Madman's Thirst (15 page)

“Thank you. Now I think I deserve
a reward, don’t you.” He held out a hand. “May I have this dance? You don’t
mind, do you, Jake. You’ve had her all night.”

“Of course not.”

But Scarne did feel a twinge of
…something…as he watched them. Arachne was such a fine dancer that, even though
he was shorter than Emma in her heels, he looked powerful and dominant. For the
first time, Scarne studied him closely. Can’t be much taller than five-six,
five-seven. Broad shoulders and a massive head, really too large for that body.
Steel-gray hair, cut long and swept back. Bushy eyebrows, prominent nose and
chin gave his face the look of the prow of a ship. Reminded Scarne of pictures
of another ‘Ari.’ The phrase “ugly handsome” popped into his head. The kind of
man who got any woman he wanted. Like Jackie O. Or Emma Shields?

“Better wash that one?”

The drunken woman next to him was
tugging his sleeve. He turned to her.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I shed, you better wash that one.
He’sh after your woman.”

He was about to reply when to his
horror the woman jumped up and pulled him out of his chair.

“Lesh you and I give her sumpin’
to worry about. I wanna dansh. Last time Henry ashed me, cars didn’t have
hubcapsh, they had spokesh.”

Dancing with the woman was like
pushing a supermarket cart that had a bent wheel. It was all Scarne could do to
prevent them from careening into the Temple of Dendur. After what seemed like
an hour, he finally steered her back to the table, where she discovered a
just-opened bottle of wine. Arachne and Emma joined them.

“Then I’ll see you later,” Arachne
said, kissing her hand. He looked at Jake. “Both of you.” He strode off
purposefully. The band started up and Scarne, sensing an imminent attack from
his recent partner, quickly pulled Emma on to the dance floor.

“Jake, this is so nice. When do I
grab your ass?”

“Pardon me.”

“Mrs. Heartland over there had her
hand on your ass the whole time you were dancing.” Emma gave him a little
squeeze.

“Cut it out. My whole life was
flashing before my eyes. I wouldn’t think you had time to notice. You and
Arachne cut quite a figure.”

“He’s a fascinating man. Great
dancer, too. We actually spent quite a bit of time talking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He thinks you are quite the
interesting fellow. Wanted to know all about you. I had some difficulty
steering the conversation back to how wonderful I look.”

“That couldn’t have been hard. You
do look marvelous. But isn’t he married?”

“There is trouble in paradise.”

“Isn’t he on his third?”

“Who’s counting?”

***

Emma and Scarne got to Arachne’s
apartment building on East 65
^th
Street around midnight. Upon
entering, Scarne commented on the spectacular oval lobby and its 20-foot blue
oculus.

“It’s meant to give the effect of
an open sky,” Emma said. “This building was designed by Robert Stern, the Dean
of Architecture at Yale.”

“I knew that.”

“Sorry, I’m showing off. We own
New
York Design Magazine
and they just did a piece on him.”

Arachne had apparently invited
more than a select few back to his apartment. There was a backup at the
elevators. Emma put her hand on Scarne’s arm.

“Let’s go this way,” she said, and
led him down a hallway where they exited onto a side street. Once outside they
walked a few feet and into the building’s garage area. At the bottom of a small
ramp was a private elevator. Emma punched some numbers into a small keypad next
to the door. Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing.

“Damn. I never get it right. It’s
the day, month and year.”

“It changes every day?”

“Yes, Ari is paranoid.” She looked
at Scarne. “He’d probably have a canary if he knew I told you that, sweetie.”

“I’m honored,” Scarne said, with a
twinge of annoyance. He had noted the “never get it right” comment. Emma had
obviously used the private elevator before. How many times? He suppressed his
jealousy. “It’s after midnight, the date probably changed.”

“Of course!” She punched in the
numbers and the doors opened. “Voila!”

The high-speed lift took them to
the penthouse on the 34
^th
floor overlooking Central Park. A servant
took their coats in the white-marble entrance hallway and they walked into a
living room made stunning by upholstered walls and black lacquer cabinetry. Dozens
of guests were lined up at a wet bar that seemed to be made of onyx. Scarne
looked up at a coffered gold-covered ceiling.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, 24-carat,” Emma said. “Ari
never passes up a chance to trump Trump.”

More guests were hovering around a
large buffet in the adjacent dining room, which like the living room, featured
a wide-planked antique Versailles floor. The room had Venetian-style fabric
walls and a hand-painted ceiling and its large windows offered both park and
river views. There were perhaps 40 people in the apartment. Scarne and Emma found
Arachne among a group of people on a terrace off the living room admiring the
spectacular view of Central Park and the lights of midtown. Many of the men
were smoking cigars. Arachne spotted them and walked over.

“Glad you could make it. Let’s repair
to the library.” He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

He led them down a long hallway lined
with black-and-white Ansel Adams photos. He waved them into the library and
closed the sliders.

“I like to come here to think –
and drink,” he said, walking over to a sidebar. He picked up a carafe.

“How about some port? It’s a 1967
Noval Nacional. Portuguese ambassador sent me a couple of bottles after I built
a golf course over there.”

Another Trump-like endeavor,
Scarne thought. The Donald creates a reality show, Arachne follows. Golf
courses, gold ceilings. Was the man envious, or just insecure? While Arachne
fixed their drinks, Scarne continued to look around. The library was dominated
by two huge bronze chandeliers. On one wall a maple bookcase rose to the
ceiling. The room’s artwork was eclectic, with paintings by Wyeth, Pollack,
Prince and Rockwell, as well as a Tang Dynasty horse sculpture.  

Emma and Scarne sat facing a
fireplace flanked by diamond-paneled leaded windows. Above the fireplace was a
painting by James Nares, whose flowing red ribbon seemed to be an extension of
the flames in the hearth.

“This is a magnificent apartment,”
Scarne said.

“Yes, it is. In some ways I’m
going to miss it.”

“I didn’t know you were moving,
Ari,” Emma said.

Arachne looked up from pouring the
drinks.

“I’m closing next week on the
penthouse at 8 Spruce. Should be moving in by the end of next month.”

Everyone in Manhattan knew about
the stunning new apartment building in lower Manhattan near the Brooklyn Bridge.
Designed by Frank Gehry, at 76 stories it was said to be the tallest
residential building in the Western Hemisphere and had won nearly unanimous
praise from the city’s notoriously cantankerous architectural critics, who
raved over its shimmering, wavelike metal exterior. Scarne, who had passed it
many times, was less impressed. Looking up at its curves and angles gave him a
headache.

  “I understand it’s taller than
Trump Tower,” Scarne said innocently. “Will it also have a private elevator?”

Emma shot him a look but Arachne only
smiled and gave them their drinks. He placed his own on the mantel above the
fireplace and leaned back against one of its sides, crossing his legs.

“So, what can I do for you, Jake?
Emma was very mysterious.”

“I’m looking into something on
Staten Island, which may involve real estate development and NASCAR. Emma thought you might know some people I can talk to, discreetly.”

“The proposed track?’

“Yes. You’ve heard about it?”

“You could say that. I’m thinking
about putting some money into the deal, if they’ll let me.”

“A racetrack, Ari?” It was Emma. “Isn’t
that a little off your reservation?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But you
know I dabble in Formula One and have contacts among the NASCAR drivers. And
you remember that I own Howland Hook, which isn’t that far from the NASCAR
property. I may want to have some say in what’s going on in that part of Staten
Island.”

“Howland Hook is a marine terminal
for container ships,” Emma explained to Scarne.

“Yes, I know. I spent, or
misspent, much of my youth on Staten Island.”

“Oh, of course, I forgot.”

“So, you know the borough well,
Jake,” Arachne said. “NASCAR is big business. Staten Island would be lucky to
get them, don’t you agree?”

 “Some people are worried about the
traffic problem.”

Arachne laughed.

“Jake, this is New York. There are
always traffic problems. Or environmental problems. Or religious problems.
We’re the NIMBY capital of the world – ‘Not In My Back Yard.’ It’s amazing
anything ever gets built.”

“You’ve done all right.”

Arachne nodded at the observation.

“But I’ve had to step on some toes
to do it.”

“The people I’m after did more
than step on toes. They brutally raped and murdered a young girl.”

Arachne looked incredulous.

“Good God! I can’t imagine anyone
in NASCAR countenancing that sort of thing. It’s preposterous.”

“I don’t think he means NASCAR is
involved,” Emma said quickly, turning to Jake. “Perhaps you should tell Ari
what happened.”

Scarne hesitated, and Arachne
noticed.

“If I’m going to help you, I want
some idea of what this is about. I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what’s
worrying you.” He waved airily at his surroundings. “I didn’t get all this by
talking out of school. Quite the opposite.”

“You can trust Ari,” Emma said.

Scarne gave an abridged version of
the events leading up to his investigation and his lack of progress since. His
host listened intently and without interruption, occasionally taking a sip of
port. When Scarne finished, Arachne quietly filled all their glasses.

“That may be the most disturbing
story I’ve ever heard.”

“Emma is correct,” Scarne said. “I
can’t imagine NASCAR is involved, except perhaps unwittingly. But it’s not
exactly something I want to run by their public relations people.”

“I would think not,” Arachne
observed.

 “Have you ever come across a man
named Nathan Bimm?”

“Nathan Bimm? Who is he?”

“Just a name that’s come up in the
NASCAR deal. Big in real estate on the Island. Very cozy with the Borough
President, Blovardi.”

“Don’t know Bimm. But I’ve met
Blovardi, of course. Rotund little man. Can’t say I trust any of the
politicians out there. But I can’t let that get in the way of a potentially
good investment. Still, if there’s anything to what you say, I don’t want to be
blindsided. After the job Shields did on me, I don’t need any more
aggravation.”

“Ari, our stories were fair and
scrupulously researched,” Emma said.

“Of course they were, dear. I’m
just teasing. Actually, you gave Howland Hook high marks. I guess if a Greek
can run anything well, it’s a shipping line operation.” Arachne turned back to
Scarne. “In any event, Jake, perhaps we can help each other out. I can call the
NASCAR people and tell them that you are working for the Arachne Group, doing
some due diligence for me. Maybe their security people know something. But you
will have to be discreet about what you’re really after. If you mention murder,
that may have some legal ramifications for me. Can you do that?”

“I don’t see why not. But if I
come across anything damning, I’m going to have to do something about it.”

“Of course, I understand. I would
want you to. I just hope you might give me a heads up. If I pull out of a
prospective deal, I might have to smooth some ruffled feathers at NASCAR.”

Scarne hesitated.

“I think Ari is making a
reasonable request, Jake,” Emma interjected. “Considering what he’s willing to
do.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Scarne said.

“Great,” Arachne said. “That’s all
I can ask. Now how about we rejoin the party? I really soaked some of those
people tonight. The least I can do is get them drunk. Let’s have some fun.” 

CHAPTER 18 – THE VULCAN

“Would you like some more
champagne, Mr. Sobok?”

Hagen Sobok was sitting in the
first-class cabin of an Air France A340 Airbus reading
The Long Lavender
Look
by John D. MacDonald.  He looked up at the smiling hostess and nodded.
“Yes, thank you.”

The Air France service, always
superb, had even been ratcheted up a notch  after he mentioned that the woman he
was seeing also worked as a flight attendant for the airline. Indeed, the
luscious creature filling his flute had once shared routes with Juliette.

“Excuse me, but did she call you
Mr. Spock?”

Sobok smiled and turned to the
voice, which belonged to an attractive woman sitting across the aisle from him.

 “It’s Sobok, but I get that a
lot.”

“Well, you do look like him,
except for the ears, of course. Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” he said, holding up
his right hand and splitting his fingers in a rough approximation of the Vulcan
‘live long and prosper’ sign.

The woman, whom he recognized from
a recent picture in some business magazine, laughed. She was the chief
financial officer a large American commercial bank. She pointed to the book he
had put down.

“Are you enjoying that?”

“Yes. Not his best, but there are
really no bad Travis McGee novels. It’s one of the seminal mystery series in
American literature.”

“I’m afraid I don’t read
thrillers. They seem all the same. High-tech and unbelievable. But I’m sure
they are entertaining.”

“You’re right about most of the
stuff coming out now. But MacDonald was a wonderful writer. This series ended
decades ago, after 21 books. And he wrote perhaps 800 short stories and almost
60 other novels. I have most of them. The novels, not the short stories. I bet
you have seen some of the movies they’ve made from his books. How about
Cape
Fear
, or
Seven
?

“The one with Brad Pitt and the
head in the box? Truly disturbing.”

“You might even like the
thrillers. McGee is always unraveling some complicated financial scheme or
another. Right up your alley.”

The woman smiled. It was obvious
he knew who she was. Interesting man. And a handsome figure, dressed as he was in
a conservative black suit and dark grey turtleneck that did little to hide his
athletic physique.

“I might just try one, then. Could
give me some ideas in dealing with our friends in the Emirates. Dubai still
isn’t too friendly to woman bankers.”

“I’m sure you can hold your own.
But if you want, I can always lend you some photon torpedoes.”

“You’re on.”

A meal service interrupted their
conversation, and when it was over the woman pulled out a laptop. She was
attractive and had that middle-40’s, moneyed, divorced look. Sobok thought he
had a better than even chance of exchanging business cards. After cleaning up
the mess in New York, he wouldn’t mind a little R&R. She wouldn’t sleep
around, but when she got someone in bed, she would be a tiger. He wondered
which card would impress her the most. Probably one of the diplomatic ones.

Sobok finished a chapter and put
the book away. He pulled out his iPad and began culling through the research
material he had quickly assembled. Much of the information on his first target
was in the public domain: news clippings, police reports  and the like. All
basically useless. Sobok could have just as well watched
The Godfather
or
Goodfellas
one more time. He would obviously need the help on the
ground that his new employer promised. Not because the target was particularly
dangerous. These people were laughable. But it would be prudent to take them
unaware and he was as yet ignorant of their daily habits. And he had to keep
them alive, for a time at least. That was crucial in solving the problem of the
second target.

Sobok was uneasy. He didn’t like
relying on local help, especially from an intermediary. The slightest of doubts
about his new client embedded itself in his mind. Of course, being a
professional, he would reserve judgment until after meeting the man. But he
would be careful. He didn’t like rush jobs.

***

The previous Saturday, Hagen Sobok
had been shopping for perfume in Printemps, the enormous, glittering,
multilayered Paris department store just off Boulevard Haussmann on the Right
Bank, when his mobile vibrated. A text message. One word.
Mass
. He
sighed and looked at his watch, startling the salesgirl who was about to spray
a sample of Cristalle on the back of his hand. He smiled at the reflex; he
could just as easily have looked at the time displayed on the mobile held in
his other hand.

“Pardonnez moi, mademoiselle,” he
said, giving her back his hand.

This was cutting it close, the
closest ever, he thought as he felt the cold spritz and idly raised the hand to
his nose.

“Tres bien, merci,” he smiled to
the girl. And in English, “Gift wrap?”

She nodded and stepped away. Sobok
took the opportunity to tap a text answer on his phone. Again, one word.
Oui.
With his rates now at a minimum of 20,000 Euros, it was almost always a “
oui
.”

The perfume was a tad stronger
than he would have liked, but he also wanted to get some chocolates for
Juliette and now had only an hour left to shop. Dating an Air France flight
attendant had its obvious advantages, but she was hard to please. He’d also
have to remember to change their dinner reservations to someplace on the Left
Bank.

After paying for the perfume,
Sobok headed home to change his clothes. He would buy his chocolates on the
way. There would be a shop. In Paris, there was always a shop on the way home.
He couldn’t remember the last time he made it there without a small purchase of
something, at least a baguette. He thought it might be a law.

Ordinarily, Clovis gave him several
days’ notice. But whenever it came, Sobok knew to show up for the evening
service the following Saturday. It was always a job, or “assignment,” as Clovis
preferred calling it. The shorter the interval between the call and the
meeting, the higher the fee – that was a given. A same-day call was unheard of,
and Sobok wondered what the market would bear. He decided not to be too greedy.
Clovis was a reliable source of income and a terrific negotiator , as well as –
if the word had any meaning in their line of work -- a friend. The fact that Sobok
could perform on such short notice would redound to their credit with the type
of people who used his services. 

It was 6:15 PM when Sobok crossed
the Pont D’Arcole over the Seine onto Île de la Cité, the largest of two
adjacent islands sitting in the river between the Left and Right Banks, and
walked to Notre-Dame. Throngs of tourists were milling about the plaza in front
of the famous cathedral and dozens were lined along its side waiting for a tour
that cost 15 Euros. Those who had already paid were being led into the church
by a side door.

Sobok blithely walked to the main
entrance of the church and joined a clutch of people going in the front door.
He and others were forced to step over a Muslim woman who knelt in their way.
She was dressed in a tattered brown burka and held out a plate in a grimy hand.
The plate held a few coins but Sobok didn’t see anyone contributing and assumed
that she had salted it herself. Such women were ubiquitous all over Paris,
particularly around tourist destinations. At first Sobok had been generous with
the pitiful-looking women, until an old Frenchwoman upbraided him one day.

“Their husbands stay home on
welfare,” she said, “and put these women out on the street to beg. It’s a
racket. Half the money probably goes to Hamas.”

Sobok took a program from an usher
in the vestibule. It was one of the best- kept secrets in Paris that the 6:30
Saturday night mass at Notre-Dame was open to anyone and was rarely crowded. He
took a seat near the right rear of the huge church. A stream of tourists
already on a tour walked the perimeter separated from the worshipers by the
ropes and brass stanchions lining the side aisles. Some whispered and pointed
at the many architectural wonders surrounding them. Sobok smiled at a small boy
tightly clutching his mother’s hand and gave him a slight wave. In effect, he
and the other celebrants inside the ropes were now part of the tour.

For the next half hour, Sobok
relaxed in the dark beauty of his surroundings and enjoyed the mass. The
liturgy was in French, of course, and while he was becoming more acclimated to
the language in his recently adopted city, he only got the gist of the fiery
sermon delivered by the tall black priest. (The Catholic Church in France, and
elsewhere in Europe, had a hard time with vocations among increasingly secular
populations and relied on clergy from the Third World). Sobok, in any event,
was unlikely to be moved by any sermon. He was affected, however, by the
ancient hymns sung by the lovely lector. French was a language made for such
music. 

The collection plate was passed.
Sobok put in 100 Euros, drawing startled looks from some of the other
worshippers. In return he gave them what he thought was a saintly smile. It
would have been a lot cheaper to take the tour, he reflected, but then he
doubted any of the tourists came to the church to arrange murder. He wasn’t
religious or superstitious, or beset by conscience, but there was a limit to
sacrilege – although he was fairly certain that in centuries past many killings
had been discussed, and possibly committed, within the walls of this particular
house of God.

Sobok knew Clovis wouldn’t enter
the church until sometime after the collection. He’d teased the man about being
a cheapskate. In truth, they had no set time to meet. The mass lasted an hour;
they always managed to conduct their business before it was over, no matter who
got there first.

***

Clovis St. Germaine arrived just
after Communion, sitting down after Sobok removed his small packages from the
folding chair next to him. St. Germaine, with his turtleneck and cloth cap,
looked like the elderly French pensioner he was, although in his case, his
pensions came from service in both the Foreign Legion and Sûreté Nationale.

“The same woman?” St. Germaine
whispered, nodding toward the packages now in Sobok’s lap.

“One even more beautiful,” Sobok
said.

“In Paris, the next woman is
always more beautiful. I should know. I’ve been married three times.” St.
Germaine looked around and laughed under his breath. “Once, here.”

Other than an occasional comment
about the weather or an inquiry into their respective health, this would be the
extent of their personal conversation. After their initial introduction,
brokered by one of St. Germaine’s old Legion contacts, they never met outside
of Notre-Dame, although they knew where each other lived. They also knew each
other’s real name. (“Clovis St. Germaine? You must be joking,” Sobok had
commented years earlier. “Look who is talking,” the other man retorted.) Their
joint knowledge was a symbol of their trust, hard-earned.

St. Germaine handed Sobok an
envelope. He opened it and looked through the papers inside. Good. He hadn’t
been to the States in a while. He read further. The instructions were, of
course, filled with euphemisms, some quite humorous. But the intent was clear.

“Given the short notice,” Sobok
said, “I presume there is some urgency.”

St. Germaine smiled at the gambit.

“Your usual minimum is my commission
on this one.”

Sobok raised his eyebrows.

“The client is very rich and
somebody has apparently botched the job,” St. Germaine said. He leaned into
Sobok. “Mafia. He seemed to think that might be a problem. I asked extra for
it.”

***

Hagen Sobok, the “Vulcan,” as he was
actually known in the trade, passed through security at JFK International and waved
goodbye to the woman with whom he had just exchanged cards. Hope to see you
soon, he thought to himself, right after I make sure my targets neither live
long, nor prosper.

An hour later he checked into The
Peninsula Hotel on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.  After unpacking he took a long
walk, heading to the West Side.  A heavy dinner would be counterproductive, but
that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some of the best pizza in the world. He had
two slices, a glass of the house chianti and a small salad at Patsy’s on West
74
^th
. Then he headed back to his hotel.

Sobok always listened to his body.
He  was tired and wanted a good night’s sleep before his meeting the next day
with the intermediary who would provide the information he needed. A doctor
named Bimm. Presumably one who had never taken the Hippocratic Oath too
seriously. Sobok shrugged. He was actually looking forward to it. He’d never
been on the famous Staten Island Ferry.