The Wabash Factor

by Howard Fast

  A little while later, I walked into my hotel room and slumped into a chair. A voice from the bathroom asked, “Is that you, Harry?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Just doing my face,” Fran said. “Tonight, you and I are going to drift down Wilshire Boulevard to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, where I peeked into a very classy dining room. We’ll charge half to the cops and half to me. That Hanna McNulty is an absolute darling. What a nutty day, but this is a nuthouse, Harry, so what can you expect? First she took me to the local museum of art, because she figured I was very much a culture bug. But on the way, I convinced her otherwise, and we stopped on a street called La Cienega for me to take a picture of the door to a whorehouse where you can get laid with five different credit cards, all of it printed plainly on the door. The museum is sort of nice, and then we looked at some tar pits where the less brainy dinosaurs got trapped millions of years ago. Then we went to a strange tourist trap called the Farmers Market. She apologized for taking me there, but explained that it was de rigueur for anyone visiting Los Angeles. We had a sort of sloppy catch-as-catch-can lunch there, mostly Mexican, after which we visited the MGM film studio, where her brother works in the art department, which is how we got in, and I saw three absolutely valid stars, Paul Newman, Meryl Streep, and another one who’s kind of fat and jolly, but his name slips my mind. Harry, a movie lot is a crazy, fascinating place—” She came out of the bathroom and saw my face and cut off the tour guide resume. She stared at me for a long moment, and then asked gently, “What happened? Something terrible?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Did you find Dr. Green?”

  “Yes, with a bullet in his head.”

  “Oh, my God.” The joy and excitement disappeared.

  “Funny,” I said. “We got there maybe ten minutes after he was shot. The killer must have used a silencer, because no one heard anything, and he calmly walked out of the back door of Green’s apartment. Yet in those few minutes, he cleaned the place. This is all he missed.” I held out a slip of paper. “In Green’s watch pocket. Today, most trousers don’t have a watch pocket, and I suppose that’s why the killer missed it.”

  “What is it?” Fran asked.

  “A carbon proof of a check for ten thousand dollars, made out to Bert Smith, Green’s name or one of his names. Issued by the Wabash Protection Company, on West Eighteenth Street in New York. I suppose it was his fee for the doctor job.”

  The telephone rang. It was McNulty to tell me that the bullet that killed Green had come from a .32-caliber gun. The San Fernando cops would make blowups and send them to New York.

  Chapter 7

  ON THE PLANE, returning to New York, I leafed through a booklet put out by the Los Angeles Olympic Committee. It told of some of the preparations Los Angeles had made for the coming Olympics, gave facts about housing and transportation, and had illustrations of the various places in and around Los Angeles where the games would be held. One of the photographs showed a new type of arena built specifically for water games and races. It could hold ten thousand people; it was near the beach in a well-landscaped setting; and it was named the Pan American Water Arena. It was by no means the only water arena, but it was the newest and largest. It had cost over sixty million dollars to build and it was the gift of one Alfred Gomez Porfetto, certainly a magnificent gift. Just below the photograph of the arena, there was a photograph of Porfetto and his wife, Birdie May. Porfetto was perhaps fifty, well built but not fat, riding breeches and boots, open polo shirt, tanned, a good head of hair and rugged, strong features. Birdie May was forty or so, tall, slender, blond, and beautiful. The caption informed me that the picture had been taken at their ranch near Santa Barbara. Their home base was on East End Avenue in New York City. They also had an apartment in Monte Carlo and an estate in the Bahamas. Mr. Porfetto bred horses on his ranch, raced a string of horses in Europe as well as in America, and had recently, at the request of his wife, given up motorcar racing. His wife, Birdie May, had been born in South Carolina, and she devoted herself to charitable interests. Both would be honored at a hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, to be given at the Waldorf, in New York, proceeds to go to the State Olympic Committee.

  “Sixty million dollars. I’d love to say, here’s sixty mil, build something for posterity. And I never even heard of this guy Porfetto.”

  Leaning across my arm and reading, Fran said, “Because all you remember is the crime news. I’ve seen his name before. Keeps a very low profile and wallows in money. One of those Onassis types.”

  Our attention was diverted, and for the moment we forgot about Mr. Porfetto. Dinner was served, and soon after that we landed in New York. As we walked out of the airport building at Kennedy, Fran said to me, “Do you know, I’m getting used to it.”

  “To what?”

  “To being frightened. It really doesn’t trouble me so much any more.”

  “It troubles me,” I said, refraining from adding just how much it would trouble me if it turned out that the same gun had killed Green and Sanchez and Fitzpatrick. Happily, Fran had not made the connection. Los Angeles and New York were far apart, and I had chattered away about how easy it was for a cheap grifter like Green né Smith to get himself killed. But I think we were beginning to leave things unsaid, so far as each other was concerned; it was easier to leave them unsaid than to offer them for discussion.

  “At least we’re back where it’s cold, dirty, and real. When Alice went to Wonderland, she knew afterward that it wasn’t there. Los Angeles is very much there, and you might as well know, Harry, that I don’t believe our Dr. Green’s death was a coincidence. I’ve stopped believing in coincidence entirely.”

  Driving into the city from Kennedy, the cabdriver said, “In on the L.A. plane?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Missed St. Patrick’s Day, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, God save me!” Fran cried. “Mother of God forgive me, I’m the greatest dumbbell of all! How could I?” It was now half past eight in the evening. “Today. Of course—oh, Harry, I never missed a St. Patrick’s Day parade before. We always marched together.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. There’s always next year.”

  “If we live to see next year.”

  The next morning, at the station house, I was greeted with this from Sergeant Lasky at the desk: “The captain’s burning, Lieutenant. You went off and left your car locked and double-parked in front of the precinct. We had to call in Lassiter from Manhattan South to do a wire job because your wheels were locked into the curb.”

  “Come on,” I snorted. “Toomey has my key.”

  “Toomey’s sick with the flu.”

  “It’s in his desk. Didn’t anyone think to look in his desk?”

  “They looked in your desk.”

  When I got upstairs to the detective division, I was almost as angry as Courtny was said to be. He saw me through the glass and yelled for me to come into his office. The detectives weren’t grinning. They should have been grinning.

  “That was a dumb thing with your car,” Captain Courtny said, “but I’m not going to burn your ass over it. I know how much you thought of the kid, and that’ll give you enough grief for one day.”

  “What kid? What are you talking about?”

  “Jimmy Oshun, the medic from Bellevue. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver yesterday.”

  I shook my head dumbly. I guess tears started, at least enough to moisten my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Harry.”

  “Who did it? Where’s the driver?”

  “We didn’t get the driver, Harry.”

  “Well, what does the investigation show?” I shouted. “Who killed the kid? What have they found out?”

  “There hasn’t been any investigation, Harry.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you mean, there hasn’t been any investigation?”

  “I told you once, Harry, don’t get snotty with me!” His voice hardened. “You liked this kid and the kid wa
s killed. That don’t give you the right to come in here and run off at the mouth like some hopped-up jerk. In the first place, the hit-and-run was on Manhattan South turf. In the second place, yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day, and aside from the cops who were marching, the department had to put two thousand uniforms on the street. It’s the numero uno nuthatch day, and you’re asking me why we didn’t take over a Manhattan South hit-and-run?”

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I stormed out of his office and out of the station house. My car was in front, still double-parked. I drove to my brother Oscar’s apartment, found Shelly at home, still in a dressing gown, and told her I needed a telephone and privacy. Whatever I sounded like, I sounded enough like it for her not to question me.

  I haven’t written of my daughter, Sarah, or my son, Gavin, because they haven’t come into this account as yet. Gavin was a junior at Harvard, on scholarship, Sarah on partial scholarship at Wellesley. I called Gavin first. He’s a brilliant, wonderful boy, but stubborn.

  There was no answer from Gavin’s room. The college operator, whom I called next, said he was in class. I said this was New York City police priority, and that I didn’t give a damn where Gavin Golding was because I wanted him on the phone immediately. I suppose that being a cop half a lifetime does something for your voice, because ten minutes later I was talking to my son.

  “What is it, Pop? Something wrong?”

  “Damn wrong. Now you listen to me, Gavin. You resisted things I told you to do in the past. No sweat. It was give-and-take. Good. But now your life is at stake, and unless you do exactly what I’m telling you to do, you will be dead within a week.”

  “Pop, are you crazy?”

  “Now you listen to me!” I said, in a tone I had never used before. “How much money have you?”

  “About thirty dollars.”

  “Your charge card, do you have that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your passport?”

  “Yes, but Pop, tell me what’s going on. Is Mom all right?”

  “Mom is all right and I cannot tell you what’s going on. I want you to live and I want your sister to live, and your lives depend upon your doing exactly as I say. Leave college now, right after speaking to me. No luggage, just whatever you put in your pockets. Hat and coat. Drive to the airport and take the next flight to Ireland. Use your charge card. When you get to Shannon, wait there at the airport for your sister. Unless, of course, your sister reaches Boston airport before you. But wait for her. She may be delayed. When you reach Shannon, hire a cab and drive to Dublin, where your Uncle Sean will be expecting you and will put you up.” His Uncle Sean Murphy was headmaster at St. Joseph’s school in Dublin. “But don’t call our apartment from anywhere in Ireland.”

  “Pop,” Gavin pleaded, “I can’t do anything that crazy. I’m not built that way. You know that.”

  “I don’t give a damn how you’re built. Unless you do exactly as I say, you may have your mother’s life as well as mine on your conscience.” It was a low blow, but it convinced him. We spoke for a few minutes more, and finally he agreed to everything I said.

  Sarah made things less difficult. She was one of those gentle women, innocent without ever being simple and unaware of how lovely she was with her silken red hair and deep green eyes. I could almost feel her terror over the telephone, and I begged her not to panic.

  “I won’t, Daddy. I’ll be all right. You just don’t know how strong I can be. But you and Mommy—”

  “We’ll be fine. Your father is a tough old cop, and believe me, there is no one as tough and careful as a New York City cop. You know that, don’t you?”

  She laughed and that helped. “I know that, Daddy. But take care of Mommy, please.”

  She didn’t question my instructions, but then she knew me better than Sean did and in a different way. For the first time in my life, I regretted that I didn’t share my wife’s religion. If I had, I would have gone to the nearest Catholic church and bought out and lit every candle in the place. Instead, I drove back to the station house.

  “Now what kind of an asshole have you turned into?” Captain Courtny demanded. “I’d like some explanation of that lunatic performance of yours.”

  “I had to do something, and I had to do it too quickly to waste any time with explanations.”

  “I’m glad to know that any time spent with me is wasted. You didn’t even stop to review the time you were gone and to put out some assignments.”

  “I would have to catch up in any case, wouldn’t I? The squad is working. Life goes on.”

  “Sit down, Harry,” Courtny said, his voice softening. “Let’s talk. It’s time we did, and time you stopped chasing shadows. I got some pictures from the West Coast today, pictures of a thirty-two-caliber bullet. I spoke to Finelli over at the Twenty-fourth, and the pictures don’t match up. Finelli thinks maybe you been working too hard and worrying too much, and now this business of the medical student downtown. I been talking some more to Manhattan South, and they know about this kid. He’s a nut. He’s been bugging them with crazy accusations.”

  “That’s what you want to talk to me about? That because this kid is killed by a hit-and-run, he’s a nut?”

  “No. What I’m saying, you don’t walk into this.”

  “Who says I’m going to?” I demanded.

  “I know you. But you don’t. You leave it alone. It’s Manhattan South. They’ll do what has to be done.”

  “Are you kidding? With a hit-and-run? They’ll file it and forget it.”

  “What in hell do you think you are, supercop for the whole fuckin’ city? I don’t want to lose my temper again, Harry. We been together a long time, and you’re a damn good cop. A smart one, too, and they don’t grow on trees. And I like you. I don’t kiss ass when I like someone, but we work together pretty good. But now you’ve gone off the loop with these mirages of yours.”

  “Mirages hell! Stanley Curtis, Asher Alan, Sanchez, Judge Fitzpatnck, Jimmy Oshun, and Bert Smith, the guy in L.A., six people tied into a murder machine that doesn’t stop—”

  “You know what ties them in, Harry?” he yelled. “You! No reason, no motive, no connection with anyone to anyone else! You have become a nut! Now you listen to me, Harry. I’m getting a lot of flack. I’m getting it from downtown, where people know people and they put on the pressure. I’m getting it from a Dr. Hyde, who also knows people. I’m getting it from the commissioner who is an old friend of Stanley Curtis and his wife, and the wife let go at you before she went on a sail around the world. And I’m getting it from San Fernando where the local cops want to know what your nose was doing there when a local bum got wasted. So altogether, I am getting a lot of it, and that’s the end of it. You forget about Curtis and Alan and you let the Washington cops worry about Fitzpatrick and there is to be no pushing by you into the Oshun hit-and-run. Over. Done. That’s the word from downtown and that’s the word from Manhattan South.”

  He slammed his fist down on his desk, and then we sat in silence for a time, and then he said, “Well?”

  “There are just a few loose ends—” I began placatingly.

  “No! I said it’s done. Whatever file you got on this, either tear it up or send it downstairs to be stashed away. There is nothing here that concerns us. Start being a cop again.”

  I nodded shortly and rose and started to leave.

  “Harry!”

  I paused.

  “Don’t turn snake on me. I won’t work with a cop who turns snake. This is professional, not personal.”

  I turned around and we shook hands. At a moment like that, I didn’t need enemies. Courtny went out to lunch, and I took the folder with me and drove up to Columbia University. I knew Fran’s schedule, and when she came out of her last class, I was at the door, waiting. She was taken aback, but only for a moment, and then she looked at me without speaking. She took my arm, embracing it tightly as we walked to my car, and before we got into the car, she said, “You know, dear Harry, you can�
��t do this every day.”

  I shrugged, and we got into the car. “Harry,” she began; but I cut her off and said, rather sharply, “I don’t want to discuss anything just now.” She started to speak again, swallowed her words, and nodded. “Okay.”

  I took the transverse through Central Park at Ninety-sixth Street turned down Fifth Avenue and entered the park again at Seventy-second Street. Fran had hunched around and was staring through the rear window of the car.

  “We’re not being followed,” she said.

  “I know.”

  I drove west on the roadway at Seventy-second Street and parked in the little paved circle to the west of the Bethesda Fountain. I motioned Fran out of the car, took her arm and began to walk. “We’ll stroll a little,” I said softly. “It’s a nice day.”

  “You think it’s bugged—the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s pretty scary, Harry. What happened?”

  “They killed Jimmy Oshun yesterday.”

  “The kid at the lecture? Oh, my God,” spacing the words out slowly, but with no hysteria. There were things in Fran I had never suspected. We walked on through the gentle, early spring ambience of Central Park, and we had passed the Bethesda Fountain before she spoke again and said, “He kills. That’s his tool, isn’t it? He has a functioning death squad. Death squad. You know where the words come from—from the place where the method was devised, from Santa Marina. No arguments, no arrests, no threats—just death. You kill whatever troubles you, whatever interferes with you, whatever annoys you, whatever disagrees with you, whatever threatens you—you just kill it. Harry, I think I’m going to start screaming.”