Authors: Stephen Coonts
“Hey, this is Jack Yocke. How’s it going?”
“Too smooth, dude. What’s on your mind?”
“You seen this morning’s paper?”
“I never read that honkey shit. You know that.”
“Question. What’s the street price doing right now?”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Is it going up or down?”
“Steady, man. Five bucks a pop. Some talk about dropping it to four, but nobody wants to do that. Not as much juice for everybody, you know?”
“Any supply problems?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Thanks.”
“Be cool, dude.”
The man that Yocke had been talking to, Harrison Ronald Ford-he had taken to using his full name since that actor became popular-cradled the telephone and went back to his coffee.
The newspaper that he had just told Yocke he never read was spread on the kitchen table in front of him. The story he had been reading when the phone rang had Yocke’s byline. Second Potomac Savings and Loan taken over by the feds, the headline shouted. Recently murdered cashier Walter P. Harrington apparently involved in money laundering, according to an unnamed source. Second Potomac officials aghast. Massive violations of record-keeping requirements. The rank-and-file staff knew something fishy was going on, but no one wanted to speak out and risk his job and pension rights. So now they had neither.
Harrison Ronald poured himself another cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. He glanced out the dirty window at the building across the alley, then resumed his seat at the kitchen table and flipped to the comics. After he scanned them and grinned at “Cathy,” he picked up a pencil and began the crossword puzzle.
Harrison Ronald liked crossword puzzles. He had discovered long ago that he could think about other things while he filled in the little squares. Today he had much to think about.
At the head of his list was Freeman Mcationally. He knew that Mcationally had been laundering money through Harrington’s S-and-L. What would Mcationally do now? Mcationally s operation was taking in almost three million cash a week. About a fourth of that amount went to the West Coast to pay for new raw product, and a big chunk went to salaries and payoffs and other expenses. Still the operation produced a million a week pure profita little over four million a month-cash that Freeman Mcationally had to somehow turn into legitimate funds that he and his immediate cronies could spend and squirrel away.
It was certainly a pleasant problem, but a problem nonetheless. It would be interesting to hear Freeman’s solution.
In the year that Harrison Ronald had spent working for the organization he had acquired a tremendous respect for Freeman Mcationally. A sixth-grade dropout, Mcationally had common sense, superior intelligence, and a cat’s ability to land on his feet when the unexpected occurred, as it did with a frequency that would have appalled any legitimate businessman.
Many of Mcationally’s troubles were caused by the people who worked for him: they got greedy, they became addicted, they liked to strut their stuff in front of the wrong people, they became convinced of their own personal invulnerability. Mcationally was a natural leader. His judgments were hard to fault. Those people that he concluded were a danger disappeared, quickly and forever. Those errant souls whom he believed trainable he corrected and trusted.
ke every crack dealer, Mcationally was in a never-ending to protect his turf, the street corners and houses where street dealers sold his product. This was combat and Mcationally had a natural aptitude for it. He was ruthless efficiency incarnate.
And like every crack dealer, Mcationally was in a cash-andcarry business that demanded constant vigilance against cheaters and thieves. Here too Mcationally excelled, but he had been blessed with a generous dollop of paranoia and a natural talent for larceny. To Harrison Ronald’s personal knowledge, poorly advised optimists had attempted to swindle Freeman Mcationally on two occasions. Several of these foolish individuals had received bullets in the brain as souvenirs of their adventure and one had been dismembered with a chain saw while still alive. But although Freeman Mcationally had many attributes in common with other successful crack-ring leaders, he was also unique. Mcationally intuitively understood that the most serious threat to the health of his enterprise was the authorities-the police, the DEA, the FBI. So he had systematically set about reducing that threat to an acceptable level. He found politicians, cops and drug enforcement agents who soon would be bought and he bought them.
Consequently Harrison Ronald Ford was in Washington undercover instead of riding around Evansville, Indiana, in a patrol car. He wasn’t known as Harrison Ronald Ford here though, but as Sammy Z.
Mother of Galahad, 23 Across. Six letters, the last of which is an E.
Ford had arrived in Washington a year ago and rented this shithole to live in. After two weeks of hanging around bars, he got a job as a lookout for one of Mcationally’s distributors. He had been doing that for about a month when who should come strolling down the street one rainy Thursday night but his high school baseball buddy from Evansville, Jack Yocke.
He had leveled with Yocke-he had no choice: Yocke knew he was a cop-and the reporter apparently had kept the secret. Ten months had passed, Harrison Ronald was still alive, with all his arms and legs firmly attached, and he
was now personally running errands and delivering product for Freeman. He was close. Very close. He knew the names of two of the local cops on Freeman’s list and one of the politicians, but comhe had no evidence that would stand up in court. It would come. Sooner or later he would get the evidence. If he lived long enough. Elaine. Elaine was the mother of Galahad. If that fox Freeman Mcationally didn’t catch on. Damn that Yocke anyway. Why did that white boy have to Pick today to call? Oh well, if worse came to worst, Jack Yocke would write him one bell of an obituary.
The late Judson Lincoln had lived in a modest three-story town house in a fashionably chic neighborhood a mile or so northeast of the White House. T. Jefferson Brody wheeled his Mercedes into a vacant parking place a block past the Lincoln residence and walked back.
He was expected. He had telephoned the widow this morning and informed her of his interest in discussing the purchase of the business that had belonged to her deceased husband. She had apparently called her attorney, then called him back and proposed this meeting at two p.m.
Mrs. Lincoln had sounded calm enough on the phone this morning, but that was certainly nothing to bank upon. This would in all likelihood be a tense afternoon with the sniveling widow, probably some brainless, ill-mannered brats, and for sure, one overpaid fat lawyer anxious to split hairs and niggle ad nauseam over contractual phrasing. Looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon would be the question of who had killed Judson Lincoln, prominent black businessman and civic pillar to whom we point with pride. And police. They would be in constant contact with the widow, asking every question they thought they could get away with.
Oh well, T. Jefferson could handle it.
After pushing the doorbell, Brody adjusted the twenty dollar royal-blue silk hanky in his breast pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t need to offer it as a repository for the contents
the widow’s nose, but…. He straightened his tie and sure his suit jacket was properly buttoned and hanging under his kneebledencength mohair topcoat.
The door was opened by a black woman in a maid outfit that was complete right down to the little white apron. He handed her his card and said, “To see Mrs. Lincoln, please.”
“I’ll take your coat, sir.” When Brody had shed the garment, the maid said, “This way, sir.”
She led Brody fifteen feet down the hallway to the study.
Mrs. Lincoln was a tall woman with chiseled features and a magnificent figure. Her waist, Brody noted appreciatively, wouldn’t go over twenty-two inches. Her bust, he estimated, would tape almost twice that. Judson Lincoln must have been out of his mind to go chasing floozies with this magnificent piece waiting for him at home! Then she smiled. T. Jefferson Brody felt his knees get watery. “I’m Deborah Lincoln, Mr. Brody. This is my attorney, Jeremiah Jones.”
For the first time Brody glanced at the attorney. He was about twenty-five with slicked-back hair, miserable teeth, and a weasel smile. “Yes, Yes, Mr. Brody. Deborah has told me of your client’s interest in her husband’s business. Such a tragedy that took him from her so early in life.”
As Brody feasted his eyes upon the widow, it occurred to him that she seemed to be weathering her husband’s unfortunate demise very well. Just now she made eye contact with Jones and they both smiled slightly. She turned back to Brody and, it seemed to him, made a real effort to arrange her face.
“A tragedy,” Brody agreed after another look at gigolo Jones. “Ahem, well, life must go on. Sorry to disturb you so soon after … ah, but my clients are anxious that I speak to you about their interest in your husband’s business before you … ah, before you …”
The beautiful Deborah Lincoln took her attorney’s hand and squeezed it as she gazed raptly at Brody. “…They want to buy the business,” Brody finished lamely, his thoughts galloping.
Yes, indeed, Deborah Lincoln. Yes, indeed, you need a man to comfort you in your hour of need. But why this pimp in mufti? Why not T. Jefferson Brody?
“I have an excellent offer to lay before you.” Brody gave the widow Lincoln his most honest, sincere smile.
Negotiations with Deborah Lincoln and attorney Jones took all of an hour. Brody offered $350,000, the attorney demanded $450,000. After some genteel give-and-take, Mrs. Lincoln graciously agreed to compromise at $400,000. Her attorney held her hand and looked into her eyes and tried to persuade her to demand more, but her mind was made up.
“Four hundred thousand is fair,” she said. “That’s about what Judson thought the business was worth.”
She gave Jones a gentle grin and squeezed his hand. When they weren’t looking his way, T. Jefferson Brody rolled his eyes heavenward.
It was agreed that tomorrow afternoon Mrs. Lincoln and Mr. Jones would come to Brody’s office to look over the lease assignments, bill of sale, and other documents. Brody would have the check ready.
After shaking hands all around, Brody was escorted from the room by the maid, who helped him with his coat and held the door for him.
Down on the sidewalk, with the door firmly closed behind him, Jefferson Brody permitted himself a big smile as he walked toward his car.
The door was opened by a young woman with a scarf around her head. “Yes.”
“I understand you have an apartment for rent?” Henry Charon raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes. Come in, come in. It’s too cold out there. What is it, fortyfive degrees?”
“Nearer fifty, I think.”
“It’s upstairs. A bedroom, bath, living room, and kitchenette. Fairly nice.”
They were standing in the hallway now. The New Hampshire Avenue building was old but fairly clean. The woman wore huge glasses in brown, homrim frames, but the optical
correction in the glass was so large that her eyes were comically enlarged. Charon found himself staring at those brown eyes, fascinated. She focused on one thing, then another, and he could plainly see every twitch of the muscles around her eyes. “I’d like to see the apartment, please.”
“The rent’s nine hundred a month,” she apologized. She had a pleasant voice and spoke clearly, articulating every word precisely. “Really obscene, I know, but what can we do?”
Charon grimaced for her benefit, then said, “I’d like to see it.,”
Her eyes reflected her empathy, then she turned and made for the stairs. “Just moving to town?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, you’ll like Washington. It’s so vibrant, so exciting! All the great ideas are here. This is such an intellectually stimulating city!”
The apartment was on the third floor. The living room faced the street, but the bedroom looked down on an alley that ran alongside the building. The grillwork of a fire escape was visible out the bedroom window, and he unlocked the sash, raised it, and stuck his head out. The fire escape went all the way to the roof.
He closed the window as his guide explained about the heat. Forced-air gas, no individual thermostats, temperature kept at sixty-five all winter.
“You must come look at the kitchen.” She led him on. “It’s small but intimate and reasonably equipped. Perfect for meals for two, but you could do food for four quite easily, six or eight in a pinch.”
“Very nice,” Henry Charon said, and opened the refrigerator and looked inside to humor her. “Very nice.”
She showed him the bathroom. Adequate hot water, he was assured.
“The neighbors?” he asked when they were standing in the living room. ‘Well,” she said, lowering her voice as if to tell a secret. “Everyone who lives here is so very nice. Two doctoral
students-I’m one of those-a Library of Congress researcher, a paralegal, a freelance writer, and a publicinterest attorney. Oh, and one librarian.”
“Ummm.”
“This is the only vacancy we’ve had in over a year. We’ve had five inquiries, but the landlord insisted on a hundred and fifty a month rent increase, which just puts it out of so many persons” reach.”
“I can believe it.”
“The previous tenant died of AIDS.” She looked wi/lly around the room, then turned those huge eyes on Charon. He stared into them. “It was so tragic. He suffered so. His friend just couldn’t afford to keep the apartment after he passed away.” .61 see.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Consulting, mostly. Government stuff.”
He began asking questions just to hear her voice and watch the expressions in her eyes. She was studying political science, hoped to teach in a private university, got a break on her rent to manage the building, the neighborhood was quiet with only reasonable traffic, she had lived here for two years and grown up in Newton, Massachusetts, the corner grocery on the next street over was excellent. Her name was Grisella Clifton.
“Well,” Henry Charon sighed at last, reluctant to end the conversation. “You’ve sold me. I’ll take it.” .