I climbed the remainder of the stairs and opened the door to the main deck a crack and looked out. Three children were playing noisily right outside it, and adults were strolling up and down the deck. I waited until the kids moved away, propped the borrowed flashlight against the inside top step, and opened the door and stepped out quickly. Two women arm-in-arm had to step aside to make room for me. They glanced at me once and then away. Briefcase under my arm, I turned and walked in the other direction. I kept my eyes open. It could be that the man in the hold had a partner on deck, but I saw no sign of anyone taking an interest in me.
I made only one stop en route to my cabin.
I went into the combination soda bar-novelty shop amidships and bought two large, sturdily constructed shopping bags.
It was about time I got rid of the briefcase.
chapter V
Politics in this country has never been a wholly respectable business. There is a breed of men, however, to whom it is a way of life, men who spend their lives skillfully binding loose political sheaves into smoothly functioning organizations.
My father was such a man.
He was fifty-six when I was born, and he died when I was fourteen, but he lived long enough to give me the beginning of a liberal education in the art of the political organization. He also gave me an appreciation of it.
You might say I was weaned on politics; my father was patronage boss for the state. And I was teethed on smoke-filled back rooms. I learned early in life that the “big” party men — the governor and the mayors and the state senators and representatives — weren’t necessarily the important party men. My father never ran for an office higher than circuit judge, but he steered the organization.
During summer vacations I toured the state with him in his big cheese-box-on-a-raft Hudson touring car. I sat in hundreds of musty hotel rooms and visited in dozens of private offices ranging from dingy to plush while he mustered troops, mended fences, listened to requests for favors, and collected favors due. In his time politics was a matter of personality, of friendship, of loyalty, of favors exchanged.
I’ve lived to see it done differently.
The present day back room political organization has bled almost the last drop of respectability from the political scene. It had begun to change even before my father died. Looking back, I can’t feel that he was altogether happy with his last years in harness. For one thing, Charley Risko — originally father’s hand-picked protégé — was breathing impatiently down the back of his neck, eager to take over from the older man, eager to introduce the new systems he was sure the times called for. In our state, Charley Risko brought organization in politics to its zenith, and neither the state nor the organization will ever be the same.
His methods were in keeping with the times and simplicity itself. Historically, politics has operated by the exploitation of high-pressure points in the form of vote-getting individuals who — hopefully — created an enveloping vacuum for the opposition. Once in charge of the behind-the-scenes organization, Charley attacked the high-pressure points from within and without; he created them, bought them, sold them, or set up counter pressure points of his own to bring them down.
All this was elementary, but he brought to it a total ruthlessness. Where he proved himself a master — and light years ahead of his opposition — was in his financial operations. In my father’s day, individuals — and businesses, if they were in the bread line — contributed to the party war chest in expectation of favors to be granted. Charley took the logical step of creating the businesses to whom the favors were to be granted, for a percentage of the favors.
While his accounting of war chest expenditures was not as accurate as my father’s might have been, in the strictest sense of the word he was not a grafter. What he stole — in the puritanical sense of the word — he stole for the party. He lived well, but not lavishly. He had one wife and no mistresses. He had no hidden bank accounts. He hadn’t taken a vacation in years. He lived for the accumulation and use of power, and he brooked no opposition in the process.
One of the oldest sayings in the world is that power corrupts.
In the case of Charley Risko, I watched it happen without realizing what I was seeing.
But that was later.
In politics sponsorship counts for nothing unless the sponsor is right behind you. Even if I’d been older when my father died, I’d have had to start on the organization’s lowest rung. The trouble was, I knew it wasn’t the same organization. Charley’s goals required strong tactics. Even in the early days of his reign it took a steady stomach to operate in Charley’s jungle. When I graduated from college, I didn’t have it. Charley sent word there was a place for me. I didn’t take up the option.
I missed World War II because of a bone spur on my right heel that eventually had to be operated on. I had a lame couple of years. When Korea came along, I pulled enough strings — Charley among them; he thought I was crazy — to get over there as a Marine lieutenant. In service I naturally talked politics — on the practical, working level — with a lot of people from a lot of different places. It came to me gradually that Charley was the child of his times, and that I was the one out of step.
And Korea hardened me.
After Korea, I was ready to go to work for Charley….
• • •
“The boss wants to see you,” Minna Cartwright, Charley’s graying, efficient secretary, said to me as I passed her desk laden with typewriter, Comptometer, intercom, and telephones. In my time with the Risko Construction Company, Minna’s pince-nezed primness had been a fixture. Beyond her I could see Charley through the open door of his private office, behind the massive dark walnut desk that dwarfed even his respectable proportions. From his big shoulders and thinning blond hair to his round, apple-cheeked features complete with half-smoked cigar, Charley looked like what he was: a successful politician.
“I want you to run out to DiSalvo’s,” he rumbled at me without preliminary as I entered his office, briefcase in hand. “Close the door,” he added as an afterthought. When I turned from doing so, he was leaning back from an inspection of his intercom. I set the briefcase down beside his feet and took a chair to his left. “Tony needs a little straightening out.”
“What’s the beef with him?” I asked.
“Dragging heels,” Charley said. His half-smile was frosty. “Ernie took care of a problem out there yesterday, and this morning Tony was on the bell to me screaming he wants out.” He took a jerky puff at his corona. “Although I don’t think it’s Tony half as much as it is that smart alec kid of his.”
“Ernie took care of what kind of a problem?”
“Of a guy walking out the front gate of the DiSalvo Sand and Gravel Company with a sackful of DiSalvo Sand and Gravel Company private papers.” Charley’s heavy chin was thrust forward aggressively. “A guy seen around town with that nosy Chronicle reporter, Jack Barrett.”
“Oh, great. What’s the guy’s name?”
“Sidney Newcomb.”
“Never heard of him. Tony expecting me?”
“I told him you’d be out around three.”
“No holds barred?”
“Get him back in line.” Charley said it with finality. He stubbed out his cigar as I left him.
In the outer office I saluted Minna as I passed her again. She nodded with no change of expression. I often wondered how much she knew of what went on behind the closed doors of Charley’s office. I knew she’d put a younger sister through college, but the sister was married now, with children. Like the rest of us, Minna probably had no excuse. She divorced herself from the Risko payroll no more easily than we did.
I drove to a drug store, went in and used the phone booth. “I’m calling to inquire as to Sidney Newcomb’s condition,” I said when I had City Hospital on the line.
“Just a moment, please,” the girl said.
I looked at my watch while I waited. Two-thirty. I’d be late at DiSalvo’s.
&nb
sp; “Who’s calling, please?” a new voice asked crisply.
“Jack Barrett,” I said. “How’s Sid?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Barrett. Not much change since your last call. If you haven’t talked to him, Dr. Barnes says the facial contusions will clear up nicely with no complications, but he’s recommended a week’s bed rest for the bruises in the area of the abdomen and kidneys. Shall I have the doctor call you?”
“That won’t be necessary, thanks.”
I hung up, went back to the car and drove out in the country to DiSalvo’s. Five miles this side of it a muddy white station wagon passed me, going two to my one. I recognized the driver’s bull neck and thick shock of black hair. Angelo DiSalvo, Tony’s oldest son, evidently intended to be at the meeting, too.
I turned in at the big gate between reinforced chicken-wire fences, and steered through the welter of jeeps, ‘dozers, and battered trucks to the sand loader alongside the elevator. Ernie Hansen stepped out of the loading shack that commanded an unobstructed view of the DiSalvo Sand and Gravel Company office in front of which the muddy white station wagon was parked.
“How’d you get onto him, Ernie?” I asked when I rolled down my window.
“I lucked onto him,” Hansen said bluntly. He was a rawboned, pale-eyed slab of a man. “Ever since Charley put me out here, my orders been to watch new office help real close. First thing took my eye with this one, he didn’t go to lunch with the rest. Practic’ly gave him the run of the place an hour a day. I reported it, but I never heard nothin’ back. Then yesterday just before the others was due back from lunch he come boilin’ out the door with a paper sack under his arm an’ went right to his car. Well, I did or I didn’t. I knew we couldn’t stand no commotion at the front gate here. I called ahead an’ arranged to pick up Mike Stalco at 35th an’ Roscommon in case the pigeon headed downtown. Then I took out after him. Sure enough, he sailed it straight south, fast enough so it looked like he wished he had an airplane. Mike jumped aboard my jeep at the light on Roscommon, an’ we tailed our boy downtown. When he parked at first an’ State, Mike followed him into the alley behind the Chronicle building, gaffed him, an’ brought the package back to me. Up to then I hadn’t been sure, you understand, but when I saw the papers in it I called Charley. He surprised me by tellin’ me to take ’em back and hand ‘em to Tony in person, which I did. Man, I mean that old bull turned all colors of the rainbow.”
“Newcomb’s in the hospital,” I said.
Hansen nodded. “Charley thought I’d better send Mike back into the alley after him as a kind of object lesson to Barrett.” His pale eyes went up through the cluttered yard to the white station wagon parked at the office front door. “Am I through here?”
“Charley hasn’t said so yet,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because if I am, I’m goin’ to take a fall out of Mr. Angie DiSalvo before I leave. I don’t like the cut of his drawers.”
“I’d check it with Charley first,” I suggested. I rolled the window back up and drove the two hundred yards through the mechanized jungle to the office. Inside, father and son were waiting for me, Tony in his swivel chair and Angie standing beside him. Tony was a bulbous five-by five, a strong man gone to seed; Angie was a black-browed, hot-tempered moose in a business suit, hard hat, and work shoes crusted with dried cement.
He started right in on me. “You people got a hell of a nerve, plantin’ your man Hansen on us!” he blared.
“Where would you have been if we hadn’t?” I gave it back to him. “Or maybe you’d like to see your name in the papers?”
He scowled, but it was Tony DiSalvo who spoke. “Look, I’ll say it before you do,” he said wearily. “I’m not the man I was. I should’ve been watchin’ for it. I should’ve — ”
“Pa, we agreed I’d do the talkin’!” Angie broke in angrily. He glared at me. “You can go back an’ tell your boss the DiSalvos are out, as of right now.”
“The only thing you’re out of is your mind, Junior,” I told him. “You just make your First Holy Communion yesterday?”
He took a step toward me and thought better of it. “Never mind the cracks, wise guy,” he warned. “Listen, I watched my old man here goin’ crazy for years jugglin’ the books to cover up the cash that went to you thieves. Well, the hell with all that. Who needs you?”
“Tell him, Tony,” I said to the spreading bulk of Tony DiSalvo. “Tell him who needs us.”
“He don’ unnerstan’,” Tony mumbled shifting uneasily in his chair. “But that Barrett, he’d have crucified us. I could all but see the headlines. He’d have ruined us. I’m too old for that stuff. I got grandchildren to think of.” Perspiration stood out on his swarthy forehead. His tone was pleading.
“What the hell you weaselin’ around with him for?” Angie demanded indignantly. “Tell him, don’t ask him!”
“Ahhh, shut up, boy scout,” I said. “Tony, answer me one thing: what’s different about today than yesterday?” He stared at me without replying. “What’s different about this year than seven, eight years ago?”
“Tell me to shut up,” Angie muttered between his teeth. He started around the desk. Tony grabbed his arm. “Leggo me, Pa!”
Tony hauled himself up behind the desk, still holding the arm. He ripped out a brisk sentence in Italian at the surprised Angie while still contriving to look apologetically at me. On his feet, the framework of the man Tony DiSalvo had been was just barely visible through the bloat. “You know I don’t want no trouble,” he said to me. “I know you’re thinkin’ I’m an ungrateful wop sonofabitch who’s forgot who pulled me out of a ditch an’ took the pick out of my hand. I ain’t forgot, but I got to sleep nights, too, see? If Barrett come that close, he’ll try again. At least gimme a year to get my books clean.” After the burst of anger at his son, the pleading note had crept back into his voice again.
“Tony, you’re a big boy now,” I argued. “You know what makes the wheels go round. Nothing is any different in this office than it is in offices like it all over the country. Nothing is any different in the offices at the other end of the line. You’re protected, aren’t you? What are you worried about?”
“Big Brother is watching!” Angie snarled.
I ignored him.
“I need a breather,” Tony said huskily. “A year. Six months even. To straighten out. My auditor’s threatened to quit.”
“Jim McCabe threatened to quit? I’ll go and see him. Tony, this stuff you’re giving me: I’m not the man to talk to about it. You know that.”
His jowly features sagged. “Hell, I can’t talk to him.”
“If you’re serious, you’re going to have to.” I waited a moment, but he said nothing. “So what do I say when I go back to the office?”
Without a word, Tony DiSalvo slumped back down into his swivel chair. Angie stared at him incredulously. “Well, tell him, Pa!” he snapped. “Tell him. They don’t own you.”
“In your spare time you’d better put a muzzle on that,” I advised Tony with a nod at the scowling Angie. “Someone’s liable to hear him who doesn’t know he’s just burping his pablum.”
Angie came around the corner of the desk at a run, arms flailing, head lowered, hard hat aimed at my breastbone. “You — wise — bastard!” he panted as I left-hooked his charge to one side.
“Call him off, Tony!” I warned.
“Cut it out, both of you!” Tony bellowed as Angie wheeled and came at me again. I took a step to the left, did a little hitch kick, and planted my right heel on his right knee as he went by me again. I could hear his stifled gasp and the pop as the kneecap went. He fell full length, hitting the wall. A calendar fell down.
“Damn you!” Tony said in a tone that turned my head around. His face was twisted with the violence of his emotions. He was standing behind the desk again, but the desk drawer was open, and in his right hand a 7.62 mm, Tokarev automatic was trained on my chest. I hadn’t seen one from the wrong end since a wog captain held one on me from just about
the same distance at Chosin Reservoir.
I didn’t move. “Tell him to stay off that knee if you don’t want him to walk with a limp the rest of his life,” I said.
Tony grated something unintelligible at me, but he leaned over the desk to look down anxiously at Angie scrabbling on the floor. “Lay quiet,” he ordered him. When Angie was still, Tony turned his attention back to me. After a moment he looked down at the automatic in his hand, and dropped it back into the desk drawer.
“I’ll tell The Man you’re right where you’ve always been, Tony,” I said. “On the band wagon.”
“You didn’t need to do it,” he muttered, his eyes again on Angie on the floor, but there was no conviction in his tone. He reached for his telephone.
“Accidents happen in the best of families,” I told him. “If you’d done a bit more of it earlier, I could have had less to do today.”
The only sound as I left the office was Angie DiSalvo’s sobbing breath from the corner in which he’d fallen.
chapter VI
In my cabin I opened up the briefcase and dumped it out on one of the beds. I counted for seven or eight minutes, using the figures on the wrapped bundles of bills, thumbing them for bulk. With a rule-of-thumb conversion rate of three dollars to the pound for the British money and four francs to the dollar for the Swiss money, I came up with a figure of $720,000, give or take a few thousand. I sat and looked at it awhile. Even with your eyes on it, it’s hard to believe in that much money.
The toilet was just across the corridor. I made a quick trip over and stole two rolls of toilet paper. I started wrapping the packages of money separately in it. As I finished each, I stuffed it down into the bottom of a shopping bag. I was all through lugging around a briefcase that branded me like Cain. In the middle of the job I remembered the sealed packets of oilskin-wrapped papers. I went back to the briefcase and pulled them out and looked at them. They didn’t mean any more to me than they had the first time I’d seen them in the apartment basement.
Strongarm (Prologue Crime) Page 6