by Dick Cluster
“What do you mean?”
“Alex, how did we meet?”
When Bernie was in his Socratic mode, there was no hurrying him up. Alex yelled praises at Matthew to keep him from rebelling against the division of labor, whether on the basis of age or gender. It was fun being in charge of a little boy occasionally.
“You got me off without a finding when that park ranger didn’t like me smoking hash at Plum Island.”
“Thank you. And, in general, how do criminal lawyers make at least, say, half of their living?”
“You mean, defending people like me who are guilty as charged?”
“Right. Guilty of being involved, in one way or another, with one of the largest sectors of modern commerce— the world of illegal businesses, less accurately known as organized crime. Drugs are its most popular product, but far from the only one.”
“So?”
“So this sector doesn’t just need and hire slews of lawyers. It needs all the services that any other business contracts for, and more, and specialized ones.”
Matthew experimented with throwing apples back up at Maria, and Alex saw Elizabeth drawing a bead on him in response. He swooped in, scooped the boy up, and lifted him to a low, solid branch.
“Matt’s turn to climb. Elizabeth to tally person.”
“To what, Alex?” Maria demanded.
“Tally person. Keep track that everybody’s picking fast enough. If not, they don’t get paid.”
“Paid what?”
“Whatever I’m bringing back across the ocean for them.”
Alex ducked back out from the tree. Bernie put a hand on his elbow to hold him still.
“Look, schmuck, the point is that these sectors don’t exist in isolation. Money, supplies, personnel, credit, political influence, you name it— they all have to flow back and forth. Somebody has to be the link.”
“The interface,” Alex translated. “You mean this Jack Moselle launders money?”
Bernie scowled. “Launders money, maybe, and dirties clean money that wants a good return, and introduces people that need to be introduced, and suggests the shadiest trial judges and the most discreet shipping firms, contributes to political campaigns, prepares analyses for potential investors…”
“You’re telling me Jack Moselle sits way up high in a bank building in London and does all that?”
“How should I know? I’m telling you that all those functions must get done by somebody. He’s the honcho of Interface, and the people I talked to said that both he and it have popped up in scandals connected to racketeering. And I asked one guy, who ought to know, if he would screw around in those waters without a damn good navigation chart. He said not unless he was planning a trip to Davy Jones’s locker. So don’t do it, Alex.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, his eyes on a squashed, discolored apple rotting its way back into the earth. “Well, guess what? Meyer got that trip, sometime between nine and one last night. Somebody called me at my shop and told me to forget all about him. His corpse ended up outside my back door, for me to find. So listen. After we drop Maria, I’d like a ride to the police station. I have to make a statement there, to a Sergeant Trevisone. I’m not going to volunteer any of this information if I can help it. I think I’m safer, and everybody connected to me is safer, if I’m out of here while everything sorts itself out. Once I’m in the air, you can go to the cops, or Kim can, anytime either of you feel it’s necessary. But not till I can look down at the icy North Atlantic. No way, Jose.”
Reaching up for a live, growing apple, Alex tossed it in a lazy arc toward Maria’s section of the tree. He yelled, “Bernie, cut that out.” Then he dashed thirty feet into the lane between the trees and began slinging fallen apples at his friend and would-be keeper. Bernie, his face red, unleashed a vicious pitch at Alex’s head, which Alex ducked, and another, at Alex’s crotch, which Alex turned his ass into. “Ow,” he cried. “Hey, girls, I need reinforcements.”
Soon he had Maria and Elizabeth in his corner, while Matthew worked his own way out of the branches and dashed in and out from behind them, dodging and throwing. When Bernie’s anger had cooled, Alex declared a truce. He took Maria’s hand in his and led her off to check out the rest of the orchard. Under a Yellow Delicious tree he rubbed toxins off the skin of a pale apple and sat his daughter on his lap, facing him, for a farewell address. The nausea crept up for the first time in the day. He bit into the first apple, handed it over for Maria to bite, and talked while he chewed. The sweet juice didn’t calm him, but it gave the nausea a more interesting edge.
“So listen, kiddo. When you wake up tomorrow, I’ll be in England.”
“I know that.” Maria looked the apple over until she found a satisfactory place to bite. “You’ll be with Meredith. Is she really going to take you to meet her father?”
“I guess.”
“Meredith’s father is a minister. Are you going to meet him in his church? Some of those old churches in Europe have people buried under the floor. And they’ve got dark corners that are good for people to meet, in secret.”
Maria had reached the age where, especially seeing her only half the time, Alex could not keep up with what she was reading. He wished he knew what ideas about crypts and dark places were bouncing around in her head.
“He’s retired. I just hope he likes me okay and doesn’t give Meredith a hard time. Are you mad that I’m not taking you?”
“Well, not mad exactly. But I’m jealous that you’re getting to go and I’m not. If Meredith keeps getting work in England, then you ought to go again, and take me.” She handed the apple back and watched her father take a bite. “Will you get blood taken in London?” she said sternly. “You always get your blood taken after you finish your drugs.”
“I can get blood tests anywhere. Tomorrow is the last day of the medicine for two weeks, at least. I won’t take any more till I get back.” Alex paused, worrying about the unwashed skin of the apple. He took another bite anyway, and added, “So I’ll feel pretty regular during my trip.”
“I want an excellent wool sweater,” Maria declared, cutting off further discussion just as she’d brought it up. “I want some punk posters, too, even though I don’t exactly know what it is. I mean, would you call Madonna punk?”
“Soft punk, maybe. Tell you what, I’ll do the best I can. And I’ll call you, too, at your mom’s. And I’m going to miss you while I’m gone.”
Maria took back the apple, studied the inside, and said nothing. She could plunge deeply into stoic silence when it suited her.
“You’ll owe me a lot of help with homework,” she told him. “And you better get Mrs. LaFarge or somebody to water my avocado.”
Alex agreed and rose up with an effort, lifting her to a branch from which she could collect a few more apples. He told himself that, at any rate, he was a better father than the late Gerald Meyer. Even if he was being a pigheaded or foolhardy one.
10. Time to Kill
At Bernie’s house, Alex dressed for the police out of his suitcase. He picked one of his few pairs of creased slacks, and his sole corduroy sport jacket. In the car he chatted with Bernie about the Sox. Outside the police station he shook Bernie’s hand warmly but formally. He got out, then bent through the window to plant a light kiss on the top of his friend’s expensive haircut.
“You’re one of a kind,” he said.
“You should talk,” Bernie told him. “And I mean that both ways.”
Sergeant Trevisone and a stenographer took Alex’s deposition in a room furnished with an insurance agency calendar, a desk, and two chairs. The only decoration was a sign reading, WILL THE LAST PERSON TO BE LAID OFF PLEASE TURN OUT THE LIGHTS?
Alex answered questions dutifully if not truthfully. The sergeant told him to wait for the statement to be typed, after which he could sign and head for his plane.
“Do you have any idea what the guy was doing in the LaFarges’ backyard?” Alex inquired.
Trevisone ran his thumb and
forefinger down the two sides of his mustache. He reminded Alex of a whippet, small and lean and fast.
“His name was Meyer and he worked for a New York bank. His pockets were stripped, so we have to consider robbery as a likely motive. He wasn’t moved after being shot. Anything else I tell you is strictly off the record, you got that?”
Alex nodded.
“A contact shot in the head is a hell of a way for a robber to panic and commit murder. That’s one thing. The other is that Meyer was staying at the hotel under an alias and paying cash.”
“That’s interesting,” Alex said in a tone he hoped was bemused. “What name did he use?”
“Diebstahl. G. Diebstahl. That mean anything to you?”
It did, in a way.
“Yes, actually,” Alex said. “Not personally, but—”
“But?”
“It’s a German word, that’s all. Thief-steal, literally. Larceny, maybe. And maybe G for gross— big, grand. Grand larceny.”
Trevisone stroked his mustache again and got up from the edge of his desk. He looked curious.
“You’re German, Mr. Glauberman? I thought…”
“No, you were right the first time.” Alex smiled. “My name is Yiddish, more or less. I don’t know if my German translation’s any help to you, but there it is.”
Trevisone didn’t tell. He walked to the doorway and then turned. The rest of what he had to say, he delivered from there.
“It’s most likely the victim was running from his assailant, and that’s where the assailant ran him down. On the other hand, Mr. Glauberman, it might have been an execution. Then I’d say the location could have been picked as a warning. A warning to someone in the neighborhood, or the occupants of that particular building. I’m not asking for testimony now, just for a little brainstorming. You’ve lived on those premises for quite a while. Also it’s true that you and the victim both hail from New York, though I grant you so do, what is it, eight million other individuals. Now there I go again, running off at the mouth. Before you catch your plane, can you think of any reason why anyone might want to give that kind of a warning to you, or to Mr. or Mrs. LaFarge, or to any of the neighbors? I’ll be back in a little while with your deposition to sign.”
Alex picked out the pieces of new information as quickly as he could. Meyer worked for a bank. Meyer had been involved in something secret and/or illegal, possibly theft. Meyer had been killed on his way to see Alex, or else he’d been forced there to make it look that way. But he’d sent the fee earlier— or instructed someone else to. Anyway, someone had ordered Meyer down the driveway and shot him there, with a pistol up against his head.
When the sergeant returned with Alex’s statement, Alex said that he hadn’t come up with any more theories. The sergeant asked where Alex could be reached in London, and Alex told him.
“When are you on duty,” he added, “in case I do think of something important?”
“Eight A.M. on, next week.” Trevisone stroked just one side of his mustache now. “Somebody else can have the midnight murders.”
* * *
Alex picked up his two bags and took the subway and shuttle bus to Logan Airport, the world’s seventh busiest, or so the sign used to say. The international terminal was a cavernous, skylighted structure with Tinkertoy architecture high above the floor— lots of round, off-white beams converging at circular joints. Shiny, globe-shaped public-address speakers hung like spiders from skinny metallic threads. The whole thing reminded Alex of the models of molecular structure that had been such a fad in his childhood, when anything that smacked of atoms had been a harbinger of the bright technological future. The Brussels World’s Fair, for instance, had been housed in a building shaped like an atom.
The place oppressed him. He had long outgrown any fondness for the atom. In this space he felt at once exposed and dwarfed, and he knew, without wanting to dwell on it, that he had good reason. He wanted to smoke the one joint he’d packed in his travel bag, nestle into the aluminum-and-plastic tube that would ferry him across the ocean, and be gone.
It was Saturday evening, though, and the lines were long. All the carriers seemed to have transatlantic flights leaving. The lucky passengers who’d disposed of their luggage rode skyward on two-tiered escalators toward the departure lounge. Alex made his way to the British Air desk at the far end of the building, separated from Aer Lingus by Alitalia. Alex wondered whether British Air security was particularly tight, here in Irish Boston. At length he presented his ticket and his suitcase to be checked. The clerk— a woman in a uniform vaguely reminiscent of the Royal Navy— peered at the computer screen between herself and Alex. Alex expected suddenly to be told he was grounded, sequestered, he didn’t know what, material witness, his passport revoked.
“Your seat has been selected already,” she said with a tired smile. “Boarding is in one hour, but on international flights you are requested not to leave the terminal between check-in and boarding.”
Alex extended a hand for the boarding pass. Then he dropped into a black plastic chair and placed his carry-on bag on the dark tile of the floor. Cigarette smoke swirled toward him from two businessmen talking to his left. His throat constricted— they could poison themselves, but he had all the poisons he could use— and he moved a few seats away. From the envelope in his bag he extracted ten of the fifty-dollar bills.
Had Meyer been so sure Alex would do the job? Or had Meyer had money to burn and not cared? Or had Meyer known that he had only hours to live, and Alex would be his last chance? It did not appear, given the delivery of the money, that the man who had phoned Alex at the shop had been Meyer. Or, if it had, he hadn’t meant for Alex to believe what he said. Alex supposed the money was his own now, whatever happened. And the money meant he could go where he wanted and hang the expense. He found it also made him feel perversely loyal to Gerald Meyer’s last request.
Nearby, opposite the escalator, was a small currency-exchange booth enclosed in bulletproof glass. As Alex approached, the glass reflected his figure and those of the people passing behind him. At the base of the elevator stood two men in uniform. Alex turned and gave a quick once-over to the state trooper and the airport security man chatting on their way up. The trooper, his motorcycle pants tucked into shiny black boots, packed a pistol just below his leather jacket. The security man, puffing out his chest in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt, toyed with a walkie-talkie. Alex turned his back and bought two hundred dollars’ worth of British pounds and three hundred dollars’ worth of German marks. He kept his eye on the glass, but saw no more uniforms, and also no men with dark shirts and light ties.
He put the foreign currencies with the American bills and walked quickly to the space hollowed out under the escalator which contained two rows of pay phones. He called Kim, but got her machine. “Hi, it’s Alex,” he said. “I hear you talked to Bernie, and I guess he’s given you the update by now. I don’t know what to say, so I won’t. Um, Meyer came through with the money after all. I’m almost off now. I’ll give your love to Meredith. ’Bye.”
Almost off, but still time to kill. He looked up the messenger service that had delivered Meyer’s envelope, and called, claiming to have gotten a communication that needed a reply but had come with no return address. The service was proud of its data bank and happy to tell him the address. Mr. Diebstahl, Charles Hotel.
Diebstahl, larceny. If Meyer had a thing about arch, German-derived aliases, what was one supposed to make of the message sent via Kim? I’m meeting a lady, whom I met in the company of Jay Friedhoff, in Berlin. Friedhof meant “cemetery.” Or, Alex supposed, it could actually be a name.
Between the two sets of telephone booths stood a double row of directories, hinged so you could flip up whichever ones you chose. Alex remembered that these included not just local directories but also books for major U.S. cities. He wanted to know what he would find in the way of real-life Friedhoffs.
There were none listed in Boston, but the next books yield
ed two in New York and four in Los Angeles. It was a real name, then, or it could be. As Alex reached for Chicago, a hand touched his left shoulder. When he began to swing around, the hand gripped tight and held.
A voice, quiet but deep, talked into his left ear. He could feel the breath, unpleasantly warm. He felt a dull fatality, an inevitability, about the grip that held his shoulder. He told himself to keep calm, but the truth was that he was calm already. Only he felt weary, felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach that sank and sank as if it would never stop. That’s just the drug, he told himself. He started to turn his head.
“Easy, Mr. Glauberman,” the voice said. “Don’t do that. You’re trying to leave home with too many questions unanswered. So I want you to look straight ahead and walk real slow and easy the way I point you. Else you end up like Mr. Meyer.”
Alex made his shoulder relax under the grip. Across the stand of directories, a woman talked into a phone with her back to him. She had straight, chestnut hair that reminded him of Meredith. Next to her a fat man faced Alex, waving a lit cigar in the air as he talked. His eyes met Alex’s and moved away. Alex swallowed hard and turned the way the hand pushed him.
He felt rather than saw his assailant, just behind and to his left. The hand on his shoulder was the man’s right hand, a right hand like iron. The palm propelled him forward, out from the telephone area, toward the passengers lined up ten deep at the Air Canada desk. A tall man, all in black, with a long white beard, a Hasidic Jew with a flat-crowned black hat, seemed to stare straight at Alex. The stare was an illusion, though. The Hasid turned away toward the desk.
After eight steps, the hand on Alex’s shoulder turned him left, toward the exits. Alex could see the glassed-in exchange booth, the open rent-a-car booth to its right, the plate-glass windows revealing cars, buses, cabs, and crowd outside. The sinking stopped, replaced by a rising, honest, healthy fear. Alex felt his heart beating faster, and much too loud.