Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  26

  There had obviously been meetings in the office since the disclosure of what he had done, but only with individual members of the firm—in particular, with Hector Faltham, to whom Farr felt he owed an apology. Faltham had accepted it, saying that he fully understood now, and that he would like time to consider Farr’s offer of a full participating partnership. Farr decided upon a general conference in the week before the court hearings, which he guessed were going to occupy him as much as the Cayman organization, and which meant that the operation in Manhattan was going to continue to be the others’ responsibility for some time yet.

  Angela Nolan maintained her customary record of arriving first, and three men—Paul Brent and Richard Bell, in addition to Faltham—came together. As they grouped themselves around the large oval table—the same table, he recalled, around which they had assembled when he’d announced his decision to go into the Caymans—Farr thought he discerned a change in their attitude toward him. It was a distancing—not from annoyance at what he’d done without informing them, but from some sort of respect—maybe admiration—for the part he had played. Farr decided that, if his guess was right, then he was embarrassed by it. None of the explanations he had given them individually had been complete, so now he openly told them about Howard’s arrest and what he’d been called upon to do because of it and how, until now, it had been essential to keep his activities from them. He assured them that he had done nothing to bring the firm into disrepute, and recounted the reaction that he’d entrusted Angela to obtain, since the intensive publicity, from their regular, established clients—the majority of which was congratulation and only a small minority, less than two percent, was even vaguely critical. Farr insisted that this role—but, more importantly, that of the firm—would be made abundantly clear at each and every court hearing, because that was part of the deal he’d made. The court hearings would occupy him for some time, but he hoped it would not be for too long. When it was over, he intended returning to the business as they’d known it before and trying to put as far behind him as possible the events of the last few months. As it was tell-everything time—and because he was feeling so good about it—Farr also revealed to his immediate working partners his marriage plans. Angela Nolan remained impassive.

  “Quite an experience, one way and another,” said Brent.

  The attitude was admiration, Farr decided. He said, “And one, believe me, that I would have liked to avoid, apart from the opportunity of meeting Harriet.”

  “What about Howard?” asked Faltham.

  “I’ve not been up as much as I would have liked, but I’ve kept in touch by telephone. Both with him and with the school. Despite all the foreboding, it looks as if he’s managing to stay straight. There’ll be the chance for more time together, when it’s all over.”

  “You’re going to become even more of a celebrity then than you are at present,” said Bell.

  Farr shook his head. “No. I did it because I had to, and I’m going to give evidence because I have to. But I’m not going to indulge in any of this ridiculous personality stuff …” He hesitated. “I know I don’t have to say it, but if any of you get any approaches from the media, about me, I’d appreciate your refusing them.”

  There were nods from the people grouped around him and Brent said, “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “You talked about it taking up more time,” said Faltham. “What sort of time? Weeks? Or months?”

  “I don’t know, not yet,” said Farr. “Only weeks, I hope.”

  “I think what you did was very brave,” said the woman, expressing the feelings of the rest. “Very brave and courageous.”

  “It wasn’t, not really,” said Farr. He looked around at them. “Wouldn’t you have done the same, if one of your kids got into trouble and there was a way to minimize the damage?”

  “I guess so,” said Faltham. “I’m just sure as hell glad it didn’t happen to me and I didn’t have to make the decision.”

  “I think that goes for all of us,” said Brent.

  “Let me tell you,” said Farr. “I wouldn’t want it to happen to anyone. Thank Christ it’s almost finished for me.”

  After the full meeting, he went through with Angela Nolan only the things that she considered absolutely essential, deciding that until the court hearings were over it would be pointless—and distracting—trying to involve himself fully again.

  Farr lunched early with Harriet at a bistro near Lincoln Center and they bought tickets for a Verdi concert there that weekend. He asked her to go up to Boston with him to see Howard, but Harriet said the sickness had been particularly bad that morning and she still wasn’t feeling completely better—and anyway Brennan had called that morning, saying he wanted to see her. Concerned, Farr asked why she didn’t change gynecologists to someone better known, but she laughed at him and told him not to worry, it happened to everyone. Farr originally intended to eat with Howard and catch the last shuttle back but said now that he wouldn’t; he didn’t think he should let the boy down, but he’d get back as soon as he could. She told him once more to stop worrying and that she’d be waiting at the house when he got back.

  Farr managed the three o’clock shuttle. Things were good, he decided. He’d gone through a period the like of which he never wanted to experience again, but it seemed to have come to a better conclusion for him than he could have hoped. He was almost stupidly happy with Harriet—indulging in love words and love gestures and meaningless gifts that would have been juvenile if they hadn’t been so important to both of them—and Howard was OK. Farr paused at the thought. Maybe it was too soon to be absolutely sure of Howard—he remembered the detention doctor at the time of Howard’s arrest saying that drug addiction was like alcoholism, and Halpern’s depressing cure statistics—but in his present ebullience Farr thought it was going to work out as well as everything else had done.

  Jennings was waiting for him at the school, as arranged, and Farr decided he had every reason for confidence about Howard. Jennings had maintained practically daily contact with St. Marks, monitoring particularly the boy’s class attendance. He had not missed one lesson and his grades had actually improved.

  “Looks like you—and he—are one of the lucky ones,” said the man. “I’m glad we did what we did and kept the place open.”

  “I’d already decided how lucky I was,” said Farr.

  He picked up his son at the dormitory-house entrance and they went to the cafeteria at Howard’s suggestion. Farr was initially surprised—expecting the boy to want to go into town—and then became aware of the attention of a lot of other students. Embarrassed for the second time that day, he realized that Howard was showing him off. When he accused his son of it, Howard said, “Why not? Aren’t you somebody to be proud of?”

  “It’s good to hear you say it,” said Farr. “I’m not much interested in the attitude of other people.”

  “So it was a deal, wasn’t it?” said Howard.

  “Yes,” said Farr.

  “You could have been hurt!”

  “There was some talk about that in the beginning,” remembered Farr. “Thank God it didn’t turn out that way.”

  “What was it like?” demanded Howard. “Really like?”

  Farr stared down into his coffee cup, thinking about the question. He smiled up and said, “Actually, it wasn’t really anything different from what I do all the time. They were just men with an awful lot of money they wanted invested.”

  The boy seemed disappointed. “But they’re big-time hoods: Scarletti’s a Mafia don, according to what the Boston papers said.”

  “I was only actually with them on one occasion,” said Farr. “Wish I could make it more dramatic for you.”

  Howard smiled around the crowded cafeteria, nodding and smiling to some people who immediately answered his look. “It’s dramatic enough,” he said.

  “I saw Jennings,” said Farr. “He told me the grades were good; improving even. Thank you.”

>   “I guess I’ve got a lot more to thank you for,” said the boy.

  “How do you feel about a half brother or sister?” asked Farr.

  The boy looked at him quizzically. “What?”

  Farr told Howard about Harriet’s pregnancy and of their intention to get married almost at once. Howard giggled disbelievingly, and said, “You’re putting me on!”

  “In seven months,” insisted the broker.

  “Holy shit!” said the boy.

  “Why the surprise?” asked Farr, feigning offense. “I’m not that old.”

  “It’s just … I don’t know … I just never thought of that happening, even though you were getting married.”

  “Well it is,” said Farr. “She’s not having a particularly easy time, so I thought you could come down to New York more often. I’m not moving around anymore, so we’ll be there pretty permanently.”

  “Great idea,” said Howard. “Having a baby! Holy shit!” The boy became serious. “Hey, how do you feel about it?”

  “I couldn’t be happier,” admitted Farr. “So much has been happening lately that it’s only in the last few days that I’ve had time to work out precisely what it all means. It’s all come out pretty well—bloody well, in fact.”

  Howard reached impulsively across the table for his father’s hand, the crowded surroundings forgotten. “I know I’ve said it before, one way and another. But I want to say it again. Just once. Thanks, for what you did—for all of what you did. I won’t forget it. And I’ll try like hell never to let you down again.”

  “It’s going to be a difficult standard, never to make some sort of mistake,” said Farr. “I just don’t want it to be one particular sort.”

  “It won’t be,” promised the boy. “Wanna know something?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t even think about it anymore. I used to, a lot, when I first got out. Difficult, like I told you it was. But not now. There’s a lot about, from other guys, I mean. Be the easiest thing in the world, to start again. But I haven’t. And I won’t.”

  “Like I said,” repeated the broker. “It’s all come out bloody well.”

  Howard said he understood about dinner and Farr managed the six o’clock flight back to La Guardia, jammed into the home-going commuter flight. He bought a copy of the Globe and a paperback but couldn’t concentrate on either. He’d make Harriet go to another gynecologist; ask around among people in the city and insist that she put herself in the best care possible. He smiled at his own reflection in the night-darkened window; he was going to spoil her more than she knew it was possible to be spoiled.

  Farr was practically at the exit from the arrival corridor, where it widens out to the baggage reclaim and car-rental desks, when he became conscious of the P.A. system blaring his name. He stopped, searching curiously for the information desk, wondering what it was. Harriet had mentioned a meeting with Brennan so maybe they wanted to involve him as well. The girl smiled when he identified himself and said there had been a telephone call, from someone who hadn’t left his name. Before getting transportation into the city, he was to pick up a message from the message board. Farr felt the first flicker of unease as he approached the wired, pin-stuck message pedestal, seeking an envelope under his surname initial. It was a long business envelope and his name was neatly typed, even with a first initial. Urgently now, Farr ripped at it and then stood staring down at the words which had been created by letters cut out from newspapers and magazines—an approximate type-size maintained—to make two words: FORGET GOMEZ.

  Farr’s hand shook, not from immediate fear but from lack of understanding. He could comprehend the approach—there’d been enough discussion and conferences about it—but not why it should happen here, at the airport. He stared hurriedly around, deciding he was under observation, and then back at the paper. He didn’t know what to do, what it meant. Maybe Harriet would. Certainly Brennan. That’s what he had to do: reach Brennan and tell him. Maybe the district attorney, too. Farr looked at the telephone bank, but at once dismissed the idea of standing in a public place, pumping dimes and quarters into a slot and chasing Brennan around God knows where.

  The broker hurried from the terminal, ignoring the shared taxi rank for a cab of his own, anxious now to get home. The bulk of the expressway traffic was home-going, in the opposite direction, but there still seemed to be a lot ahead, slowing them. Farr sat with his hands tight against his knees, in irritated impatience, several times taking the paper from inside his jacket and staring down at it in the intermittent light of the highway illumination, as if he expected to learn more from repeated reading.

  Farr became aware of the cars—police vehicles with their lights flashing and unmarked limousines, around the block—long before he reached his house, and actually had the door open before the cab stopped moving at the obstruction, unable to get any nearer. He ran froward, uncaring at the shout of the unpaid driver, and as he got close two men in civilian clothes moved to intercept him. Then their faces opened in recognition and they made some sort of gesture to another vehicle and Brennan and Seymour emerged, running as Farr was.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Where the hell have you been!” said Brennan, instead of answering.

  “Boston,” said the broker. “Harriet knew.”

  Farr was conscious of the looks that went between the two men and shouted, “Harriet! Where’s Harriet?”

  “Let’s go inside the house,” said Brennan.

  “Where’s Harriet!”

  “Inside.”

  Farr slipped and fumbled the key in his anxiety, hurrying into the main room and turning immediately to confront them. “What happened!”

  “A lot. Too much,” said Brennan awkwardly. “Lang was shot down, about three hours ago. Leaving his office in Pearl Street. Shotguns. Died instantly … The notary too …”

  “I don’t care about Lang,” cut off the broker. “Where’s Harriet?”

  “We don’t know,” admitted Seymour. “We had a meeting but she didn’t keep it. We came here but couldn’t find her. We’ve got an all-points alert for her and it hasn’t turned up anything …”

  “We think she’s been snatched,” completed Brennan, abruptly.

  For several moments Farr said nothing. Then he managed, “Oh God. Oh, my God.”

  “We weren’t so sure, until about an hour ago,” said Brennan.

  Farr blinked at the man, trying to concentrate. “What happened an hour ago?”

  “We thought they might go for you: it’s obvious, after all. Hit every sort of panic button and thought of Boston. Alerted our office there. Howard would have been their contact …”

  “… Would have been!” interrupted Farr once more, aware of the qualification.

  “They can’t find him,” said Seymour. “Not at school, dormitory, anywhere where he normally hangs out …”

  “… It’s too soon to be sure,” came in Brennan, in attempted assurance. “He could be a hundred places. It just doesn’t look good.”

  Farr felt emptied, devoid of any reaction or response; he was unable to grasp the enormity of what they were telling him. “What … I … there must be …”

  “You’re safe,” said Brennan, misunderstanding the need for reassurance. “You’re going to have someone with you even when you go to the John. We’ve already got a wire on the telephone here. Mail intercept, too …”

  “… But why …?”

  “Remember, we don’t know yet; we’re not sure. But, if they’ve got Harriet and Howard, then the purpose is to pressure you. When it comes, we want to get it. Immediately. And when it does, we’ll get them back. Remember that: we’ll get them back. Safe …”

  Farr remembered several things, in fact. The first was the envelope and the paper with its cut-out message. Then he remembered all the guarantees and promises that Brennan had made since the beginning, guarantees and promises that had failed or had to be revised. He tightened his arm against his body, so that he could
feel the outline of the envelope. And decided to say nothing about it.

  It was training not to resist when resistance was futile, so Harriet didn’t at the sudden moment when she was bundled into the car, too quickly even to scream an alarm at any passerby. She tried to control the fear, to be the professional she was, and one of the initial realizations was that they were professionals, too, not holding the gun against her body, where to fire it would have killed her—because what good is an immediately dead hostage?—but instead against the very side of her knee, which was far more frightening because they could have fired then, shattering her kneecap and crippling her for life but not wounding sufficiently to kill her. The professionalism decreed that she note and remember everything, so she tried to memorize what the four men looked like for a later description, and she noted the bridge they crossed and recognized Queens and the waterfront roads, on the little-used section of the wharves, where the redevelopment was taking place and where there were no ships and therefore no activity. The one to the left, who wasn’t holding the gun to her knee, had his hand across his body anyway, against her breast, feeling her up, but she didn’t pull away because another part of the training was to avoid their anger and keep everything as calm as possible.

  Ramos, who was the one holding the gun, gestured her out of the car when it stopped and into a warehouse alongside one of the empty, decaying wharves. It was a vast, echoing place but just inside the part against the water’s edge there were what had obviously once been some sort of administrative offices. Most of the windows were broken and there was the drip of water from some leaking pipes and a smell of dampness and rot. As soon as Harriet entered, she saw that two of the divided rooms had what seemed to be comparatively new mattresses on the floor and a supermarket sack of groceries. Alongside the grocery bag was a six pack of beer and a bottle of wine.