Under Siege

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thanos Liarakos, please. This is Jack Yocke of The Washington Post.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Yocke,” the female on the other end of the telephone line told him briskly. “Mr. Liarakos isn’t taking any calls from the press today.”

“Well, we’re running a story in tomorrow’s paper about the extradition of General Julio Zaba from Cuba. The FBI brought him in from Havana this morning. The spokeswoman at the Justice Department said he’ll be placed on trial here in Washington. They have a secret indictment handed down just yesterday from the grand jury. According to her and the press folks over at the White House, General Zaba was personally paid big bucks by Mr. Liarakos’ client, Chano Aldana, to allow dope smugglers to use Cuban—”

“Really, Mr. Yocke. Mr. Liarakos is not—”

“Would he like to comment on this story?”

“If I say, ‘No comment,’ what will you say in the story you’re writing?”

“I’ll say that Mr. Liarakos refused to comment on the story.”

The phone went dead. She had put him on hold.

Jack Yocke put his feet on his desk and cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He cracked his knuckles. Aldana and Zaba. The A-to-Z connection. Too bad the Post wouldn’t let him make a crack like that in print.

She came back on. “Mr. Yocke?”

“Still here.”

“You may say this: In view of the gag orders issued in the Aldana case by Judge Snyder, Mr. Liarakos does not believe he is at liberty to comment on this matter.”

“Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

He was just finishing the story when the phone jingled. “Yocke.”

“This is Tish. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier.”

“Hey. I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner with me at the Graftons’ tomorrow night? I meant to call you last week, but I got called out of town unexpectedly.” The last sentence was a lie. He had intended never to call her again, but Mrs. Grafton had specifically asked him to bring Tish Samuels. He wondered what Mrs. Grafton’s reaction would be if she heard Tish’s little speech about her literary ambitions.

“I’ve been reading your Cuba stories. They’re very good.”

“Thank you. I was down there and all and real busy.”

“You apologize too much, Jack. Yes, I’d like to go to the Graftons’ with you. What time?”

You apologize too much. Only to women, Jack Yocke thought. Why is that?

Thirty minutes later he was in talking to Ott about General Zaba when he was summoned back to his desk by the telephone operator. “Your Cuban call is ready.” He had a call in for Pablo Oteyza, formerly known as Hector Santana.

Yocke picked up the phone. “Jack Yocke speaking.”

“Pablo Oteyza.”

“Señor, I’m the Post report—”

“I remember you, Jack.”

“Congratulations on being named to the interim government.”

“Thanks.”

“I sent you my articles on Cuba. Did you get any of them yet?”

“Not yet. The mail is still very confused. And I haven’t yet heard a megaton detonation from the north, followed by a tidal wave of reporters, so I assume you honored your promises to me about what you would and would not publish.”

“Yessir. I don’t think you’ll find anything embarrassing to you or the American government in the articles.”

“Or my American friends.”

“Right. Señor, I know you’re busy. It’s just been announced here that General Zaba was extradited and brought to Washington for trial. What can you tell me about him?”

“He was an associate of Chano Aldana. He used Cuban gunboats and naval facilities to smuggle cocaine. We gave the FBI agents all the evidence we have been able to assemble and let them interview Zaba’s subordinates. Your people were very pleased.”

“Will there be any other extraditions?”

“Perhaps. It will take time for the FBI and the American prosecutors to evaluate what they have. And to see if Zaba wants to talk. If the American government gets indictments for drug trafficking against other Cubans, my government will evaluate them and decide on a case-by-case basis. We made it plain to the FBI that people who were just following orders will not be extradited.”

“Any truth to the rumor that Zaba’s extradition was a quid pro quo for American economic aid?”

“Speaking for my government, I can say that the new government of Cuba and the government of the United States will cooperate on many matters. Economic aid is very high on our list of priorities.”

“You sound like a politician.”

“I am a politician, Jack. I look forward to reading your stories.” “Thanks for your time.” “Yes.” Oteyza hung up.

Jack Yocke tapped keys on his computer to bring up the Zaba story, then began to make insertions.

To say that Harrison Ronald was apprehensive when he drove to work on Friday night would be an understatement. After his second telephone conversation with Special Agent Hooper, he had walked the streets for an hour, then reluctantly retraced his steps back to his apartment.

He had gotten out his slab-sided .45 Colt automatic and stuffed a full clip up the handle and jacked a round into the chamber. With the weapon cocked and locked and under the pillow, he tried to get some sleep.

He couldn’t. He lay there staring at the ceiling and wondering who was saying what to whom.

Why in hell had he insisted on two more nights? Two more nights of waiting for someone to blow his silly brains out.

He had thought his nervous system had had all it could handle the other evening when he walked four miles from the Lincoln Memorial to McNally’s northwest hidey-hole. He had told the tale of the evening’s adventures to that little ferret Billy Enright, who left him sitting in a bedroom while he went to call Freeman.

He sat for an hour listening to every sound, every muffled footstep, waiting. Then Freeman had come in, inspected the bullet groove in his arm and cuts in his face and insisted that the wounds be cleaned and bandaged by a proper doctor. In the living room Billy had the television going, with the victims and blood and smashed car being shown again and again. When they had had their fill, Freeman and Billy drove him to some quack who had gotten himself banned for life from the practice of medicine by prescribing painkillers to rich matrons suffering from obesity and boredom.

All concern he was, Freeman that night. His face reflected solicitude, glee when he heard how Sammy Z had killed the guy in the backseat by crushing his larynx, laughter when he heard about the high-speed chase and the final, fatal crash. Keystone Kops stuff, slapstick. Ha ha ha.

“Ya did good, Z, real good.”

“Sorry about your merchandise, Freeman, but I didn’t think it was smart to go hiking down the street bleeding and all and carrying ten pounds of shit. And I had to ditch the car fast. It looked like Swiss cheese.”

“You did right, Z, my man. Don’t sweat it.”

“Sorry about the car.”

“Fuck the car. I’ll get another.” McNally snapped his fingers. “That

Tooley! I’d like to know who put that chickenshit cocksucker up to robbing me. No way that bubble-brain would dream that up by hisself.”

“I’ll ask around,” Billy Enright promised. “Put the word out. Maybe offer some bread for info.”

“Offer ten Gs,” Freeman said, taking a thick roll of bills from his pocket. He divided it without counting and handed half to Harrison Ronald. “Here. I pay my debts. You were working for me, so I owe you. Here.”

Harrison glanced at the stack and pocketed it. “Thanks,” he said, with feeling.

“Make it five Gs,” Freeman told Enright. “If we offer too much, people’ll be dreaming up tales. Five’s enough.”

So Harrison Ronald was in tight with Freeman. Maybe. In any event, McNally had tossed him the keys to a four-year-old Ford Mustang, and that was what he was driving this evening. And that wad of bills, when he counted it back at the apartment, consisted of forty-three $100 bills.

In tight — maybe. Ford had no illusions about Freeman McNally. He would pay forty-three hundred dollars to see the look of surprise on his victim’s face when he jammed a pistol up his ass and pulled the trigger.

If he had heard the rumor and decided Sammy Z was a cop, he would still be the same old Freeman McNally, right up until he grinned that grin and took care of business.

Take care of business. That was Freeman’s motto. God, he took care of it all right!

Well, dealing coke and crack wasn’t for the squeamish or indecisive. Nobody who knew McNally ever suspected he had either of those flaws.

As he threaded the Mustang through the heavy evening traffic — only seven shopping days left before Christmas — Harrison Ronald wrestled again with the why. Why had he demanded two more nights of this?

He had worried this question all afternoon and he still was not satisfied with the answer that fell out. He thought Freeman and the boys ought to be locked up for a serious stretch and he thought it was worth a big risk for somebody to accomplish that chore. But he had no personal ax to grind, other than the fact he loathed all these swine. Still, there were a lot of people in the world he would just as soon not spend time with. The discovery of another dozen or two wasn’t earthshaking. No. The question was, Why did he want to risk his butt to put Freeman and friends and maybe one or two crooked cops where the sun don’t shine?

Grappling with the why question made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t a hero. The possibility that someone might see him as one was embarrassing.

Harrison thought that perhaps it was the challenge. Or some sense that he owed something. Payback. Something like that, probably. That wasn’t too bad. But when he thought about it honestly — and he did do that: he was an honest man — he sensed a little bit of thrill at the excitement of it all. Living on the edge burned you out and scared the shit out of you and made you want to heave your guts at times, but it was certainly never dull. Every emotion came full blast, undiluted.

The thrill aspect made him slightly ashamed, coming as it did with a dollop or two of the hero juice.

Two more nights. Hang in there, Harrison Ronald, Evansville PD.

He parked the car in the alley and said hi to the guy standing in the shadows, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. His name was Will Colby and he and Sammy Z had delivered crack on a half dozen occasions. Harrison rapped on the back door.

If they thought he was a cop, the reception inside was going to be very warm. As he waited for the door to open, he wiped the perspiration from his face with a glove and glanced again at Colby, who was looking up and down the alley. Colby seemed relaxed, bored perhaps.

Thirty degrees and a breeze, and he was sweating! Where’s the thrill now, hero? He consciously willed his muscles to relax.

Ike Randolph opened the door and looked around.

“Hey, Ike.”

Ike jerked his head and Harrison Ronald went inside.

As they went through the kitchen, Ike said, “Better get some coffee. You’re out front tonight.”

Harrison filled a styrofoam cup with steaming liquid. “When they coming?”

“Ten. Got a piece on you?”

“Nope.”

“Get something from the bedroom and go on out front.”

Harrison selected a .357 Smith & Wesson, checked the cylinder, then stuffed the weapon into the pocket of his pea coat. He had bought this coat because it was warm and had deep pockets and a large collar. There was sure a lot of standing around outside in this business. Just like police work.

With that irony in mind, he walked down the hall carrying the coffee, nodded at the guy with the Uzi, and went out the front door to the stoop.

Harrison had seen the guy out front before, but didn’t know his name. “I got it. Anything happening?”

“Just cold as holy hell,” the guy said, then went up the steps and inside.

So far so good. Another three minutes of life and a fair prospect of more. Amen.

He was still standing there at nine fifty-five when a dark gray Cadillac wearing New York plates pulled up to the curb in front and the man in the passenger seat climbed out. Fat Tony Anselmo. The man at the wheel killed the engine.

Anselmo glanced at Ford, taking in every feature with one quick sweep, then climbed the stairs and pushed the doorbell button. The door opened in seconds and he went in.

The man at the wheel sank into the seat until only the top half of his face was visible under his dark, brimmed hat. At twenty-five feet the features were hard to distinguish in the glare and shadows of the streetlights, but Harrison Ronald knew who he was: Vincent Pioche, hitter for the Costello family in Brooklyn and Queens. According to Freddy Murray, the FBI thought he had killed over twenty men. No one knew for sure, including Pioche, who had probably forgotten some of his victims. Brains weren’t his long suit.

If you were going to make your living in criminal enterprises, Ford mused, you should either be a rocket scientist or mildly retarded. The people between those extremes were the ones in trouble. The thinking they did was both too much and not enough. Like Tooley.

That line of thought led him to consider himself. He had a high school diploma and two years of college. He could balance a checkbook and write a report. Tooley probably could have too, if he had had any reports to write.

Was he as smart as Freeman McNally, the Ph.D. of crack philosophy?

The very thought gave him goosebumps. The wind was cold and he had been out here over an hour. He began walking around.

Ike came out about ten-thirty and relieved him while he went inside for a break. He got another cup of coffee and hit the bathroom.

He was standing by the guard with the Uzi in the hallway sipping coffee when the door to the living room opened and Fat Tony came out. He already had his coat on. Freeman was behind him.

Freeman followed Tony to the door while Harrison trailed after.

Together they stood on the stoop and watched Tony Anselmo get into the car. As it drove off, McNally said, “There goes the two guys who killed Harrington and Lincoln a couple weeks ago.”

Because he thought he ought to say something, Harrison Ronald asked, “How’d you hear that?”

“You can find out anything if you know who to ask and you’ve got enough money.”

Freeman went back inside. Ike nodded and Harrison reluctantly descended to the sidewalk.

Yeah, with enough money to spread around you can find out anything, like who’s the undercover cop in the McNally organization.

On Saturday morning at eight a.m. Harrison Ronald Ford met special agents Hooper and Murray in the motel in Fredericksburg. The first thing he did was give them the forty-three hundred dollars that Freeman had given him. The money, Hooper said, would go to a fund to finance antidrug operations.

As they sipped coffee, Harrison Ronald told them the news: “Freeman says Fat Tony Anselmo and Vinnie Pioche killed two guys named Harrington and Lincoln several weeks ago.”

“How’d he find out?” Freddy asked.

“He says he asked the right person and used money.”

“We’ll follow it up. Right now I think those murders are being investigated by local police. To the best of my knowledge, they’re wide open.”

“Did he know why?” Hooper asked.

“Freeman didn’t say specifically. Fat Tony spent an hour and a half with him last night. I think it’s this money-washing business. It all fits.” Harrison Ronald shrugged.

“Monday you’re going to the grand jury. If they indict McNally and his gang, we start busting them Monday night.”

Harrison Ronald nodded and inspected his hands. They were shaking.

“There’s no reason for you to go back there tonight. Those clowns aren’t going anyplace.”

“Last night I got this tidbit on Anselmo and Pioche. That may wrap up two unsolved killings. Who knows what I might pick up tonight?”

“It isn’t worth the risk,” Freddy insisted, dragging his chair closer to the undercover man. “This undercover op rumor might land there today. Tonight they may decide to put a bullet into you for insurance.”

“May, may, might, might. Are you crazy?” Ford’s voice rose to a roar. “They could have killed me anytime in the last ten months. I’ve been living on borrowed time, you asshole.”

Silence greeted that outburst. Eventually Freddy got up from his chair and went over to sit on the bed.

Hooper took the chair and dragged it even closer to Ford, less than two feet away.

Hooper spoke softly: “Why do you want to go back?”

“Because I’m scared. I’ve been getting more and more scared every day.”

“You’re burning out,” Freddy said. “Happens to everyone. That’s normal. You’re not Superman.”

“Freeman McNally ain’t gonna die or get religion when you arrest him, Freddy. Even in jail, he’s gonna continue to be the same old asshole. And sooner or later, his lawyer is going to tell him my real name. I have to learn to live with that or I’m done.”

Hooper sighed. “Look. If killing you would let Freeman walk, he’d do it in the blink of an eye. But when he finally finds out he’s been had, he’s done regardless. And your real name will never come out. That I can promise.”

The undercover man didn’t seem very impressed. “Used to be, I got over the fear after a shift,” he muttered. “Did a crossword puzzle or two, got some sleep, maybe had a drink, I’d get back to normal. Doesn’t happen now. I’m scared all the time. Had to give up whiskey or I’d get stinking drunk and stay that way.”

“There’s no need to go back.”

“I need to. Don’t you see that? I’m fucking scared shitless. If I don’t go back I’ll be scared all my life. Don’t you see? How am I ever going to sit in a patrol car by myself in downtown Evansville at night? How am I gonna stop a speeder and walk up on his car? They send me in to arrest some drunk with a gun, how am I gonna do that? I am fucking scared shitless and I got to get a handle on it or I ain’t gonna be able to keep going, man. It’s that simple.”