than Batty, with a distracted demeanor and spectacles secured at one arm by a twisted paperclip. Farr wasn’t sure he’d got all the names right, apart from the woman’s, but decided they would emerge during whatever conversation they had, so he didn’t seek any repetition. He stood slightly back from the group after the initial greetings, aware for the first time of a well-stocked drinks tray to the left, near heavily draped windows. With its fully stuffed furniture and flocked velvet wallpaper, the room resembled, Farr thought, some dated film set; he supposed that this was what he’d read about in books and newspapers as being a “safe house.” Such an idea seemed theatrical, like the setting itself. Brennan offered drinks and Farr accepted gratefully, needing one after the latest encounter with Howard. Jones and Mann took drinks too, but Batty and the woman declined. An embarrassed atmosphere developed, of which Brennan appeared to become aware.

  “OK,” he said, enthusiastically. “Now that we’ve met, let’s set out the positions. For this to work—as it must work—everyone up front has to be squeaky clean as far as the bad guys are concerned. Not the slightest risk of identification …” He nodded sideways, to Seymour. “Which is why Jim and I have got to stay buried deep in the woodwork. We’ve made narcotics cases not just here but out on the West Coast as well. For us to be visible would be far too risky.” Brennan paused once more, indicating Batty and Jones in the one gesture. “Bill and Harry are the technical side of the operation. When we finally make a case—or cases—we want as much video-film and tape-recorded supportive evidence as we can get.” Brennan moved on to Mann. “I guess Harvey is technical, too, but in a different way. Harvey’s the accountant, who’s going to keep the books and chart the money and bring the house tumbling down, when the right moment comes.” Farr was already looking forward to hearing about the woman before Brennan spoke. “Harriet’s the decorative part,” grinned the FBI supervisor. “There’ll need to be some sort of office setup, and an office without a woman is suspicious. She can be described as a secretary or personal assistant or whatever and, apart from allaying any suspicion, she’ll have the far more important function of maintaining the liaison with me and with Jim—” The man raised his hand, attempting reassurance. “We’ll never be far away, don’t worry,” he said. “There just might be a time when you’d like us a little closer. And quickly.”