Murder, My Love

Chapter Seven

I was anything but a regular at 21, Midtown’s notoriously high-priced, celebrity-teeming bar/restaurant on West 52nd between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. On the other side of that famous iron gate, past the uniformed doorman and through the double entryway overseen by a row of white lawn jockeys, you could get duck-fat-fried hamburgers that cost as much as the club’s name and king-size drinks no stronger than a mule kicking you in the stomach.

I’d been to the onetime speakeasy maybe four times in a lot of New York years. Apparently I still had enough local fame clinging to me to get into the bar without being shown back out the door. Or maybe the ex-governor of the state of New York who had said to meet him here for a late lunch had put in a good word.

Former governor Harrison “Harry” Hughes had seemed as surprised by my call as I had been to hear his name uttered through the bloodied lips of Tony Licata.

“Are you accusing me of blackmail, Mike?” the deep voice, sandpapered by age, had asked over the phone. I’d been calling from a booth on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn, and he’d answered the call himself, not a secretary.

“I don’t know if I’m accusing you of anything, Governor,” I said. “Maybe you’re just a good citizen who learned of compromising material about a fellow Democrat, and paid the freight to get it off the market.”

The pause may have seemed longer because of the three black young men who, in the midst of some kind of business transaction, were watching me suspiciously outside a nearby bar. People tell me I still look like a cop, even when I’m not flashing my P.I. badge to encourage that false assumption.

Finally, the deep voice on the phone said, “I would prefer to discuss this with you in person.”

Phone calls could be recorded, after all.

“Fine,” I said. “Name the time and place.”

Lunch and supper hours, 21 would be packed, bar and upstairs alike, but at around three p.m., the front section with its curved sixty-foot bar was decidedly underpopulated, a few well-dressed wheeler-dealers doing business there standing up (no stools provided). Most of the tables with their red-and-white checkered cloths, including those at the vast curving red leather button-tufted banquette, were empty, too. A couple of couples and a few tourists, who’d tipped their way in, were about it.

Framed New Yorker cartoon originals spotted the walls in the richly masculine place with its dark walls and low lighting. The ceiling hung with toys — airplane and auto models, foot- and basket- and baseballs, mini-soda pop trucks and oil derricks and you name it, contributions from various executives of the firms the playthings represented. On display above and around the bar itself were flags, pistols, street signs, golden horseshoes and a hangman’s noose.

The ex-governor sat at a table for two snugged by the bar, in the corner. He was waiting patiently, his right elbow on the table but not with his weight on it. The drink at his reach appeared, judging by its amber shade and orange peel, to be an Old-Fashioned.

I paused at the bar. The white-haired, white-jacketed, black-bow-tied bartender smiled faintly and said, “The usual, Mr. Hammer?”

I had last been here perhaps ten years ago.

“Please,” I said, curious to see how good his memory was.

The governor half-stood and smiled — not a big smile, but a smile all right — and offered his hand for me to take and shake. The result was a firm clasp, not at all clammy. I hadn’t expected it to be.

Harry Hughes was a few years older than me. I had won a battlefield commission up to lieutenant by the time I mustered out, thanks to my Bronze Star. The governor had a Bronze Star, too, and a Silver Star. He came out a colonel. I had perhaps an inch on him, but he was still a big, broad-shouldered man, his black hair streaked silver, his well-grooved square face dominated by sharp dark eyes and a shovel jaw. The suit was charcoal and likely Brooks Brothers, his tie gray and black and crisply knotted.

“Would you like lunch, Mike? My treat.”

We had met only a few times over the years, never had any business together, or major problems either, for that matter. Still, it didn’t feel wrong for him to call me by my first name.

“I could go for one of those twenty-one-buck burgers,” I said. Lunch had eluded me so far today.

“My choice as well,” he said, gesturing for me to sit, and we both did.

The guy was a politician, so I didn’t put anything past him. But that the search for a blackmailer had ended here was a shock and even a disappointment. Hughes had been a damn good governor. He was a tax-cutter and a builder, a tricky damn combination. He took office with the city near bankrupt, and worked with business and labor to deal with the fiscal crisis NYC suffered in the mid-’70s, and did all this while working with a divided statehouse. Though a Democrat, his middle-of-the-road style recalled another governor, Nelson Rockefeller, New York’s favorite moderate Republican.

Hughes, a Catholic, hadn’t been active on the political scene since a scandal a few years ago, involving his wife having concealed a previous marriage, which had embarrassed him in the media. She’d died of cancer a few years ago. In the meantime, he’d published an autobiography and a book extolling “reaching across the partisan divide.” Lately he had begun making the rounds of the Sunday morning political talk-fests as a Grand Old Man speaking from experience and not ambition.

A white-jacketed waiter brought my drink. I sipped it. Rye and ginger. I turned and nodded at the bartender and he nodded back. Meanwhile, Hughes ordered us two burgers, medium rare.

“Governor,” I said, when we were alone again, “I’m almost as surprised that you wanted to meet in a public place as I am to find myself talking to you on this particular subject.”

His smile was a rumpled thing, like folds in fabric. He had a tan that said Florida, or maybe tropical vacations were a part of his retirement.

He said, “I figured I was safer meeting in public with a roughneck like Mike Hammer. A man my age doesn’t like to get slapped around.”

“Now, Governor...”

The dark eyes damn near twinkled. “Back when I was in office, your... exploits were often called to my attention.”

“Don’t tell me you believe everything you read in the papers.”

One side of the smile dug a hole in his cheek. “Some of your doings in those days didn’t make it into the papers. Some I never got straight answers on. That warehouse on the Hudson, where all those supposed Soviet agents and fellow travelers wound up very dead... something like one hundred of them... that caught my attention. A tommy gun, yet.”

“That’s not really accurate, Governor.”

One eyebrow arched. “In what way?”

“It was an abandoned paint factory.”

The other eyebrow joined it. The mouth was still smiling, but those dark eyes weren’t. “Perhaps I was right to be cautious, Mike.”

I smiled at him, probably in just as rumpled a way. “We’re both a couple of old soldiers, Governor.”

“Getting older all the time.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to absent friends. The ones we left behind. Mine in Europe, yours in the Pacific.”

I raised my glass. “To absent friends.”

We clinked the drinks. Sipped.

I said, “You have nothing to worry from me, Governor. I was a young buck back then. I’ve mellowed.”

Only half a smile now. “After I received your call, Mike, I made several calls of my own. Seems a certain young Anthony Licata is in serious condition in Brooklyn Medical.”

“See? Time was he’d be in intensive care.”

He chuckled at that, but his eyes were still hard. “Let’s start with an essential fact — I did not put this thing into motion. I did not seek out this cleaning staff person — the Dunn woman — to ensnare Jamie Winters by way of a secret recording of one of his hanky-panky sessions.”

“What did happen, Governor?”

His shrug was slow. “Licata is a young man I met at a few gatherings at various hotels in town where he was a pick-up bartender. He was affable enough, not unintelligent — we were friendly in that limited way one does with such people.”

I sipped rye and ginger again. Said, “You’re saying he knew you just well enough to seek you out, when he came into possession of the sex tape.”

He winced. “Let’s just call it a recording and leave it at that. I find this whole thing distasteful. I hope you understand that.”

“I might understand it better,” I said, “if you had acquired the ‘recording’ for disposal, rather than to profit from it. How much do you want for the wretched thing, Governor?”

He wasn’t looking at me now. He was staring at nothing, or perhaps into himself. I had a hunch he really did find this affair distasteful.

The waiter brought us both another drink.

When Hughes didn’t answer my question, I said, “Aren’t you retired from the political racket, Governor? Why the interest in Jamie Winters at all? It’s not like you’re a political rival at this point.”

His reaction was another smile, but a very different one — small, sad, and even... embarrassed?

His sigh seemed endless. “Mike, I am an old soldier. Somewhat older than you. But I think I have one more battle left in me, at least. And I am arrogant enough to imagine that I can still do something good in government — in national government.”

Now I got it.

I said, “You’re considering your own presidential run.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes back on mine. “Many a former governor has become president. Most recently Jimmy Carter, with admittedly mixed results, accomplished it. And now this young Arkansas character is making noises for next time — word is his morals aren’t any better than Winters’.”

Hughes had apparently been overheard chatting about a possible presidential try at one or more of the parties where Tony Licata was bartending. That was how Erin Dunn’s muscle-bound boyfriend knew where to peddle the sex tape.

Hughes was saying, “A popular, multi-term governor from an important state, like myself — if I might be so bold — could make a most attractive candidate.” He pulled in a deep breath, raised his eyebrows, let the breath out. “Since Evelyn’s death, I gradually came to feel that perhaps I had one more bridge worth crossing.”

“A last hurrah,” I said.

“I admit I did not relish a primary where I’d be facing an attractive candidate — attractive in the sense of being young and handsome, that is — in Jamie Winters. But as a resident of this city and of this state, I have had ample opportunity to view the callow, amoral nature of that man, as is demonstrated by his reckless philandering... and then, of course, there’s his reprehensible disco queen of a wife.”

“Nicole Winters comes from money,” I said, “and is clearly a spoiled brat. But she’s also been active in social causes for years, particularly those that you Democrats seem to espouse.” I shrugged. “You could argue that she’s done a lot of good.”

He batted that away like a pesky insect. “It’s all for show, Mike. To paint herself a caring human being. She supports ecological causes, quite vocally... but do you think her lavish lifestyle isn’t still underwritten by the oil money that the Vankemp empire was, and continues to be, built upon?”

I held up a “stop” hand. “I leave such things to you political types. I’m just a working-class capitalist who was hired to find, and deal with, a blackmailer. And with all due respect, sir, you seem to be it.”

His expression was somber, even regretful. “I’m not after money, Mike.”

“What are you after?”

Now his eyes bore down on me, hard and dark and direct. “A simple public announcement from Jamie Winters.”

I looked back at him the same way. “You want him to drop out of the presidential race?”

A quick shrug. “Well, he hasn’t officially announced yet... but yes. That’s exactly what I want.” Something proud and yet defensive came into his expression, his chin lifting. “That is this reluctant blackmailer’s price. What I require.”

I leaned back, shook my head, gave up half a smile. “The trouble, Governor, is we’re talking about a cassette tape — so easily copied. There’s really no way for you to assure my clients that you haven’t made backups.”

The chin stayed up. “You would have my word.”

“That would be good enough for me, Governor.” I shook my head. “But probably not my clients.”

His eyes tightened as he looked past me into his thoughts. Then his gaze swiveled back to me.

“All right,” he said. “Suppose I had made copies. Suppose I made them even now. If my price has been met — if Jamie Winters makes that statement, and indeed does not make a bid for the Democratic presidential nomination — what further value could that tape possibly have for me? Only a negative value — as evidence that I used illegal means to force a rival out of the race.”

“But you’re telling me you haven’t made copies.”

A confident nod. “I have not. My recourse, should Winters agree to drop out of the race and then not keep his word, would be to seek a qualified investigator... not you, Mike, because that would be a conflict of interest... to look into the senator’s extramarital affairs. My understanding is that his current secretary is only the latest in a long line of such conquests. It would be distasteful to me, but I would see to it that he was properly...”

“Smeared,” I said.

He said nothing.

I grunted a laugh. “You’d work through one of the papers, I would imagine. Investigative reporters, political columnists.”

“Yes. I still have my media contacts. Do I disappoint you, Mike?” His smile returned, bitter now. “That I would engage in such end-justifies-the-means behavior?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I have a lot of room to bitch in that department, Governor... I’ll make a call.”

At the bar I was provided with a phone. I found Senator Winters back at his Flatiron Building office. Lisa Long put me right through.

The bartender was polite enough to stand well away and none of the few customers present, including the governor, were near enough to hear. Still, I was circumspect, and spoke in terms at times that would be vague to anyone but the client I was filling in. I took my time and Winters mostly just listened.

When I’d wrapped it up, Winters said, biting off the words, “That sanctimonious old bastard. Goddamnit!.. What do you think I should do, Mike?”

“Well, first talk it over with Nicole, of course. Is she around?”

“She’s at the penthouse. I’ll call her and see what she says. Damnit!”

“Mr. Winters. Jamie. This political crapola is admittedly not my area of expertise. But as an outsider, I can take a look at you and say, what the hell — you’re a young man. Keep your nose clean and go for another senate term, why don’t you? Bide your time.”

His words were acid-edged: “Hughes is crazy if he thinks a White House bid is in the cards for him.”

“So let him try, and fail. You and Nicole close up shop on the open marriage, and keep your eyes on the prize.”

“...I’ll talk to her. But the old goat has to have copies!”

“Actually, I doubt it. I think this whole thing puts a bad taste in his mouth. You postpone your White House urge till after another senate term, and you’ll be fine.”

“You really think so, Mike?”

What I really thought was we ought to have term limits in this country, but I left that out.

“Yeah,” I said. “You can trust him. As far as it goes.”

“How far is that?”

“Well, he’s a politician. Think it over. Call me when you decide. I’ll ask for a couple days to mull it.”

“He’s still there at the 21 with you?”

“Right. Not listening in, of course. We’re lunching. I’m waiting on a solid-gold hamburger.”

We said curt goodbyes and hung up.

That burger was just arriving as I sat.

“Jamie and his wife are discussing it,” I told the governor. “I said he could have a couple of days. Is that all right?”

“Agreeable,” he said with a nod.

The meatloaf-ish burger was tasty, if not twenty-one bucks’ worth. It came on grilled Italian bread with a nice side of handcut fries. The senator and I concentrated on eating, avoiding the embarrassment of any further talk.

We were just finishing up when the bartender called me back to the phone.

“Take the deal,” the senator’s voice said.

Damn, that was fast!

I said, “Nicole’s on board?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“Would you be?”

He hung up.

I went back to the table. The waiter was there. The governor was ordering another round, but I declined another of my “usual.” You could accuse 21 of overpricing but not of watering the drinks.

Sitting down again, I said, “You have a clear field, Governor — at least where Senator Winters is concerned. He’s decided he’s a little too young and unseasoned to go after the big prize just now. He thinks going after a second term in the Senate makes perfect sense.”

“Was that your suggestion?”

I nodded. “You two will make a pol out of me yet. After he makes his statement, why don’t you deliver that tape to me and I’ll get it to my clients.”

“Why don’t I?” he said, with one of the saddest smiles I’ve ever seen. He reached into his suit coat pocket and brought out an Ampex cassette tape and laid it on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth like a tip.

I pointed at it, keeping a distance, as if it might bite. “That’s the original? Right out of the senator’s intercom set-up?”

“That’s it,” the governor said, nodding. “And, as I said, there are no copies. You don’t mind delivering that, do you, Mike?”

“No,” I said. “But I think I’ll have that drink after all.”