The Ambassador, page 13
If I had learned anything in the cops, I learned that you can’t pick your victims. More than once I had to deal with people who I had fought with or arrested in the past, sometimes the recent past, who were now victims of assaults or thefts or had their kids run away. You couldn’t hold it against them, you just had to deal with them like it was the first time you were meeting them.
My notes weren’t offering any new insights, and I decided to put them away for the night. I got up, got a glass, put in a few ice cubes, and covered them with whiskey. I took my whiskey to the couch and pulled the phone over, putting it on the coffee table within easy reach. I then turned on the TV.
I clicked through the channels hoping for a fight or something, but there wasn’t one to be found. It was getting harder and harder to find boxing on TV, as it was being pushed out in favor of TV shows with canned laugh tracks. Maybe like Marconi’s being replaced by the video rental store, it was a form of progress. In the end, the Movie Loft came to the rescue. Dana Hersey was standing in front of the metal, spiral staircase, telling us about Sergio Leone’s classic Western to end all Westerns, Once Upon a Time in the West. A slow, masterful epic that pit Charles Bronson’s tight, restrained, quiet performance against Henry Fonda’s even tighter, quieter turn as a psychopathic hired gun. Jason Robards was in it, delivering a touch of ragged and dusty nobility to the whole thing.
I sat, watching, enthralled at what had to be one of the dustiest-looking films in movie history. Its slow pacing was perfect for opportunities to call Kovach. I took sips of whiskey as Bronson, Robards and Fonda shot their way toward their inevitable showdowns. Every other commercial, I would pick up the phone and dial Kovach’s number, which, after a day of trying to call him, I had memorized without meaning to.
I wasn’t having any better luck this time but at least I was fortified by the very tasty sandwich, and whiskey. The movie was engrossing and took my mind off the disappointment of a phone that rang and rang but was never answered. The nice thing about the commercials, besides being able to call Kovach and feel like I was doing something to move the case forward, was that I was able to refill my whiskey glass as needed and not miss any of the movie.
By the time the credits were rolling to the distinct notes of the soundtrack, I was tired, and my eyelids were heavy. My belly was full, and I was a few whiskeys deep. I picked up the phone for one more attempt before bed. I listened to it ring and ring, bits of static crackling on the line between Fairhaven and Boston. Then, just like that, it stopped ringing and a voice said, ‘Hello.’
ELEVEN
I sat up straighter.
‘Hello,’ he said again.
‘Hi. Is this Arno?’
‘Yes, and who is this?’ His English was accented but not heavily so, and I got the feeling that his manner of speaking would be a little old fashioned. Formal and precise, the way Eastern Europeans tended to speak their adopted tongue.
‘My name is Andy Roark. I’m a private investigator from Boston.’
‘Are you the one who was asking my neighbors about me?’
‘Yes.’ There was little point in lying about that.
‘Why do you want to talk to me, Mr Private Investigator?’
‘I would rather talk to you in person.’ I wanted to look into his eyes, gauge his body language, see all those tiny details that help divine the lies from the truth. It was hard enough to do that in person. It is impossible to do that on the phone.
‘I am sure you would, Mr Andy Investigator,’ it occurred to me that his words were just the tiniest bit slurred, ‘but what about?’
‘Well, it’s a lot to go into over the phone …’ I trailed off.
‘It must be important if you are calling me this late at night.’
‘You are a hard man to get in touch with.’
‘Humph.’
‘Can we meet tomorrow, Arno? Get a drink or something?’
‘I heard you were in a fight with a couple of the men from the shipyard.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a fight, more of a misunderstanding, really.’ There wasn’t much point in going into the details. I was trying to be friendly Andy. The Andy you want to have a beer with, not combat Andy.
‘I believe that one of them will be limping for a long time to come.’
‘Again, a misunderstanding.’
‘A painful one.’
‘He seemed very intent upon hurting me. I don’t care for that sort of thing.’
‘And now you want to meet with me?’
‘We don’t have to meet down where you live.’
‘How did you find out where I live?’
‘We have a mutual friend from Vietnam, Don Barry.’ That was sort of true, and I wouldn’t mind if Kovach got the feeling that Don had given me his address and phone number. It seemed less sinister than my seeking out where he lived.
‘Yes, I remember Don Barry. Good man, but a horrible poker player.’
‘That sounds about right.’ Things were looking up. ‘What do you say? Would you like to get a drink and talk about the old days, Vietnam and all that?’
‘Were you there?’
‘Yes, mostly up in CCN. We could grab a drink and swap notes about Vietnam.’
‘That is a generous offer, Investigator Andy. But I do not think that I like you.’
‘How come?’ Most people find me somewhat likeable. Well, some people.
‘I came home today, and my door was only partially locked. My apartment felt different, things were out of place that should not be. It feels like someone has been going through my things. Now, a private investigator is calling me, I assume with questions … no, Andy, I think meeting you is a bad idea.’ Then there was a click and the dial tone buzzed in my ear.
‘But you haven’t even heard about my self-improvement plan,’ I said to the dead handset.
I thought about calling Watts and telling her about my conversation with Kovach, but I had one whiskey more than was advisable for trying to sound intelligent while speaking with pretty FBI agents. I was not sure I was ready to admit to her that I might have bungled things by having a peek in Kovach’s apartment. I had, after all, impressed her with what I had found, and I didn’t get to impress Watts often. I wanted to savor the feeling, at least until morning.
The next morning, I overslept by forty-five minutes but still went for a run. One of the advantages of being self-employed was that if I showed up at the office late, I wasn’t going to be in trouble with me. The closest thing I had to a boss was the cat, and he was, frankly, not doing a great job of managing my work.
I went for my usual run, dodging the puddles left by last night’s rain. I ran down Storrow Drive, enjoying the look of the Charles River with the morning sun glinting off it. Here and there a lone rower propelled a small wooden rowing shell on the river. Occasionally a large crew of rowers moved down the river, reminding me of small Viking long boats, minus sails and swords. I pounded up the steps to the Longfellow Bridge; while the breeze was more noticeable due to the excellent engineering of the structure, the threat of puddles was almost nonexistent.
I heard a car honk behind me. Looking over my shoulder I noticed an unremarkable brown sedan, maybe a Ford, maybe a Chevy, driving slowly down the bridge. Another car honked and the sedan shot ahead. I couldn’t see the driver but noticed there were two men in it. I probably wouldn’t have thought much more about it. Except that when I ran past the Harvard Bridge it was there again, a few cars back as I crossed over on to the Boston University Bridge heading back into Boston from Cambridge.
Was it a coincidence? Tan American-made sedans weren’t exactly rarities in American cities. I hadn’t seen the plate, just that there were two white men in it. It might not even be the same car. Just to be on the safe side I ran up a couple of blocks. With the morning traffic, the car never seemed able to get ahead of me, but it also didn’t seem like it was trying too hard. If I was the type who tended toward paranoia, I might think that they were following me.
That was annoying. I liked my morning run. It was a part of the day when I could clear my head. Sometimes it was nice to go out in the world and pretend that I was just like every other normal person out there. The car was still behind me when Mountfort met Beacon Street, which I followed inbound toward my apartment. I cut over on to Newbury Street and turned left on to Mass Ave. The tan sedan was still behind me, aided by the sluggish traffic.
They were following me. The problem was who were they? Were they friends of Kovach and the two big dudes from the boatyard? Or were they associates of the local hoods I had pissed off in the Combat Zone a few months ago? Or were the Vietnamese gangsters having another go, six months later? Lately I had been pissing quite a few people off, and they were not the type to send angry letters.
Comm Ave. I would run to Commonwealth Avenue and take advantage of its central walking path to lose them. I could cut across the path and cross to the outbound side of Comm Ave and cross the street. If I did it right, they might have to go down a block or two to double around to stick with me.
I crossed Hereford Street, which was one way toward the Charles River, which meant they could turn on to it and follow me. I ran down to Gloucester Street which would be one way in the opposite direction. I turned left and lost them. I laughed watching them as they moved on down Commonwealth Ave. I followed the street down to Beacon Street. The light was against me when I got there and I jogged in place, sweaty and proud of myself. The light turned green, and I started to cross. I heard the sound of a big American-made engine revving and saw movement out of the corner of my eye.
I dived and rolled into the gutter, in a puddle. Looking up I saw the taillights of a tan sedan running through the light. I heard car horns blaring but I was all right. It had missed me. Was it someone trying to kill me or was this just another example of excellent Boston driving? I started back on my way, albeit a little bit scraped up and wet from the gutter.
I was almost home when a car dodging a pothole managed to splash me with a puddle of Boston’s finest gutter water. My whole left side was drenched, but at least I didn’t drink any of the oily, briny mixture. The day was going from bad to worse. I finished the last half of my run cold and with one foot that squished and slapped the pavement as I ran.
When I got home and inside the apartment, even Sir Leominster didn’t want to rub up against me. I stepped out of my wet sneakers and stripped off my socks. I grabbed a towel and went back to the living room. Still wet, steam coming off me, I went to the phone to call Watts. She picked up on the third ring.
‘What do you want, Andy?’
‘How’d you know it was me?’
‘No one else calls me as I am on the way out the door to the office in the morning.’
‘Not even your mother?’
‘Especially not her.’
‘I spent yesterday going over my case notes, and when I wasn’t doing that, I would call Kovach’s phone and listen to it ring and ring.’
‘Gee, Andy, that’s great. Sounds like an exciting day.’ Ma Bell must have a new feature that makes people sound very sarcastic. ‘You called to tell me about your day doodling and making fruitless phone calls?’
‘Last night he answered the phone.’
‘Whaaat?’
‘Yes, we talked for a few minutes. I asked to meet him, and he basically told me to pound sand.’
‘OK, good to know. Anything else?’
‘Nothing surprising. He sounded a little drunk and he is a very suspicious person.’
‘Sounds like you two are a pair.’ I wasn’t sure that I liked being compared to Kovach.
‘I can’t exactly blame him.’
‘OK, what’s next?’
‘I will put something together for Stevenson and see if he wants me to keep on looking for an SOG guy or if he wants me to stick with Kovach or stop all together.’
‘Sounds good. I think he is up in Vermont.’
‘What is he doing up there? It’s too early for ski season.’ Stevenson didn’t strike me as someone with a secret passion for dairy farming.
‘He’s shacked up there in the mountains with his trophy wife, his assistant, and a ghostwriter so he can work on his memoirs.’
‘Nice gig. Maybe I should write my memoirs.’
‘No one needs another coloring book.’ She hung up; I was starting to wonder if that was her way of saying goodbye to me. I could only imagine what she would be like if she didn’t find me mildly amusing.
I decided that my call to Stevenson’s aide-de-camp could wait until after a shower and breakfast. That and I was starting to shiver; there is nothing quite like wet cotton to draw the heat right out of you. I stripped off my stuff, threw it in the hamper, and turned the shower on.
After I showered, toweled off and dressed, I felt a little warmer. In the kitchen, I started coffee in the stove-top espresso maker. I made a breakfast of wheat toast, an apple and yogurt. Self-improvement comes at a price, flavor being chief among them now. At least I felt ready to call Stevenson’s ADC and report what little progress I had made so far.
I found the number the ADC had given me for Vermont when we were wrapping up the second meeting with Stevenson. I picked up the phone and dialed the 802 area code, listening to the clicks as the dial returned to zero after each number. I held the handset to my ear listening to it ring, and, unlike Kovach’s phone, it was picked up on the third ring.
‘Hello.’ It was the ADC, Bradley.
‘It’s Andy Roark.’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Roark. I was expecting you to call in a few days ago.’
‘Yes, Bradley, I imagine you were.’
‘Well, what do you have to report?’
‘I have developed a person of interest and need to see how far the Ambassador wants me to pursue things?’
‘Great, you have a suspect. Now maybe we can get this settled and behind us.’
‘I don’t have a suspect, I have found a person of interest, a person, who MIGHT’ – I put extra emphasis on the might; I didn’t want Bradley to call in an air strike on some poor SOB who might not be sending nasty letters and poisoning dogs – ‘be a person of interest. That is a lot different than having a suspect.’
‘I see. I suppose you want to talk to the Ambassador about it?’
‘That seems sensible.’
‘Hold on a moment.’ I was trying to think of something pithy to say about his Ivy League accent and Ivy League manners, but winced instead as he dropped his handset on a table or desk. I had to assume that – with manners as nice as his – Bradley had done that on purpose. I waited, listening to the faint static from the phone. Then, ‘Mr Roark, it’s Bradley.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The Ambassador is busy working right now but wondered if you wouldn’t mind coming up and briefing him in person?’
‘To Vermont? Sure, I can do that.’ It was a waste of time, but the foliage would be nice, and if Stevenson wanted to pay my mileage, who was I to argue?
‘He was hoping you could come up today, brief him, and then you could head back in the morning?’
‘Sure kid, it’s his nickel.’ I normally don’t like to be so crass, but I had the feeling that Bradley found me annoying, and I had the childish impulse to encourage that.
‘Good.’ He didn’t mean it. ‘The Ambassador will be pleased.’ Bradley then gave me directions through gritted teeth. I wrote them down and was very happy that I would be driving to central Vermont and not the Canadian border. Two hours in the Maverick was manageable. After Bradley confirmed that I had the directions properly written down, he said a curt goodbye and hung up.
I grabbed my postal bag and slid my case notes into it. From the bathroom I got my shaving kit in its canvas bag and added that to the mail bag. A change of clothes, a few extra items like socks and a couple extra speedloaders of .38 hollow points went in too. You never knew. On the other hand, what was I worried about in Vermont? An angry moose or black bear? I threw a paperback copy of an Eric Ambler novel in as well. I had an almost new bottle of whiskey and almost added it to my bag, but I was confident that Stevenson would have a lot of good hootch on hand.
I opened an extra can of food and put it out for Sir Leominster. I pulled on my preppy Norwegian sweater. I put my revolver, speedloader and knife in their respective places. I left the blackjack in the raincoat pocket. It wouldn’t be much good against an angry moose. I laid my L.L. Bean’s parka, the one that looks more like an army field jacket, over the mail bag and hoisted it on my shoulder.
Outside there were no bits of wire by the Maverick and no signs that anyone was trying to blow me up. The canvas postal bag and parka went on the seat on the passenger side, and I got in on my side. I started the car up and marveled at Carney’s mechanical genius as it rumbled throatily, reminding me of the way some women laugh when they throw their heads back, showing off their necks.
I got on the highway and headed north. I drove over the Tobin Bridge, which I still thought of as the Mystic River Bridge. They had changed the name the year before I went to Vietnam, and I still had to make the switch in my mind when I thought about it.
The Maverick rolled ever northward, and the land became more dramatic and higher in elevation. The leaves on the trees were spectacular shades of red, yellow, and orange. About an hour into my trip, I saw a sign that said, ‘Rest Area. New Hampshire State Liquor Store.’
I pulled off the highway into the rest area. There was a visitor center which had free maps and an information counter manned by people who looked as though they had been old when the highway had been built in the early 1970s. Kitty-corner to the information and latrine building was the State Liquor Store. Both buildings were built in the ski lodge school of architecture.
