Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

“I’ve been saving it for a special person.”

  “Keep saving it,” Trent said. “I was discussing you with Phil King a week or so ago. We both still wonder if you were the trigger man in Cambodia.”

  “Elephants,” Kane said.

  Trent frowned. “What?”

  “Someone said elephants have long memories. I wonder if that’s an urban legend, or more accurately, a jungle legend.”

  Trent took a deep drag on the cigarette, the end burning bright red. Expelled the smoke. “Damon isn’t the only one who went missing. There’s a fellow who worked for the Cappucci clan. A chap named Quinn.”

  “Since when do you care about the mafia?” Kane asked, but he knew what was coming based on what Quinn had revealed before departing the mortal coil at the other end of the rope that had been around Kane’s neck.

  “We keep tabs on organized crime,” Trent said, “but that’s not who is asking about Quinn. Our friends across the pond are making discrete inquiries reference his whereabouts. Very hush-hush, top secret stuff.”

  “Then why are you telling me? Lost my clearance a long time ago, about the time I got a dishonorable discharge. By the way, what’s the progress on that?”

  Trent tsk-tsked. “Why do I have to remind you to keep the conversation mature? Did you know Quinn was working deep cover for MI-6?”

  Kane indicated the wire. “Why not pull the microphone out so I can speak into it directly and avoid any possible distortion? And really, you want to keep this mature? Don’t ask stupid questions when the answer will be recorded.”

  Trent nodded as he fired up another cigarette. A small cloud was beginning to hover over the booth and Kane was regretting not taking Morticia’s suggestion about upgrading the heating and cooling.

  Trent pulled a small radio out of his jacket pocket and switched transmit off. Put it back. “Her Majesty isn’t pleased. Actually, let’s be real, Her Majesty has no fucking clue who Quinn was or what he was doing. The Brits like talking that way. As if they still answer to royalty. But like us, MI-6 is a world unto itself. They are not pleased. And their displeasure can have consequences.”

  “I heard a rumor that Quinn was trying to infiltrate the IRA’s gun buying operation here in the States,” Kane said.

  “Which is why he was after Sean Damon,” Trent said. “Fucking Micks are a pain in the ass. They’ve been fighting the Brits so long, most of ‘em have no clue what they’re fighting about.”

  “Isn’t it about freedom?”

  Trent made a sound of disgust. “What does that really mean? Are any of us free? We just trade the yoke from one self-centered group of pricks to another.”

  “Never took you for a philosopher,” Kane said.

  “I worship at the altar of pragmatism.”

  “Which self-centered group of pricks are you working for?” Kane asked.

  Trent reached across the table and took Kane’s water. Drank. “Damon is missing. Quinn is missing.”

  “Perhaps they committed suicide together?”

  “That would have been fortunate but it’s not what happened, is it?”

  “No idea.”

  “That’s not the only thing you have no idea about,” Trent said. “The key fact in front of me is you’re not missing.” He waited on the response.

  Kane took a sip of coffee.

  “Well,” Trent finally said, “what’s done is done. Blood over the dam.” He chained another cigarette. Morticia glided by, shooting him a dirty look, a thimbleful of water splashed unnoticed into a waterfall of sewage. “Five bodies were found on the top floor of a building not far from here. Damon, three of his guys and one unknown. I don’t suppose you know what happened to them?”

  “Ask your buddies at the FBI,” Kane said. “They took over the scene from NYPD.”

  “I did. Got nothing from them. Boys in Suits. Think they can run counter-intel when they can barely tie their shoes.”

  “Sometimes I wonder how this country functions at all,” Kane said. “Between the various alphabet soups, I don’t think anyone knows what they’re doing.”

  “And you know what you’re doing?” Trent asked. “That was, by the way, rhetorical, because we both know you’re clueless.”

  “There’s an inherent logic flaw somewhere in there. Then why ask me anything?”

  “Quinn’s missed three contacts with his handler at MI-6,” Trent said. “That means he’s either dead or gone rogue.”

  “I think he was always rogue,” Kane said.

  “You used the past tense,” Trent observed. “Thus, he’s the fifth body.” It wasn’t a question. “Phil King wants to mollify our British cousins. Quinn was working on a long-term deep cover op. Damon was just one part of it and—“

  “Then he wanted to become head of the Five Families,” Kane said. “Or married to the head. Seems Sofia Cappucci has aspirations.”

  “That may be,” Trent said. “MI-6 hasn’t exactly filled us in on their plans.”

  “What do you know about Sofia Cappucci?” Kane asked. “I hear she has a degree from Princeton.”

  “Thinking of switching one lady boss for another?” Trent asked.

  Kane didn’t take the bait. “Quinn was involved with her. She’s on the periphery of this discussion.”

  “Let’s leave her there,” Trent said.

  “Operation Underworld,” Kane said. “Before your time. Before the CIA’s time. During World War II, Naval intelligence, an oxymoron, recruited Lucky Luciano to influence the mafia to ensure the New York docks were safe from saboteurs and squash any strike by the unions that could affect the shipment of war supplies.”

  “Ancient history,” Trent said.

  “I was wondering why you, the CIA that is, cared so much about how Damon was going to parcel out bids to the various families here in New York given you have no jurisdiction over them. I’m thinking leverage against future possibilities. Get some chips you can cash later with the mob?”

  “’You just keep thinkin’ Butch. That’s what you’re good at’.”

  “You must have a thing for Robert Redford,” Kane said. “Damon was point of contact for NORAID and buying guns for the IRA. Your cousins across the pond or lake or ocean, should be happy that he’s no longer acting in that capacity.”

  “But someone will take his place,” Trent pointed out. “Quinn’s goal wasn’t to take out Damon. If that had been it, he could have done it relatively easily as you’ve shown.” Trent made a point of looking at Kane’s wrists and neck. “Probably more efficiently than you.”

  “Doubtful,” Kane said, “as he’s also among the missing.”

  Trent gave a slight nod. “That is a point of consideration.” He chained another cigarette. “Irregardless, one of the goals was uncovering the IRA infrastructure in the US along with contacts in what the Irish like to refer to as the ‘old country’. The Brits have troops in harm’s way in Ireland. Names, Kane. They wanted names, not a massacre.”

  “They wanted an infiltration and for Quinn to stay in place,” Kane said. “Be a mole. No matter what he was doing outside the mission tasking. No matter how many people he killed or hurt.”

  “Let’s stay mature,” Trent said. “The machine will always be grinding away. People are replaceable. The goal is to get the right people in the right places and control the machine. Not throw wrenches in it. You seem to have a limitless supply of wrenches.”

  “You’re assuming the machine is inevitable,” Kane said.

  Trent shook his head. “You know--” He reached up and put a hand to the earpiece. Glanced over his shoulder as the Washington Street door opened.

  The Kid approached the table, missed a step seeing Trent, but continued. Tossed the Times on the table and snatched the five-dollar bill. Kane gave him a forced smile and a slight shake of his head. The Kid departed without a word.

  “Keeping up on the news?” Trent asked.

  “Did MI-6 know what Quinn was up to off the clock?”

  Trent shrugged. �
��Who cares? The problem is you went rogue and fucked up their op.”

  “You don’t know that,” Kane said. “And there is nothing for me to go rogue from.”

  “Phil King believes you owe. Thus, you owe.”

  “Let me repeat: how can I go rogue when I don’t work for anyone?”

  “You still do jobs for your girlfriend lawyer. I notice her father wasn’t part of your Blackout—well, what do we want to call it? You were there. Fiasco? Clusterfuck?”

  “I got nothing for you.”

  “Bullshit,” Trent said. “You got between Damon and Quinn and walked away with nothing? I got a bridge on the other side of the island to sell you. There’s some buzz that there was a lot of money besides the weapons.”

  “Twenty-seven men died building the Brooklyn Bridge,” Kane said. “And six days after it opened in 1883, a woman fell on a staircase and caused a panic, killing twelve more people. Sometimes the building of something has unintended deadly consequences as well as the completion.”

  Trent stubbed out a cigarette, rattling the ashtray. “I don’t have the patience for your bullshit.”

  “Yet, here you are.”

  “What’s with Thomas Marcelle?” Trent asked. “He was involved, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s a question I’m currently pondering,” Kane said.

  Trent was reaching for the pack in his jacket pocket when his hand shifted and went to the earpiece. He turned and got up, rattled. “What the fuck, Kane?” He headed for the door on Gansevoort.

  Kane followed. They exited into the middle of a burgeoning standoff. Two men, Trent’s security, stood next to the big Lincoln, mini-Uzi’s in hand, but not raised.

  Ting Van and Tong Van faced them. The twins had their hands hovering near their waist, ready to draw and pull whatever firepower they were packing under their silk suit jackets, which last Kane had seen, the night of the Blackout when they helped protect the Diner, were Mac-10s. Van Van were identical twins, Chinese, with dark hair and sporting black silk suits with white shirts and thin black ties. They were solidly built, five and a half feet tall.

  “Easy,” Kane said to Van Van. He pointed at the guards and then indicated Trent. “They are here with him, to talk to me.”

  The Van on the right glanced at Trent, while the other Van kept his focus on the two security guards.

  “They are not here for you,” Kane added to Trent.

  “Nungs?” Trent laughed, trying to recover his composure. “What kind of place you running here, Kane? You got mercenaries working for you?”

  “They don’t work for me.”

  “You never cease to amaze me,” Trent said.

  Kane spoke to Van Van. “Talk to Thao in the kitchen.”

  They bowed slightly at the waist and went into the diner. One looking forward, the other walking backward, keeping watch.

  Trent gave a signal and his security retreated to the air-conditioned comfort of the Lincoln.

  Kane and Trent returned to the booth.

  “Did they help you with Damon and his Trinity?” Trent asked. “And Quinn? That would explain a lot.”

  “Do you think I would have needed help? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

  “I think you need help right now,” Trent said. “Take that kid who just delivered the paper, like he does every day.”

  Kane tensed, waiting for the hammer.

  “I’m disappointed in the details you’ve let slip your mind,” Trent said, “given you were just lecturing me on that matter. You’ve forgotten that our surveillance picked up your kerfuffle with those two Delgado musclemen who broke into your place. That was before you finally realized we had the bugs. The night you were crying? Did you spill some milk? I still wonder about that. Anyway, that caught our attention. Remember asking them for the keys to their Cadillac? We have that on tape. Surprised you let those guys go still breathing. We put surveillance on the car.

  “Seems that young friend of yours has some dubious acquaintances; besides you, of course. Somehow, he ended up with the keys and sold the car to what is called in the vernacular, a chop shop. That’s a felony. We’ve got photos. I suspect the young fellow would be very popular among the inmates on Rikers.”

  “Were you born this way?” Kane asked.

  “Smart? My parents told me I was a genius from a very young age. If I’d studied the violin, I’d have been a virtuoso.”

  “They lied.”

  Trent waited.

  “I might have something about Westway,” Kane finally said.

  “Yes?”

  “What Damon was planning on doing with the contracts. But as I said, with him gone, it’s out of date.”

  “The people on the other end aren’t,” Trent noted. “It’s all data. The stuff we feed into that computer. Never know what turns out to be important.”

  “The computer Robert Redford runs?”

  “Bring me what you have.”

  “It’s about money, isn’t it?” Kane asked. “That’s what you told me last time we met. That money is the fuel for everything.”

  “Glad to know you listened.”

  “Where did you hear there was money in Damon’s place?”

  Trent reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled pack. Fired one up. Took a deep drag. Gave Kane an appraising look. “That’s the FBI’s case.”

  “You called them ‘boys in suit’,” Kane pointed out. “You know anything about who uses radio-controlled detonators?”

  Trent ignored the question. “When can you get what I want?”

  “It will take me a day to produce,” Kane said. “That should give you time to get me some answers.”

  “You work for me,” Trent said.

  “No. We’re dealing with each other as mature, responsible assholes.”

  Trent snorted. “All right. Live your fantasy.”

  “And something else,” Kane said. “Do you know anything about an IRA team here in the States planning something?”

  Trent’s eyes narrowed behind the tinted lenses. “What have you heard?”

  “Ask the FBI,” Kane said. “They queried me. I’m clueless, as you’ve pointed out.”

  “When did they ask you this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Trent inhaled deeply on the cigarette dangling from his lips. Let out a cloud of smoke. He lit another one from the remains, even though he was barely a third through. “Why are they talking to you?”

  “Ask them.”

  “Fucking Irish,” Trent muttered. “Tilting at windmills while drunk and singing heroic ballads. Do they have windmills in Ireland? What did the Feebs say?”

  “They said that an Irish squad of what they called the Swords of Saint Patrick is in the States trying to procure weapons and explosives for a mission and that it would occur next week.”

  Trent blinked. “You’re shitting me. How do they know that?”

  “From Damon.”

  Trent processed that one for a few seconds and then delivered his summation. “Fuck me to tears.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said. “Left hand, right hand, no brain controlling either one and certainly no coordination.”

  “You took out the Brits’ guy and the Feeb’s guy in the same evening?” Trent shook his head. “Un-fucking-believable. But I should expect you to do epic things, Kane. Your little escapade in Cambodia almost ended the war.”

  “As I said last time you mentioned that,” Kane said, “would that have been a bad thing given subsequent history? Also, I didn’t say I took anyone out.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Trent said but his mind was elsewhere. “The IRA has never done direct action on U.S. soil. It would fuck with their base here. They need the money. It’s not adding up. It might be something Damon fed the Feebs to keep them happy and confused.”

  “That might be,” Kane agreed. “But I think the team is real.”

  “Why?”

  Kane checked to make sure Morticia wasn’t within range. “They tried to kill me the night
before last.”

  “You’re just full of surprises,” Trent said. “What happened?”

  “What do you know about a guy named Crawford? Rich oilman from Texas.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Might want to check him out, because it was either him or me as the target.”

  The ash was almost an inch long on Trent’s neglected cigarette. With his free hand he rubbed his forehead. “What happened?”

  “Someone tried to blow up a boat we—Crawford and I-- were on in the harbor Thursday night. Radio controlled timer to C-4. I was lucky and interrupted them before they finished the connection. Wounded one of them in the shoulder.”

  “And the cops don’t know,” Trent said.

  “If the cops knew, you’d have known.”

  “True.” The cigarette was so far gone the red glowing edge reached his fingers. He looked at it for several moments as it reached flesh, then put it out in the ashtray. Pulled the pack out, fumbled for a lighter, checking one pocket, then found it in another. Fired up. “Who from the FBI told you this?”

  “Two agents. Tucker and Shaw.”

  “Never heard of ‘em.”

  “They said they’ve been running Damon for three years.”

  Trent snorted. “Or he was running them. He was a wily old bastard who outlived a lot of people.”

  “I’d agree that’s more likely. They said he was close to giving them more information. But I doubt that was going to happen. Anyone with any sense of covert ops would never let that kind of info out.”

  “The IRA isn’t that professional,” Trent said.

  “A small cell could be. If they sent someone over here, they’d send their best.”

  “Yeah, but what would that be, given it’s the Irish? Hell, they skipped out on World War II. They spend more time fighting each other than the Brits.” Trent shook his head. “Damon was stringing them along.”

  “Yeah, except someone tried to blow up the boat I was on the other night,” Kane reminded him. “It wasn’t the CIA, was it?”

  “If it had been, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Really?” Kane asked. “Did you know about Quinn beforehand? That he was a foreign agent operating on your turf, Trent, here in the city.”

  Trent took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Who is that?” He indicated Riley, who was bussing a table.