A Matter of Honor

Chapter Twenty-four

Private Andrew Scales scrubbed the floor of First Sergeant Malleck’s office on his hands and knees. Earlier he had washed the area with a mop and pail, then took a nail file to scrape dirt and dried blood from the joints of the planking. Now he used strong soap and a stiff brush to work up a lather. It was Malleck who had noticed the shading where the blood from Duro Lasari’s beating had left its marks. Malleck had cursed and ranted and told Scales he wanted the place cleaned up before the orderly checked out for the night, otherwise they wouldn’t be doing business as usual, and Scales could count on that.

After mopping up the suds, Scales began to rub down the floor with a chamois cloth, muttering as drops of sweat fell from his forehead to the boards. His nerves were frayed and tender, but he knew Malleck would stick to his word.

When Detective Frank Salmi and First Sergeant Malleck arrived, their footprints stood out clearly on the damp, clean boards. Malleck nodded with approval. “Go out and do the goddamn reception room now, Scales.”

“Right, Top. That’s what I’m fixin’ to do.” Scales collected his brushes, cloths and bucket, scrambled to his feet and after nodding at the detective, started on the floor of the outer office.

Malleck put his hand on the desk drawer where he kept his whiskey bottle, then changed his mind. His spirits were ebullient, he felt high and confident enough without booze to celebrate and taunt Salmi.

“It’s working, Frank,” he said. “He cleared Colorado, he cleared Regensburg and Strasser’s got him right under his thumb in Heidelberg. Our pigeon took off right on schedule and we got him roosting right where we want him till we’re ready.”

Salmi shook his head and looked dour and worried. “I’ve been keeping Mr. M. abreast of things, but he’s restless, Malleck, let me tell you. He wants more say in the deals. He says he trusts you so far but he don’t feel too good about putting his trust in a deserter. Mr. M. is quite a patriot in his own way. He’d of liked to check out this Lasari himself...”

Malleck raised a hand. “Not to worry, Salmi. Our partners in Europe are going to put the okay on Lasari themselves, yes or no. You tell that to your precious Mr. M. If Lasari passes muster, then the rest of the transaction is purely logistical and fiscal. Strasser waits till the right time, then gets orders cut to send the pigeon back to the Lucky Thirteenth right on the Czech border. A certain party hired by the partners passes the goods to Lasari, he checks back with Strasser...”

“Where’s Lasari coming in?”

“That’s something you don’t need to know,” Malleck said. “And how he’s carrying the stuff, you don’t have to know that either. Mr. M. is going to get delivery, just like the other times. He can cut it with powdered milk, up the street price, do what he wants with it as long as he gets my payoff to the right account at the bank. I get Strasser his share, plus the payroll, and he pays off everyone on that side of the ocean. Nobody works on credit, Salmi. When I get paid, you get paid. This operation is strictly cash and carry, so nobody’s got any complaints. That’s how we all stay friendly.”

“I’d still like to know how it’s coming in.”

“As long as it gets here, why should you worry? How many million travelers do you think come into American airports each year? I can’t answer that either but I know it’s too goddamn many for the customs agents to handle; they don’t have the manpower to fine-tooth everybody. False bottom in a shaving kit, inner soles of ski boots, hollow statues from Lourdes, transistor radios, golf club covers, candlesticks from the Bridge of Sighs, razored out spaces in Gideon Bibles... they’ve all worked. It’s nothing you’ve got to worry about, Frank.”

“I might as well tell you, Malleck, that Mr. M. has some suspicions that you’re holding back on him... that his money is buying more horse than you’re accounting for. He thinks you’re making something extra for yourself on the side.”

Malleck looked steadily at Salmi, keeping his thoughts under control. He refused to let anger or doubt disturb his euphoria. He had waited too long to be top man to let insult or innuendo blight this success.

“Of course, I am, Salmi, but that’s just between you and me, or you’re a dead man, right?”

“I got a right to know what’s going on. I’m the go-between...”

“Look at it this way, pal. I’m a realist, and a couple of factors happened to operate in my favor. Take politics. All the warring and infighting going on in Iran, Iraq, Turkey, even Israel, well, that dried up a lot of quality white. The Marseilles Express has stopped running completely. A lot of the poor bastards are trying to make it on Mexican brown. With the right contacts — and that’s another factor in my favor, because I’ve got the right contacts — a smart dealer can bring in a kilo of pure white, almost perfect stuff, worth a million dollars in the street.

“The last factor is straight economics. The dollar is stronger abroad so I’m getting more for my money. It doesn’t mean I’m giving Mr. M. any less than we bargained for, it just means that I’m getting more. Lady Luck wants me to have a little something extra ’cause I’m such a good boy, capeche?”

Malleck pulled open the desk drawer, took out the whiskey bottle and two canteen cups, poured a short drink into one of them. He sipped it a moment, then lit a cigarette and began pacing the office floor.

“You might as well level with me,” Salmi said uncomfortably. “There’s something you’re not telling me. What don’t you like about this deal?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Malleck said. “I like everything about this deal, and the next one and the next one. We’ve been playing for peanuts so far, big peanuts, I’ll admit, but nickel and dime stuff in comparison to the world market. Think what’s out there for the taking...”

The floorboards were still moist and slick from Scale’s vigorous scrubbing and the soles of Malleck’s boots made a sucking sound as he paced. He could hear the black private still working in the reception room, humming and chuckling and talking to himself.

Malleck sipped his drink and knocked a long ash from his brown cigarette onto the floor. It was not a derisive or sadistic act, but the therapeutic flick of contempt he believed the black soldier needed. The man thrived on it, the sergeant was convinced, Scales needed contempt as a flower needed water.

The black man laid out three changes of clothing for the first sergeant every day, whether the schedule called for them or not, starched and perfectly ironed khakis to start the day, Class-A uniforms with service ribbons and decorations for formal occasions and plain blue or gray lounge suits for civilian evenings.

After years of operating in a predominantly male world, Malleck considered himself an experienced manipulator, a good judge of character. He had long concluded that if he didn’t find something wrong with Private Andy Scales’ valet duties or other services, it seemed to disappoint the man. A speck of dust, a particle of rust on a belt buckle, any mistake at all was enough to send Scales into his grinning, self-rebuking but submissive attitudes which formed the defensive core of his character.

“You’re right about something bothering me, Salmi,” Malleck said. “On the first four loops we got along just fine. Goods picked up, paid for and delivered. We had our formula. Why did it have to change? I’ll tell you why. I think Mr. M.’s got a cob of racial pride up his ass, wants to know what the fuck I’m up to, wants a face-to-face meet, is ready to prove to me he’s the Big Tom here in Chicago. Isn’t that right. Salmi?”

“That’s roughly the word he gave me,” Salmi said.

“He didn’t give a shit about sitting down and having a drink with me, talking things over when he first started to bankroll, right? He let me do the planning, put my neck out, take the risks. Now that we’re thinking big kilos, going to make big money, he wants to get nosy.”

In spite of himself, Malleck heard his voice rising. “Doesn’t that boss-nigger know I’m doing him a favor? I got stencils and forms and name stamps and official seals—”

Malleck walked back to his desk, flipped a key from his pocket and turned the lock on a double drawer and pulled it open. “Right here, Salmi, I got the equivalent of a fucking magic carpet. I can fly that dumb ginzo Lasari anywhere in the world we got GIs. I don’t need Mr. M. There’s people in Detroit, Newark, Miami who’ll finance me, and Mr. M. sure as shit knows that. I’m not just some goddamn Chicago beat cop with his hand out like a trained monkey. I’m his fucking equal, doesn’t he realize that?”

Malleck looked at Salmi’s troubled face, then smiled. “That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? I’m a big man now and it bothers Mr. M. that I don’t need him, isn’t that it? That we are equal...”

Salmi nodded. “I guess that’s the way I’d call it, sergeant.”

Still smiling, Malleck sat down at his desk and put a polished boot against the drawer. He sipped his whiskey, the overhead lights drawing deep lines in his hard face. “I like that. Salmi. I like having the big buck figure I’m as good as he is, ’cause if he’s come that far, he’s shitting himself into a corner whether he knows it or not. I got the edge now, that’s the truth of it.”

Raising his voice, he called, “Scales? Get your ass in here. I’m partying tonight.”

Scales appeared in the doorway, his teeth opalescent in a wide smile. “Want that new dark blue suit, sarge? That’s what I got laid out. You look like a real dude in that one, Top.”

“Yeah, the blue suit will do fine, Scales. And I want to see the pearly gales in the tips of my shoes when you get through shinin’ them.”

Scales laughed cheerfully and said, “And behind ’em, Top, there’ll be St. Peter grinnin’ at you. I’ll take care of it. I’ll fix everything up, sarge.”

“Be sure you do, Scales. And I want you to do a little pimping for me. Phone those two clerk broads of ours and whoever answers the phone, Avers or Sio, she’s the lucky lady. Tell her to meet me at the Black Forest on Quincy Street at seven-thirty. I got an important call to make. And tell her I’m partial to bimbos wearing red.”

As Scales turned to leave, Malleck said in a strange, wheedling voice, “You weren’t going to let me off that easy, were you, Uncle Andy? You forget to let your old sarge say thank you?”

Malleck took a small plastic bag of white powder out of the top desk drawer and tossed it into the black man’s cupped hands. “I never forget a friend, Scales, just you remember that.”

When Scales left, Malleck nodded at the bottle on his desk. “You want a belt for the road, Frank? You can afford it, you know. In three weeks or so, you can afford any goddamn thing you want.”

Detective Salmi hesitated a moment and then nodded. Malleck put a canteen cup in front of him and leaned forward, carefully filling it to the rim.