Shall We Tell the President?

Sunday morning 6 March

9:00 A.M.

Mark spent Sunday morning putting the finishing touches to his report for the Director. He began by tidying his desk; he could never think clearly unless everything was in place. Mark gathered all his notes together and put them in a logical sequence. He completed the task by two o’clock, without noticing that he had missed lunch. Slowly he wrote down the names of the fifteen senators who were left, six under the heading Foreign Relations Committee, nine under Gun Control bill — Judiciary Committee. He stared at the lists, hoping for inspiration but none came. One of these men was a killer and there were only four days left to find out which one. He put the papers into his briefcase, which he locked in his desk.

He went into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He looked at his watch. What could he do that would be useful for the rest of the day? Elizabeth was on duty at the hospital. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. She could only spare a minute, due in the operating theater at three o’clock.

“Okay, Doctor, this won’t take long and it shouldn’t hurt. I can’t call you every day just to tell you that you are lovely and intelligent and that you drive me crazy, so listen carefully.”

“I’m listening, Mark.”

“Okay. You are beautiful and bright and I’m crazy about you... What, no reply?”

“Oh, I thought there might be more. I’ll say something nice in return when I’m three inches away from you, not three miles.”

“Better make it soon, or I am going to crack up. Off you go, and cut out someone else’s heart.”

She laughed. “It’s an ingrown toenail actually...”

She hung up. Mark roamed about the room, his mind jumping from fifteen senators, to Elizabeth, back to one Senator. Wasn’t it going just a little too well with Elizabeth? Was one Senator looking for him, rather than the other way around? He cursed and poured himself a Michelob. His mind switched to Barry Calvert; on Sunday afternoons they usually played squash. Then to Nick Stames, Stames who had unknowingly taken his place. If Stames were alive now, what would he do?... A remark that Stames had made at the office party last Christmas came flashing across Mark’s mind: “If I’m not available, the second best crime man in this goddamn country is George Stampouzis of The New York Times” — another Greek, naturally. “He must know more about the Mafia and the CIA than almost anyone on either side of the law.”

Mark dialed Information in New York, and asked for the number, not quite sure where it was leading him. The operator gave it to him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

He dialed it.

“Crime desk, George Stampouzis, please.” They put him through.

“Stampouzis,” said a voice. They don’t waste words on The New York Times.

“Good afternoon. My name is Mark Andrews. I’m calling from Washington. I was a friend of Nick Stames; in fact, he was my boss.”

The voice changed. “Yes, I heard about the terrible accident, if it was an accident. What can I do for you?”

“I need some inside information. Can I fly up and see you immediately?”

“Does it concern Nick?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. Meet me at eight o’clock, northeast corner of Twenty-first and Park Avenue South?”

“I’ll be there,” said Mark looking at his watch.

“And I’ll be waiting for you.”

The Eastern Airlines shuttle flight arrived a few minutes after seven. Mark made his way through the crowd milling around the baggage pickup and headed for the taxi stand. A potbellied, middle-aged, unshaven New Yorker with an unlit cigar stub bobbing up and down in his mouth drove him towards Manhattan. He never stopped talking the whole way, a monologue that required few replies. Mark could have used the time to compose his thoughts.

“This country’s full of shit,” said the bobbing cigar.

“Yes,” said Mark.

“And this city is nothing more than a garbage hole.”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“And that daughter of a bitch Kane’s to blame. They ought to string her up.”

Mark froze. It was probably said a thousand times a day; someone in Washington was saying it and meaning it.

The cab driver pulled up to the curb.

“Eighteen dollars even,” said the bobbing cigar.

Mark put a ten and two fives into the little plastic drawer in the protective screen that divided driver from passenger, and climbed out. A heavy-set man in his midfifties and wearing a tweed overcoat, headed towards him. Mark shivered. He had forgotten how cold New York could be in March.

“Andrews?”

“Yes. Good guess.”

“When you spend your life studying criminals, you begin to think like them.” He was taking in Mark’s suit. “G-men are certainly dressing better than they did in my day.”

Mark looked embarrassed. Stampouzis must know that an FBI agent was paid almost double the salary of a New York cop.

“You like Italian food?” He didn’t wait for Mark’s reply. “I’ll take you to one of Nick’s old favorites.” He was already on the move. They walked the long block in silence, Mark’s step hesitating as he passed each restaurant entrance. Suddenly, Stampouzis disappeared into a doorway. Mark followed him through a run-down bar full of men who were leaning on the counter and drinking heavily. Men who had no wives to go home to, or if they did, didn’t want to.

Once through the bar, they entered a pleasant, brickwalled dining area. A tall, thin Italian guided them to a corner table: obviously Stampouzis was a favored customer. Stampouzis didn’t bother with the menu.

“I recommend the shrimp marinara. After that, you’re on your own.”

Mark took his advice and added a piccata al limone and half a carafe of Chianti. Stampouzis drank Colt 45. They talked of trivia while they ate. Mark knew the residual Mediterranean creed after two years with Nick Stames — never let business interfere with the enjoyment of good food. In any case, Stampouzis was still sizing him up, and Mark needed his confidence. When Stampouzis had finished an enormous portion of zabaglione and settled down to a double espresso with Sambuca on the side, he looked up at Mark and spoke in a different tone.

“You worked for a great man, a rare lawman. If one tenth of the FBI were as conscientious and intelligent as Nick Stames, you would have something to be pleased about in that brick coliseum of yours.”

Mark looked at him, about to speak.

“No, don’t add anything about Nick; that’s why you’re here, and don’t ask me to change my opinion of the Bureau. I’ve been a crime reporter for over thirty years and the only change I’ve seen in the FBI and the Mafia is that they are both bigger and stronger.” He poured the Sambuca into his coffee, and took a noisy gulp. “Okay. How can I help?”

“Everything off the record,” said Mark.

“Agreed,” said Stampouzis. “For both our sakes.”

“I need two pieces of information. First, are there any senators with close connections in organized crime and second, what is the attitude of the mob to the Gun Control bill?”

“You don’t want much, do you?” said the Greek sarcastically. “Where shall I begin? The first is easier to answer directly, because the truth is that half the senators have loose connections with organized crime, by which I mean the Mafia, however out-of-date that is. Some don’t even realize it but if you include accepting campaign contributions from businessmen and large corporations directly or indirectly associated with crime, then every President is a criminal. But when the Mafia needs a senator they do it through a third party; and even that’s rare.”

“Why?” queried Mark.

“The Mafia needs clout at the state level, in courts, with deals, local by-laws, all that. They’re just not interested in foreign treaties and the approval of Supreme Court justices. In a more general way, there are some senators who owe their success to links with the Mafia, the ones who have started as civil court judges or state assemblymen and received direct financial backing from the Mafia. It’s possible they didn’t even realize it; some people don’t check too carefully when they are trying to get elected. Added to this are cases like Arizona and Nevada, where the Mafia runs a legit business, but God help any outsiders who try to join in. Finally, in the case of the Democratic party, there’s organized labor, especially the Teamsters Union. There you are, Mark, thirty years’ experience in ten minutes.”

“Great background. Now can I ask you some specifics. If I name fifteen senators, will you indicate if they could fall into any of the categories you have mentioned?” Mark asked.

“Maybe. Try me. I’ll go as far as I feel I can. Just don’t push me.”

“Bradley.”

“Never,” said Stampouzis.

“Thornton.”

He didn’t move a muscle.

“Bayh.”

“Not that I have ever heard.”

“Harrison.”

“No idea. I don’t know much about South Carolina politics.”

“Nunn.”

“Sam Sunday-School? Scout’s Honor Nunn? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Brooks.”

“Hates the President but I don’t think he’d go that far.”

Mark went down the list. Stevenson, Biden, Moynihan, Woodson, Clark, Mathias. Stampouzis shook his head silently.

“Dexter.”

He hesitated. Mark tried not to tense.

“Trouble, yes,” Stampouzis began. “But Mafia, no.”

He must have heard Mark sigh. Mark was anxious to know what the trouble was; he waited but Stampouzis didn’t add anything.

“Byrd.”

“Majority leader. Not his style.”

“Pearson.”

“You’re joking.”

“Thank you,” said Mark. He paused. “Now to the Mafia’s attitude towards the Gun Control bill.”

“I’m not certain at the moment,” began Stampouzis. “The Mafia is no longer monolithic. It’s too big for that and there has been a lot of internal disagreement lately. The old-timers are dead set against it because of the obvious difficulty of getting guns legally in the future, but they are more frightened by the riders to the bill, like mandatory sentences for carrying an unregistered gun. The Feds will love that; for them it’s the best thing since tax evasion. They will be able to stop any known criminal, search him, and if he is carrying an unregistered gun, which he is almost certain to be, wham, he’s in the courthouse. On the other hand, some of the young Turks are looking forward to it, a modern-day Prohibition for them. They will supply unregistered guns to unorganized hoodlums and any mad radical who wants one, another source of income for the mob. They also believe the police won’t be able to enforce the law and the cleaning-up period will take a decade. Does that get near to answering the question?”

“Yes, very near,” said Mark.

“Now, my turn to ask you a question, Mark.”

“Same rules?”

“Same rules. Are these questions directly connected with Nick’s death?”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“I won’t ask any more then, because I know what to ask and you’re going to have to lie. Let’s just make a deal. If this breaks into something big, you’ll see I get an exclusive over those bastards from the Post.”

“Agreed,” said Mark.

Stampouzis smiled and signed the check; the last comment had made Mark Andrews a legitimate expense.

Mark looked at his watch; with luck he would make the last shuttle from La Guardia. Stampouzis rose and walked to the door; the bar was still full of men drinking heavily, the same men with the same wives. Once on the street, Mark hailed a cab. This time, a young black pulled up beside him.

“I’m halfway there,” said Stampouzis, puzzling Mark. “If I pick up anything that I think might help, I’ll call you.”

Mark thanked him and climbed into the cab.

“La Guardia, please.”

Mark rolled down the window, Stampouzis stared in briefly.

“It’s not for you, it’s for Nick.” He was gone.

The journey back to the airport was silent.

When Mark eventually reached his own apartment, he tried to put the pieces together in his mind ready for the Director the following morning. He glanced at his watch. Christ, it was already the following morning.