Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Do you love her?”

  Scarne sat back and twirled his brandy glass.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you really are between a rock and a hard-on. At the very least she’s complicit in covering up financial crimes and maybe turning a blind eye to murder. At the worst, she’s ordering the murdering. She may love you, which may be the only reason you are still alive. And that could change. She could decide you are not worth the risk. Women can be more practical than us in that regard. To them, if it can’t be, it ain’t. Or somebody could decide that for her, or the both of you. That whole organization seems unstable to me. Getting careless or arrogant, or both. Either is dangerous. In combination they are fatal. Maybe to you.”

  Sealth sipped his Armagnac.

  “You want my advice? Forget her. Forget what happened. Take whatever the Shields family throws at you. Better to lose your license than wind up with a hagfish up your ass. You still have friends in high places. You’ll bounce back. Let the Feds handle Ballantrae. It’s a miracle you’re not dead already. You want to hear my odds on another miracle? And I don’t care if you are part Cheyenne and part Sicilian. The Basque have a saying: ‘Every hour wounds, but the final one kills.’ The secret is putting off that final hour, my friend.”

  The waiter appeared. Somewhat to Scarne’s surprise, Sealth made an honest effort to split the check.

  “Buy me dinner next time I’m in Seattle,” Scarne said, grabbing the bill.

  “It was a one-time offer, dickwad,” Sealth said.

  ***

  Outside on the sidewalk, Scarne turned to Sealth.

  “I told you about the video because I may need your help.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “I want to turn Alana. If I can get her to testify against Ballantrae and the others in the Brutti killing, can you claim jurisdiction in Seattle? I want her clear of the Feds to start. Once you have her, she may even be able to bargain for witness protection with them. They want Ballantrae. You get Garza. I’m sure Keitel will take a fall, too. Then everybody is happy.”

  “And why do I need you? I’ll get them eventually.”

  “Eventually is a long time. And no offense to Seattle’s finest, but you don’t have the resources the Feds have. We both know they’re going to cut you out just as soon as they can. Brutti’s sister is a sideshow to them. I have an edge right now with Alana. I want to get her clear, but whatever happens I’m going to beat the Feds to the punch. You can go along for the ride. We have a deal?”

  Sealth looked disgusted.

  “Yeah. Why not? Can’t deny a condemned man’s last wish.”

  CHAPTER 45 – MACK’S RULES

  Scarne spent the next morning tying up a loose end. A few calls located one of the detectives who was at the scene of Sheldon’s death. He grudgingly told Scarne that there was a witness who claimed Sheldon Shields was pushed.

  “Didn’t you pursue it?”

  The silence told Scarne he could have phrased it better.

  “Hell, no. We always let murderers go. Especially when they push old men in front of the downtown local. We rushed it because we were out of donuts. You fucking P.I.’s are all the same.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Of course we ‘pursued’ it. But the girl’s description didn’t pan out. Nobody else saw anything and the family told us the guy was probably despondent. We put a little extra on it because of who he was, but there was nothing. What’s your interest in this again? You got something for us?”

  “Sheldon Shields was my client. I’m not sure it was an accident.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re the guy on the family’s shit list, right? What’s the matter? The old guy’s check didn’t clear?”

  “I don’t suppose you could give me the girl’s name?”

  “Blow me.”

  Reluctantly, Scarne called Dick Condon at home. After reciting a long list of Scarne’s shortcomings, the Commissioner said he would do what he could.

  “Her name is Nancy Lopez,” Condon said without preamble when he called back. “You can skip the golf jokes. Take down this number.” He gave it. “I had to speak to the detective personally to pry it out of him. He figured it was you who was asking. Don’t think I’ve ever come that close to being told to go fuck myself by a second-grade. Guy has balls. I like that. Thinks you’re an asshole. Another plus in his favor. Anything else you need? Luckily, I don’t have much to do as Commissioner.”

  “Thanks, Dick. I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do. Although you may not be able to repay me anytime soon. Randolph Shields wants your head on a platter. He went to our mutual friend on the City Council. I’d lay low. Maybe leave town for a while.”

  “I’m heading to Miami.”

  “That’s still in this hemisphere. Try harder.”

  ***

  “Who are you again?”

  Nancy Lopez’s voice on the phone was polite, but suspicious.

  “My name is Scarne. I’m investigating the death of Sheldon Shields, the man you saw fall in front of a subway train.”

  “I told the other cops everything. They didn’t believe me.”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of the police not believing you. Nobody else saw what you did. But now some facts have popped up. I believe you, and that’s all that counts.”

  The girl, briefly and succinctly, described how a man pushed Sheldon onto the tracks. She was staring right at him when it happened. There was no mistake. What did the man look like? Again, she gave a solid description of what little she saw of the assailant. It meant nothing to the cops but she could have been describing the man who followed Scarne into the church. Scarne smiled grimly. Keitel.

  “You’ve been very helpful. The Police Department could use you.”

  “That’s what my boyfriend says. He’s a cop. Met him the day of the subway thing, in fact. I’m gonna switch to John Jay. I hope you get the prick – uh, sorry – the perp who pushed the old man.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Miss Lopez.”

  ***

  “Now, why do I find myself agreeing with everything a tomahawk-throwing cop says, and nothing you say?” Dudley Mack took a bite of his roast beef sandwich. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “I don’t think he throws tomahawks,” Scarne said.

  They were standing at the bar in Fraunces Tavern, a New York landmark that was a favorite of George Washington and earned its patriotic stripes honestly when a British frigate put a cannonball through its roof. The restaurant was also a favorite of Mack’s, especially on weekends when there were no loud Wall Street brokers at the bar. When Scarne had arrived the few tourists walking by were casting nervous glances at Bobo Sambuca leaning against Mack’s Lincoln Town out front. No wonder, Scarne mused as he waved hello; Bobo looked like he could catch a cannonball.

  “Whatever,” Mack said. “Sealth sounds like a smart cop. If he thinks you’re going to get killed, that’s probably the way it’s going down.”

  In addition to his sandwich, slathered in horseradish sauce, Dudley was sipping Jameson’s. After a decent night’s sleep, Scarne was feeling, if not quite human, at least like a primate. But he wasn’t quite up to drinking Irish whiskey for lunch. He sipped his Diet Coke and picked at a chicken pot pie.

  “I know the Loeb broad got inside your head, Jake, but come on. Life isn’t Casablanca.”

  “Pick another movie. Bogart gave up Ingrid Bergman.”

  “With much less reason. My point is, you keep ignoring Mack’s three laws. They bear repeating. Never play poker with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom's. And never, ever, sleep with a woman with troubles worse than your own.”

  “What happened to pissing into the wind?”

  “Sometimes that can’t be helped,” Mack said and took another dainty bite. It always amazed Scarne that his friend had excellent table manners. He even dabbed a bit of horseradish at a corner of his mouth.

  “You stole the line about wome
n from Nelson Algren.”

  “So what? I didn’t spend all my time in college getting laid. And I bet old Nelson stole it from someone else. But you’re the one proving us right.”

  He put down his sandwich, took a sip of whiskey and placed a hand on Scarne’s shoulder.

  “Let me recap. There is a porn video of you that will probably be on You Tube. You strangled a mobster who was trying to avenge a sister who was eaten by an eel. Your girlfriend and her boss may be homicidal maniacs with two professional assassins on the payroll. Said assassins may have pushed your elderly client in front of the downtown local. The FBI is all over your shit. You’re probably going to lose your license. I left out a couple of killings, but I have a ferry to catch.”

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “Don’t be a smartass. What do you hope to accomplish? And please, don’t give me any bullshit about honor, or a damsel in distress. We both know that ain’t the case. You just have to see this through with her to the end.”

  “How about revenge?”

  “You son of a bitch. You know I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.”

  “You don’t mind if I restore a little of my honor along the way, do you?”

  “Just don’t let it cloud your judgment, kemosabe. Come on, finish up. I want to make a call before we take you to the airport. I know you won’t be smart enough to take Bobo with you, but there are some people in Miami who can help you. Can’t let you get in any more knife fights unarmed, can I?”

  ***

  On the flight to Miami, Scarne considered his options. He knew that it might be months, even years, before the Government made a case against Ballantrae that could stick. And they might never succeed. Administrations changed. All Casey and Valledolmo had were unsubstantiated rumors and dead bodies. And dead bodies can’t testify. The Feds had been right. He did Ballantrae a favor by killing Brutti. Well-paid lawyers and lobbyists could probably explain away everything else. It wasn’t likely the Mafia or the Ukrainians would turn state’s evidence. He thought about that. What would the mobsters do now? And what should he do about Alana?

  It occurred to him that it didn’t matter what anyone else did at this point. With both Josh and Sheldon Shields dead, and himself disgraced and ostracized by the family, Scarne knew he had to bring Ballantrae down, and quickly, before Randolph Shields made good on his threat to ruin him. But how? The only way, and it was a long shot, would be to find out what Josh had discovered about Ballantrae, if anything.

  Since most writers were paranoid, he was willing to bet that Josh had backed up his files. Perhaps the killers missed something. The backup could be anywhere, but the likeliest place was the Miami apartment. Scarne’s initial search of the flat, before the case turned so murderous, had been desultory. Now he was determined to tear the place apart. Fortunately, Randolph Shields had not asked for the keys back. Maybe he didn’t know where Scarne had stayed. He figured he had a couple of days before the lawyers started going through Sheldon’s affairs and contacted La Gorce’s management.

  ***

  Scarne’s plane landed in Miami at 7 P.M. and he asked his cab driver to find the nearest Home Depot. Telling the cabbie to wait, he went in and bought a small tool kit. He then had the cab drop him at the Intercontinental Hotel on Biscayne Boulevard. He walked through the lobby into the open restaurant area beyond. A waiter came and he ordered coffee and a club sandwich. There were avocado slices under the turkey. He was almost finished when a small, very thin man wearing white slacks and a colorful short-sleeve shirt walked over. It was exactly 9 P.M.

  “Mr. Scarne?”

  Scarne nodded and the man sat and placed a small toiletry bag on the table.

  “Welcome to Miami.”

  He didn’t offer his name or his hand. Scarne gestured toward the pot of coffee and the man poured himself a cup.

  “You don’t look like a Sambuca,” Scarne said.

  “I married one.”

  Since the Sambuca women were only slightly smaller versions of the males of the family, Scarne suppressed a mental image of the marriage bed. Probably a sawed-off shotgun wedding or a career move.

  “Nice bag,” Scarne said. It was a Louis Vuitton. He lifted it. “Feels like you overdid the toothpaste.”

  The man flashed a small grin, for half a second. He leaned slightly forward.

  “The automatic is a .380 Bersa, with a Brugger & Hock silencer. They call it their ‘Thunder’ model.” He shrugged. “Don’t know who they’re trying to impress. It’s basically a Walther by another name, made in Argentina. Figures, the place is lousy with Krauts. But it’s a very good piece. Better than a Walther, in my opinion. It’s got a blowback action like the Walther but it won’t knick your hand on recoil. That’s a problem with the Walther.” He held up his right hand in a shooting pose and used the index figure of his left hand to rub a spot near the back of his right index finger. “See these little scars? Those are Walther bites. Can make you gun shy. Think too much about it and you’ll miss what you’re aiming at. Bersa engineered the bite out. Amazing for a gun so light. Easy carry, only weighs 23 ounces without the silencer.”

  He saw the look on Scarne’s face.

  “Don’t worry. It’s a solid piece of metal. You know what they say. ‘A .380 in your pocket is better than a .45 in the truck.’ They kept the weight down with the magazine. It only holds seven rounds, plus the one in the chamber. But it has straight-in chambering, which means it takes the best hollow points. You need more than eight hollows you’re in big fucking trouble, friend.”

  “Don’t some of these lighter guns have a tendency to jam with hollows?”

  The man nodded approvingly.

  “Yeah, some new Bersas jam in the first couple of dozen rounds, until the recoil spring gets broken in. Then, never again. Weird. Don’t worry about this one.” He deadpanned. “Spring’s broken in.”

  “Ammo?”

  “I gave you two boxes of Cor-Bon 90 grains, hollow, and two extra magazines, in case you run up against Tom Cruise. You ever notice how he kills five guys shooting at him with Uzis and he’s only got a pistol.”

  “Probably has a Bersa.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Ammo velocity without the silencer is 965 feet per second, 12 feet from the muzzle. At 25 yards, it will group just under three inches. Closer than that, even Stevie Wonder can’t miss.”

  “You know your guns.”

  “This is Miami.”

  The man got up to leave.

  “By the way, there is toothpaste in there, brush, disposable razors, other stuff. Thought you might need them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Gun’s clean. No serial numbers. Keep it or fish it. Good luck.”

  Scarne finished eating and walked out to the cab line in front of the hotel.

  ***

  The Delano, among the most beautiful hotels in Miami Beach, was a favorite of Scarne’s. It was noted for severe but luxurious rooms, all done in white, as well as the flowing white floor-to-ceiling drapes and soaring columns in its famous indoor/outdoor lobby and common areas. Even the staff wore white. Scarne thought that only the brightly colored Dali furniture prevented snow blindness. He went up to his room and unpacked. A half hour later he was sound asleep. It was going to be a busy Sunday.

  CHAPTER 46 – DIRTY BUSINESS

  Scarne was up early the next morning. After a cobweb-clearing swim in the ocean and a quick room-service breakfast, he opened his “toiletry bag.” The blue/black gun was in a Houston paddle holster, designed to fit on a hip or in a waistband. The Bersa slid out easily. He worked the action and ejected the magazine. The thin man was right. It was a quality piece and amazingly light. He opened the box of shells and loaded the magazine. He left the chamber empty. The silencer screwed on easily. He went through the routine three more times with his eyes closed. Removing the silencer, he put the gun, holster and ammunition in a small overnight bag, then called the front desk for a cab.

  Fifteen minutes later, a
fter crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway, the cab pulled up in front of a small, one-story building that was part of the Crandon Park Marina on Key Biscayne. The building housed a bait shop, small seafood restaurant and various sightseeing and fishing charter offices. The air smelled of diesel fuel and French fries. Scarne told the cabbie to wait and went through a door that said “Yacht Net, Inc. (Boat Ownership That Makes Sense).”

  A weather-beaten woman was sitting behind a counter looking at a computer screen. A small yellow Post-It note pinned to her blouse said “Marge.” She looked up at him and smiled. At least Scarne thought she smiled. There were so many creases in her tanned leathery face he couldn’t be sure. There was a rustling sound behind Scarne. He turned to see a large, sinewy dog with an absurdly small head struggle to stand in a plush canine bed. The fragile-looking animal made its way over to him and sniffed his leg. He reached down and let it smell his hand before gently petting it.

  “Is this a …”

  “Yup, a greyhound,” the woman said. “Belongs to the owner. Once they’re finished racing the tracks put them up for adoption. Make wonderful pets. Happy to sit around all day. Not surprising after running a million miles chasing fake rabbits they never caught. Course, Lancelot here couldn’t catch an armadillo now. Eats too much and has arthritis to boot. But he’s a sweetheart and makes the effort to check out anyone who comes in the door.”

  Lancelot gave Scarne a rheumy but not unfriendly look and then ambled unsteadily back to his bed, where he lay down in stages.

  “Now, what can I do for you, handsome?”

  The wall behind the woman was almost entirely covered with nautical maps, all liberally punctured with variously colored pins. Scarne noted the distance between the marina, which was marked with a large “YOU ARE HERE!” and a red star, and the section of Miami Beach where Josh Shields died. It would have been an easy trip.

  He wanted to ask Marge if she was Quint’s mother, but instead said, “If I were to give you a date within the last year or so, could you tell me who took out one of your boats on that day?”