"You can't use a symbolic address."
"Why not?"
"I forgot. You're not filing. All
right. The depository?
"Who?"
"The bank. Where the corporate funds
will be deposited."
"Leave that blank. A couple of lines.
There'll be several banks."
Sam's pencil involuntarily stopped.
He forced it onward. "What's the
purpose of the company?"
There was a pause in Washington.
"Give me some legal-sounding choices."
Now a longer pause in New York.
Devereaux's pencil really objected.
"Let's start with 'intent.'"
"Obviously, to make money."
... ~ A,,
rlowr "By having something people
will pay for." "Manufacturing?
Production of merchandise?" "No, not
really." "Marketing?" "That's nearer.
Keep going." "Where?" "Some more
words," replied Hawkins. "I'm not a
corporate attorney but if I remember
the books, a company's purpose its
motive for profit is in one form or
another of production, manufacturing,
marketing, acquisition, serviced "
"Hold it! That one."
86
"Services?"
"That's good, but I mean the one
before that."
Sam exhaled. "Acquisition?"
"That's it. Acquisition."
"Acquiring at one price, disposing
at a second, higher price. You're in
brokerage?"
"that s very good, Sam. That's
really using the old noodle.
Devereaux pushed the pencil against
its inanimate will and wrote on the
pad. "If you're a broker, there's got
to be a product. Services or real
estate or merchandise "
"Of a deeply religious nature,"
interrupted MacKenzie, his voice low
and solemn.
"What is?"
"The product."
Sam inhaled; it was a long breath.
When he exhaled it was with a hum.
"Are you saying that you are forming
a company to broker the acquisition of
religious merchandise?"
"That'll do," answered Hawkins simply.
"Artifacts?"
"That's even better."
"For Christ's sake, what is?"
-"'Broker the acquisition of
religious artifacts.' Goddamn, boy.
PerfectI"
Devereaux borrowed the standard New
York State forms for a limited
partnership agreement from Barton. It
was a relatively simple matter to
transcribe his notes into the
partnership forms and have the hotel
stenographer retype the pages as
though they had been dictated. Things
were looking up, thought Sam as he
scrutinized the finished product,
replete with its blank lines for
investors, depositories, amounts; and
the inane description of"brokering the
acquisition of religious artifacts."
But it looked as legal as a chapter
in Blackstone. Yes, Sam mused as he
balanced the envelope containing the
gobbledygook he was about to mail to
MacKenzie Hawlcins. Things were
looking up. He'd be back in Boston
with Aaron Pinkus Associates in a few
days; his "legal" work for the Hawk
was finished. Altogether it had taken
him nine 87
.
days, some three weeks short of the
month Mac had figured.
He had agreed to stay at the Drake a
day or two longer giving Mac
sufficient to approve of his labors.
There was no question that approval
would come, and it did.
"My word, Sam, that's a mighty
impressive looking document," said the
Hawk over the telephone from
Washington. "I'm downright amazed you
were able to write it all up so
quickly."
"There are certain guidelines to
follow; it wasn't that difficult."
"You're too modest, young-fella."
"I'm anxious, that's what I am.
Anxious to get back to Boston
"I can certainly understand that,"
broke in Hawkins without the
commensurate affirmative that would
have curtailed the sudden, growing
pain in Devereaux's stomach.
"Listen, Mac
"I see you made me president of the
company. You didn't tell me that."
"There were no other names. I asked
you about the corporate officers and
you said leave the lines blank."
"What are those titles secretary and
treasurers Are they importantP"
"Not if you're not filing."
"Suppose someday I decided to?"
"The standard procedure is to
combine the two. Most states require
a minimum of two general partners for
a limited partnership agreement."
"But I could have more if I wanted to,
couldn't I?"
"Certainly."
"I just wanted to know what's right,
Sam. Not important. It's never going
to be filed. Just passes the time."
Devereaux thought he detected a note
of melancholy in Hawkins's voice. Was
Mac beginning to come to grips with
his own fantasies? Did he begin to
understand that his irrational foray
into corporate legalities was simple
compensation for the absence of
command decision? Sam 88
began to relax. He actually felt sorry
for this old warhorse. Passes the time
was a euphemism for filling the days.
"I'm sure it does, General."
"Why, Sam, you haven't called me
general in weeks."
"Sorry. A slip."
"I'll be in touch with you tomorrow,
boy. You've worked hard. Have a little
fun tonight. Remember, it's on the
expense account."
"As to that ten thou'. It's very
generous of you but I don't want it.
I don't need it. I'll deduct whatever
legal expenses stenographer, supplies,
that kind of thing and return the
rest. Then there's an investment
counselor I *now in Washington "
Devereaux stopped. He realized that
the click on the other end of the line
had terminated the conversation..
There was no point in not having a
good time. He had spent enough
weekends in New York to know where the
action was: the singles' bars on Third
Avenue.
Sam was spectacularly successful.
His catch was a nubile young thing who
had come out of Omaha, Nebrask~the
county seat of Henry Fonda and Marion
Brando to scale the Broadway heights.
She was terribly impressed with a
lawyer who did a lot of work for
Metro-Goldwyn-WarnerBrothers when he
wasn't handling contracts for Botvling
For Dollars and Masterpiece Theatre.
Sam was impressed, too. All during
the night, throughout most of the next
morning,
well into the following
afternoon and (with time out for food
and limited discussion) into the next
evening.
It was 9:27 when the telephone rang,
9:29 when the nubile young thing spoke
sleepily. "Sam, the phone's on
.. ..
my sloe.
"You're very observant."
"Shall I get it?" she asked.
"Since it's on your side, I'd say
yes."
"You're sure?"
Sam opened his eyes. The girl had
raised herself and was stretching;
the sheet had fallen away. "Make it
quick," Devereaux said.
"If you're sure."
89
"I have no wife and my mother
doesn't know where I am and Aaron
Pinkus. wouldn't be mad. Get the
phone talk fast, and hang up."
The girl reached for the instrument;
Sam reached for the girl.
'there's a man with a raspy voice
who wants to talk to you. He says his
name is Angelo Dellacroce." She
handed Sam the receiver.
"Hey, you!" The words spat from the
telephone. "You Samuel Deverooze,
sectatary-treasurer of this Shepherd
Company?"
90
CEDER
Former Lieutenant General MacKenzie
Hawkins, twice awarded the nation's
highest honor for extraordinary heroism
beyond the call of duty in deadly combat
against the enemy, cowered like a
frightened boy at the sight of former
Major Sam Devereaux, military accident.
Hawkins could see Sam getting out of the
taxi at the entrance of the North Hampton
Golf Club. The brass lamps on top of the
stone posts flanking the drive were the
only source of light; it was a cold,
cloudy night and no moon could be seen.
The lamps, however, gave sufficient
illumination to reveal the anguished
expression on Devereaux's face.
Sam was furious, MacKenzie realized
that. But, he thought to himself, he had
not actually lied. Not really. He never
told Devereaux he wouldn't approach Angelo
Dellacroce. Only that he had no reason to
do so when Sam pressed him on the point.
At that moment. Not later.
The secretary-treasurer title was
something else. It looked terrific on the
partnership agreement: Samuel Devereaux,
Esq., Counselor-at-law, State 4-Ff, Drake
Hotel, New York, right above the line
reserved for the second most important
office in the Shepherd Company. It was for
Devereaux's own good; he'd understand that
soon enough. But at the moment Samuel
Devereaux, Esq., was mad as a caged bull
fenced off from heifers in heat.
The Hawk had agreed to Dellacroce's
rendezvous. because it suited him. The
Italian was so concerned about
surveillance he had insisted on meeting
Mac in the middle of the fairway on hole
six at the North Hampton Golf Club between
the hours of midnight and one in the
morning. But if Hawkins had objected and
changed the location to 91
..
l
the Bell Telephone Company, Dellacroce
would have capitulated.
For Dellacroce had no choice. Mac
had a folder on the Mafioso that would
have guaranteed a jail sentence worthy
of a court in the People's Republic.
Still, a meeting at night in terrain
surrounded by thick woods and streams
and small lakes appealed to Hawkins.
He was at home in such territory. It
wasn't Cambodia or Laos, but he could
sort of keep his hand in, as it were.
He flew up from Washington in the
afternoon and with false
identification rented a car and drove
out to North Hampton. As soon as it
was dark, he circled the golf club and
parked at the west perimeter.
Dellacroce had told him that the club
was closed for the evening and the
night watchman would be replaced by
one of his men.
Which meant, of course, that
Dellacroce would double the patrols
everywhere, especially around the area
of fairway six.
His pockets stuffed with coils of
thin rope and rolls of three-inch
adhesive, Hawkins employed an old Ho
Chiminh tactic that had served him
well in the past. He began his
commando assault at the farthest point
inside the hostile area and worked his
way toward the front.
At 2300 the enemy patrols started to
man their emplacements within the
North Hampton Golf Club. There were
nine (a few more than Mac had
anticipated) spaced out in the rough
by the edge of the woods on both sides
of fairway six, the line of relay
extending back to the clubhouse and
the driveway.
One by one, Hawkins immobilized
eight patrols; he removed all weapons,
bound them, taped their faces all
facial muscles, not just the
mouths and rendered them unconscious
with kai-sai chops at the base of the
skull. Then he worked his way back to
the ninth patrol who manned the
entrance.
He saved for this man a strategy
that was particularly effective
against the Pathet Lao. For the guard
had to be able to talk.
The man was exceedingly cooperative.
Especially after Mac had sliced his
trousers from crotch to cuff.
At ten minutes to midnight, Dellacroce's
huge black so
limousine drove swiftly through the
gates and up to the wide, pillared
porch. In the darkness the ninth
patrol, riveted to a pillar, spoke.
"Everythings fine, Mr. Dellacroce.
All the boys are spread good, like you
said."
The man's voice was a bit high and a
little strained, but Hawkins figured
rightly that Dellacroce had other
things on his mind.
"Okay. Real good," was the raspy
reply as Dellacroce; got out of the
automobile, flanked by two heavyset
bodyguards who walked like gorillas
with their hands in their fur. "Rocco,
you stay here with Augie. You,
Fingers, you come with me. And, Meat,
you get the fuckin' car back in the
lot outta sight."
Before Dellacroce and Fingers had
rounded the corner of the building,
the ninth patrol was kai-saied out of
commission. By the time Dellacroce and
Fingers had
disappeared across the lawn, Rocco had
joined Angie in peaceful oblivion.
The gentleman named Meat was
Hawkins's next dispatchee. It took
nearly five minutes, but only because
Meat was an experienced combat man. He
did not park the limousine at the edge
of the lot;
instead, he had pulled to
a stop in the center. It was good
positioning, thought Mac. Meat could
observe all his flanks unencumbered by
visual shadings or sightline
obstructions. Meat was good.
But not good enough.
MacKenzie scrambled diagonally out of
the parking area, over the first tee,
and left through the rough toward
fairway six. Since Dellacroce had made
it clear he would be alone, Hawkins
knew that Fingers would be hiding in
the darkness, no doubt at the edge of
the woods, and if he had a brain in
his head, across the fairway owthe
east side for a superior line of fire.
But Fingers did not have such sawy.
He remained in the west rough, prone
in the underbrush, eliminating any
rear flank observation.
Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, it was
not much fun taking an asshole like
Fingers.
Nevertheless, he took him. Silently.
In eleven seconds.
Leaving Angelo Dellacroce alone in the
middle of fair
93 '
way six, the lighted end of a cigar
protruding from -his fat mouth, his
squat body sagging at ease, his plump
hands clasped behind his back as
though waiting to be served a plate of
linguini in a slow trattoria.
Three minutes later Devereaux's taxi
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 13