Barnes
and Taliger had run the operation for a decade. New York was their sixth city.
They started out with sex-discrimination, but as they got older added age
discrimination to the mix. They had little trouble finding victims, who soon
became paid accomplices. They concentrated on troubled companies with deep
pockets, and averaged a $600,000 settlement every 18 months or so.
Once
Webster turned on them, they cut a deal to avoid criminal prosecution. Tierney
saved his New York client at least a million dollars. And he succeeded in
recovering $4 million the pair had bilked from other companies and insurers.
(The two con men were also savvy real estate investors; even in a weak market
they had no trouble coming up with the money for restitution.) He negotiated a huge
bonus for Scarne from the New York brokerage. And since Tierney’s firm received
a third of the recovered funds from the other cases, he made sure Scarne saw a
piece of that as well. The money helped pay for Scarne’s new office but
wouldn’t last forever. Of more permanent value were platinum referrals like
Sheldon Shields.
***
Scarne
had just finished with the
Wall Street Journal
when he heard the outer
door to his office open. He read both the
Journal
and
The New York
Times
every morning and was quite convinced that their respective editorial
writers did not live on the same planet. But somewhere down the middle of their
polemics, he reasoned, was common sense, and their reportage was miles ahead of
the drivel available on the Internet.
“Thought
you might enjoy a crumpet,” Evelyn Warr said, standing in his doorway in coat
and scarf. She was holding two shopping bags. One said
Office Max
. The
more promising bag said
Starbucks
. “I’ll be there in a jiff.”
A
moment later she walked to his desk carrying the
Starbucks
bag. She was
wearing a brown pleated skirt and a tan cashmere sweater. She ran a hand
through her thick brown hair and shook her head until her tresses fell back
into shape. “Bit of a wind out there,” she said, reaching into the bag,
producing napkins, coffee and two blueberry scones. To Evelyn, all pastries
were crumpets. She slid one across to Scarne, then broke hers in half.
Scarne
suffered gum-chewing products of the city school system before finding her. She
was recommended by a friend in City Hall who admired her volunteer work after
the Twin Towers attacks. It was by pure chance she was on holiday in Devonshire
on 9/11, instead of the 90
th
floor of Tower 1. Her fiancé wasn’t as
fortunate. In addition to superb administrative skills, Evelyn’s cultured
English inflection, which would have stopped Rommel, charmed clients. And it
didn’t hurt that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Kate Winslet.
Early on, Scarne had debated making a pass at her, balancing his natural
inclinations (and the belief she would be insulted if he didn’t) against the
possibility he’d lose her. Eventually, after one too many bourbons at a
Christmas party in a neighboring office, he’d explained his quandary to Evelyn,
who’d laughed and soothed his male ego by revealing she had a lover. That was
several lovers ago. Their relationship had evolved into a professional
partnership tinged with healthy sexual tension. Now he told her about Sheldon
Shields, all the while glancing hopefully at the uneaten portion of her scone.
“Any
idea what it’s all about?”
“No.
See what you can dig up. I only did a cursory search on the web.”
“Well
if he’s half the rake his brother is it’s likely to be scandalous and
lucrative. At least you will get a good lunch among the swells. Oh, damn!” She
brushed some crumbs off the slope of her lovely left breast. She saw Scarne’s
appreciative gaze and smiled. “I know what you want.” She passed the remainder
of her scone over to him.
***
Scarne
stopped by Evelyn’s desk on his way out.
“Considering
the splash his brother makes,” she said looking at her computer, “Sheldon
barely creates a ripple. The only relatively recent news concerns the loss of
his only son in December in a drowning accident and his wife’s death last
month. Cancer. He’s certainly going through a rough patch.”
“I’ll
say. Thanks. I should be back around three.”
“Be
a good lad and try to be sensible about the martinis. And take your raincoat.
It’s chilly out there.”
“I
thought you Brits were tough.”
“But
not dumb.”
“I’ll
be fine. It’s not supposed to rain.”
CHAPTER
3 – A BOY AT GETTYSBURG
Never
doubt a Brit about nasty weather, Scarne vowed as he trotted head-down through
the icy needles of rain on Park Avenue. He rounded the corner at 37
th
and bumped into a man walking rapidly in the other direction. It was Scarne’s
fault. He’d been thinking of the club’s signature bay scallops in sherry. He
started to apologize, but the man, whose face was partially obscured by a
purple ski hat and upturned jacket collar, didn’t stop. Scarne shrugged and
crossed the street toward the Federal League’s entrance, where Henry Mosely
stood scowling.
“Why
the sour puss, Henry? Was I jaywalking?”
“Mr.
Scarne, how are you?” The scowl dissolved into a smile. “Wasn’t you I was
looking at. Been watching that fellow almost knocked you over.”
Scarne
shook the uniformed man’s hand warmly as they went inside. As is common with
retainers at great private clubs Mosely remembered regular guests. After 30
years of service he was an institution. From a cubicle just inside the door he
served as a concierge and keeper of club protocol. It was said that if you
didn’t pass muster with him, you needn’t apply to the club.
“What
did he do?” Scarne asked, looking back and catching a glimpse of the man’s back
as he rounded the corner. “Nip the club silver?”
“Not
on my watch, sir. But I spied him loitering across the way. Gave him my evil
eye. That did it. Probably nothing. But one must be wary these days.”
Scarne
wished he had gotten a better look at the man. Oh, well.
“By
the way, Mr. Shields is running late. Track fire in the Village. Do you believe
that a gentleman like him still takes the subway? Don’t make them like that
anymore. You can wait in the bar. Just mention his name.”
“I’ll
just head to the library. Can you tell him?”
***
Christian
Keitel was in a bind. It wouldn’t do to be rousted by some flatfoot. New York
City cops were a serious bunch after 9/11. He was no terrorist, but his prints
would light up their database like a Christmas tree. He circled the block,
reversing his jacket in case the damn doorman happened to be looking out when
he passed. All that accomplished was to get the both sides of the jacket
soaked. He figured he had at least an hour before Shields emerged from the
club, so he ordered a coffee and a dirty-water hot dog from a vendor.
(Recalling Garza’s frequent teasing about his normally fastidious diet, he
actually had two wieners, which were excellent.) But now he had to find a spot
where he could watch the entrance.
***
Scarne
walked up the famed double staircase to the elevators. Although he’d been to
the club many times, he felt the familiar tug of history. For while it was not
as grand as some of the city’s other moneyed bastions, the Federal League had
an honored reputation none of them could touch. Founded during the darkest
hours of the Civil War “to cultivate and strengthen a devotion to the Union,”
its importance was not lost on Abraham Lincoln, who gratefully accepted a
membership. The club’s founders opened their hearts and their purses; one
fundraiser sent half a million Thanksgiving turkeys to soldiers at the front.
They also opened their gun cabinets, sheltering the Negroes who were the main
targets of the city’s infamous draft riots. And when the city government
refused to allow blacks to participate in the funeral procession for Lincoln in
1865, the Federal held a separate ceremony. The club chose its original staff
from the ranks of free black men or freed slaves and kept hiring their
descendants, instituting one of the earliest retirement plans in the city,
becoming, in effect, the black man’s Fire Department. Political sensitivity and
the upward mobility of blacks eventually dictated a break with tradition. But
the staff was still overwhelmingly black. Over the years, the club’s influence
grew; it counted 16 United States presidents among its members.
After
an interminable, creaking ride on an ancient elevator Scarne exited on the
third floor and headed down a long hallway, passing a steam room, sauna, squash
courts, gym and health club. The Federal’s devotion to fitness, however, had
its limits. The pungent odor of fine tobacco seeped beneath one closed door.
The club’s battles with municipal authority didn’t end with the Civil War. Its
infamous smoking parlors, stocked with illegal Havanas, continued to rankle the
city’s billionaire mayor, a reformed smoker.
Scarne
entered what was perhaps the best private library in the city. It was empty
save for one old fellow who was quietly snoring in a deep leather chair. With
his head on his chest and an open book in his lap, he sounded like a purring
cat. Scarne moved to the other side of the room where he selected a bound
volume titled
Maps of the War Between the States
and sat in a leather
chair next to a glass case containing colorful miniatures of the 5
th
New York, a heroic Zouave regiment. He was tracing Sherman’s march to the sea
when a voice behind him said, “I’m glad he spared Savannah. There’s not much
charm left in the South. Most of what’s left is in Savannah.”
“I’m
fond of the mint juleps myself,” Scarne said, rising from his chair.
“I’m
sorry I kept you waiting.” Sheldon Shields offered his hand. “I love this room,
too. But you must be starved. Let’s head downstairs.”
On
the way out Shields stopped and gently patted the shoulder of the sleeping man,
who came awake with a snort.
“I
think they may start the game without you, Clyde,” he said as the man looked at
his watch and mumbled his thanks as he rushed out.
“Gin
rummy,” Shields whispered to Scarne. “Every Friday.”
Next
to the elevator was a portrait of a severe-looking Civil War general leaning on
the hilt of his saber.
“Joshua
Chamberlain,” Shields said. “College professor at Bowdoin. They wouldn’t give
him a leave of absence to enlist so he quit. Joined the 20
th
Maine
Volunteer Regiment along with his brother, Tom. Joshua rose to command the
unit. At Gettysburg the 20
th
was holding Little Round Top when an
Alabama regiment tried to overrun them. Chamberlain’s men were out of
ammunition. So he ordered them to charge down into the rebels with bayonets!
Those big rawboned Maine men thoroughly demoralized those tough Alabamans. The
amazing thing was that those Union soldiers knew what was at stake. If their
flank is turned, the whole Army of the Potomac is rolled up and the battle, maybe
the war, is lost. Less than 400 men decided the fate of a nation.”
“I
read McPherson’s book and saw the movie
Gettysburg
,” Scarne said. “I
loved that line in the movie when Chamberlain tells his brother not to stand
too close to him ‘or it could be a bad day for mother.’ He looked up at the
portrait. “He doesn’t look at all like I pictured him. I guess I imagined him
more like the actor who played him in the movie, Jeff Daniels.”
“Don’t
let Chamberlain’s dour expression fool you. He was in considerable pain when he
stood for this painting. He was wounded at Petersburg in 1864, ‘low down’ as
they used to say delicately, which means he was shot near where no man wants to
get shot. Miracle he lived. And yet he was with Grant at Appomattox. By that
time he’d been wounded four times and had six horses shot from underneath him.
Then he went home, raised his family, was elected governor of Maine several
times and then named president of Bowdoin. How that pleased him!” They reached
the elevators. “Of course, the war never left him. His wounds constantly
re-infected and he died of complications in 1914.”
“You
seem to know an awful lot about Chamberlain,” Scarne asked.
Something
creaked behind the elevator door but nothing happened.
“When
I was a boy, I read a book,
The Twentieth Maine,
by John Pullen, and was
hooked. Actually met him recently. Unbelievable luck. He wrote an article for
one of our magazines and I asked him to lunch.” Shields smiled. “He died a
couple of weeks later. Hope you have better luck.”
Scarne
laughed. “Have you visited the battlefields?”
“When
my son was young,” Shields said, “we took him to Gettysburg. We walked the
town. Would you believe there’s still some bullet holes in the older buildings?
Then we went out to Little Round Top.”
As
Shields spoke, Scarne took the opportunity to study the man. He was at least
three inches taller than his guest. He might have lost weight recently. But he
had a full head of white hair, and was immaculately groomed and dressed, with a
brown tweed jacket and darker brown slacks. His tie was Ferragamo and his
loafers Gucci. His thin face was set off with bushy eyebrows.
“Josh
ran ahead, like kids do, and spotted a monument. On it was the regimental crest
of the 20
th
Maine, with a roster of the men who fought at that exact
spot on July 3, 1863. He was so excited. I had regaled him about the battle
many times. That was our best time together, other than our fishing.” Shields
was quiet a moment. His features softened and his voice grew husky. “I
recognized Chamberlain’s name right off, but then some of the other names from
the book started coming back to me. Sergeants and privates even. I started to
weep. My wife and son were embarrassed. Came out of nowhere.”
“You
weren’t crying for the soldiers,” Scarne said. “You were crying for the young
boy who read the book.”
Shields,
whose eyes had glistened, gave Scarne an appraising glance.
“Let’s
have drink at the bar in the lounge before lunch. We’ll take the stairs. A man
could give up drinking waiting for this damn elevator.”
***
Once
on the ground floor they walked through the billiards room. Two of the six
green-felted tables were in use. Scarne was surprised; he’d never seen anyone
playing at the club. Then he recalled a recent article in
New York Magazine
about a couple of Hollywood stars opening a new pool hall/wine bar in the
Village. Billiards was now all the rage.
The
lounge itself, up a few stairs from the pool room, contained a dozen small
tables arranged around a buffet featuring an assortment of meats and cheese,
cold salads, chafing dishes with egg rolls and Swedish meatballs and bowls of
various types of nuts. A large plasma TV hanging from a bracket in the far
corner was tuned to a cable business news channel. An attractive blonde anchor
was pontificating silently – the TV had been mercifully muted – above a
continuous stock scrawl. No one sitting eating at the tables near the TV would
have paid any attention to her anyway. Scarne knew for a fact that the woman,
whom he’d met, barely knew the difference between a stock and a bond, let alone
the esoteric derivatives that had recently brought the economy to heel. Scarne
wasn’t a financial misogynist; the anchor’s well-coifed male counterparts were
also universally clueless about the workings of the markets they allegedly
covered. How else to explain their missing the greatest business stories in
history while touting the brilliance of the financial “geniuses” whose
activities threatened to destroy the world economy.
Several
people were standing at the bar, talking quietly amid the tinkling of ice and
stirrers against glass. In the background was the faint clack of pool balls
being struck or racked. Despite the faint aroma of the premium Brazilian
Rosewood wax the club used exclusively on all its wood surfaces (adopted by
Scarne for his own office), the bar area mainly smelled of old oak and cherry –
and even older money. All in all, Scarne thought, not a bad place to be on a
frigid day. Shields asked him what he wanted to drink.
“Grey
Goose martini, straight up. Twist.”
“Make
that two, Eddie,” Shields said.
The
drinks came, and they made small talk with the others at the bar, including a
few well-dressed women who openly sized Scarne up. A shade over six feet tall,
with a dark complexion and a face that would have been more handsome had he not
taken his college rugby so seriously, Scarne knew he didn’t quite fit in. Most
of the younger men at the bar were in decent health-club shape but they looked
soft. He didn’t look soft, and the women noticed. Shields introduced him as a
“friend,” and no one had the temerity to ask him what he did for a living. One
by one, the crowd drifted off. Most walked up a small staircase to an intimate
dining room behind the bar. Shields ordered two more martinis and told the
bartender to send them to the main dining room on the fourth floor.
“Eddie
makes the best drinks in the house,” Shields said as they walked out. “You know
what they say about martinis? They are like women’s breasts. One is not enough,
and three are too many.”
Scarne
made a mental note to repeat that dictum to Evelyn.
“Actually,
at my age, Jake, two, in either category, may be too much.”
***
The
walls of the cavernous dining room were adorned with landscapes and portraits,
creating a museum-like atmosphere. They were led to a corner table. Nearby, the
Cardinal sat with the Police Commissioner, who glanced at Scarne and rolled his
eyes. Scarne grinned at his old friend and sometime nemesis.
“I
reserved stone crabs for our appetizers,” Shields said as they were handed menus.
“They don’t often have them and they go fast. Wonderful with ice-cold vodka. Of
course, you can have anything you want.”