Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  She enjoyed the sulky look he gave her.

  ***

  When Alana Loeb got to her office, Garza was standing at a window looking at the ocean. There was a folder and a small box on her desk.

  “It’s all in there,” he said.

  “What’s in the box?”

  “A fruitcake.”

  “Thank you, I think. Just give me the highlights.”

  Garza picked up the folder and flipped through the pages.

  “Quite a character. Exotic background. Only child. Orphaned in grade school when the small plane his father was piloting went down in the mountains. The boy miraculously survived. Hardly a scratch.” He looked up. “His mother was half-Cheyenne Indian, by the way.” Garza started reading again. “He was then raised by his grandparents, Giacomo and Elizabeth Scarne. Giacomo, a decorated Italian sub commander imprisoned in Montana in1943, met Elizabeth, maiden name Bairn, while with a P.O.W. work crew that grew its own produce on the Bairn farm in return for day labor.”

  Garza looked up.

  “Giacomo was repatriated to his native Sicily. He apparently came from a prominent Palermo family, old nobility, much like the one in Giuseppe di Lampedesa’s book.”

  “The Leopard.”

  Garza smiled in appreciation. He liked Alana Loeb, more for her intelligence than her obvious beauty.

  “Yes,” he said. “Giacomo could have lived a comfortable life in Sicily, but he returned to Montana, married Elizabeth and become a citizen. They had the one son, Adam. Elizabeth died a few years after the plane crash so it was basically just Giacomo and the boy.”

  Garza closed the folder and looked at her. She had a strange expression on her face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, really. I find it interesting about the grandfather raising him.”

  Garza shrugged.

  “Incidentally, ‘Jake’ is not a diminutive of his grandfather’s name,” he said. “It is his given name. His full name is Jake Bairn Scarne.”

  “How did you get all this?” The former Cuban intelligence officer never ceased to amaze her. Castro’s loss was Ballantrae’s gain.

  “The grandfather earned a law degree and eventually became a county prosecutor, then a judge. Apparently highly respected. Even for Montana it’s a unique story. The family was profiled in the local press and some state magazines. It’s now all on the Internet, and I made a few calls.”

  “What else?”

  “The old judge died while Scarne was recuperating from wounds. Marines. Detached to Army Special Operations. He’s a damn war hero. Silver Star. Must run in the family. Apparently he was captured in Afghanistan but managed to escape. That’s the Indian blood in him,” Garza said admiringly. “But he wasn’t treated gently by the towel heads. From a description of his subsequent medical care it was pretty obvious he was tortured. Bottom line, he’s been a hard man to kill, from the plane crash onward. Anyway, after getting out he joined the N.Y.P.D. Attended Fordham Law at night and eventually wound up as an investigator with the Manhattan District Attorney. Left suddenly and went private.”

  “Why? Anything we can use?”

  Garza sat back and stretched.

  “Something political. Still waiting to hear back about that. You thinking about hiring him?”

  As she filled him in, Garza reached into his jacket pocket and took out a gold case with the initials “F.C.” It was, she knew, one of Garza’s prized possessions, given to him personally by the Cuban dictator in better days. He took out a small cigar and lit it. She didn’t object. The scent of fine tobacco was an indelible memory of her childhood, along with the smell of oak casks and lovingly waxed saddle leather. After she finished speaking, the Cuban blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling and leaned forward.

  “You want my advice, Alana, don’t screw around with him,” Garza said. “He’s no fool. He spotted Christian tailing him in Manhattan.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The description fits some photos I found in his apartment.”

  “Can he identify Keitel?”

  “I doubt it.” Garza laughed. “Christian said that after standing in the rain for two hours wearing a ski hat he looked like every other derelict in Manhattan. But seriously, this Scarne has a reputation as a straight arrow. Worse, he’s persistent. And anyone who is part Cheyenne and part Sicilian is probably all trouble. Let us handle this.”

  “Too dangerous. For now.” She smiled. “Victor wants to play golf with him, find out what he knows.” Her mouth went down at one corner. “To see what he’s made of.”

  Garza rarely looked surprised. He did now.

  “Perhaps I should give Victor the fruitcake.”

  ***

  Things were moving more quickly than Scarne had imagined. For some reason Ballantrae was taking him seriously. He had, in fact, overruled his own legal counsel. Despite her icy calm Alana Loeb had not managed to suppress her surprise – and anger – at the golf invitation. Something in her eyes had flashed a warning to Ballantrae, which he chose to ignore. It was almost as if he was taunting her, or reestablishing his authority in the presence of another man. A sign of insecurity? Jealousy? Stress? Scarne had also noticed the slight twitch in Ballantrae’s damaged brow. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake. Alana Loeb had been right. Despite his challenging words, or perhaps because of them, Scarne should have been shown the door. That was what an innocent man would have done.

  On the drive back to La Gorce he called Evelyn and told her to go to his apartment and ship his golf set overnight to Pelican Trace. He had indeed heard of the club; it was one of the premier courses in Florida. Many touring pros were members. If she hurried, he’d have them by 10 AM the next day.

  “Won’t that be expensive? Can’t you get some at the club, or rent?”

  “Not as expensive as losing a big money match with unfamiliar clubs.”

  “How do you know there will be a large wager involved?”

  “I know Ballantrae’s type. He won’t be happy just beating me. He’ll want to grind me into the dust.”

  “My, that sounds like fun.”

  “Actually, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be here longer than I thought. Stuff my golf bag with some extra underwear and golf socks.”

  “It will be an honor to pick through your unmentionables, Jake.”

  CHAPTER 24 – DEAD MAN’S LOCKER

  It was just before noon when Scarne drove under the porte cochere at the clubhouse entrance of Pelican Trace. A valet in white shorts and shirt gave him a ticket for his car. He was wearing a pith helmet.

  “Many tigers on the course, my good man?”

  “Occasionally one, sir,” the man said. “Between tournaments.”

  Scarne pulled a small bag and some fresh clothes on hangers from the back seat. The men’s locker room was everything he expected, given the club’s reputation. It contained a small card room, a television lounge and a bar. There were two barber chairs set up in a small alcove. An attendant sat behind a counter in another alcove stocked with towels, plastic shoe bags and golf shoe cleaning and repair equipment. He came out and walked over to Scarne.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m a guest of Mr. Ballantrae. Do you have a locker I can use?

  “We’ve been expecting you. Come this way. Let me take your things.”

  The man led Scarne to a bank of lockers. All but one had large brass nameplates. The attendant opened the locker that had no nameplate, but still showed its outline and four small screw holes. It was between the lockers of an aging rock star and the head of a Wall Street investment bank now under investigation by the S.E.C.

  “Don’t tell me this one was convicted,” Scarne said, pointing to the locker.

  “Actually, this was Mr. McGillicuddy’s locker. Dropped dead after a hole in one. His first after 50 years of golfing. Hope you’re not superstitious.”

  Scarne started to laugh, but caught himself.

  “Too bad. I’m sorr
y to hear it.”

  “Well, at least he didn’t have to buy a round of drinks,” the attendant said. “By the way, if you have a cell phone please leave it here. Not allowed on the course. Put your street shoes outside the locker and I’ll shine them for you. The showers, steam room and sauna are right through there. If you need a massage after your match, I can set it up for you. Compliments of Mr. Ballantrae.”

  “Thank you, but no. Just tell me when the Dallas Cowboys are due back.”

  The attendant drew a blank for a second, and then laughed.

  “The Cowboys wish they had a locker room like this. Best I’ve worked.”

  Scarne put on his golf shoes. He stopped by to thank and tip the attendant.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your round. By the way, your clubs are at the starter’s shack. Mr. Ballantrae is waiting for you in the Grill Room.”

  After Scarne left, the attendant dialed the house phone.

  “It’s Danny. He just left. His phone is in the locker.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Jesús Garza said.

  “How about grabbing me a sandwich? I missed breakfast waiting for him.”

  “What am I, Meals on Fucking Wheels?” Garza looked over at Christian Keitel and rolled his eyes. “All right, what do you want?”

  ***

  Ballantrae was sitting at a table with Alana Loeb.

  “How are you today, Mr. Scarne,” she said, extending her hand. “Has Victor told you that you will be playing for your first born?”

  “I don’t have children, Alana, but if I lose, I’ll adopt. And it’s Jake.”

  Both she and Ballantrae laughed as he sat.

  Ballantrae had on bright yellow golf slacks and a blue short-sleeve shirt. His massive arms were covered with rust-colored hair. The effect was slightly ridiculous. But Scarne realized it could have been worse. If Ballantrae’s legs were equally hirsute, the result would be borderline grotesque.

  Alana Loeb, on the other hand, radiated elegance – and sex. She was wearing white shorts and a short-sleeve coral blouse. Barely visible fine downy blond hairs speckled her well-tanned and toned arms and legs.

  A waiter approached the table with menus.

  “I’ll have my usual, Jorge,” Ballantrae said. He glanced at Scarne. “The house club. It’s great. Made with Russian dressing and coleslaw.”

  “Sounds a bit heavy before a match,” Scarne said.

  “Why don’t you get it,” Alana said. “I’ll help you out. I’m just going to have some lobster bisque. It’s wonderful here. I’ll let you have a taste.”

  “Done,” Scarne said.

  They all ordered “Arnold Palmers” – half ice tea, half lemonade.

  Ballantrae said, “Alana is going to play with us, Jake. I hope you don’t mind. She won’t be in our match. She’d probably beat our pants off.”

  “Not at all,” Scarne said. “I’d be delighted.” He wasn’t being polite.

  Ballantrae switched gears. “All right, Jake. You have questions?”

  Scarne again saw a slight tremor of the right eyelid. Tension? Or just a result of whatever had caused the scar above it? He decided to press the issue.

  “Josh Shields was investigating you. He told his father to stall your investment in Shields Inc. Your company rubs a lot of people the wrong way.”

  “There’s a big difference between rubbing people the wrong way and rubbing them out,” Ballantrae said angrily. “What would be my motivation? Fear of publicity? Fear of the S.E.C.? They’re a joke. Read the papers.”

  “You own an offshore bank. Some people might assume you launder money. You have South American clients. People could think drugs.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? That bank is totally legitimate. Why don’t they go after the Swiss, for Christ sake? They’ve been hiding money forever. Or the Vatican? And hinting at drugs is defamatory. You’re profiling. Hasn’t anyone told you that you can’t do that anymore?”

  His voice had risen an octave. A few heads at nearby tables turned.

  “Victor, keep your voice down,” Alana Loeb said quietly.

  “Let’s consider another possibility,” Scarne said. “Perhaps someone who works for you took matters in his own hands. Are you sure of all your employees?”

  “Nobody is sure of everyone who works for him,” Ballantrae said. Then he looked at the woman. “Present company excepted, of course.” He appeared thoughtful. “You think someone in my employ might have harmed the boy?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “He may have a point, Victor,” Alana Loeb said.

  “Or it could be entirely something else,” Scarne continued, “not related to journalism. Something personal. I have an open mind. It would help me to know just exactly what kind of business you operate. Maybe meet some of the people Josh interviewed.”

  Ballantrae assumed an air of bored resignation.

  “I invest my clients’ money using offshore banks and various trust instruments, all designed to keep asshole regulators off their backs and limit confiscatory taxation. They can pass their assets down to their heirs without some banana republic government eviscerating their estate. That pisses off a lot of people on Wall Street who stole money the old-fashioned way and don’t want anybody else getting rich. It’s pure jealousy. And hypocrisy.”

  He paused while their lunch was served. Scarne put two of his sandwich quarters on his bread plate and pushed it toward Alana. She only took one and pushed the plate back with a smile. Her bisque smelled wonderful. She slid the bowl toward Scarne.

  “You have to try it.”

  He did and it was excellent. Ballantrae looked annoyed. He resumed his spiel with a mouthful of food.

  “Do you really believe Wall Street is legit? They give you this bullshit about revenues, earnings and share value and it’s all just paper and promises. Stocks are traded like commodities in bushel baskets. A lot of it is done by computer. A stock hits a certain price, it’s sold or bought. What does the company produce? Who gives a rat’s ass? It’s a financial shell game. The hell with the companies, their workers, their prospects or the poor slobs who buy the stock. The Dow drops by a thousand points in six minutes. Investors lose a half trillion dollars and the regulators say ‘oops.’ The bond market is no better. Wall Street repackages bad loans as new debt securities with higher interest rates to attract buyers. At some point the buyers get wise and dry up, with the last jerks holding the paper stuck with it. It’s the world’s largest Ponzi scheme, with the possible exception of the American Social Security system.”

  “Some would say that’s how a free market system works,” Scarne said. “Let the buyer beware.”

  “You think it’s a free market system? Bullshit. It is American socialism reserved for hedge fund managers, investment bankers and private-equity hotshots. And if something comes along to upset the apple cart, the Fed steps in to save the hides of the very people who screwed the pooch.”

  Ballantrae jabbed a finger at Scarne.

  “And I love this crap about derivatives and how only sophisticated investors can get hurt, not little old Aunt Sadie in Idaho. You think some billionaire is going to risk his own dough on some synthetic security with no real assets behind it? Many of those so-called sophisticated investors are institutional traders representing banks and pension funds and they are gambling with the money thousands of small investors gave them for safe keeping. Why? Because they get a cut of any profits they make and don’t get penalized when a deal goes down the toilet. And people question my business ethics? If your bankers and regulators pulled this crap in China and North Korea, they’d be shot. Bullet to the brain and their families would have to pay for the bullet. Here, they keep their jobs or resign with a $100 million payout. Give me a fucking break.”

  It was a marvelous rant. And, Scarne thought, the big oaf was probably right about most of it.

  “There are no rules, Jake, except for suckers. And I’m not a sucker.”

  “That’s a matter o
f opinion, amigo.”

  Scarne looked up and immediately recognized the man who had just walked up to their table. It was Lee Rodriguez, the famous professional golfer. “I don’t want to intrude, Victor, but I must say hello to the beautiful Alana.”

  “Nice to see you again, Lee,” she said as Rodriguez bent to kiss her hand. “You’ve just rescued us from one of Victor’s moral lectures.”

  The pro golfer laughed and then joined an adjacent table with three men who had ‘CEO’ all but stamped on their foreheads. Ballantrae pulled back his chair a bit so that what he said would include the men, as well as Scarne and Alana Loeb.

  “You hear about the guy who meets this gal at a bar. He asks her to dinner. She’s bright, funny and a real looker. Can talk to her, you know. He mentions that he’s a golfer and she says she loves the game too. He’s in heaven. So he asks her to his club and they play a round. And she’s good! Even beats him. He can’t believe his luck in finding such a companion. She becomes his regular playing partner. She usually wins, but what the hell, he’s falling for her. After dinner one night she invites him back to her place. After a couple of drinks, they tumble into bed. He can’t believe his good luck. He slides his hand down her panties, and feels a pair of balls! And they ain’t Top-Flites! He jumps out of bed and starts yelling, “How could you do this to me. How could you deceive me like this? I let you play from the ladies’ tees!”

  All the men laughed. Alana Loeb smiled indulgently. Ballantrae slid back to his own table and turned to Scarne.

  “By the way, Alana hits from the men’s tees. And she’s all woman. Played golf for the University of Miami.”

  The room was filling up. There were greetings and loud forced laughter.

  “A lot of new money here,” Ballantrae observed. “Not as refined as some of the older clubs. Funny how money stolen a hundred years ago is quieter than money stolen recently. Speaking of money, now that I’ve fattened you up for the kill, Jake, let’s talk game. What’s your handicap?”

  “I’m a 10,” Scarne replied. “U.S.G.A.”

  “And I’m an 11. You’ll have to give me a stroke.”