Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  At first, he couldn’t get enough of her. She rarely wore underwear, and was not above “having a quick pump,” as she put it, wherever they were. For Christ’s sake, they had once done it in the bathroom at the Cardinal’s residence with 20 people sipping cocktails in the next room! She wasn’t intimidated by his immense sexual organ. In fact, he was sure much of its reputation was the result of her braggadocio.

  But she was as greedy and ultimately uncouth as she was sexually insatiable, and he tired of her. He was going to pay her off and let some other fools lose themselves in her “loins of death,” as he now called them. Three wives, three losers. From now on he would seek his physical release with the endless supply of women, married and otherwise, who threw themselves at him. When he married again, it would be to Emerald Shields.

  While not his equal, of course, she was one of the smartest women he had ever met, and was beautiful to boot. She was also incredibly sexual. He could always tell. Just dancing with her had produced a massive erection – for him an unheard of occurrence for such casual contact. And she had felt him. His excitement had caused her to shift her stance slightly, with a knowing, and politely erotic, smile.

  It was only a matter of time, of course, before he slept with her. He had never failed to fuck a woman he wanted. But the sooner the better, which is why Scarne presented more of a problem than he had originally appeared to be. Arachne had agreed to help the investigator because it would help cement his relationship with Emerald Shields – and, more importantly, because by winning his trust he could keep one step ahead of him. With all witnesses to the Pearsall brat’s murder eliminated, Scarne’s investigation presumably had nowhere to go. That had now changed.

  Emma was sleeping with Scarne. That much was obvious. The relationship might not be going anywhere in the long term, but Arachne knew that she had changed in recent weeks. She might not be in love – but she was definitely in lust. Arachne knew all about the loss of her husband to cancer and being left with a young daughter. Scarne was apparently bringing her out of her shell. Good. Saved him the trouble.

  But the sooner Scarne disappeared from the scene now, the faster Arachne could move in on her – and her family. If he could marry her and get her pregnant (he’d deal with her existing daughter later), he’d be in a position to bury Trump and the rest.

  The door to the room opened behind him and Arachne turned as his financing walked into the conference room, in the form of Henry Li.

  Li, like Arachne, was Princeton-educated. The two men had been friendly as undergraduates. Li had gone on to study economics at Harvard and then returned to his homeland. There, his knowledge of America assured a quick rise in a country that, although nominally Communist, was now so profit-oriented that it regularly lectured the United States for straying from its free- market roots. The C.O.F.P. was one of several fronts for China’s economic imperialism, which, while still a shadow of the American effort in that regard, was becoming a force.

  “You Americans are giving capitalism a bad name,” Li had remarked to Arachne when they had resumed contact. “We may have to show you how it is supposed to work.”

  Arachne had been delighted when Li assumed the chairmanship of C.O.F.P., taking it as another sign that his plans were destined to succeed. He had been casting about for a deep-pocketed partner, but wanted to avoid any Arab entanglements. A friendly Arab nation, in fact, an American ally, had recently tried to buy a controlling interest in an American shipping operation and the firestorm that followed forced it to withdraw its bid. Anything the Arabs touched after 9/11 was suspect.

  The Chinese were perfect. America was so preoccupied with terrorists and the Middle East that for many years it ignored the fact that China financed its profligate ways and now basically owned the country through its massive holdings of U.S. debt obligations. There were stirrings of concern, of course, but China still held all the high cards. The broken Federal Government and destitute municipalities would not have the wherewithal to turn down the billions the Chinese were willing to put into Arachne’s projects.

  “How are you, Ari,” Li asked as they shook hands. “Who is that nasty-looking man sitting in the outer office?”

  “My driver.”

  “He is more than a driver, I think. He does not appear to like Chinese.”

  Li was dressed in a conservative, Western-cut suit and spoke without a discernible accent.

  “He is Vietnamese,” Arachne said. “They’ve hated China for 2,000 years. You keep invading them.”

  “Barbarians,” Li said equably. “And ingrates. You Americans might have prevailed against them had we not armed them.”

  “And as soon as the U.S. left, you invaded them again. But, Henry, you didn’t ask to see me to discuss Asian realpolitik.”

  “Quite so. We want to know why our program has been delayed. I thought you were going to make an announcement last week.”

  Arachne didn’t want to tell Li the whole story. He was not worried about security. He knew the room they were in was conscientiously swept for bugs by experts using the finest technology their government could steal from the Americans. But the Chinese were nervous about scandal of any kind. He didn’t want his funding to dry up just because a few people were killed.

  “There has been a complication. Perhaps you’ve heard that my wife and I are going through a difficult time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ari,” Li said automatically, not knowing where the conversation was headed.

  “I have asked her for a divorce. There is no problem, but I naturally have been a bit distracted. It’s important that I do it as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course,” Li said, still confused. Although he knew that Western divorce laws were insane, Arachne surely had an iron-clad prenuptial agreement. Things were much simpler in China where a divorce could be had in less than half an hour and cost about 10 yuan – less than $2. Moreover the male-dominated Chinese Supreme Court had assured that men’s property was protected. In fact, the courts most-recent decision was commonly known as “the law that makes men laugh and women cry.”

  “I have been seeing another woman. Emma Shields. I think you’ve met her on the family yacht.”

  Ah, Li thought.

  “Yes. The Emerald of the Sea. A beautiful vessel, with a name that has a poetic, almost Chinese grace.”

  “The yacht is named after her,” Arachne said.

  “Just so. She is also beautiful. And powerful.”

  “I am going to ask her to marry me.”

  Which, Arachne reflected, was the truth. He could almost see the light bulb go on above Li’s head.

  “I see,” Li said, realizing that Arachne would stop at nothing to make sure his dream came true. Not a bad attribute in a partner. “That could be most advantageous. You have our best wishes, of course, for a long and happy union.” Which, he didn’t add, would be a first for the randy Greek.

  ***

  After Arachne left, Henry Li walked down the hallway to a secure communications room, stopping only to get a cup of coffee and a Krispy Kreme donut from the small in-house canteen on the way. He could never fathom the U.S. fascination for Chinese food. Since his university days he’d been devoted to American fast food. Indeed, he had been an early advocate of McDonalds in China, pulling as many strings as he could to help the company along. Of course, he admitted as he bit into his donut, I’m getting a bit soft around the middle. If I didn’t smoke two packs a day, I’d look like a sumo wrestler.

  The door to the comm room hissed behind him and he sat at a table next to one of the technicians, who in reality was a sergeant in the Army of the Peoples Republic. The man quickly rose to get up but Li waved him back down with a smile. The fellow was new to the office and Li had only recently broken him of the habit of saluting. For, in addition to his very real commercial responsibilities, Henry Li was a colonel in the Guóãnbù, the Ministry of State Security of the Peoples Republic of China.

  The communications room was so
secure and its encryption machines so sophisticated that the Chinese Consulate in Manhattan, as well as the Chinese delegation at the United Nations, often used it for their really secret messages. (The Chinese knew that many of the “routine” messages sent from the other two locations were read by the Americans, as they were meant to be.)

  Li grubbed a cigarette from the sergeant and began to compose a report to his superiors in the M.S.S., who had taken a particular interest in Arachne’s grandiose scheme. They were so enamored of the project that they insisted on a requirement that would have found favor with the most xenophobic of American politicians: China would provide the funds, but all the work would go to American companies and unions. Henry Li was quick to grasp the rationale, although he knew it rankled many of his colleagues.

  For the simple truth was that American voters, egged on by politicians running for office, were becoming incensed by the fact that a substantial portion of the billions spent on recent infrastructure work in the U.S. had been farmed out to Chinese companies. They blamed the Federal Government, accusing it of hypocrisy for promoting a “buy American” program while giving the work to the Chinese. The media was awash with pictures of smiling Chinese engineers and workers rebuilding bridges and roads across the country, with steel and components made in China.

  Of course, there was more to it than that. Li – and frustrated Federal officials – knew that most of the controversial work went to Chinese companies because various states turned down the Federal stimulus money that would have required the work to go to American companies. The states then searched out the lowest bidders. He shrugged. Americans were insane. None more so than Arachne, of course. But he’s our lunatic, and he just might pull this off.

  Well, at least you can’t knock American donuts, Li thought, handing his message to the sergeant.

  “I want this to go out right away,” he said. “Sorry about the crumbs. Give me another cigarette.”

  ***

  On his way home, Arachne did something rare for him. He poured himself a stiff drink in the back of his Rolls. I’m so close, he thought, and began reflecting on how far he’d come with his audacious plan.

  The idea had come out of nowhere. Two years earlier Arachne had been asked to give a speech at the Cato Institute, the libertarian think tank, and told his staff to search the Internet for examples of failed Government projects.

  “The more ridiculous the better,” he told them. “The Cato people don’t think Government can do anything right.”

  His people had come up with some beauties, including separate plans, many years apart, for underwater rail tunnels linking Staten Island to both Brooklyn and New Jersey. The New Jersey plan never got off the drawing boards, but he was astounded to learn that in 1922 the city actually began digging nascent shafts on both sides of the Narrows for a Brooklyn to Staten Island “freight and passenger” tunnel. The Brooklyn dig extended 150 feet under the harbor. His staff had provided newspaper accounts, complete with photos of workmen with pickaxes and boring equipment. The project was abandoned in 1924 amid budget and political bickering.

  Somewhat to his staff’s surprise, Arachne did not include anything about the tunnels in the his presentation to the institute. They quickly moved on to other things, not knowing that their employer had become obsessed with the possibility of resurrecting the projects as a way to achieve financial and political primacy in New York City and beyond.

  Once the greatest metropolis in the world, New York was strangling on traffic and population. Arachne knew that the region’s political leaders had for too long slavishly placed their bets on Wall Street’s promise and glittering towers, ignoring the tri-state region’s crumbling infrastructure. Then, when the financial industry’s bubble burst, the same politicians claimed that they couldn’t afford costly new projects.

  Not all of the politicians, of course. A few visionaries had persevered with the idea of building two new rail passages linking New Jersey and Manhattan under the Hudson River. They argued that the proposed tunnels were desperately needed amid predictions that transit demands in the Greater Metropolitan area would surge by 40 percent over the next 20 years, which would overwhelm the capacity of the two existing 100-year-old tunnels beneath the river.

  Arachne feared these visionaries, since the $14 billion project, the largest public transit program in the nation, was to be mostly funded by the Federal government and the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. It stood a good chance of surviving hypocritical budget cuts. His Chinese benefactors began to hedge on their commitments to him. He had to do something, and quickly. Murder, at least in this instance, wasn’t an option. But money was.

  When the governor of New Jersey cancelled his state’s participation in the project, on which work had already begun, observers were stunned. The governor claimed that his state would bear the brunt of financing a project that would mostly benefit New Yorkers. Critics said that, in reality, he wanted to divert the tunnel money to his state’s highway fund so that he could avoid raising gasoline taxes, an anathema to a politician with ambition for national office. The truth was more sinister. It was Arachne’s money, supplemented by the Chinese, that killed the tunnel. Not that it went directly to the Governor, whose motives, while selfish, were purely political. Instead it went into the Super PACS (of both parties) to influence the power brokers who had the ears of the Governor and his staff.

  Arachne’s ability to kill the Hudson River tunnels impressed his Chinese backers. There was now no possibility, he knew, of the tunnels receiving government funding in the current economic environment. He believed that if he could buy the necessary land in New Jersey, Staten Island and Brooklyn, he could build the tunnels himself, with the capital he needed coming from his partners at the C.O.F.P. The Chinese would conveniently pay top dollar for his casinos and other properties in carefully spaced out transactions, providing billions while hiding their real influence behind their spurious investment in the Home Port project.

  Who could object? The residents who opposed a stock car track and stadium would applaud tunnels that would cut traffic. Labor unions in both states would support the creation of thousands of jobs. By the time anyone looked too deeply into the project and realized that the Chinese had a stranglehold on rail and marine traffic in the nation’s most important region, it would be too late. Arachne, with his major shipping interests already entrenched in the Howland Hook Marine Terminal on Staten Island, with easy access to his new rail and tunnel empire, would become rich beyond measure. And with the Shields media empire in his pocket as well, there would be other realms to conquer.

  The country was going to the dogs, Arachne believed. A nation that grew great by investing heavily in infrastructure – the Erie Canal, the Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, the interstate highway system – now spent trillions on weapons, and drugs for erectile dysfunction. The whole country had become one limp dick. Maybe he could change that. What the nation needed was someone like him.

  “President Arachne,” he said aloud, laughing. “A real prick.”

  Cong Bao, already discomfited by the sight of his boss drinking, looked nervously in the rear view mirror.

  But it had to be as near a fait accompli as possible, Arachne knew. The Chinese money would only flow if there was no serious opposition. He had welcomed local press scrutiny about the NASCAR track. He wanted it to fail so that he could step in and get even more property. Indeed, the track proposal was a godsend, providing perfect cover for his plans. The Chinese, always suckers for a good conspiracy that featured misdirection, loved it.

  But then Bimm found out that the Register’s editor, Pearsall, was looking deeper. The real estate transactions were layered with so many dummy corporations that even Arachne’s staff had trouble keeping them straight, but who knew what Pearsall could dig up. The man, after all, had won a Pulitzer.

  Arachne, who had most of the land and permits he needed (no mean feat given the bureaucracies in the two states involved but made ea
sier by the unwavering support of the Staten Island Borough President and other local politicians who were promised a piece of the action), was only weeks away from a multi-billion coup that could make or break him. Pearsall had to be stopped before he uncovered the real story behind the land purchases and started one of his damn crusades. Killing the man outright was also too risky. The Chinese would take to the hills if things went wrong. Even arranging an accident is never as easy as it sounds, as Arachne had just learned with Scarne. Bimm, who hated the editor, had provided the details about the death of Pearsall’s wife. The son of a bitch must be emotionally fragile, Bimm said. Another tragedy would surely tip him over the edge.

  That could be arranged, both men agreed.

  CHAPTER 30 – BREAKING AND ENTERING

  Dudley Mack lived in a large brick house on a one-acre parcel on Howard Avenue in Grymes Hill. The property sloped down a heavily forested hill to Van Duzer Street 100 feet below, affording a spectacular view of New York Harbor from the rear deck, where he and Scarne were working on one of Mack’s usual pitcher of martinis.

  Scarne asked, “Where is everybody?”

  “They left about an hour ago to head down to the shore.” The Macks had a spectacular home on the water on Long Beach Island. Scarne had spend a couple of weeks there recuperating after the Ballantrae case. “Mom wants to clean it up. You know how she is. But cheer up. She knew you were coming and cooked up some of your favorites. We just have to heat them up. Sometimes I think she likes you more than me.”

  “Do you blame her?”

  “Not really.” Mack poured another martini for Scarne. “You look like you could use a few of these.”

  “Where’s Bobo?”

  “Gave him a few hours off. She didn’t cook for an army. Besides, I figure you can protect me.” Scarne smiled at the thought of Dudley Mack needing anyone’s protection. Bobo Sambuca spent most of his time saving other people from his boss. “Although looking at your puss, I have my doubts. What happened now?”