Li
grubbed a cigarette from the sergeant and began to compose a report to his
superiors in the M.S.S., who had taken a particular interest in Arachne’s
grandiose scheme. They were so enamored of the project that they insisted on a
requirement that would have found favor with the most xenophobic of American
politicians: China would provide the funds, but all the work would go to
American companies and unions. Henry Li was quick to grasp the rationale,
although he knew it rankled many of his colleagues.
For
the simple truth was that American voters, egged on by politicians running for
office, were becoming incensed by the fact that a substantial portion of the
billions spent on recent infrastructure work in the U.S. had been farmed out to
Chinese companies. They blamed the Federal Government, accusing it of hypocrisy
for promoting a “buy American” program while giving the work to the Chinese.
The media was awash with pictures of smiling Chinese engineers and workers
rebuilding bridges and roads across the country, with steel and components made
in China.
Of
course, there was more to it than that. Li – and frustrated Federal officials –
knew that most of the controversial work went to Chinese companies because
various states turned down the Federal stimulus money that would have required
the work to go to American companies. The states then searched out the lowest
bidders. He shrugged. Americans were insane. None more so than Arachne, of
course. But he’s our lunatic, and he just might pull this off.
Well,
at least you can’t knock American donuts, Li thought, handing his message to the
sergeant.
“I
want this to go out right away,” he said. “Sorry about the crumbs. Give me
another cigarette.”
***
On
his way home, Arachne did something rare for him. He poured himself a stiff
drink in the back of his Rolls. I’m so close, he thought, and began reflecting
on how far he’d come with his audacious plan.
The
idea had come out of nowhere. Two years earlier Arachne had been asked to give
a speech at the Cato Institute, the libertarian think tank, and told his staff
to search the Internet for examples of failed Government projects.
“The
more ridiculous the better,” he told them. “The Cato people don’t think
Government can do anything right.”
His
people had come up with some beauties, including separate plans, many years
apart, for underwater rail tunnels linking Staten Island to both Brooklyn and
New Jersey. The New Jersey plan never got off the drawing boards, but he was
astounded to learn that in 1922 the city actually began digging nascent shafts
on both sides of the Narrows for a Brooklyn to Staten Island “freight and
passenger” tunnel. The Brooklyn dig extended 150 feet under the harbor. His
staff had provided newspaper accounts, complete with photos of workmen with
pickaxes and boring equipment. The project was abandoned in 1924 amid budget and
political bickering.
Somewhat
to his staff’s surprise, Arachne did not include anything about the tunnels in
the his presentation to the institute. They quickly moved on to other things,
not knowing that their employer had become obsessed with the possibility of
resurrecting the projects as a way to achieve financial and political primacy
in New York City and beyond.
Once
the greatest metropolis in the world, New York was strangling on traffic and
population. Arachne knew that the region’s political leaders had for too long
slavishly placed their bets on Wall Street’s promise and glittering towers,
ignoring the tri-state region’s crumbling infrastructure. Then, when the
financial industry’s bubble burst, the same politicians claimed that they
couldn’t afford costly new projects.
Not
all of the politicians, of course. A few visionaries had persevered with the
idea of building two new rail passages linking New Jersey and Manhattan under
the Hudson River. They argued that the proposed tunnels were desperately needed
amid predictions that transit demands in the Greater Metropolitan area would
surge by 40 percent over the next 20 years, which would overwhelm the capacity
of the two existing 100-year-old tunnels beneath the river.
Arachne
feared these visionaries, since the $14 billion project, the largest public
transit program in the nation, was to be mostly funded by the Federal
government and the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. It stood a good
chance of surviving hypocritical budget cuts. His Chinese benefactors began to
hedge on their commitments to him. He had to do something, and quickly. Murder,
at least in this instance, wasn’t an option. But money was.
When
the governor of New Jersey cancelled his state’s participation in the project,
on which work had already begun, observers were stunned. The governor claimed
that his state would bear the brunt of financing a project that would mostly
benefit New Yorkers. Critics said that, in reality, he wanted to divert the
tunnel money to his state’s highway fund so that he could avoid raising
gasoline taxes, an anathema to a politician with ambition for national office.
The truth was more sinister. It was Arachne’s money, supplemented by the
Chinese, that killed the tunnel. Not that it went directly to the Governor,
whose motives, while selfish, were purely political. Instead it went into the
Super PACS (of both parties) to influence the power brokers who had the ears of
the Governor and his staff.
Arachne’s
ability to kill the Hudson River tunnels impressed his Chinese backers. There
was now no possibility, he knew, of the tunnels receiving government funding in
the current economic environment. He believed that if he could buy the
necessary land in New Jersey, Staten Island and Brooklyn, he could build the
tunnels himself, with the capital he needed coming from his partners at the
C.O.F.P. The Chinese would conveniently pay top dollar for his casinos and
other properties in carefully spaced out transactions, providing billions while
hiding their real influence behind their spurious investment in the Home Port
project.
Who
could object? The residents who opposed a stock car track and stadium would
applaud tunnels that would cut traffic. Labor unions in both states would
support the creation of thousands of jobs. By the time anyone looked too deeply
into the project and realized that the Chinese had a stranglehold on rail and
marine traffic in the nation’s most important region, it would be too late.
Arachne, with his major shipping interests already entrenched in the Howland
Hook Marine Terminal on Staten Island, with easy access to his new rail and
tunnel empire, would become rich beyond measure. And with the Shields media
empire in his pocket as well, there would be other realms to conquer.
The
country was going to the dogs, Arachne believed. A nation that grew great by
investing heavily in infrastructure – the Erie Canal, the Hoover Dam, the
Golden Gate Bridge, the interstate highway system – now spent trillions on
weapons, and drugs for erectile dysfunction. The whole country had become one
limp dick. Maybe he could change that. What the nation needed was someone like
him.
“President
Arachne,” he said aloud, laughing. “A real prick.”
Cong
Bao, already discomfited by the sight of his boss drinking, looked nervously in
the rear view mirror.
But
it had to be as near a fait accompli as possible, Arachne knew. The Chinese
money would only flow if there was no serious opposition. He had welcomed local
press scrutiny about the NASCAR track. He wanted it to fail so that he could
step in and get even more property. Indeed, the track proposal was a godsend,
providing perfect cover for his plans. The Chinese, always suckers for a good
conspiracy that featured misdirection, loved it.
But
then Bimm found out that the
Register’s
editor, Pearsall, was looking
deeper. The real estate transactions were layered with so many dummy
corporations that even Arachne’s staff had trouble keeping them straight, but
who knew what Pearsall could dig up. The man, after all, had won a Pulitzer.
Arachne,
who had most of the land and permits he needed (no mean feat given the
bureaucracies in the two states involved but made easier by the unwavering
support of the Staten Island Borough President and other local politicians who
were promised a piece of the action), was only weeks away from a multi-billion
coup that could make or break him. Pearsall had to be stopped before he
uncovered the real story behind the land purchases and started one of his damn
crusades. Killing the man outright was also too risky. The Chinese would take
to the hills if things went wrong. Even arranging an accident is never as easy
as it sounds, as Arachne had just learned with Scarne. Bimm, who hated the
editor, had provided the details about the death of Pearsall’s wife. The son of
a bitch must be emotionally fragile, Bimm said. Another tragedy would surely
tip him over the edge.
That
could be arranged, both men agreed.
CHAPTER
30 – BREAKING AND ENTERING
Dudley
Mack lived in a large brick house on a one-acre parcel on Howard Avenue in
Grymes Hill. The property sloped down a heavily forested hill to Van Duzer
Street 100 feet below, affording a spectacular view of New York Harbor from the
rear deck, where he and Scarne were working on one of Mack’s usual pitcher of martinis.
Scarne
asked, “Where is everybody?”
“They
left about an hour ago to head down to the shore.” The Macks had a spectacular
home on the water on Long Beach Island. Scarne had spend a couple of weeks
there recuperating after the Ballantrae case. “Mom wants to clean it up. You
know how she is. But cheer up. She knew you were coming and cooked up some of
your favorites. We just have to heat them up. Sometimes I think she likes you
more than me.”
“Do
you blame her?”
“Not
really.” Mack poured another martini for Scarne. “You look like you could use a
few of these.”
“Where’s
Bobo?”
“Gave
him a few hours off. She didn’t cook for an army. Besides, I figure you can
protect me.” Scarne smiled at the thought of Dudley Mack needing anyone’s
protection. Bobo Sambuca spent most of his time saving other people from his
boss. “Although looking at your puss, I have my doubts. What happened now?”
When
Scarne finished recounting his recent misadventures, Dudley said, “Nitrous
Oxide. I love it.”
“Thought
you would.”
Mack
handed him the pitcher.
“Finish
up,” he said, “but take your time. I have to make some calls, throw the food in
the oven and open up a bottle of cheap dago red.”
“You
sure you’re not Italian?”
“Too
good looking.”
After
they ate a predictably delicious meal of veal parmesan and broccoli rabe, Mack
said, “We can’t fuck around anymore. You’ve obviously stirred up a hornet’s
nest and they want you dead. We’re gonna pay Bimm a visit. Or, rather, his
house. Those calls I made; it’s all set up. Bimm is in the Bahamas.”
“Nobody
else there?’
“Nobody
would live with Bimm. We’ll take your cute little car, Jake. We have to stop at
the 120 first. Bobo will meet us.”
Why
even ask, Scarne thought, resignedly. When they pulled up to the precinct they
found Bobo Sambucca leaning against a gray and black hearse. He was wearing a
black suit and a ridiculously small chauffeur’s hat. Actually, Scarne noted,
the hat was probably normal-sized.
“Be
right back,” Mack said, heading up the stairs to the station house.
“You’re
going to surrender?”
Mack
ignored him and Scarne turned to Sambuca.
“Nice
wheels, Bobo.”
“Short
notice, Jake. It’s what I had with me.”
Passersby,
mostly commuters hurrying home from the ferry, were giving them a wide berth.
“Must
be a big hit with the ladies.”
“You’d
be surprised how many times I get laid in this thing.” The massive driver
nodded his head toward the rear of the funeral car, which blessedly was empty.
“Got one of those pump-up air mattresses stored back there, for special
occasions. You know how broads try to one up each other. Telling their friends
they did the horizontal two-step in a hearse is hard to top. And I usually
don’t have to buy flowers. Just pull a few from the baskets at the funeral
parlor.”
“Thank
God you cleared that up for me, Bobo. I was worried you were a necrophiliac.”
Sambuca
looked confused for a second, then shrugged.
“Nah.
I feel fine. Not like Dudley. He’s always complaining about his health. If it
ain’t one weird disease, it’s another.”
Scarne
let it drop. Mack came out of the precinct, followed by Detectives Abel Crider
and Francis Scullen.
“Hey,
Bobo,” Crider said. “Howzithanging?”
“Down
to my knee.”
Scullen
stared at Sambuca and then pointed at the hearse.
“We
expecting trouble?”
“I’ll
ride with Jake,” Mack said. “Bobo, go with them. Leave the hearse.”
“Take
the cannolis,” Scarne murmured.
“Give
me the keys,” Mack said. “Been a while since I drove one of these things.”
“You
can drive a manual shift?”
“Sure.
Some of the cars I stole as a kid were stick.”
Scarne
gave him the keys with some trepidation, which was confirmed when Mack stalled
the car and then ground the gears before finally moving.
“It’s
a new gearbox, Duds.”
“Like
I said, been a while.”
As
they pulled away with the other three men following them in an unmarked car,
Scarne turned to Mack.
“That
was some phone call.”
“Actually,
I haven’t exactly been sitting around on my ass while you’ve been running
around trying to get killed.”
“What
did you tell Crider and Scullen? I want to get my story straight when I’m indicted.”
Mack
laughed.
“Just
that Bimm may have some info in his house on the Pearsall murder.”
“We
don’t know that.”
“So?’
A
minute later the two cars pulled up outside a ramshackle two-story building on
Central Avenue. A sign on the door said “Project Redemption.” Scarne knew it
was a halfway house for non-violent criminals a block from the courthouse and
police complex. Its residents didn’t have to be reminded of how tenuous their
grip on freedom was.
“What
now?”
“You’ll
see,” Mack said as they got out.
The
other three men got out of their car. Crider walked into the halfway house and
Scullen and Bobo came over to them.
“I’m
a little surprised to see you here, Detective,” Scarne said.
“I
was surprised to get a call from the Police Commissioner. Seems you and he are
pals.”
“He
was very helpful when I left the Department.”
“He
means he fired his ass,” Mack said.
“But
I think he felt bad about it,” Scarne said.
Crider
emerged from the halfway house talking animatedly with a very
frightened-looking man.
“That’s
Herbert Lemming,” Scullen said. “I wouldn’t shake his hand if I were you.”
Lemming was small and ferret-faced, with a bad complexion and thin brown hair.
“He’s one of Abel’s snitches. Likes to feel up little kids. When he dies he
wants to come back as a little girl’s bicycle seat.”
“I
presume Detective Crider has explained the situation to you, Herbie,” Mack
said.
“Yes,
sir, but I only understood about half of it.” Lemming stared at Sambuca like a
field mouse stares at a python. He appeared to be having trouble swallowing.
“He talks kinda fast.”
“No
matter, Herbie. Now you and Bobo sit in the back of the nice police car and get
acquainted.”
“I
hate chicken fuckers,” Bobo said, grabbing Lemming by his shirt collar and
throwing him into the car.
“Herbie
will do just fine,” Mack said. “He’ll be motivated.”
“Where
do you get these guys,” Scarne said, “central casting? And what do we need him
for?”
“In
addition to his other talents,” Scullen said. “Herb’s a computer geek. He’s not
allowed near them without supervision now, so he was kinda looking forward to
this.” There was a squeak from the back seat of the police car. “At least he
was until a minute ago.”
Bimm
lived 10 minutes away in a McMansion in a new millionaire’s circle of houses
recently constructed on the grounds of the former St. Charles Seminary on Todt
Hill. It was a monument to bad taste that stood out even among the homes of his
garish neighbors.
“You
guys should probably wait outside,” Mack told the two detectives. “Maybe keep
an eye out for prowlers.”
“Sure,”
Scullen said, looking around at the million-dollar houses that surrounded them.
“It’s a dangerous neighborhood.”
Crider
passed out sets of surgical gloves.
“Noprints.”
“House
probably has a primo security system,” Scullen said.
“One
of the best,” Mack said. “I should know. One of my companies installed it.”
***
“These
are classics,” Lemming said. “I can’t believe he’s got the one with the
elephant screwin’ a…” He never finished the sentence as Mack slapped him on the
head.
“Shut
up, numbnuts. He got any child porn?”
They
were in Bimm’s home office, which like the rest of the house, was decorated
with hotel-quality furniture and paintings. Lemming, who was sitting at Bimm’s
desk, had sweated through his shirt and smelled badly of a combination of body
odor and fear. He was having trouble concentrating with Bobo Sambuca hovering
menacingly a few feet away. They had been inside only a few minutes before
finding Bimm’s cache of pornography in the desk’s bottom drawer.
“You’re
thinking blackmail,” Scarne said.
“In
my circles we call it leverage,” Mack said. “Come on, Herbie, don’t lick the
fucking CD’s. Just look at them.”
“Nah.
Nothing good,” Lemming said, sounding disappointed. “Borderline stuff.
Teen-agers.”
Bobo
walked over and knocked him off his seat. Lemming howled.
“Easy,
Bobo,” Mack said, picking up Lemming. “Herbie, important safety tip. Watch what
you say around him. Hearse sex aside, he’s pretty conservative. Bobo, go watch
the front door.”
“Let’s
go through his computer,” Scarne said.
Sniffing
dramatically for effect, Lemming opened Bimm’s laptop. It was password
protected, but he had little trouble breaking the code.
“Herbie,
go sit in the living room and whack off or something,” Mack said. “We can take
it from here.”
After
Lemming shuffled out, Mack took his seat and started opening the folders. Most
were filled with letters to lawyers, contractors, accountants and other
brokers, usually threatening to sue. Just about everything was related to real
estate. The two men were quickly bored with the minutia.
“I’d
rather look at his porn,” Mack said.
“Open
that one,” Scarne said, pointing to a folder marked “NASCAR.”
It
was almost as boring as the others. Bimm was obviously involved in buying up
the land surrounding the proposed track site.
“Nothing
illegal about this,” Scarne said. “If the track goes through any businesses in
the area will see a benefit. Some of those plots are a fair distance from the
track, though. They go all the way to the Arthur Kill.” He was referring to the
narrow waterway dividing Staten Island from New Jersey.
“Yeah,”
Mack said. “Think it means something?”
“Maybe
he just was able to get them cheap. And didn’t I read something about a ferry
service to the track from Manhattan and Jersey?”
“Makes
sense. Nobody ever said the fat bastard was stupid.”
One
of the folders caught Scarne’s eye.
“Open
that one,” he said, pointing to a folder named “Tunnel.” Within it was a
subfolder marked “A.A. Meetings” and scores of WORD docs. When he tried to open
the subfolder, nothing happened.
“Forget
it,” Scarne said. “Open the documents.”
Mack
did and they started reading.