Not until years later, when reading an essay by Larry McMurtry, the Lonesome Dove author and book collector, did Scarne learn of the potential value of the Marlborough set. There were 155 copies of a limited first edition inscribed to the Prince of Wales, who was briefly King of England before abdicating in December 1936 to marry his divorced American mistress, Wallis Simpson. Scarne had immediately pulled his grandfather’s Marlborough from the packing crate in which it languished in a (thank God!) climate-controlled storage facility. Sure enough, on a front page of each volume, the inscription: “To the King, from Winston Churchill, October 30. 1936.”
Even after the economic meltdown of 2008-9, such an edition, albeit arrowless, brought nearly $100,000 at a Sotheby’s auction. Scarne often wondered how such a rarity wound up in his grandfather’s collection (although he suspected it was obtained prior to the outbreak of World War II when his grandfather had been a naval attaché in London). He also marveled at the old man’s equanimity in the face of his grandson’s desecration. Scarne now kept the undamaged first three volumes in his safe. But he enjoyed looking at Volume 4. He doubted anyone would steal a book with a hole in it. As to the value of the marred set? Scarne suspected that with more and more books being digitalized, even a slightly wounded Marlborough might command six figures in the near future.
On top of the bookcase was a silver Tiffany frame with a black-and-white photo of Capitano di vascello Giacomo Scarne resplendent in his Italian naval dress uniform. Next to that was a crystal frame containing a color photo of Scarne’s parents flanking his grandmother, all on horseback. Scarne’s gaze lingered on the faces of the young couple. What little recollection he had of them melded into a kaleidoscope of discordant impressions: fire, cold, utter silence, urgent shouts, men on snowshoes. Scarne could see his reflection in the glass covering the photo. Given the diverse gene pool from which he’d sprung, he was not surprised he looked so little like his parents. Save two features: the obsidian eyes and high cheekbones of his half-Cheyenne mother.
The phone rang, dissolving the half-formed memories. It was Tierney. After thanking him, Scarne asked the lawyer if he knew what Shields needed.
“Haven’t the foggiest, Jake. He wouldn’t tell me. Hardly know the man. He apparently got wind of the Barnes thing at the club. He bought me a drink and I told him you were somewhat useful.”
***
The “Barnes thing” hadn’t started out promising. Tierney’s firm was outside counsel for a large Wall Street brokerage house fighting an age discrimination suit. The broker was awash in securities violations and its regular lawyers had their hands full. The suit was small change. Tierney knew no one would second-guess a fast settlement. But he smelled a rat.
“Jake, this guy applies for a job as a ‘wealth consultant,’ whatever the hell that is, and gets turned down by a branch manager who sends him an email saying the company was looking for someone younger and with more zest.”
“More zest?”
“Yeah. Talk about a million dollar word. Who the hell writes an email like that today? My five-year-old grandson knows better. Anyway, the guy sues post haste. You’ll love this; he also claims that the manager is a homophobe.”
“He’s gay?”
“And over 60. Thank God he’s not a transvestite. That would be a hat trick. As it is, it’s a slam dunk before any jury in this city. Hell, I’d find for the guy.”
“What’s the problem? Your client has deep pockets and certainly doesn’t need any more bad press.”
“That’s what bothers me. They’re just too easy a target. Something stinks. Do me a favor; take a run at the guy. I know it’s a long shot. Can’t keep you on it long. Two weeks, max. My client wants to settle before the rags get it.”
Scarne thought about a lucrative month-long personal security assignment for a visiting rock star he would have to forego.
Tierney, who missed nothing, said, “If you can’t, don’t sweat it.”
“Don’t be an ass, Donald.”
“Sorry, it won’t be much of a payday, Jake.”
Tierney wasn’t wrong about many things, but he was wrong about that.
Jackson Barnes had recently moved to New York from San Francisco. Unemployed, he and a roommate shared a one-bedroom in Greenwich Village. Scarne tailed him to Rugby’s, a Village hangout. He confirmed that the man was voraciously gay. No great detective work was involved. Barnes propositioned him. Scarne demurred, hoping he wouldn’t be sued for bar-pickup discrimination. But Barnes was actually a pleasant fellow, and kept talking to Scarne. After they got past the normal prattle about the Knicks, he brought up his case. Scarne clucked sympathetically and kept buying drinks to loosen the man’s tongue. All he managed to do was get more people involved in the conversation. By the time he left, he was out a hundred bucks and half the bar was telling Barnes to “sock it to those corporate cocksuckers.”
He next concentrated on the roomie, Byron Taliger, who had moved from San Francisco with Barnes and was also unemployed. Tierney had run Barnes through the appropriate databases in New York and California to see if he was litigious. Nothing. Scarne decided to run Taliger’s name. He hit pay dirt.
“A Byron Taliger brought a sex-discrimination suit against a local brokerage house,” a lawyer at a San Francisco firm affiliated with Tierney’s shop told him. “It was settled out of court. Taliger claimed he was fired because he was gay.”
“In San Francisco?”
“Yeah, I know. The case was never going to a jury. The guy who fired him put something in an email about Taliger’s ‘lifestyle.’ I kid you not. The settlement was sealed, but a friend told me it was for a good piece of change. Out here that’s lawyer-speak for more than $250,000 and less than a million.”
A few more questions revealed that the brokerage in question had been accused by the Government of insider trading. Another easy mark anxious to shove unrelated dirty laundry under the rug. Scarne was convinced Barnes and Taliger were running a scam. But how did they get managers to be so devastatingly stupid with emails? The obvious answer was that the managers were part of the con. Since it was a stretch to believe Barnes and Taliger planted them over the years, Scarne suspected blackmail. He asked Tierney to set up a deposition for the manager who refused to hire Barnes in New York.
The man’s name was Alfred Webster and he appeared with both a lawyer from his brokerage firm and his own attorney. After 15 minutes of typical deposition background blather Tierney went for the jugular.
“Was it Byron Taliger or Jackson Barnes who first suggested the scheme to defraud my client with this lawsuit?”
The mention of Taliger did the trick.
“I want to see a lawyer.”
“You have a lawyer,” Tierney said. “In fact, two of them.” He waved his arm to encompass the other attorneys present, both guppy-mouthed.
“I want a criminal lawyer.”
From there it was easy. Alfred Webster, married with three kids in Colts Neck, NJ, where he coached little league, frequently stopped for a drink after work and just happened to run into Jackson Barnes. Webster occasionally, and secretly, swung from the other side of the plate and was in bed with the suave Barnes when Taliger burst in, digital camera in hand. SLR, 12 mega pixels, no shutter lag. Faced with suburban humiliation, he was only too happy to entertain their scheme. They had, of course, targeted him specifically because he was in the position to hire people at his firm. As an added inducement, he was promised 25% of the “profits.” After all, he might lose his job for the email idiocy.
Barnes and Taliger had run the operation for a decade. New York was their sixth city. They started out with sex-discrimination, but as they got older added age discrimination to the mix. They had little trouble finding victims, who soon became paid accomplices. They concentrated on troubled companies with deep pockets, and averaged a $600,000 settlement every 18 months or so.
Once Webster turned on them, they cut a deal to avoid criminal prosecution. Tierney saved his New Yo
rk client at least a million dollars. And he succeeded in recovering $4 million the pair had bilked from other companies and insurers. (The two con men were also savvy real estate investors; even in a weak market they had no trouble coming up with the money for restitution.) He negotiated a huge bonus for Scarne from the New York brokerage. And since Tierney’s firm received a third of the recovered funds from the other cases, he made sure Scarne saw a piece of that as well. The money helped pay for Scarne’s new office but wouldn’t last forever. Of more permanent value were platinum referrals like Sheldon Shields.
***
Scarne had just finished with the Wall Street Journal when he heard the outer door to his office open. He read both the Journal and The New York Times every morning and was quite convinced that their respective editorial writers did not live on the same planet. But somewhere down the middle of their polemics, he reasoned, was common sense, and their reportage was miles ahead of the drivel available on the Internet.
“Thought you might enjoy a crumpet,” Evelyn Warr said, standing in his doorway in coat and scarf. She was holding two shopping bags. One said Office Max. The more promising bag said Starbucks. “I’ll be there in a jiff.”
A moment later she walked to his desk carrying the Starbucks bag. She was wearing a brown pleated skirt and a tan cashmere sweater. She ran a hand through her thick brown hair and shook her head until her tresses fell back into shape. “Bit of a wind out there,” she said, reaching into the bag, producing napkins, coffee and two blueberry scones. To Evelyn, all pastries were crumpets. She slid one across to Scarne, then broke hers in half.
Scarne suffered gum-chewing products of the city school system before finding her. She was recommended by a friend in City Hall who admired her volunteer work after the Twin Towers attacks. It was by pure chance she was on holiday in Devonshire on 9/11, instead of the 90th floor of Tower 1. Her fiancé wasn’t as fortunate. In addition to superb administrative skills, Evelyn’s cultured English inflection, which would have stopped Rommel, charmed clients. And it didn’t hurt that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Winslet. Early on, Scarne had debated making a pass at her, balancing his natural inclinations (and the belief she would be insulted if he didn’t) against the possibility he’d lose her. Eventually, after one too many bourbons at a Christmas party in a neighboring office, he’d explained his quandary to Evelyn, who’d laughed and soothed his male ego by revealing she had a lover. That was several lovers ago. Their relationship had evolved into a professional partnership tinged with healthy sexual tension. Now he told her about Sheldon Shields, all the while glancing hopefully at the uneaten portion of her scone.
“Any idea what it’s all about?”
“No. See what you can dig up. I only did a cursory search on the web.”
“Well if he’s half the rake his brother is it’s likely to be scandalous and lucrative. At least you will get a good lunch among the swells. Oh, damn!” She brushed some crumbs off the slope of her lovely left breast. She saw Scarne’s appreciative gaze and smiled. “I know what you want.” She passed the remainder of her scone over to him.
***
Scarne stopped by Evelyn’s desk on his way out.
“Considering the splash his brother makes,” she said looking at her computer, “Sheldon barely creates a ripple. The only relatively recent news concerns the loss of his only son in December in a drowning accident and his wife’s death last month. Cancer. He’s certainly going through a rough patch.”
“I’ll say. Thanks. I should be back around three.”
“Be a good lad and try to be sensible about the martinis. And take your raincoat. It’s chilly out there.”
“I thought you Brits were tough.”
“But not dumb.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not supposed to rain.”
CHAPTER 3 – A BOY AT GETTYSBURG
Never doubt a Brit about nasty weather, Scarne vowed as he trotted head-down through the icy needles of rain on Park Avenue. He rounded the corner at 37th and bumped into a man walking rapidly in the other direction. It was Scarne’s fault. He’d been thinking of the club’s signature bay scallops in sherry. He started to apologize, but the man, whose face was partially obscured by a purple ski hat and upturned jacket collar, didn’t stop. Scarne shrugged and crossed the street toward the Federal League’s entrance, where Henry Mosely stood scowling.
“Why the sour puss, Henry? Was I jaywalking?”
“Mr. Scarne, how are you?” The scowl dissolved into a smile. “Wasn’t you I was looking at. Been watching that fellow almost knocked you over.”
Scarne shook the uniformed man’s hand warmly as they went inside. As is common with retainers at great private clubs Mosely remembered regular guests. After 30 years of service he was an institution. From a cubicle just inside the door he served as a concierge and keeper of club protocol. It was said that if you didn’t pass muster with him, you needn’t apply to the club.
“What did he do?” Scarne asked, looking back and catching a glimpse of the man’s back as he rounded the corner. “Nip the club silver?”
“Not on my watch, sir. But I spied him loitering across the way. Gave him my evil eye. That did it. Probably nothing. But one must be wary these days.”
Scarne wished he had gotten a better look at the man. Oh, well.
“By the way, Mr. Shields is running late. Track fire in the Village. Do you believe that a gentleman like him still takes the subway? Don’t make them like that anymore. You can wait in the bar. Just mention his name.”
“I’ll just head to the library. Can you tell him?”
***
Christian Keitel was in a bind. It wouldn’t do to be rousted by some flatfoot. New York City cops were a serious bunch after 9/11. He was no terrorist, but his prints would light up their database like a Christmas tree. He circled the block, reversing his jacket in case the damn doorman happened to be looking out when he passed. All that accomplished was to get the both sides of the jacket soaked. He figured he had at least an hour before Shields emerged from the club, so he ordered a coffee and a dirty-water hot dog from a vendor. (Recalling Garza’s frequent teasing about his normally fastidious diet, he actually had two wieners, which were excellent.) But now he had to find a spot where he could watch the entrance.
***
Scarne walked up the famed double staircase to the elevators. Although he’d been to the club many times, he felt the familiar tug of history. For while it was not as grand as some of the city’s other moneyed bastions, the Federal League had an honored reputation none of them could touch. Founded during the darkest hours of the Civil War “to cultivate and strengthen a devotion to the Union,” its importance was not lost on Abraham Lincoln, who gratefully accepted a membership. The club’s founders opened their hearts and their purses; one fundraiser sent half a million Thanksgiving turkeys to soldiers at the front. They also opened their gun cabinets, sheltering the Negroes who were the main targets of the city’s infamous draft riots. And when the city government refused to allow blacks to participate in the funeral procession for Lincoln in 1865, the Federal held a separate ceremony. The club chose its original staff from the ranks of free black men or freed slaves and kept hiring their descendants, instituting one of the earliest retirement plans in the city, becoming, in effect, the black man’s Fire Department. Political sensitivity and the upward mobility of blacks eventually dictated a break with tradition. But the staff was still overwhelmingly black. Over the years, the club’s influence grew; it counted 16 United States presidents among its members.
After an interminable, creaking ride on an ancient elevator Scarne exited on the third floor and headed down a long hallway, passing a steam room, sauna, squash courts, gym and health club. The Federal’s devotion to fitness, however, had its limits. The pungent odor of fine tobacco seeped beneath one closed door. The club’s battles with municipal authority didn’t end with the Civil War. Its infamous smoking parlors, stocked with illegal Havanas, con
tinued to rankle the city’s billionaire mayor, a reformed smoker.
Scarne entered what was perhaps the best private library in the city. It was empty save for one old fellow who was quietly snoring in a deep leather chair. With his head on his chest and an open book in his lap, he sounded like a purring cat. Scarne moved to the other side of the room where he selected a bound volume titled Maps of the War Between the States and sat in a leather chair next to a glass case containing colorful miniatures of the 5th New York, a heroic Zouave regiment. He was tracing Sherman’s march to the sea when a voice behind him said, “I’m glad he spared Savannah. There’s not much charm left in the South. Most of what’s left is in Savannah.”
“I’m fond of the mint juleps myself,” Scarne said, rising from his chair.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Sheldon Shields offered his hand. “I love this room, too. But you must be starved. Let’s head downstairs.”
On the way out Shields stopped and gently patted the shoulder of the sleeping man, who came awake with a snort.
“I think they may start the game without you, Clyde,” he said as the man looked at his watch and mumbled his thanks as he rushed out.
“Gin rummy,” Shields whispered to Scarne. “Every Friday.”
Next to the elevator was a portrait of a severe-looking Civil War general leaning on the hilt of his saber.
“Joshua Chamberlain,” Shields said. “College professor at Bowdoin. They wouldn’t give him a leave of absence to enlist so he quit. Joined the 20th Maine Volunteer Regiment along with his brother, Tom. Joshua rose to command the unit. At Gettysburg the 20th was holding Little Round Top when an Alabama regiment tried to overrun them. Chamberlain’s men were out of ammunition. So he ordered them to charge down into the rebels with bayonets! Those big rawboned Maine men thoroughly demoralized those tough Alabamans. The amazing thing was that those Union soldiers knew what was at stake. If their flank is turned, the whole Army of the Potomac is rolled up and the battle, maybe the war, is lost. Less than 400 men decided the fate of a nation.”
Two Jakes Page 3