All
three laughed as an elderly couple walked by and glanced at the hearse.
“Probably
Mrs. Rosenbaum in 10H,” the woman said as they entered the lobby. “I wonder
what her kids will do with the apartment. You should call your cousin.”
“Well,
on that note,” Sobok said, “I think I will be going.”
“Need
a lift,” Scarne said.
“No,
thank you. I will take the subway. It’s become a real pleasure. Not like years
ago.”
With
that, Sobok nodded at the other men and simply walked away.
CHAPTER
36 – OFFICIAL STORY
One
week later, Scarne met Emma for another lunch at the Gotham. She was drinking
Perrier. There would be no afternoon delight, Scarne assumed as he sipped his
beer. He detested Perrier. Given her recent experience, Emma was probably off
men (and vice versa, he thought rudely) for the time being.
Arachne’s
death had caused a predictable sensation. It is not every day that a
billionaire does a half-gainer from a 34
th
floor penthouse balcony.
In a tuxedo, no less. The tabloids had a field day, especially with the
discovery of a dead chauffeur with ties to a Vietnamese gang. But there was no
mention that someone else had been in the apartment.
Then
hints of Arachne’s financial woes began to appear, first in some of the Shields
publications, and then in other print and electronic media. Bloggers soon
swarmed, with some suggesting that other billionaires should do society a favor
and follow Arachne’s example.
“The
press is evenly divided between suicide and a mob killing.” Scarne said after
they ordered. “Nice job.”
Emma
smiled. But it was bitter.
“I
only started the ball rolling on the financial news side. It was common
knowledge that Ari and I were an ‘item.’ There was even speculation in the
gossips that I was to be the next Mrs. Arachne. So it would have been natural
of him to confide in me, to a point. I just mentioned to one of our editors
that perhaps his companies were on shakier ground than we first reported. He
took it from there. I’m sure he thinks I’m a heartless bitch.”
“Not
a bad rep to have when running a media conglomerate, although I know you’re a
sweetheart.”
“My
father still runs the company.”
Not
for long, Scarne thought.
“Did
you tell him what really happened?”
“No.
I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. I’ll let Dad be the company’s sex object.”
Emma
reached across and put her hand over Scarne’s.
“You
saved my life.”
“I
can’t take all the credit. The scary fellow did much of the heavy lifting.”
“Yes,”
she said. “Where did he come from?”
“I
don’t know.”
“How
did Ari find such a man?”
“Men
like Arachne can always find them. All it takes is money.”
“Where
did he go?”
“Not
a clue.”
“Doesn’t
that bother you?”
“Gift
horse and all that.”
“He
killed Bimm, didn’t he?”
“Gift
horse and all that.”
“Jesus,”
she said, and visibly shivered. “And you’re not worried about him anymore?”
“No.
He was only a danger to us when he working for Arachne. When he stopped, we
ceased being his problem.”
“But
aren’t you a threat to him? Could you find him, if you wanted to? You found
Banaszak. That would give him pause.”
“Perhaps,
but he knows I won’t try.”
“How
the hell does he know that?”
“He
just knows.”
“Because
you’re in his debt?”
“Partly.
But also because he respects me and knows I respect his code.”
“Code?
What code? He’s an assassin, for God’s sake. He kills for money.”
“And
only for money. Or to eliminate danger to himself. Arachne was a danger. He was
unraveling and threatened him.”
Emma
shook her head.
“Men.
I’ll never understand them. I’m not sure I want to.”
Scarne
was silent.
“Yes,
I know,” she said. “I just proved it with Ari. I was so gullible.”
“Don’t
be too hard on yourself. I’m not exactly the poster boy for common sense in
matters of the heart. Ari was a charmer. And a hell of a dancer.”
“He
was also rumored to have an enormous penis,” Emma said. Scarne choked on his
beer. “At least that’s what some of my girlfriends told me. You saved me from
finding out. Were you jealous of him, Jake?”
“Not
for that reason,” Scarne said, dabbing some beer from his shirt. “I just
thought you deserved better than a thrice-married Trump wannabe.”
“Why
did he go off the rails. He was brilliant.”
“Yes.
To give him his due, the tunnel idea had merit. May still have. Arachne had
vision. But a lot of men of vision eventually come to believe they
are
the
vision. The rest of us become inconsequential to them. And if we get in their
way, well, history is replete with examples of what lengths they will go to
protect the image of themselves they have created. The thirst for power and
prestige can be overwhelming.”
“What
will happen to those projects on Staten Island. The race track and the
waterfront thing?”
“Dudley
says the track was always dead. As for the Home Port, he says the latest deal
looks to be falling apart. Some Chinese investors pulled out suddenly, probably
because of the publicity.” Scarne was about to take another sip of his beer but
put the glass down sharply on the table. “Jesus!”
“What?”
“It
might be nothing. But I always suspected that Arachne had some big backers for
his tunnel plan.”
“The
Chinese?”
“Might
just be a coincidence,” Scarne said. “But it probably wouldn’t hurt if some of
your reporters looked into it.”
“You’d
make a hell of a journalist, Jake. That’s a great idea.”
“Snoops
under the skin.”
“Come
to think of it. There were several Chinese at Ari’s funeral. And they looked
important.”
“You
went to the funeral?”
“How
could I not? Even the Donald was there. Comforting the grieving widow. You
wanted me to keep up appearances, didn’t you?”
“Speaking
of which, I presume it was a closed casket. I understand he landed face down.”
“Yuck.
What about the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall? Will the police be able to trace
it back to Ari?”
“Maybe.
Dudley gave Scullen and Crider, the two cops who helped us, just enough
information to implicate Bimm and the Lacuna crime family. They’re heroes now.
And I told Dick Condon about Banaszak’s involvement without blowing the
priest’s cover. It will make lurid copy, but with everyone basically dead, no
one will dig much farther. In a few years, if somebody unravels all the real
estate deals, the truth may come out, especially if you come up with a Chinese
connection. But by that time there will be other scandals and crimes. Arachne
will be old news.”
“What
about our involvement?”
“Nothing
that happens should affect us. Hell, we were never in Arachne’s apartment,
remember.”
“Do
you think the Chinese knew about the girl’s murder? I mean, if they really were
in bed with Ari.”
“I
doubt it. Moral considerations aside, that’s not the kind of risk they’d want
to run.”
Emma
grew pensive.
“What
would you have done if you had found Ari raping me?”
“The
end result for him would have been the same.”
She
stared at Scarne a long moment and then signaled their waiter.
“Please
bring me a very dry Beefeater martini, straight up, one olive,” she said. “And
the wine list.” When the man walked off she turned to Scarne. “Since I can’t
thank the scary man, I hope you don’t have anything important to do this
afternoon.”
“I’ll
clear my calendar.”
“Kindly
wipe that goddamn smile off your face.”
After
finishing lunch they walked up the street toward Scarne’s apartment arm in arm.
“Just
for the record,” Scarne teased, “how would you have thanked the scary man?”
“Suck
farts,” Emma Shields said, leaning up to kiss him.
CHAPTER
37 – NORTH CAROLINA
“Some
of you may already be journalists.”
There
were yawns aplenty among the 24 students in the “Media in Crisis” class,
especially among the footballers, who were not used to getting up for a 9 A.M.
course. With afternoon practice often running into dusk, the exhausted athletes
tried to schedule as many of their classes as possible for after lunch.
“How
many have kept a diary or a journal at one time or another? Maybe on your iPad?
Come on, fess up.”
Several
of the girls raised their hands, as did one of the boys, with apparent
reluctance. He was the quarterback on the team. Division II-A to be sure, but
still a jock. His admission got disbelieving looks from the 10 other males in
the classroom, especially five beefy linemen. In the back of the room, one
nerdy-looking boy, now emboldened, meekly lifted his arm.
Sitting
on a corner of his desk at the front of the room, Robert Pearsall smiled. He
knew the Bracken College players signed up for his “crack of dawn” course (as
they termed it) on the assumption that the “gut” elective would pad their grade
point averages. They were right about the GPA’s. Pearsall, although new to the
small North Carolina mountain school, had followed its hardscrabble football
tribulations for years. He had no intention of derailing what promised to be
the team of the decade. A rabid football fan, he recognized serious
offensive-line beef. There was more than a thousand pounds of it squeezed in
seats in front of him. But that would be the only “gut” in this room. They’d
work for their grades. But he wondered how they would react to finding out they
had a “sensitive” quarterback. They will undoubtedly bust his balls
unmercifully. But if they were smart, they’d realize that the kid
had
the balls to risk derision, never a bad trait in a quarterback.
Pearsall
also noticed that a couple of the girls had turned to look at the strapping
athlete in their midst. Maybe the boy counted on that. Pearsall stood, took off
his sports jacket and placed it around the chair behind the desk. He was the
only teacher in the school who wore jacket and tie every day. He hoped they
didn’t notice his mismatched socks.
“Journalism
is often wrong and misleading, occasionally dangerous, but necessary to life as
we know it. For as long as humans could think, they have felt a need to
communicate with each other. First, of course, they were limited to the spoken
word, or grunt, if you will. But once man developed the tools needed to etch,
or draw in charcoal, his ability to influence other humans, and events, expanded
exponentially. The cave drawing in France, which date back some 35,000 years,
astound anthropologists today with their sophistication. Picasso said those
ancient artists created everything there is to know about art, including
perspective and animation. I like to think they invented journalism as well,
with their depictions of hunters and bison and horses. The words you write on
the printed page or on a computer screen are immortal.”
Pearsall
had their attention now. At their age they all thought they were immortal, and
liked hearing it.
“Your
words, and the phrases they form, can be traced directly back to the first
words ever written, in whatever language. Since nothing is ever really
destroyed on Earth, merely recycled, some scientists argue that every breath
that we take contains at least a few molecules that were breathed by Aristotle,
Da Vinci, Lincoln – and by Adam and Eve. And Moses, and even Jesus Christ. And
the molecules you are exhaling this very moment will be breathed in by someone
10,000 years from now.”
“Hey,
Kowalski, you’d better spring for some breath mints,” a linebacker named Phelps
said, to laughter. They were having fun, which Pearsall relished.
“Written
words are like those molecules. Every word written today had its genesis in
something written by an ancient. Cicero, the prophets, the apostles, Caesar
etc. And every word written today – every word you will write – will influence
future generations. Whether you believe that intelligent life is limited to our
blue planet, or is common in the universe, man’s ability to write – on the
printed page or electronically – is one of the marvels of creation. Imagine how
many billions, trillions of words have been written or uttered since language
was developed. Some say writing is an art. I would argue that it is the ONLY
art, from which all else developed. And journalism, done right, is one of the
noblest professions of mankind. We will all be journalists of one kind or
another, and pass down our thoughts to the future, but those of you who may
someday make a living as working journalists have a special responsibility to
tell the truth, to show courage and to serve the greater good.
“Those
who criticize the media – rightly, in many instances – could not live without
it. People needed to hear about Pearl Harbor, didn’t they? The attack on 9/11?
The stock market crash? They want to know who is stealing from the city
coffers, if a tornado or hurricane is heading their way. They might also like
to know if someone is knocking over convenience stores, or if there is a
murderer on the loose.”
Pearsall’s
voice thickened slightly and he cleared his throat. None of the kids appeared
to notice. The moment passed. He walked over to his desk and sat down again,
looked at the quarterback and smiled.
“On
a local level, they like to read about how their favorite teams do. They want
to see their kid’s name in the paper, or on TV, when he hits a home run or
scores a touchdown. Who is getting married. And let’s not forget obituaries.
The last kind words we can say about family, friends and neighbors. Does anyone
want to leave this vale of tears without being noticed by the communities we
live in? Journalists make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Pearsall
decided that he had done enough proselytizing. Any more and he might lose them.
“By
the end of this semester, I hope to give you some practical grounding in the
‘art’ of journalism – which at the very least will help you in whatever careers
you carve out for yourselves in the future. After all, being aware of your surroundings
and having the ability to put thoughts down succinctly, whether on a page or
computer screen, is a powerful competitive asset. I also hope to impart some
sense as to why journalism is in ‘crisis,’ and where it may be headed in the 21
st
Century. You will be asked to read examples of what I consider execrable
journalism.”
“What
kind of journalism?”
It
was one of the lineman.
“Shitty,”
Pearsall said, and everyone laughed. “To earn your three credits you will also
be required to write articles.” He saw several of the linemen roll their eyes.
“Don’t worry, it will be a collaborative effort. I will break you up in teams,
so that you can brainstorm, and combine your strengths. Some of you may be
writers, others editors. You will soon find out the difference.”
Pearsall
went behind his desk and sat down. He picked up the class roster.
“Now,
let’s get to know one another. I suggest you take notes. You may be writing
about each other by the end of the semester.”
***
It
was a 20-mile drive from the campus to Pearsall’s two-bedroom log cabin on
Bracken Lake. It was isolated; the nearest neighbors a quarter of a mile away
on either side, or across the lake. He had purchased it 12 years earlier and
cherished the vacations he spent there with Ronnie and Elizabeth. They had
walked the spectacular woods, fished and swam off the small dock. At night they
read or played Trivial Pursuit or gin rummy. The nearest movie, supermarket and
restaurant were 10 miles away.
Pearsall
was surprised to see a car parked in his driveway. It was empty. He walked to
the rear of the cabin and saw a man standing on his deck looking out at the
lake. The man turned at his approach and walked to meet him. .
“Jake
Scarne?”
“Yes.”
“Everett
called and said you might be coming by.”
“I
hope it’s no trouble.”
The
two men shook hands.
“No
trouble. But why didn’t you just call?”
“I
have something to tell you. Not the kind of thing I’d use a phone for. I hope
you don’t mind me coming back here by the lake. It’s so beautiful.”
“Not
at all. The view belongs to everybody.”
A
fish swirled in the water next to the dock.
“Bass?”
“Pickerel,”
Pearsall said. “You must be thirsty. How about I throw a few bottles of beer in
a bucket.” He pointed to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the grass by the
water’s edge. “We can sit and talk until it gets too cold.”
***
By
the time Scarne finished his tale, they had each consumed three bottles of
Duck-Rabbit Amber Ale, an excellent local brew. Pearsall heard Scarne straight
through, without comment. The only signs of distress were a few heavy sighs and
a brief turning of his head while he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and
blew his nose.
“I
debated whether to tell you at all, Bob. It finally came down to one thing. If
it was me, I’d want to know.”
Scarne
could see people on their lawns across the lake from them. A faint smoke smell
and the scent of broiling meat drifted their way and competed with the bracing
odor of pine and moss.
“I
owe you and Mack a debt I can never repay,” Pearsall said. “Why did you get
involved? Dudley I understand. He was sweet on Ronnie. But we hardly knew one
another. This has caused you a lot of trouble.”
“I
was at a point in my life when I needed to do something right. I had a bad
experience on a case that made me feel sorry for myself. I was coasting, afraid
to get involved in anything that might involve me emotionally. I was letting
myself go physically, and mentally. Not anymore. So, you don’t owe me a damn
thing.”
***
The
sun had set and the sky was clear and rife with stars. Neither man wanted to go
in. So Pearsall brought out sweaters and set out a small wooden table, on which
he placed a bottle of Jack Daniels, some glasses, ice and a platter of thick
ham sandwiches. They were both soon slightly drunk.
“You
know, Jake, after Elizabeth was murdered, I considered the possibility there
might be a connection to my job.”
Scarne
was startled and said so.
“I
don’t mean right away. At first, I went off the deep end. I guess you know
that. Just had to get out of there. But after I came down here I had time to
think. It was by no means a certainty. But I didn’t rule it out.” He was quiet
for several moments. “We had a great life on Staten Island as kids. Like living
in the Midwest, in the midst of the biggest city on Earth. Even later, when I
got married, it was pretty decent. When you have kids, you reconnect with old
friends because their kids are going to school with yours. Parties, barbecues
where three, four generations knew each other. A lost world. Never happen
again.” He was silent longer this time. “Those bastards are trying to turn the
Island into a sewer. Barbarians. Greedy fucking barbarians.”