“I may not be the first to tell you this, Sobok, but there’s probably another reason for the nickname. You look like Leonard Nimoy, or at least what Nimoy used to look like.”
“Yes, of course.”
Their first bottle of wine came. Sobok went through the tasting ritual and nodded. The waiter poured their wines. Sobok held out his glass to Scarne.
“Live long and prosper, Jake. May I call you Jake?”
Scarne hesitated. After all, the cold-blooded assassin across from him had once knocked him cold in a Florida parking lot after murdering a witness in a hospital bed and later rigged a car meant to kill him. On the other side of the ledger, Sobok has saved both Scarne and Emma Shields from being pitched off a skyscraper.
“Jake it is,” Scarne said, clinking glasses.
“Good. And you may call me Hagen, which does happen to be my given name. How is the delectable Ms. Shields, by the way? I see her name in the press frequently.”
“She is fine.”
“Has her singing improved?”
Scarne laughed at the memory of that unforgettable taxi ride.
“Not noticeably. She actually lived here in Paris for a while.”
“I wish I had known. I would have invited her for dinner.”
“Speaking of which,” Scarne said, “since I cost you a fee, will you allow me to buy dinner?”
“Of course.
“Just for the record,” Scarne said, “how much did you turn down to kill me?”
“Ten thousand Euros.”
“I guess I should be glad the dollar is so strong. But you don’t need that kind of money?”
“I am a rich man who has invested wisely. I now prefer to choose my assignments. Some people deserve killing more than others. I am no paragon of virtue, but if I can rid the world of the occasional terrorist or bomber, and get paid for it, I consider it a worthy goal. Almost a public service.”
“What does your agent think about that?”
“We are friends. Besides, I am not his only resource. My reticence in certain respects allows him to keep the others in his stable happy.”
The fois gras came. The goose liver was one of the most delicious things Scarne had ever tasted, and he said so.
“I know I should feel sorry for the geese, but I can’t.”
“I think it is the best in Paris,” Sobok said. “The owner’s parents have a farm in Amiens and make it themselves. As for the geese, it’s better than being a dead duck, as they say.”
“Speaking of which, you said you have information about what happened in Ireland.”
Sobok spread some fois gras on a piece of French bread and popped it in his mouth. He washed it down with the cold white wine.
“Does the name Stupachi mean anything to you, Jake?”
Scarne shook his head.
“Well, a man representing the Stupachi family in Las Vegas hired the Irishman to kill you, and then approached me. I have never done any work for them, but my agent told me that they have occasionally used people like me to solve problems in Europe. He says that while they primarily operate in the United States, they do have some lucrative gambling interests over here as well.”
“Gambling?”
“Yes. Apparently that is the family’s main source of income, both legitimate and criminal. Is that important?”
“Perhaps.”
Scarne then told Sobok about the case he was working on.
“Ah, Florida,” Sobok said. “You seem to have bad luck there.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Scarne said, thinking of a very bloody day in the Florida Keys years earlier.
“I never much cared for American football,” Sobok said, “but I understand your citizens bet billions on the game. People have been killed for less. A lot less.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid not. But like you, I am not enamored of coincidences. You and the reporter in Florida are looking into the same thing. She is killed, and you almost were. I never wager on animals with less than four legs, but in this case I’d put my money on the Stupachis.”
They talked shop for the rest of the delicious meal. It was a conversation that would have horrified their fellow diners had they been overheard.
“Have you ever come across a woman named Vendela Noss in your line of work?” Scarne said at one point. “Lives in Italy.”
“Der blonde tod? The blond death? I have heard of her. I understand she is very inventive.”
“To say the least.”
“You’ve met her.”
“Like you, she saved my life. My office manager says I should unionize all the assassins who have helped me out these past few years.”
Sobok roared, drawing looks from some people at nearby tables, who quickly went back to their meals when he returned their stares.
“You must tell me!”
Scarne did. It was one of the most enjoyable evenings he’d spent in quite some time.
CHAPTER 21 - ON THE HOUSE
Scarne took a room at a hotel at Charles de Gaulle Airport and reserved a seat the following day on the 11 A.M. American Airlines flight to JFK, which arrived, on time, at 1:45 P.M., New York time. He went to his apartment, dropped off his luggage and took a quick shower. By 4 P.M. he was sitting in Dean Baquet’s office at The New York Times, along with Sulzberger and Huber.
“Bob tells me that you think Cassie Mulloy’s death is related to the story she was working on,” Baquet said.
“I don’t think it was connected,” Scarne said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I know it was.”
“How can you be so sure?” Sulzberger asked.
“Because someone tried to take me out in Ireland.”
“Take you out to do what?”
Scarne looked at him.
“Kill me. Eliminate me. Smash me to bits. Are we clear on that?”
He explained what had happened, leaving out only what Sobok had told him. Even Huber looked shocked.
“So, Cassie was on to something,” Baquet said. “Something big. She may have been right about Weatherly and Landon. I should have believed her.”
“Don’t knock yourself out about it,” Scarne said. “I’m the one who let her down. I must have missed something.”
“No one’s to blame,” Sulzberger said. “But now, what do we do about it?”
“You guys shouldn’t do anything,” Scarne said.
“What the hell do you mean? Mulloy worked for us. We have to put some people on this.”
“And get someone else killed?”
“We’re the goddamn New York Times!”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Mr. Sulzberger, but things aren’t the way they used to be. The Internet and the blogosphere have poisoned the well. People aren’t afraid of journalists anymore. For God’s sake, reporters are beheaded with impunity in the Middle East. And do I have to remind you that nothing you’ve written seems to stop anyone on Wall Street from robbing the country blind.”
“Now just wait a minute,” Baquet said.
“Easy boys,” Huber interjected. “Jake has a plan. I know that look. Hear him out.”
The door opened and a woman stuck her head in.
“Dean, the bullpen wants to know what’s going on,” she said. “You’re late for the meeting.”
“Not now!” He calmed down. “Sorry. Tell them to start without me. I’ll be along.”
The woman noticed the publisher for the first time.
“Jesus. OK. I’ll tell them.”
She shut the door.
“Give me some time before you send anyone down there,” Scarne said. “The people we’re dealing with are obviously very powerful and are protecting something so valuable to them they don’t mind killing cops and reporters. And don’t worry about paying me. This one is on the house, fellas. Cassie wasn’t exactly my client, but she was close enough. I don’t appreciate people killing her. And I liked her.”
“How long
do you want?” Baquet asked.
“If I don’t find out something in two weeks, or I’m turned into alligator bait, then do what you have to.”
“We can’t just sit on our hands!”
“No one says you have to. The Times has done a damn good job looking into the corruption of college athletics. Joe Nocera has reamed out the NCAA and your reporters have uncovered scandals involving other Florida college football teams and players. Why don’t you turn over some rocks at Collier University? Something may slither out. And no one will tie it to Cassie’s death or the Touchdown Twins.”
“What will you do?” Sulzberger asked.
“I’m going to annoy some people down there.”
“Jake has a graduate degree in annoyance,” Huber said.
Baquet looked at Sulzberger, who nodded.
“Two weeks,” the managing editor said. He paused. “At most.”
A sudden cheer went up from the newsroom.
“What do you suppose that is about?” Sulzberger said.
“I’ll check,” Baquet said and walked out.
When he came back, he looked stunned.
“I didn’t think we had that many football fans here,” he said.
The other three men looked at him.
“Weatherly and Landon were the top two picks in the NFL draft, to Tampa Bay and Tennessee, respectively,” he said. “Both those clubs are rebuilding after rotten seasons, so they were immediately traded to another team for boatloads of future picks and tons of cash.”
“What team?” Scarne asked.
“The New York Jets. Apparently, the whole city is excited by the news.”
They all turned to Scarne.
“We may all be thrown off of a cliff,” Sulzberger said, glumly
***
After leaving the Times, Scarne decided to go to his office. When he got there, Evelyn Warr was just leaving for the day.
“Well, what have you been up to, Jake?”
“Oh, nothing much. Played some golf, fell off a precipice, had a swell dinner with an assassin in Paris. You know, the usual.”
Evelyn picked up her handbag.
“Whatever. I paid some bills. Piled some other mail on your desk. Just what I thought you’d like to see. There’s a nice postcard from Noah and Juliette. It was a splendid wedding, wasn’t it? They looked so happy.”
“I may be going out of town again, Ev.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you want me to make some reservations?”
“Not sure when I’m leaving. I can handle it. I’ll be in touch. Just hold the fort.”
“The U.S. Cavalry has nothing on me, Jake. I’m surprised you can remember where the office is. Well, I’m off. Ta ta. Oh, yes, Bob Huber’s been calling. Said he couldn’t get you on your cell. I tried, too. Even called the hotel. They said you were golfing. Did you forget to charge it again?”
“Yeah. I just spoke to Bob.”
After Evelyn left, Scane called Dudley Mack. He could hear bar noises in the background.
“How was the wedding and the golf?”
“Fine, up until when my caddie tried to kill me.”
“I didn’t realize your game sucked that bad. You used to be pretty good.”
“No. I mean he really tried to kill me. He pushed me off a cliff. Turns out he was a hired gun. Or hired shover, I guess. You ever hear of a guy named Stupachi?”
Not much fazed Dudley Mack. The long silence on the phone meant that this time he was fazed.
“I’m coming into Manhattan for dinner at 8 P.M. Meet me at the bar in La Grenouille at 7. You know where that is, on East 52nd?”
“Yeah, I know where it is. I’m surprised you do. Who’s the woman you’re trying to impress?”
Mack laughed.
“Assistant Director of Anthropology at the Museum of Natural History.”
“Are you her missing link?”
“I’ll see you at 7.”
***
When Scarne walked in, Dudley Mack was already sitting at the bar in La Grenouille talking to Philippe Masson, the owner of the intimate and iconic French restaurant, famous for excellent food, impeccable service and fresh-cut flowers on every table.
“Ah, Mr. Scarne, how nice to see you again,” Masson said. “Monsieur Mack was just regaling me with some of your adventures. He exaggerates, non?”
“I think the more appropriate word would be ‘lies’,” Scarne said.
“But, of course. Are you staying for dinner?”
“No, just a drink and some more lies.”
Masson left to greet some other patrons and Scarne sat down. The bartender came over. Scarne looked at the drink in front of Mack. It was pale green in a tall wine glass with a twist of lemon.
“What the hell is that?”
“A French 75,” Dudley answered.
“Made with gin, cognac and topped with French Champagne,” the bartender said. “Can I make you one, sir?”
“Good Lord, no. Give me an Evan Williams single-barrel with two dashes of bitters.”
When his drink came he clinked glasses with Mack.
“You and your bourbon,” Dudley said. .
“You clean up nice, Duds.” Mack was wearing a gray three-piece suit made from a fine zig-zag patterned wool, a white shirt, a burgundy silk tie with little horses on it and matching pocket square. “You look like you’re headed to the races at Ascot. This must be serious.”
“They’re all serious, Jake. But this one likes me to dress up.”
“Where’s Bobo?”
Bobo Sambuca was Mack’s driver/bodyguard. It was unusual for Mack to travel alone. Bobo was the size of a refrigerator. A gentle giant — if he liked you.
“Gave him the night off. He’s taking my sister to a show.”
Alice Mack and Bobo had been an “item” for a couple of years.
“They ever going to get married?”
“Why buy the cow when the milk’s free?”
“Jesus, Deadly, she’s your sister.”
“And Bobo is like a brother. It’s incest once removed. Live and let live, I say.”
Scarne looked at his friend with affection. They’d met at Rhode Island’s Providence College, a small liberal arts school run by Dominican priests. At first, they hated each other, once nearly beating each other to bloody pulps before friends intervened. Then, when Scarne was attacked by some sailors, Mack, whose sense of fair play outweighed his disdain for Scarne, stepped in to help him. After that, they were inseparable. Dudley Mack’s family on Staten Island virtually adopted Scarne, an orphan raised by his grandfather in Montana. They joined the military together, and stayed close even after Scarne became a cop and Mack pursued his often-less-than-legal activities.
“Enough chit chat, Jake. Tell me about Ireland and the killer caddie.”
Scarne did.
“How is our Vulcan friend?”
“He asked for you.”
“I’m flattered. I think. I’m slowing down. I can’t think of anybody who wants to kill me. You, on the other hand, are picking up the slack.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Scarne then told him about the Mulloy killing.
“So, what are you going to do now?”
“Heading back to Florida.”
“Of course you are. Why not give them another chance to ice you.”
“She was a nice kid.”
“Not your fault. They were probably gonna ace her anyway.”
“My stirring the pot certainly didn’t help.”
“Want to take Bobo with you?”
Scarne thought about it.
“How about if I keep him on speed dial? It’s only a three-hour flight. Meanwhile, what can you tell me about the Stupachi family. Ever hear about them?”
“Yeah. Big in Vegas. Gambling, mostly. Legit and otherwise. Never had any dealings with them, good or bad. But I hear they are making noises about moving into Atlantic City
. I suspect that won’t sit well with the entrenched dagos.”
“Atlantic City is hurting. They just closed another casino, didn’t they? Maybe the town could use some new spilled blood.”
The bartender walked over and refilled Mack’s drink from a frosted silver shaker. He looked at Scarne, who nodded. The bartender brought another bourbon.
“You should talk to Spit Toon,” Mack said.
“Pardon me?”
“Clarence Toon. Biggest bookmaker in A.C. Smokes like a chimney and is always hacking up lungers the size of Nebraska and spitting them into his handkerchief, which he changes about once an ice age. Damn thing is where Ebola goes to die. He lives in a penthouse suite at Nero’s Palace. Just get your shots before you see him. He may be the most disgusting guy I know. I heard he comes down once a month and goes through a car wash in a convertible to get clean. But Spit knows everything there is to know about betting and he hates the Stupachis. I’ll make a call.”
A tall and very beautiful black woman walked into the restaurant.
“Here she is,” Mack said, standing. Scarne did the same as the woman came over to them. She kissed Mack and looked at Scarne.
“Jake, this is Dr. Amira Diallo. Ami, Jake Scarne.”
Her handshake was firm, her smile radiant.
“I have heard about you, Jake. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
“I’m at a disadvantage doctor. I only just found out about you.”
“Please, call me Ami. And what is your first impression?”
“You are too good for him.”
“Yes, I know. But Dudley is my first gangster. I had to start somewhere.”
Scarne liked her immediately.
“I prefer the term ‘unorthodox entrepreneur’,” Mack said.
“Of course you do,” Amira Diallo said. “I would like a Beefeater martini, straight up, with two olives, please.” She looked at Scarne. “I hope you will you be joining us for dinner. This place is wonderful and I understand you are a bit of a gourmet.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I like a hamburger or hot dog as much as the next guy, but I eat alone a lot and have found out it’s much more rewarding if you know what to order in a good restaurant.”
“Jake has the metabolism of a hummingbird,” Mack said. “Never puts on weight.”
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 18