At first Mercantile American 6 страница

"Very well. We're calling our loan. I'm advising you now, and formal written notice will follow in tonight's mail."

There was a silence. Inchbeck said, "You can't be serious." "I'm entirely serious." "But why?"

"I think' you can guess. I also believe you wouldn't want me to go into reasons on the telephone."

Inchbeck was silent in itself significant. Then he protested, "Your bank is being ridiculous and unreasonable. Only last week Big George told me he was willing to let you people increase the loan by fifty percent."

The audacity astounded Heyward, until he realized audacity had paid off for Supranational once before. It wouldn't now.

"If the loan were repaid promptly," Heyward said, "any information that we have here would remain confidential. I'd guarantee that."

What it came down to, he thought, was whether Big George, Inchbeck, and any others who knew the truth about SuNatCo, were willing to buy time. If so, FMA might steal an advantage over other creditors.

"Fifty million dollars!" Inchbeck said. "We don't keep that much cash on hand."

"Our bank would agree to a series of payments, providing they followed each other quickly." The real question was, of course: Where would SuNatCo find fifty million in its present cash-starved condition? Heyward found himself sweating a combination of nervousness, suspense, and hope.

"I'll talk to Big George," Inchbeck said. "But he isn't going to like this."

"When you talk to him, tell him I'd like to discuss, also, our loan to Q-lnvestments."

Heyward wasn't sure but, as he hung up, he thought he heard Inchbeck groan.

In the silence of his office, Roscoe Heyward leaned backward in the upholstered swivel chair, letting the tenseness drain out of him. What had occurred in the past hour had come as a stunning shock. Now, as reaction set in, he felt dejected and alone. He wished he could get away from everything for a while. If he had the choice, he knew whose company he would welcome. Avril's. But he had not heard from her since their last meeting, which was over a month ago. In the past, she had always called him. He had never called her.

On impulse, he opened a pocket address book he always carried and looked for a telephone number he remembered penciling in. It was Avril's in New York. Using a direct outside line, he dialed it.

He heard ringing, then Avril's soft and pleasing voice. "Hello." His heart leaped at the sound of her. "Hi, Rossie," she said when he identified himself.

"It's been a while since you and I met, my dear. I've been wondering when I'd hear from you."

He was aware of hesitation. "But Rossie, sweetie, you aren't on the list any more." "What list?"

Once more, uncertainty. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that." "No, please tell me. This is between the two of us."

"Well, it's a very confidential list which Supranational puts out, about who can be entertained at their expense."

He had the sudden sense of a cord around him being tightened. "Who gets the list?"

"I don't know. I know us girls do. I'm not sure who else."

He stopped, thinking nervously, and reasoned: What was done, was done. He supposed he should be glad he was not on any such list now, though found himself wondering with a twinge of jealousy who was. In any case, he hoped that back copies were carefully destroyed. Aloud he asked, "Does that mean you can't come here to meet me any more?"

"Not exactly. But if 1 did, you'd have to pay yourself, Rossie."

"How much would that be?" As he asked, he wondered if it were really himself speaking.

"There'd be my air fare from New York," Avril said matter-of-factly. "Then the cost at the hotel. And-for me two hundred dollars."

Heyward remembered wondering once before how much Supranational had paid out on his behalf. Now he knew. Holding the telephone away, he wrestled within his mind: Commonsense against desire; conscience against the knowledge of what it was like to be alone with Avril. The money was also more than he could afford. But he wanted her. Very much indeed.

He moved the telephone back. "How soon could you be here?" "Tuesday of next week." "Not before?" "Afraid not, sweetie."

He knew he was being a fool; that between now and Tuesday he would be standing in line behind other men whose priorities, for whatever reason, were greater than his own. But he couldn't help himself, and told her, "Very well. Tuesday."

They arranged that she would go to the Columbia Hilton and phone him from there. Heyward began savoring the sweetness to come.

He reminded himself of one other thing he had to do destroy his Investments share certificates.

From the 36th floor he used the express elevator to descend to the main foyer, then walked through the tunnel to the adjoining downtown branch. It took minutes only to gain access to his personal safe deposit box and remove the four certificates, each for five hundred shares. He carried them back upstairs, where he would feed them into a shredding machine personally.

But back in his office he had second thoughts. Last time he checked, the shares were worth twenty thousand dollars. Was he being hasty? After all, if necessary he could destroy the certificates at a moment's notice.

Changing his mind, he locked them in a desk drawer with other private papers.

The big break came when Miles Eastin was least expecting it.

Only two days earlier, frustrated and depressed, convinced that his servitude at the Double-Seven Health Club would produce no results other than enmeshing him deeper in criminality, the renewed shadow of prison loomed terrifyingly over him. Miles had communicated his depression to Juanita and, though tempered briefly by their lovemaking, the basic mood remained.

On Saturday he had met Juanita. Late Monday evening at the Double-Seven, Nate Nathanson, the club manager, sent for Miles who had been helping out as usual by carrying drinks and sandwiches to the card and dice players on the third floor.

When Miles entered the manager's office, two others were there with Nathanson. One was the loan shark, Russian Ominsky. The second was a husky, thick-featured man whom Miles had seen at the club several times before and had heard referred to as Tony Bear Marina. The "Bear" seemed appropriate. Marino had a heavy, powerful body, loose movements and a suggestion of underlying savagery. That Tony Bear carried authority was evident, and he was deferred to by others. Each time he

arrived at the Double-Seven it was in a Cadillac limousine, accompanied by a driver and a companion, both clearly bodyguards.

Nathanson seemed nervous when he spoke. "Miles, I've been telling Mr. Marino and Mr. Ominsky how useful you've been here. They want you to do a service for…" Ominsky said curtly to the manager, "Wait outside." "Yes, sir." Nathanson left quickly.

"There's an old guy in a car outside," Ominsky said to Miles. "Get help from Mr. Marino's men. Carry him in, but keep him out of sight. Take him up to one of the rooms near yours and make sure he stays there. Don't leave him longer than you have to, and when you do go away, lock him in. I'm holding you responsible he doesn't leave here."

Miles asked uneasily, "Am I supposed to keep him here by force?" "You won't need force."

"The old man knows the score. He won't make trouble," Tony Bear said. For someone of his bulk, his voice was surprisingly falsetto. "Just remember he's important to us, so treat him okay. But don't let him have booze. He’ll ask for it. Don't give him any. Understand?"

"I think so," Miles said. "Do you mean he's unconscious now?"

"He's dead drunk," Ominsky answered. "He's been on a bender for a week. Your job is to take care of him and dry him out. While he's here for three, four days your other work can wait." He added, "Do it right, you get another credit."

"I'll do my best," Miles told him. "Does the old man have a name? I'll have to call him something.'!

The other two glanced at each other. Ominsky said, "Danny. That's all you need to know."

A few minutes later, outside the Double-Seven, Tony Bear Marino's driver-bodyguard spat in disgust on the sidewalk and complained, "For Chrissake The old fart stinks like a shithouse."

He, the second bodyguard, and Miles Eastin were looking at an inert figure on the rear seat of a Dodge sedan,parked at the curb. The car's nearside rear door was open.

"I'll try to clean him up," Miles said. His own face wrinkled at the overpowering stench of vomit. "But we'll need to get him inside first."

The second bodyguard urged, "Goddam! Let's get it over with."

Together they reached in and lifted. In the poorly lighted street, all that could be distinguished of their burden was a tangle of gray hair, pasty hollow cheeks stubbled with beard, closed eyes and an open, slack mouth revealing toothless gums. The clothes the unconscious man was wearing were stained and torn. "You reckon he's dead?" the second bodyguard asked as they lifted the figure from the car.

Precisely at that moment, probably induced by movement, a stream of vomit emerged from the open mouth and cascaded over Miles.

The driver-bodyguard, who had been untouched, chuckled. "He ain't dead. Not yet." Then, as Miles retched, "Better you 'n me, kid."

They carried the recumbent figure into the club, then, using a rear stairway, up to the fourth floor. Miles had brought a room key and unlocked a door. It was to a cubicule like his own in which the sole furnishings were a single bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, a washbasin and some shelving. Paneling around the cubicle stopped a foot short of the ceiling, leaving the top open. Miles glanced inside, then told the other two, "Hold it." While they waited he ran downstairs and got a rubber sheet from the gymnasium. Returning, he spread it on the bed. They dumped the old man on it.

"He's all yours, Milesy," the driver-bodyguard said. "Let's get outta here before I puke."

Stifling his distaste, Miles undressed the old man, then, while he was still on the rubber sheet, still comatose, washed and sponged him. When that was done, and with some lifting and shoving, Miles removed the rubber sheet and got the now cleaner, less evil-smelling figure into bed. During the process the old man moaned, and once his stomach heaved, though this time producing only a trickle of spittle which Miles wiped away. When Miles had covered him with a sheet and blanket the old man seemed to rest more easily.

Earlier, as he removed the clothing, Miles had allowed it to fall to the cubicle floor. Now he gathered it up and began putting it in two plastic bags for cleaning and laundering tomorrow. While doing so, he emptied all the pockets. One coat pocket yielded a set of false teeth. Others held miscellaneous items a comb, a pair of thick-lensed glasses, a gold pen and pencil set, several keys on a ring and in an inside pocket three Keycharge credit cards and a billfold tightly packed with money.

Miles took the false teeth, rinsed them, and placed them beside the bed in a glass of water. The spectacles he also put close by. Then he examined the bank credit cards and billfold.

The credit cards were made out to Fred W. Riordan, R. K. Bennett, Alfred Shaw, Each card was signed on the back but, despite the name differences, the handwriting in each case was the same. Miles turned the cards over again, checking the commencement and expiration dates which showed that all three were current. As far as he could tell, they were genuine.

He turned his attention to the billfold. Under a plastic window was a state driver's license. The plastic was yellowed and hard to see through, so Miles took the license out, discovered that beneath it was a second license, beneath that a third. The names on the licenses corresponded to those on the credit cards, but the head and shoulders photographs on all three licenses were identical. He peered closer. Allowing for differences when the photograph was taken, it was undoubtedly of the old man on the bed.

Miles removed the money from the billfold to count it. He would ask Nate Nathanson to put the credit cards and billfold in the club safe, but should know how much he was handing over. The sum was unexpectedly large five hundred and twelve dollars, about half in new twenty-dollar bills. The twenties stopped him. Miles looked at several of them carefully, feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertips. Then he glanced at the man on the bed who appeared to be sleeping deeply. Quietly, Miles left the room and crossed the fourth-floor corridor to his own. He returned moments later with a pocket magnifier through which he viewed the twenty-dollar bills again. His intuition was right. They were counterfeit, though of the same-high quality as those he had bought, here in the Double-Seven, a week ago.

He reasoned: The money, or rather half of it, was counterfeit. So, obviously, were the three drivers' licenses and it seemed probable that they were from the same source as Miles's own fake license, given him last week by Jules LaRocca. Therefore, wasn't it likely that the credit cards were also counterfeit? Perhaps, after all, he was close to the source of the false Keycharge cards which Nolan Wainwright wanted to locate so badly. Miles's excitement rose, along with a nervousness which set his heart pounding.

He needed a record of the new information. On a paper towel he copied down details from the credit cards and drivers' licenses, occasionally checking to be sure the figure in the bed was not stirring.

Soon after, Miles turned out the light, locked the door from outside and took the billfold and credit cards downstairs.

He slept fitfully that night, with his door ajar, aware of his responsibility for the inmate of the cubicle across the hall. Miles spent time, too, speculating on the role and identity of the old man whom he began to think of as Danny. What was Danny's relationship to Ominsky and Tony Bear Marino? Why had they brought him here? Tony Bear had declared: He's important to us. Why?

Miles awoke with daylight and checked his watch: 6:45. He got up, washed quickly, shaved and dressed. There were no sounds from across the corridor. He walked over, inserted the key quietly, and looked in. Danny had changed position in the night but was still asleep, snoring gently. Miles gathered the plastic bags of clothing, relocked the door, and went downstairs.

He was back twenty minutes later with a breakfast tray of strong coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs.

"Danny!" Miles shook the old man's shoulder. "Danny, wake up!"

There was no response. Miles tried again. At length two eyes opened warily, inspected him, then hastily closed tight. "Go 'way," the old man mumbled. "Go 'way. I ain't ready for hell yet."

"I'm not the devil," Miles said. "I'm a friend. Tony Bear and Russian Ominsky told me to take care of you."

Rheumy eyes reopened. "Them sons-o'-Sodom found me, eh? Figures, I guess. They usually do." The old man's face creased in pain. "Oh, Jesus! My suffering head!"

"I brought some coffee. Let's see if it will help." Miles put an arm around Danny's shoulders, assisting him to sit upright, then carried the coffee over. The old man sipped and grimaced.

He seemed suddenly alert. "Listen, son. What'll set me straight is a hair of the dog. Now you take some money…" He looked around him,

"Your money's okay," Miles said. "It's in the club safe. I took it down last night." "This the Double-Seven?" "Yes."

"Brought me here once before. Well, now you know I can pay, son, just you nip down to the bar…"

Miles said firmly, "There won't be any nipping. For either of us."

"I’ll make it worthwhile." The old eyes gleamed with cunning. "Say forty dollars for a fifth. Howzat?"

"Sorry, Danny. I had orders." Miles weighed what he would say next, then took the plunge. "Besides, if I used those twenties of yours, I could get arrested."

It was as if he had fired a gun. Danny shot upright, alarm and suspicion on his face. "Who said you could…" He stopped with a moan and grimace, putting a hand to his head in pain. "Someone had to count the money. So I did it." The old man said weakly, "Those are good twenties."

"Sure are," Miles agreed. "Some of the best I've seen. Almost as good as the U. S. Bureau of Engraving."

Danny raised his eyes. Interest competed with suspicion. "How come you know so much?" "Before I went to prison I worked for a bank."

A silence. Then the old man asked, "What were you in the can for?" "Embezzlement. I'm on parole now."

Danny visibly relaxed. "I guess you're okay. Or you wouldn't be working for Tony Bear and the Russian."

"That's right," Miles said. "I'm okay. The next thing is to get you the same way. Right now we're going to the steam room."

"It ain't steam I need. It's a short snort. Just one, son," Danny pleaded. "I swear that's all. You wouldn't deny an old man that small favor."

"We'll sweat some out you already drank. Then you can lick your fingers." The old man groaned. "Heartless! Heartless"

In a way it was like taking care of a child. Overcoming token protests Miles wrapped Danny in a robe and shepherded him downstairs, then escorted him naked through successive steam rooms, toweled him, and finally eased him onto a masseur's table where Miles himself gave a creditable pummeling and rubdown. This early, the gym and steam rooms were deserted and few of the club staff had arrived. No one else was in sight when Miles escorted the old man back upstairs.

Miles remade the bed with dean sheets, and Danny, by now quietened and obedient, climbed in. Almost at once he was asleep, though unlike last night, he appeared tranquil, even angelic. Strangely, without really knowing him, Miles already liked the old man. Carefully, while he slept, Miles put a towel under his head and shaved him.

In late morning, while reading in his room across the hall, Miles drifted off to sleep.

"Hey, Milesy! Baby, stir ass" The rasping voice was Jules LaRocca's.

Startled, Miles jerked awake to see the familiar potbellied figure standing in the doorway. Miles's hand

reached out, seeking the key of the cubicle across the hall. Reassuringly, it was where he had left it.

"Gotsum threads for the old lush," LaRocca said. He was carrying a fiberboard suitcase. "Ominsky said ta deliver 'em ta you." LaRocca, the ubiquitous messenger.

"Okay." Miles stretched, and went to a sink where he splashed cold water on his face. Then, followed by LaRocca, he opened the door across the hall. As the two came in, Danny eased up gingerly in bed. Though still drawn and pale, he appeared better than at any time since his arrival. He had put his teeth in and had his glasses on.

"Ya useless old bum" LaRocca said. "Ya always givin' everybody a lotta trouble."

Danny sat up straighter, regarding his accuser with distaste. "I'm far from useless. As you and others know. As for the sauce, every man has his little weakness." He motioned to the suitcase. "If you brought my clothes, do what you were sent for and hang them up."

Unperturbed, LaRocca grinned. "Sounds like ya bouncin' back, ye old fart. Guess Milesy done a job."

"Jules," Miles said, "win you stay here while I go down and get a sunlamp? I think it'd do Danny good." "Sure."

"I'd like to speak to you first." Miles motioned with his head and LaRocca followed him outside.

Keeping his voice low, Miles asked, "Jules, what's this all about? Who is he?"

"Just an old Beeper. Once in a while he slips away, goes on a bender. Then somebody has to find him, dry the old barfly out." "Why? And where does he slip away from?"

LaRocca stopped, his eyes suspicious, as they had been a week ago. "Ya askin' questions again, kid. Whadid Tony Bear and Ominsky tell ye?" "Nothing, except the old man's name is Danny." "If 'n they wanna tell ya more, they'll tell ye. Not me."

When LaRocca had gone, Miles set up a sunlamp in the cubicle and sat Danny under it for half an hour. Through the remainder of the day, the old man lay quietly awakeor dozed. In the early evening Miles brought dinner from downstairs, most of which Danny ate his first full meal since arrival twenty-four hours ago.

Next morning Wednesday Miles repeated the steam room and sunlamp treatments and later the two of them played chess. The old man had a quick, astute mind and they were evenly matched. By now, Danny was friendly and relaxed, making clear that he liked Miles's company and attentions.

During the second afternoon the old man wanted to talk. "Yesterday," he said, "that creep LaRocca said you know a lot about money."

"He tells everybody that." Miles explained about his hobby and the interest it aroused in prison.

Danny asked more questions, then announced, "If you don't mind, I'd like my own money now." "I'll get it for you. But I’ll have to lock you in again..

"If you're worrying about the booze, forget it. I'm over it for this time. A break like this does the trick. Could be months before I'll take a drink again."

"Glad to hear that." Miles locked the door, just the same.

When he had his money, Danny spread it on the bed, then divided it into two piles. The new twenties were in one, the remaining, mostly soiled, assorted bills in another. Prom the second grouping, Danny selected three tendollar bills and handed them to Miles. "That's for thinking of some little things, son like taking care of my teeth, the shave, the sunlamp. I appreciate what you did." "Listen, you don't have to."

"Take it. And by the way, it's real stuff. Now tell me something." "If I can, I will."

"How did you spot that those twenties were homegrown?"

"I didn't to begin with. But if you use a magnifier, some of the lines on Andrew Jackson's portrait show up blurred. "

Danny nodded sagely. "That's the difference between a steel engraving, which the government uses, and a photooffset plate. Though a top offset man can come awful close."

"In this case he did," Milesisaid. "Other parts of the bills are close to perfect."

There was a faint smile on the old man's face. 'How about the paper?"

"It fooled me. Usually you can tell a bad bill with your fingers. But not these."

Danny said softly, "Twenty-four-pound coupon bond. Hundred percent cotton fiber. People think you can't get the right paper. Isn't true. Not if you shop around."

"If you're all that interested," Miles said, "I have some books about money across the hall. There's one I'm thinking of, published by the U. S. Secret Service."

"You mean Know Your Money?" As Miles looked surprised, the old man chuckled. "That's the forgers handbook. Says what to look for to detect a bad bill. Lists all the mistakes that counterfeiters make. Even shows pictures!" "Yes," Miles said. "I know."

Danny continued chortling. "And the government gives it away! You can write to Washington they'll mail it to you. There was a hot-shot counterfeiter named Mike Landress who wrote a book. In it he said Know Your Money is something no counterfeiter should be without." "Landress got caught," Miles pointed out.

"That was because he worked with fools. They had no organization." "You seem to know a lot about it."

"A little." Danny stopped, picked up one of the good bills, one of the counterfeits, and compared them. What he saw pleased him; he grinned. "Did you know, son, that U.S. money is the world's easiest to copy and to print? Fact is, it was designed so that engravers in the last century couldn't reproduce it with the tools they had. But since those days we've had multilith machines and high resolution photo-offset, so that nowadays, with good equipment, patience, and some wastage, a skilled man can do a job that only experts can detect."

"I'd heard some of that," Miles said. "But how much of it goes on?"

"Let me tell you." Danny seemed to be enjoying himself, obviously launched on a favorite theme. "No one really knows how much queer gets printed every year and goes undetected, but it's a bundle. The government says thirty million dollars, with a tenth of that getting into circulation. But those are government figures, and the only thing you can be sure of with any government figure is that it's set high or low, depending on what the government want to prove. In this case they'd want it low. My guess is, every year, seventy million, maybe closer to a billion."

"I suppose it's possible," Miles said. He was remembering how much counterfeit money had been detected at the bank and how much more must have escaped attention altogether. "Know the hardest kind of money to reproduce?" "No, I don't." "An American Express travelers check. Know why?" Miles shook his head.

"It's printed in cyan-blue, which is next to impossible to photograph for an offset printing plate. Nobody with any knowledge would waste time trying, so an Amex check is safer than American money."

"There are rumors," Miles said, "that there's going to be new American money soon with colors for different denominations the way Canada has."

"'Tain't just rumor," Danny said. "Fact. Lots of the colored money's already printed and it’s stored by the Treasury. Be harder to copy than anything made yet." He smiled mischievously. "But the old stuff'll be around a bit. Maybe as long as I am."

Miles sat silent, digesting all that he had heard. At length he said, "You've asked me questions, Danny, and I answered them. Now I've one for you." "Not saying Ill answer, son. But you can try." "Who and what are you?"

The old man pondered, a thumb stroking his chin as he appraised Miles. Some of his thoughts were mirrored his face: A compulsion to frankness struggled against caution; pride mingled with discretion. Abruptly Danny made up his mind. "I'm seventy-three years old," he said, "and I'm a master craftsman. Been a printer all my life. I'm still the best there is. Besides being a craft, printing's an art." He pointed to the twenty-dollar bills still spread out on the bed. "Those are my work. I made the photographic plate. I printed them."

Miles asked, "and the drivers' licenses and credit cards?"

"Compared with printing money," Danny said, "making those is as easy as pissing in a barrel. But, yep I did 'em all."

In a fever of impatience now Miles waited for a chance to communicate what he had learned to Nolan Wainwright, via Juanita. Frustratingly, though, it was proving impossible to leave the Double-Seven and the risk of conveying such vital intelligence over the health club's telephone seemed too great.

On Thursday morning the day after Danny's frank revelations the old man showed every sign of having made a full recovery from his alcoholic orgy. He was clearly enjoying Miles's company and their chess games continued. So did their conversations, though Danny was more on guard than he had been the day before.

Whether Danny could hasten his own departure, if he chose to, was unclear. Even if he could, he showed no inclination and seemed content at least for the time being with his confinement in the fourth-floor cubicle.

During their later talks, both on Wednesday and Thursday, Miles had tried to gain more knowledge of Danny's counterfeiting activities and even hinted at the crucial question of a headquarters location. But Danny adroitly avoided any more discussion on the subject and Miles's instinct told him that the old man regretted some of his earlier openness. Remembering Wainwright's advice "don't hurry, be patient" Miles decided not to push his luck.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14