Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Put some ice on it when you get the chance,” Sobok said.

  “Why knock me out when you were going to kill Arachne?”

  “Habit. Besides, you were on the verge of doing something rash. By the way, here’s your gun. I prefer the Beretta myself.”

  “You’re making a habit of cold-cocking me,” Scarne said, pocketing his weapon.

  “It does save ammunition.”

  They both laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  It was Emma. She had regained enough of her faculties to look questioningly at the two men. As the cab pulled up to his apartment Scarne put his fingers to his lips and she took the hint. Sobok helped Scarne get her out of the cab. The doorman came over and Scarne was preparing a lie when a hearse pulled up and two men jumped out. Sobok’s hand went inside his jacket and Scarne quickly said, “It’s OK. I know them.”

  “We’ve got it pal,” Dudley Mack said and the doorman immediately went back to his post as Bobo Sambuca put his massive arms around Emma.

  “You a good guy or a bad guy,” Emma said happily.

  “It depends, miss,” Bobo laughed. “But tonight I’m being good.”

  “Take her upstairs and put on a pot of coffee, will you Bobo,” Scarne said, handing him keys. “I’ll be up shortly.” He wasn’t worried about what the doorman or concierge might think. It was New York.

  The three men watched the huge man gently pick up Emma and carry her into the building. She was singing “The Patriots Game.” Then Scarne made the introductions and gave Mack a brief rundown of the evening’s events.

  When he finished Mack said, “Roddenberry?”

  “Actually, it’s Sobok.”

  “Sure it is,” Mack said.

  “You come prepared, Mr. Mack,” Sobok said, gesturing toward the hearse.

  Mack laughed.

  “We were in a hurry. Got to Arachne’s building and saw the commotion out front. Thought it might be you lying there, Jake. Once I found out whose body it was I figured you wouldn’t stick around. We were getting some stares, what with the Johnny-on-the-spot hearse and all, so we headed here.”

  “Bimm is dead, too,” Scarne said.

  Mack looked at Sobok, who merely smiled.

  “You must be racking up frequent flyer miles,” Mack said.

  “Anyone know a good screenwriter,” Scarne said. “This has HBO movie written all over it.”

  “You were on a list of people Arachne gave me, Mr. Mack.” Sobok said. “He said you might have to be dealt with. Considering your refrigerator of a bodyguard, I’m glad I don’t have to go up against you.”

  “Sallie Mae Lacuna wasn’t much of a problem for you.”

  Sobok smiled.

  “He was not cautious. You don’t have the look of a man who is easily taken unawares.”

  “Who else was on that list,” Scarne said.

  “Half of New York,” Sobok said. “That’s when I decided to end this farce and see if Mr. Arachne could fly.”

  “Why did you do it,” Mack asked.

  “Arachne is – was – a pig and a fool. He threatened me. And he was thinking irrationally. The police would have found chloral hydrate in the woman’s blood. His story would have fallen apart. Once caught, he would probably implicate me. I am hard to find, to be sure, but with him alive, it would not be an impossibility. I have one strict rule. I never let a man who has endangered my livelihood continue breathing.”

  “And I’m not a threat,” Scarne interjected.

  “Not anymore, at least to me.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me in Florida?”

  “As I said, I didn’t know about you then. You were merely an annoyance. If I killed everyone that aggravated me, I’d never get any serious work done.”

  Scarne and Mack looked at each other. The logic was inescapable.

  “You tried to kill me on the racetrack.”

  Sobok smiled.

  “By then you had graduated into being a threat. You’ve since been demoted back to annoyance, and as it turned out, a helpful one. I’m not sure I could have handled Miss Shields alone tonight.”

  “You might have killed the race driver.”

  “Please, Mr. Scarne. I didn’t say I was a saint. There is occasionally some breakage in my business.” He looked at Mack, who nodded. “But I had no part in murdering that poor girl on Staten Island. Nor would I do something like that. You are on the verge of being ungrateful.”

  “I suppose you think I should thank you.”

  “It might be nice. I don’t get a lot of that.”

  All three laughed as an elderly couple walked by and glanced at the hearse.

  “Probably Mrs. Rosenbaum in 10H,” the woman said as they entered the lobby. “I wonder what her kids will do with the apartment. You should call your cousin.”

  “Well, on that note,” Sobok said, “I think I will be going.”

  “Need a lift,” Scarne said.

  “No, thank you. I will take the subway. It’s become a real pleasure. Not like years ago.”

  With that, Sobok nodded at the other men and simply walked away.

  CHAPTER 36 – OFFICIAL STORY

  One week later, Scarne met Emma for another lunch at the Gotham. She was drinking Perrier. There would be no afternoon delight, Scarne assumed as he sipped his beer. He detested Perrier. Given her recent experience, Emma was probably off men (and vice versa, he thought rudely) for the time being.

  Arachne’s death had caused a predictable sensation. It is not every day that a billionaire does a half-gainer from a 34th floor penthouse balcony. In a tuxedo, no less. The tabloids had a field day, especially with the discovery of a dead chauffeur with ties to a Vietnamese gang. But there was no mention that someone else had been in the apartment.

  Then hints of Arachne’s financial woes began to appear, first in some of the Shields publications, and then in other print and electronic media. Bloggers soon swarmed, with some suggesting that other billionaires should do society a favor and follow Arachne’s example.

  “The press is evenly divided between suicide and a mob killing.” Scarne said after they ordered. “Nice job.”

  Emma smiled. But it was bitter.

  “I only started the ball rolling on the financial news side. It was common knowledge that Ari and I were an ‘item.’ There was even speculation in the gossips that I was to be the next Mrs. Arachne. So it would have been natural of him to confide in me, to a point. I just mentioned to one of our editors that perhaps his companies were on shakier ground than we first reported. He took it from there. I’m sure he thinks I’m a heartless bitch.”

  “Not a bad rep to have when running a media conglomerate, although I know you’re a sweetheart.”

  “My father still runs the company.”

  Not for long, Scarne thought.

  “Did you tell him what really happened?”

  “No. I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. I’ll let Dad be the company’s sex object.”

  Emma reached across and put her hand over Scarne’s.

  “You saved my life.”

  “I can’t take all the credit. The scary fellow did much of the heavy lifting.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did Ari find such a man?”

  “Men like Arachne can always find them. All it takes is money.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Gift horse and all that.”

  “He killed Bimm, didn’t he?”

  “Gift horse and all that.”

  “Jesus,” she said, and visibly shivered. “And you’re not worried about him anymore?”

  “No. He was only a danger to us when he working for Arachne. When he stopped, we ceased being his problem.”

  “But aren’t you a threat to him? Could you find him, if you wanted to? You found Banaszak. That would give him pau
se.”

  “Perhaps, but he knows I won’t try.”

  “How the hell does he know that?”

  “He just knows.”

  “Because you’re in his debt?”

  “Partly. But also because he respects me and knows I respect his code.”

  “Code? What code? He’s an assassin, for God’s sake. He kills for money.”

  “And only for money. Or to eliminate danger to himself. Arachne was a danger. He was unraveling and threatened him.”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Men. I’ll never understand them. I’m not sure I want to.”

  Scarne was silent.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “I just proved it with Ari. I was so gullible.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m not exactly the poster boy for common sense in matters of the heart. Ari was a charmer. And a hell of a dancer.”

  “He was also rumored to have an enormous penis,” Emma said. Scarne choked on his beer. “At least that’s what some of my girlfriends told me. You saved me from finding out. Were you jealous of him, Jake?”

  “Not for that reason,” Scarne said, dabbing some beer from his shirt. “I just thought you deserved better than a thrice-married Trump wannabe.”

  “Why did he go off the rails. He was brilliant.”

  “Yes. To give him his due, the tunnel idea had merit. May still have. Arachne had vision. But a lot of men of vision eventually come to believe they are the vision. The rest of us become inconsequential to them. And if we get in their way, well, history is replete with examples of what lengths they will go to protect the image of themselves they have created. The thirst for power and prestige can be overwhelming.”

  “What will happen to those projects on Staten Island. The race track and the waterfront thing?”

  “Dudley says the track was always dead. As for the Home Port, he says the latest deal looks to be falling apart. Some Chinese investors pulled out suddenly, probably because of the publicity.” Scarne was about to take another sip of his beer but put the glass down sharply on the table. “Jesus!”

  “What?”

  “It might be nothing. But I always suspected that Arachne had some big backers for his tunnel plan.”

  “The Chinese?”

  “Might just be a coincidence,” Scarne said. “But it probably wouldn’t hurt if some of your reporters looked into it.”

  “You’d make a hell of a journalist, Jake. That’s a great idea.”

  “Snoops under the skin.”

  “Come to think of it. There were several Chinese at Ari’s funeral. And they looked important.”

  “You went to the funeral?”

  “How could I not? Even the Donald was there. Comforting the grieving widow. You wanted me to keep up appearances, didn’t you?”

  “Speaking of which, I presume it was a closed casket. I understand he landed face down.”

  “Yuck. What about the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall? Will the police be able to trace it back to Ari?”

  “Maybe. Dudley gave Scullen and Crider, the two cops who helped us, just enough information to implicate Bimm and the Lacuna crime family. They’re heroes now. And I told Dick Condon about Banaszak’s involvement without blowing the priest’s cover. It will make lurid copy, but with everyone basically dead, no one will dig much farther. In a few years, if somebody unravels all the real estate deals, the truth may come out, especially if you come up with a Chinese connection. But by that time there will be other scandals and crimes. Arachne will be old news.”

  “What about our involvement?”

  “Nothing that happens should affect us. Hell, we were never in Arachne’s apartment, remember.”

  “Do you think the Chinese knew about the girl’s murder? I mean, if they really were in bed with Ari.”

  “I doubt it. Moral considerations aside, that’s not the kind of risk they’d want to run.”

  Emma grew pensive.

  “What would you have done if you had found Ari raping me?”

  “The end result for him would have been the same.”

  She stared at Scarne a long moment and then signaled their waiter.

  “Please bring me a very dry Beefeater martini, straight up, one olive,” she said. “And the wine list.” When the man walked off she turned to Scarne. “Since I can’t thank the scary man, I hope you don’t have anything important to do this afternoon.”

  “I’ll clear my calendar.”

  “Kindly wipe that goddamn smile off your face.”

  After finishing lunch they walked up the street toward Scarne’s apartment arm in arm.

  “Just for the record,” Scarne teased, “how would you have thanked the scary man?”

  “Suck farts,” Emma Shields said, leaning up to kiss him.

  CHAPTER 37 – NORTH CAROLINA

  “Some of you may already be journalists.”

  There were yawns aplenty among the 24 students in the “Media in Crisis” class, especially among the footballers, who were not used to getting up for a 9 A.M. course. With afternoon practice often running into dusk, the exhausted athletes tried to schedule as many of their classes as possible for after lunch.

  “How many have kept a diary or a journal at one time or another? Maybe on your iPad? Come on, fess up.”

  Several of the girls raised their hands, as did one of the boys, with apparent reluctance. He was the quarterback on the team. Division II-A to be sure, but still a jock. His admission got disbelieving looks from the 10 other males in the classroom, especially five beefy linemen. In the back of the room, one nerdy-looking boy, now emboldened, meekly lifted his arm.

  Sitting on a corner of his desk at the front of the room, Robert Pearsall smiled. He knew the Bracken College players signed up for his “crack of dawn” course (as they termed it) on the assumption that the “gut” elective would pad their grade point averages. They were right about the GPA’s. Pearsall, although new to the small North Carolina mountain school, had followed its hardscrabble football tribulations for years. He had no intention of derailing what promised to be the team of the decade. A rabid football fan, he recognized serious offensive-line beef. There was more than a thousand pounds of it squeezed in seats in front of him. But that would be the only “gut” in this room. They’d work for their grades. But he wondered how they would react to finding out they had a “sensitive” quarterback. They will undoubtedly bust his balls unmercifully. But if they were smart, they’d realize that the kid had the balls to risk derision, never a bad trait in a quarterback.

  Pearsall also noticed that a couple of the girls had turned to look at the strapping athlete in their midst. Maybe the boy counted on that. Pearsall stood, took off his sports jacket and placed it around the chair behind the desk. He was the only teacher in the school who wore jacket and tie every day. He hoped they didn’t notice his mismatched socks.

  “Journalism is often wrong and misleading, occasionally dangerous, but necessary to life as we know it. For as long as humans could think, they have felt a need to communicate with each other. First, of course, they were limited to the spoken word, or grunt, if you will. But once man developed the tools needed to etch, or draw in charcoal, his ability to influence other humans, and events, expanded exponentially. The cave drawing in France, which date back some 35,000 years, astound anthropologists today with their sophistication. Picasso said those ancient artists created everything there is to know about art, including perspective and animation. I like to think they invented journalism as well, with their depictions of hunters and bison and horses. The words you write on the printed page or on a computer screen are immortal.”

  Pearsall had their attention now. At their age they all thought they were immortal, and liked hearing it.

  “Your words, and the phrases they form, can be traced directly back to the first words ever written, in whatever language. Since nothing is ever really destroyed on Earth, merely recycled, some scientists argue that every breath that we take contains
at least a few molecules that were breathed by Aristotle, Da Vinci, Lincoln – and by Adam and Eve. And Moses, and even Jesus Christ. And the molecules you are exhaling this very moment will be breathed in by someone 10,000 years from now.”

  “Hey, Kowalski, you’d better spring for some breath mints,” a linebacker named Phelps said, to laughter. They were having fun, which Pearsall relished.

  “Written words are like those molecules. Every word written today had its genesis in something written by an ancient. Cicero, the prophets, the apostles, Caesar etc. And every word written today – every word you will write – will influence future generations. Whether you believe that intelligent life is limited to our blue planet, or is common in the universe, man’s ability to write – on the printed page or electronically – is one of the marvels of creation. Imagine how many billions, trillions of words have been written or uttered since language was developed. Some say writing is an art. I would argue that it is the ONLY art, from which all else developed. And journalism, done right, is one of the noblest professions of mankind. We will all be journalists of one kind or another, and pass down our thoughts to the future, but those of you who may someday make a living as working journalists have a special responsibility to tell the truth, to show courage and to serve the greater good.

  “Those who criticize the media – rightly, in many instances – could not live without it. People needed to hear about Pearl Harbor, didn’t they? The attack on 9/11? The stock market crash? They want to know who is stealing from the city coffers, if a tornado or hurricane is heading their way. They might also like to know if someone is knocking over convenience stores, or if there is a murderer on the loose.”

  Pearsall’s voice thickened slightly and he cleared his throat. None of the kids appeared to notice. The moment passed. He walked over to his desk and sat down again, looked at the quarterback and smiled.