My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  “You must have had some boyhood.”

  “That I did. Cal tells me I never quite got out of it.”

  “You don’t call him Dad?”

  “No. Ever since my Mom died, I’ve always called him Cal, and he calls me Pal.”

  I set the handbrake and we got out of the Chevy. Liz was impressed with the five-room cabin; solidly constructed of real logs and indigenous rock, actually built in two levels, right into the slope of the mountain, thirty feet above the river. We walked, carefully, down the narrow footpath as far as we could go.

  “My God, it looks like the Colorado!” Liz shouted. She was right. The flooding rains had turned the Quail River from a pebble-bottomed trout stream you could sometimes wade across into a raging, mud-yellow express train, fifteen feet above its normal bank. So close to the cabin in fact, that it almost reached the small shed and the four-man Zodiac hanging under it.

  “Cal is an expert with that boat, Liz. We liked to take her downstream through the mild rapids to the reservoir, about eight miles from here. We called it ‘shooting the moon.’ He always keeps her in tip-top shape, too. Come on; let me show you our cave. We can unpack later.”

  In certain areas, from New York to Georgia, the great eastern mountain range is pocked with caves; some tiny, some enormous; a spelunker’s delight. We had discovered ours the second summer up here, its entrance nearly hidden by a cluster of pine, now grown even bigger. It wasn’t a large cave, maybe thirty square feet of slanted floor, and anyone over five-three would have to stoop to walk in it. Liz poked her nose inside once and said, “I’m not going in there, Jeb Willard. Besides, it stinks.”

  I laughed. “You’re right. We didn’t bring a light, anyway. Let’s go back. I think it’s going to rain again. Careful, now, I don’t want you slipping. It would be hard to fish you out of that river right now.”

  It didn’t take Liz long to adjust to the rustic life. Well, hardly rustic. Cal had long ago installed a power generator—with a backup—in plus a freezer and fridge, always kept well stocked, and a pantry full of canned goods with a hanging wine rack. While I got the fire going in the living room fireplace, she busied herself with throwing together a meal worthy of any chef, and we ate every bite of it. The bottle of decent Cabernet finished me off. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was, having had so little sleep. This of course, was a good thing. I was too bushed to think about anything. I was also too tired to argue when Liz came into Cal’s room where I had collapsed, sat down on the bed, and began massaging my neck and back. “I want to sleep with you tonight, Jeb, but not to make love. I just want you to hold me. That’s what will make me feel safe.”

  I managed to move my head up and down a little. Her fingers were supple. Magical. “Where did you learn how to do that?” I don’t know whether I actually said that or simply felt it. In any case, I fell asleep before she could answer. I think she held me all night.

  * * *

  The following morning was a different day. I swallowed the sensual dreams I’d had of her along with the breakfast she’d cooked. I silently helped her with the dishes, dressed carefully, and ignored her angry outburst at my request. Pouting, she drove me to the Trailways station at Knoxville, dropped me off, and burned rubber turning around to go back, after promising not to answer the phone. “Why not?”

  “Just don’t. Cal, Sammy, and Pete will be at the cabin in a day or two. I might be back by then, anyway.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “South.”

  When the Chevy was out of sight, I went in and bought a round trip ticket to Miami. Mr. Mafia didn’t know it yet, but he was about to have a visitor.

  Chapter 11

  The long bus trip to Miami was a hell of a way to spend my birthday, and I seriously wondered if I’d live to see forty plus one hour. I hadn’t bothered to shave the past two days, or to shower, hoping that the apparent lack of personal hygiene, along with my costume, would discourage any fellow bus passengers or anyone on either side of the law from attempts at either conversation or something worse. I boarded wearing worn-out jeans with no belt, a dirty western style shirt left over from my Mexican adventures, a faded blue windbreaker with a busted zipper, and an equally filthy Dekalb seed cap. I’d had the foresight to also stash five C-notes in each sock before putting on my old hiking boots, and distributing the rest in various pockets. My billfold held nothing but my New Mexico driver’s license, which had already expired anyway, and I’d carried no baggage at all.

  My precautions worked, too. No one recognized or bothered me, and I was happy that I was even able to take a few short naps. The bus pulled into Miami around ten, and the flophouse hotel I spent the rest of the night in asked no questions. The following morning, I ate a couple of sausage biscuits at a nearby Hardee’s restaurant, washed down with two cups of bad coffee, then hailed a cab. The condescending Cuban driver was reluctant to take me anywhere, so I surprised him twice; first by handing him a crisp fifty dollar bill, then by telling him where I wanted to go. I couldn’t have begun to guess his thoughts as he dropped me off at the steel gate of one of the largest estates on Biscayne Bay. He wasted no time leaving me there either.

  I stood there for a minute or two, noting the closed-circuit cameras perched on top of both towers that framed the massive double gate, and the fifteen foot-high wall stretching practically into infinity on both sides of it. The two well dressed men who appeared instantly on the other side of the bars when I rang the speaker bell must have also thought some derelict had first gotten drunk and then lost. “Beat it, buster,” one of them said. “This is private property.”

  I grabbed the bars in both hands. “I have a good reason to be dressed like this, and I want to see Don Cancelossi.”

  The two men looked at each other, then laughed. The first guy looked back at me and said, “Bums in hell want ice water, too, but they ain’t likely to get none. Beat it. Get outa here.”

  “Look, I don’t want to cause you guys any trouble. Just please call your boss and tell him Jeb Willard wants to see him. When he knows my name, he’ll want to talk to me. You can take that to the bank.”

  The second man, a little younger than his partner, unbuttoned his suit jacket. I knew why, but I hadn’t come this far to be intimidated. I put up my hands. “I’m not carrying, or anything like that, boys, but you’d better hit that call button right now, or you’re gonna be in deep shit.”

  A few more heated exchanges ensued, and when I saw the big Lincoln come roaring down the drive toward us, I knew the closed circuit system boasted state of the art audio as well, and somebody had been listening. It stopped five feet from the gate, and from it emerged one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. He had no hair and no neck, must have weighed close to three hundred, and didn’t look as though any of it was fat. The two guards stepped aside and he walked right up to me. His voice was surprisingly soft, though tinged with an Italian accent. “Who are you, mister, and what do you want?”

  I repeated my demand, and added, “Tell your boss Senor Hemiola missed a beat this time, and wasted the wrong guy. Also, tell him that Snow White told me he was the ugliest dwarf of them all.”

  The giant’s expression didn’t change a bit. “Wait right there.” He went back to the car, picked up the car phone, and spoke into it. A moment later, I saw him nod. He replaced the phone, got out and ordered his flunkies to open the gate. I went through, and was instantly frisked more thoroughly than President Fordham’s men had.

  “He’s clean,” one of them said.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” the other added, wrinkling his nose. “Anyways, he ain’t carrying, Bruno.”

  Bruno nodded, then looked at me. “This way, please.”

  I thought he was going to put me in the Lincoln, but he didn’t. He led me up the drive maybe a hundred yards, then turned abruptly to the right. I followed him across an acre of manicured lawn into an equally perfect flower garden. Fifty more yards of winding gravel path led to an ornate gazebo,
complete with an overhead fan which moved sweet air over twin padded loveseats. Big Bruno, polite as he could be, told me to “have a seat,” then took up an arms-folded, feet-apart position ten paces away, on the path toward the mansion. From where I sat, I could only see one rose-colored wing of it.

  But I didn’t have to wait long.

  Salvatore Cancelossi was nothing like I had imagined him to be. The few photographs I had seen of him had suggested a much younger, larger man. In fact, he wasn’t more than five-three, and probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds. He looked like a mummified jockey! And the bags under his eyes seemed as though they carried nearly a century’s worth of sadness. He was dressed in a loose, flowery shirt, open at the collar, which hung well over a pair of ridiculous red shorts. Between the bottom hem of those shorts and the sandals on his small feet, two legs the size and shape of gnarled walking canes propelled him along at a funereal pace. In one bony hand, he was carrying a book. When he reached the loveseat opposite me, I was amazed to see that the book was my first one! My photo was on the dust jacket.

  He didn’t bother to shake hands, but he gave me a look that without the smile that accompanied it would have frozen my blood. Eyes like he had didn’t belong in a human being. Maybe an Osprey. Or a crocodile. “I read this with great pleasure, Mr. Willard. Your second one, however, was rather disappointing.”

  I couldn’t for the life of me find a voice.

  “I’ll give you ten minutes to tell me why you have come here.”

  May as well be shot for a sheep as for a goat, I thought. “I came to see what kind of man would kill me, not to mention those two good friends of mine. And to tell you that if anything does happen to me, I have made arrangements for copies of Robert McCarty’s diaries to be published in every major newspaper in the country. Can we negotiate?”

  The leather face never even twitched, nor did his eyes or voice. “I have been called worse than an ugly dwarf in my time, and it is true that in the past I have been suspected of many kinds of unsavory actions, but I have never been convicted of anything illegal, including murder, and I am not guilty of trying to kill you or hiring anyone else to.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I expect you will leave my home just as healthy as when you arrived. At that point, you will surely believe it.”

  “You’re saying you can prove you didn’t contract that hit man called Hemiola on Judge Koontz’s orders?”

  “Better than you can prove I did.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He fished in his pockets for a pack of Camels, shook one out, and waited while Bruno rushed over to light it. He inhaled deeply two or three times, then squinted through the smoke at me. “First things first. To bring you up to date, my confederation of families, which I like to call our brotherhood, stopped doing that sort of thing many, many years ago. Since those wonderful twenty years preceding the millennium, we have also found it to be a good deal more profitable to be involved with legitimate business and the stock market. And, with far less risk. The reason I have reached, let us say, my current position in our organization is because I was able a long time ago to convince my family friends and colleagues that owning resorts and casinos all over the world along with healthy investment portfolios produces far better balance sheets. They saw the logic of having much less overhead than running silly numbers rackets, prostitution, or losing so many of our people fighting street wars with ethnic types, minorities, and even ourselves over the sale of certain imported commodities. The often romantic and sometimes horrendous image of the so-called Cosa Nostra portrayed in old movies and by writers like the dear departed Puzo hasn’t existed for fifty years. What ordinary Americans like to call ‘The Mafia’ is colorful, but ancient history. I will readily admit we are somewhat insular, but our organization is now as benign as masons and shriners, though possibly not quite as benevolent, except for the church.”

  I sat there listening to this bullshit with a straight face. When the Camel burned down, he promptly had Bruno light another. So the old man was a chain smoker as well as a great salesman. Though there was a certain element of truth in what he was saying, I knew he was only spouting the party line. Of all the world’s great sins, greed is well ahead of whatever is in second place, and there would never be a limit for people like Sal Cancelossi.

  “Now,” he continued, “as to your personal predicament, I do keep up with things. I read many newspapers, including your old one, and watch a few choice television programs, plus, I am privy to other sources of information which are usually more reliable, so I happen to know of your recent loss, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever. It is true I was one of Koontz’s dwarfs. Don’t misunderstand me, at the time, I did not particularly think it was a smart move, but Tyndall did seem a better choice, and I owed the Judge a personal debt you don’t need to know about. So, after Tyndall was elected, I never had anything further to do with either man. It cost me millions, but Koontz and I were quits. Even.”

  This time he waved Bruno away and lit his third Camel himself. “I am telling you all this because it bears directly on why you have come here. I have heard of this man who calls himself Hemiola, but may God strike me dead where I sit, he has never worked for me. I have no reason to see you dead, and since I owe Koontz nothing, he could not have persuaded me to do you harm either. You asked for proof. Come, I’ll show you some.”

  With some effort, he stood. Smiling, he motioned for me to accompany him down the path through the rear of the garden. Bruno was three steps behind. The path led past a row of tall shrubs and palm trees to the private dock behind the mansion. “What do you think of her?” he asked, pointing.

  The yacht was ninety feet if she was an inch. Gorgeous. Modern. Even had a helicopter deck. The sight of such a vessel could take the breath away from anyone who admires boats. “She’s magnificent.”

  “She’s a custom built Hatteras. Named for my beloved Anna, God rest her soul.”

  He looked at me, his eyes softening a little. “I happen to know you also love boats, and I am sorry you lost yours. Next to the woman you love, there is nothing in this world more desirable than a beautiful, well-built boat. I would never have taken it away from you. Not like that.”

  I stared at him hard. No matter what he had said before, I knew, knew he was telling me the truth. I felt it deep in my gut.

  “One other thing, young man. As I told you before, I enjoy your writing. You also showed a fair amount of intelligence and cleverness getting away like you did, not to mention one big pair of balls coming here to accost me. Who was the man killed by mistake?”

  I told him about Walt, and why he was working with me.

  “My regrets. So, my final words: I like you, Jeb Willard, and once more assure you I had nothing to do with that untidy mess. I doubt there was any conspiracy behind that boy’s shooting Tyndall, either, but if it will make you happy, come back here exactly one week from today and as final proof of my sincerity and innocence, I will give you two things.”

  “What things?”

  “If you promise you will take a bath beforehand, I’ll take you out on the ANNA B. for a little fishing trip, and, I will give you the names of the other six dwarfs.” He chuckled at my speechless reaction, and then signaled to his man, Bruno, who fished a wireless phone from his pocket, turned, then spoke into it. Cancelossi looked at me again. “There will be transportation for you at the front gate. Do we have a date?”

  “You bet we do,” I said. The three of us started back toward the garden, and I couldn’t resist adding, “There’s one other thing I’d like to know.”

  “And that is?”

  “Why didn’t you like my second book?”

  He stopped. Laid a hand on my arm. “Your first book was written in a breezy, fast-moving style. Like a thriller. The book about the Mexican rebellion was just the opposite. You were obviously trying to write like an intellectual. It was terribly sophomoric. I have no
doubt your third one will be better.”

  “If I live long enough to write it.”

  “According to the national media, you’re already dead, and if I were you, I would stay buried for a while. There are times to move and times to go to ground. Invoke the Custer rule.”

  “The what?”

  His throat emitted a wheezy cackle. “Poor General Custer proved only one thing with his headstrong, stupid bravery at Little Big Horn—a good run is much better than a bad stand. Lie low for a while longer, and come go fishing with me next week.”

  Chapter 12

  I can’t say I enjoyed the ride back to Knoxville any more than the one to Miami, except that on the return trip, I had plenty of reading material. Before boarding, I bought two Miami papers, and at every stop, bought a local paper along with any national papers available. It wasn’t until the bus stopped briefly at Chattanooga that I was able to find a copy of the Post. I don’t know why, but I felt just a little miffed that the story of my “murder” and the accompanying brief obit, doubtlessly written by my old boss, was buried better than I was, on page five. (It didn’t even make any of the other papers.) But there was a good reason for it. The front pages of every paper were devoted to the Koontz Commission Report.

  I wasn’t surprised at the “conclusion” reached, although I felt like a dog with a chicken bone stuck in his throat while I read it; the most asinine string of paragraphs I’d ever seen: Mac McCarty was the sole person responsible for President Tyndall’s death… No one else involved… No conspiracy… No cover-up… Several other Secret Service agents had testified Mac had been despondent, not quite himself, for a long time. That he may have harbored some kind of personal grudge against Buford Tyndall… Tyndall may have blocked a promotion? Transfer?… Friends (which friends??) had testified that over a period of time, Mac had dropped them, one after the other.