“Sure,” said Walter, returning the waiter’s friendly smile.
“Would you like to begin with a salad with roasted pine nuts and the world-famous Localino vinaigrette?”
“World famous?”
“In my world, to be sure.”
“I’ll skip the salad, thank you,” said Walter.
“And for you, sir . . . ,” the waiter continued, turning to Devereaux.
“The filet mignon will do just fine,” Devereaux said. “Angel hair pasta with that.”
“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Sliced medallions of filet mignon in Italian Romagna brandy, with mushrooms and peppercorns. Will that be all?” Devereaux nodded and the old man motioned for the young girl to pour the wine—first a taste for Walter’s approval, then a full glass for each of them. “Welcome to Il Localino. Anything I can do to make your meal more enjoyable, you call me, no?”
“Thank you,” said Walter. “We’re looking forward to a wonderful dinner.”
Devereaux looked at Walter and said, “You should look around. Go ahead, turn your head. Take a look.” Walter did. Il Localino was a small restaurant in a narrow building with the tables almost on top of each other, except for the ones by the window where he and Louis Devereaux sat. They had plenty of room, lots of privacy. In the middle of everything was a fountain gurgling with enough running water to keep conversations private. The walls and high ceiling were covered with old paintings, photographs and posters. As small, even tiny, as the restaurant was, so narrow you could not walk straight for more than a few feet in any direction, large potted plants were scattered about, lending privacy here and there while making it seem even more crowded. The walls and ceilings were dark, with exposed brick adding to the flavor. “The place has the feel of New York, don’t you think? Third Avenue, downtown or somewhere in the East Village?”
“Charming,” said Walter.
Devereaux laughed. “Wait till they start singing.” He took a sip of his wine, silently indicated his approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“It’s really great to meet you. Seriously. I never thought I’d get the opportunity.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Walter said, in a casual, comfortable, friendly tone of voice. “But I haven’t got the slightest fucking idea who you are.” There was no hint of anger in his voice.
“Aha,” laughed Devereaux. “You’d like to know, though, wouldn’t you? Haven’t figured out yet how I got your cell phone number, have you?”
“Haven’t even thought about it,” said Walter. “The options are fairly limited. I was guessing you’d want to tell me. So, who are you and why am I here—other than to have a delightful dinner?”
“You’re looking for Harry Levine. I’m looking for Harry Levine.” Devereaux’s smile became a wide grin as he shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it’s hard to believe that I’m looking for the same man as Walter Sherman. I’m getting a real kick out of it. And I need you to find him.”
“Are you offering me a job?”
“No, no,” chuckled Devereaux. “You’re already on the job.”
“Just want to horn in? Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. Levine has two aunts. One of them—a woman of exceptional beauty, I’m sure you’ll agree—visits you on St. John, and the other, you visit here in Atlanta.”
“Roswell.”
“Roswell, right. Sadie Fagan didn’t hire you. That’s for certain. So, that leaves Conchita Crystal. Don’t get me wrong, Walter. I’m happy you’re looking for Harry. I could never find him myself.”
“Why do you want him?” asked Walter, fumbling about the basket of long, thin bread sticks, finally picking two of them.
“How much do you know about Lacey?” Devereaux asked.
“Lacey who?”
Devereaux smiled. “You’re good.” He knew, from the look in Walter’s eyes, the name Lacey meant something to him. Of course Walter Sherman knew who Frederick Lacey was. But Devereaux thought it best to defer to Walter, to let him at least temporarily appear as a true professional. Only moments later, when he got no further response from Walter, he changed his mind. “I want to find him for the same reason you do,” Devereaux said. “We both know what he has. Although neither of us has read it and neither of us really knows precisely how important it might be. It’s possible—make that probable—that what Harry has, contains . . . things—things that some people don’t want to see openly exposed in the harsh light of public knowledge. Who can guess what such forces might do to get that document. When you find him, Walter, you’ll read it. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about, won’t you?”
“I have no interest in anything Harry Levine may have. I don’t want to read a thing. Couldn’t care less.”
“Of course. You never get involved, do you? You just find them, wherever they’re hiding.”
“Maybe you’re the guy he’s hiding from,” Walter said, munching a bread stick he dipped in garlic butter. This time he laughed.
“No,” Devereaux said. “I work for the President of the United States. I’m the guy Levine’s trying to get to. I’m the one he wants to give the document to—the document about which you have no interest. But I’m also the guy who can’t find him. He got spooked in London and took off. You can find him. Probably, you’re the only person in the world who can. And I want to help, in any way I can.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because, when you find Harry Levine, I’m the guy who gets the President to guarantee his safety. And we get the document, which I freely admit is my principal objective. I’m as interested in finding him as his aunts are. More. If Conchita Crystal hadn’t hired you . . .”
“I don’t work for the government, the FBI, the CIA, the whatever initials you come up with. Actually,” Walter said, once more with a smile, this one tinged with real irony, “I don’t work at all, anymore.”
“I heard you retired,” said Devereaux. He took a sip of his wine and adjusted the napkin protecting his lap. “You came back, I see.”
They were almost finished with the bottle of Chianti. Their food came out of the kitchen looking great, smelling wonderful and tasting as good as they’d been told it would. Walter’s grouper was moist and tender, flaky at the touch of his fork, with just the proper amount of capers on top. The linguini was al dente, perfect. Devereaux seemed to enjoy his meal too. As the two men ate, Louis Devereaux told Walter how much he knew about him, and how long he knew it. He was either an admirer or a good actor. He obviously enjoyed telling the story as much as, or more, than Walter liked hearing it. It took Walter only a few minutes to understand Louis Devereaux was CIA. Like he said, the options were limited. He had so much information about him. He knew about Vietnam. He knew about Gloria. He mentioned Walter’s daughter and her family in Kansas City. He didn’t say it, because he didn’t have to, but of course Devereaux knew Walter had gone so far underground he hadn’t filed an income tax return for almost forty years. For all practical purposes, Walter Sherman was a phantom. He didn’t offend Walter by revealing specific knowledge of his clients, but he did drop the name Leonard Martin, twice. Walter gave him no reaction either time. After dinner, they ordered coffee. Each passed on dessert. They did, however, graciously accept an after-dinner drink, compliments of the house. As they sipped their brandy, Devereaux asked, “Is there anything you need? Anything I might be able to help with?”
“Not now,” said Walter. “When I find him, what do you want me to do?”
“Not a thing,” Devereaux said with a sense of earnestness not previously part of their conversation. “I know you don’t do anything. That’s not the deal you make. And I’m not asking you to change that now. I’ll give you a number. Call it and we’ll take over from there.” Walter did not reply, not in words. He simply nodded. For Louis Devereaux, Walter could tell, that nod had only one meaning—acceptance. He said nothing to Devereaux about Conchita’s plan to hide Harry somewhere, somewhere no one would find him.
“Let’s go,” said Devereaux. “I don’t need any change.”
Walter got up, turned around to leave and, as he did, the small restaurant got smaller. Between him and the desk at the front door there wasn’t enough room for more than one person to walk. For Walter to exit Il Localino, he had to practically brush up against the couple that had just come in and was waiting to be seated. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in place. Devereaux waited quietly behind him.
“Walter?” said the woman facing him no more than a yard or two away. “Is that you?” It was Isobel Gitlin. She’d changed. Five years will do that to anyone. The twenty-nine-year-old girl was now a mid-thirties woman. She was heavier than he remembered her. Almost plump now, he thought. The picture of her in a black string bikini running into the surf at Cinnamon Bay, kicking up sand as she dashed across the beach, was as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Isobel’s shoulder-length, dark hair was longer now, flecked with spots of gray on the left side. She held her coat over one arm. Her hips were bigger. In that moment, he lost his breath thinking of her naked in his bed at The Mayflower in New York, the sheets pushed off, leaving the left side of her body bare as she lay sleeping on her stomach. He remembered the feel of her hip and the small of her back, the sweet scent of the pillow . . . and when she turned over, how he kissed her nipples . . .
“Walter?” she said again.
“Hello, Isobel,” he mumbled, hoping he sounded normal.
“Walter. Walter. What a treat. You look w-w-wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Another kiss pushed its way into his mind, a kiss she gave him in front of the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue in New York, years ago. He was struggling.
“Walter, I want you to meet Otto Heinrich, my husband.” Walter held his hand out. A man, standing a little behind Isobel, grabbed it with a big smile. He was a pudgy man, not very tall, shorter than Isobel, about forty maybe forty-five years old. Most of the hair on top of his head was gone.
“Nice to meet you, Walter,” he said. His handshake was strong and firm. It seemed like he was never going to let go. “Isobel has told me so much about you.”
“I have to go now,” said Walter. “I have to go now.” He eased past Isobel and her husband, out into the cool Georgia night. He did not turn around. Devereaux followed him and they walked in silence toward the valet parking pickup. Walter gave his ticket to the young attendant who ran off to get the car.
“You know her?” Devereaux asked. And just then Walter could sense inner panic. He tried, with no success, to push his instincts, to rebound, to be once more sharp as ever. It seemed to him that Devereaux already knew the answer to that question, that he’d known the answer even before Isobel walked into Il Localino.
“Yes. I do. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you.” The words came out almost involuntarily. He didn’t mean to say them.
“Not at all. I know who Isobel Gitlin is—she doesn’t use the Heinrich name. Otto plays violin for the Atlanta Symphony. They live a couple of blocks from here, on Austin Avenue, within walking distance. Il Localino is her favorite restaurant. I thought you’d like to eat here.”
Walter’s car rolled up. The valet jumped out leaving the door open. Walter did his best to stumble in behind the wheel. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking.
“I’ll be in touch, Walter,” Devereaux said. “And don’t worry about me. There’s a car waiting for me.” Walter saw the black limo with its engine running, double-parked just up the block. Sinking down in his seat, he turned the steering wheel on his own car and drove off in the other direction.
“Oh, yeah. I remember President Roosevelt,” said Ike. “Mr. Roosevelt, we called him. Seemed to me back then—I was just a young boy, you know—seemed like he was some kind of king from a faraway land, didn’t have anything to do with us, with our little island. The war grew me up,” he added. “It surely did.”
“I never paid any attention to politicians,” said Billy. “Except a couple mayors and commissioners. They’re all thieves. Every damn one of them. License to steal, that’s what a politician has. You know—you got a driver’s license—I got a bar license—they got a stealing license.” Helen looked at her man, beaming with pride.
“I remember Nixon,” she said. “That man makes Billy look like a saint.”
“Hey! What are you saying?”
“No, Billy,” she said patting his face gently and kissing him on his stubbly chin. “I didn’t mean anything about you. I meant you had them all down pat. Nixon proves that, doesn’t he? Thieves and bandits.”
“Willie Sutton,” said Walter. “There was a thief for you. He said he robbed banks because—you know why? Because that’s where the money is. Cogent analysis.”
“De Nero,” piped up Ike, striking another of his long wooden matches and sticking the exploding flame at the end of a crooked, old cigarette he slipped out of his shirt pocket. He puffed it like a cigar, smoke billowing out about him as he spoke. “Not the man himself—he’s just an actor you know—but the guy he played in Goodfellas. That was a true story—yes, it was. Stole millions from the airport in New York. Kennedy airport, I think it was. Never got caught. ’Course they killed each other over it afterwards, but I don’t count that. We’re only talking about the thieving, not the keeping, right?”
Walter had been sitting in his regular seat since about ten. The lunch crowd came and went. Helen fixed him a salmon sandwich with steamed broccoli—small portions, after all it was only lunch. He’d been thinking about his recent trip to Atlanta—Devereaux, Il Localino, Isobel, and Sadie Fagan. If not for Sadie he wouldn’t have gone at all. She had given him something, certainly she had. She talked so much, so openly about Harry. Somewhere in what she said was something important. Walter was mad at himself because he hadn’t discovered it yet. His mind was unclear, muddled. Devereaux rankled him. And Isobel—“Damn!” he berated himself, unable to get her out of his thoughts, out of his way. He had no time for her. He needed peace to put the pieces in their proper place. What was it Billy just said? The thieving, not the keeping? What thief doesn’t keep his loot?
“Robin Hood,” Walter said, smiling at Ike.
“Robin Hood? What the hell does that mean?”
“Thieves who don’t keep it, Ike. Isn’t that what Billy meant?”
“No,” said Billy. “Forget about Robin Hood. We’re talking big time here. What was he doing? Hanging around a forest ripping off people dumb enough to ride through. Small change.”
“Okay then,” said Walter, I’ll take them all.” He lifted his glass bottle in the air. “The Robber Barons, Rockefellers, Bill Gates—all of them.”
“That’s a pretty powerful combination,” offered Ike.
“Yeah,” Billy said, on his way to the kitchen door. “The bigger they are, the more mud they’ve been swimming in.”
“Damn, I like that,” said the old man. “I’ll take the mud itself, if you don’t mind.”
“Mud?” Billy asked. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“The lubricant,” Ike said. “It’s the lubricant for all of them. For everything. You got a way about you, Billy. Thank you. Sort of like a metaphor, if you know what I mean. If they all swim in it, it must be so.”
“Metaphor?” marveled Walter.
“And I got it,” the old man said.
“The lubricant? You know what the lubricant is, don’t you?” scoffed Billy. “Judges. That’s the lubricant. You got the judges, you got it all, believe me. I’ll take the judges.” Once more, as they always did it seemed, Ike and Billy, their choices already settled, loo
ked to Walter. He had this silly smile on his face. “Pennzoil,” was all he said.
“Damn, this is serious business, young man,” chided Ike.
Billy wrote it up—Mud/Judges/Pennzoil.
The restaurant on the veranda at the Caneel Bay resort overlooks the crescent-shaped, white sandy beach that is the private property of the hotel. The restaurant is very big—perhaps fifty feet square—and it’s protected from the Caribbean sun by a pyramid hip roof with cedar shake shingles. Cedar shake is a favorite among those who can afford it, in tropical places like St. John where the sun is particularly hot and where there is also an abundance of rainfall. When the cedar gets wet it expands and when it’s especially dry, the cedar shingles loosen up. The result is a kind of filter effect. The roof breathes, allowing heat to dissipate. It helps to keep a house cool. In the case of this restaurant, it was little more than a pleasant bonus. Its roof covered an otherwise open area built in exactly the right place to get the most of sea breezes. On the most uncomfortably warm days, the veranda was a nice place to be.
Walter arrived on time. He had a thing about that. Timeliness was next to godliness, they say. For Walter, it was a good distance in front. Being late made him nervous. If he was expected at noon, he thought that was when he ought to be there. A little early was okay. A little late was not. Likewise for those who made appointments to meet him. Years ago he gave up the lame practice of saying things like, “it’s all right,” or “that’s okay,” when somebody showed up late cavalierly apologizing for their tardiness. Such automatic, clearly bogus sentiments were taken by Walter for what they were—arrogance. He never humiliated anyone by challenging what he felt was their disrespect, but he did forego the allowance and acceptance of that behavior that is so much a part of most people’s routine. The girl was also on time for this meeting. She asked for it. It seemed only right that she should already be there when he showed up.
The Lacey Confession Page 16