The Singapore Wink

Chapter VIII

Before Cole could continue, the sliding door opened again and Joe, the bodyguard, wheeled in the dinner which he served on a small table with the same efficient movements that he had used to mix the drinks. I decided that he must be handy to have around. Dinner was a thick filet, a superb salad, and a baked potato. A bottle of burgundy was equally excellent.

“It’s what you usually have at home, isn’t it, Mr. Cauthorne?” Cole said after Joe had gone.

“Your chef is better than mine.”

“Well, let’s enjoy our dinner and then we can continue our discussion afterwards — over the brandy, as you suggested earlier.”

“It was growing interesting,” I said.

“It will get even more so,” Cole said and started to carve up his steak.

We ate almost in silence and when we were through Joe promptly appeared and cleared away the dishes and served the brandy and coffee. When he had gone once more, Cole offered me a cigar which I refused, carefully lighted one for himself, took a sip of his brandy, and said, “Now, where were we?”

“Angelo Sacchetti was blackmailing you.”

“Yes.”

“I assume that you’ve been paying.”

“I have indeed, Mr. Cauthorne. In the past eighteen months I have paid only slightly less than a million dollars.”

I smiled for what must have been the first time that evening. “Then you’re in real trouble.”

“You seem inordinately pleased.”

“Wouldn’t you be in my position?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I suppose I would. My enemy’s troubles are my good fortune and all that sort of thing. You do consider me your enemy?”

“Let’s just say I doubt that we’ll ever be close friends.”

Cole drew on his cigar and then slowly blew the smoke out. I noticed that he inhaled it. “You’ve heard,” he said, “that they call me Charlie the Fix. Do you have any idea of what the nickname implies?”

“Some,” I said. “The corruption of public officials and civil servants probably. A few bribes here and there. A little subornation of perjury, I suppose, plus the discreet use of a sizable political slush fund.”

Cole smiled slightly. “I see,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if deciding about how much he could safely tell. “I came to Washington in 1936 — the year you were born, I believe. And despite my rather excellent education, I was, as they say, grass green. I needed a mentor, someone to guide me through the bureaucratic and political maze. I told them that I needed this and they quickly found just the man.”

“You’ve been using ‘they’ and ‘them,’” I said. “I’ve asked who they are before, but I’ve never got a satisfactory answer. Who are ‘they,’ the outfit, the organization, the mob, the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra? Is there a name for them and they?”

Cole smiled again, even more slightly than before. “It’s a peculiarly American trait, I suppose, this insistence upon a descriptive noun. It was poor old Joe Valachi who called it the Cosa Nostra because the Government was pressing him to give them a title. So one Narcotics Bureau Agent said ‘cosa’ and Valachi came back with ‘nostra,’ and they ran with it from there. Of course, if two persons of Italian descent were speaking about a mutual project, they might say, ‘Questa è una cosa nostra,’ but they would really be saying, “This is an affair of ours.’ They certainly wouldn’t be saying ‘I am a member of “our thing” or “our affair.”’”

“What about the Mafia?” I said. “Or is that old hat?”

“It implies a Sicilian organization, and although there are certain ties with it in Sicily — Luciano during World War II, for example — there is no Mafia as such in the United States.”

“What is there then?”

“A group of totally amoral businessmen of Italian and Sicilian descent who control the vast majority of organized illegal activities that go on in this nation. They don’t call themselves anything.”

“And they are the ones you turned to in 1936 when you needed your mentor or guide?”

Cole tapped his cigar ash into a tray. “Yes. They were the ones who sent me through college and law school. When I told them that I needed a guide, they promptly secured me a full partnership in a most respectable Washington law firm, the same one in which I’m now senior partner, Harrington, Mecklin, and Cole.”

“Mecklin I’ve heard of,” I said.

“He almost became a Supreme Court judge.”

“What happened?”

“Harrington had died by the time I came along in 1936. Mecklin, unfortunately for him, was a compulsive gambler. Everything. Horses, poker and bridge, but especially poker. So one evening at a most respectable club here in Washington my sponsors, shall we call them, slipped a mechanic into the game and he took Mr. Mecklin for around fifty thousand dollars that night. Another game was arranged later in the same week, and Mecklin dropped seventy-five thousand dollars. The mechanic, who was also a consummate confidence man, as most of them are, agreed to yet another game to give Mecklin a chance to win. This time he dropped ninety thousand dollars and, of course, he couldn’t pay. The confidence man grew impatient, threatened exposure, and my sponsors hurriedly came to the rescue with a loan which enabled Mecklin to pay off the debt in full. However, my sponsors grew just as impatient for full repayment and when Mecklin was unable to meet their, shall we say, rather importunate demands, they suggested that the firm take me in as a full partner.”

“Then it cost them around $215,000 to get you a partnership,” I said.

Cole chuckled his pleasant sound. “Not at all. It cost them only a thousand or so for the con man’s services. The money that they lent Mecklin to pay off his debts was promptly returned to them by the con man.”

“Then what happened?”

“Word got around, as it always does, and Roosevelt changed his mind about Mecklin. The man grew absolutely bitter. He began to take an almost perverse delight in plunging into legal tangles whose outcome could only embarrass the administration. More often than not, he was successful, and he took me along with him. He taught me the art of accommodation and compromise and believe me, Mr. Cauthorne, they are most valuable skills.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

“Every so often, a crusader dons his sword and buckler and journeys forth against the infidel who goes by the name of organized crime. In the early 1950’s, it was the good Senator Kefauver. Then Senator McClelland tilted his lance against the same foe in the 1960’s and later in the decade along came the Task Force on Organized Crime, appointed by the President.”

“I remember,” I said. “I also remember that nothing much happened.”

“After the rather tawdry findings of each of these investigations were released, there was a brief public outcry, a kind of ‘My, isn’t that awful and why don’t they do something about it’ type of outcry, if you will.”

“But not much else,” I said.

“Very little, and for very good reason, too. You see the law enforcement agencies, state and local as well as federal, are perfectly aware of what’s going on and who’s profiting from it. They have, over the years, worked out a degree of accommodation with those responsible, a tacit understanding concerning territories and scope of operation. In exchange for the discipline which my sponsors, as I’ve referred to them, are capable of exercising, the law enforcement authorities are content to compromise on some minor but essential points — so long as they know where the ultimate responsibility lies. One of my principal tasks is to maintain this détente.”

“And a few hundred thousand dollars can work miracles,” I said.

“A few million, you should say.”

“And you have it to offer?” I asked.

“Yes, I have it to offer, but not quite in the way or to the persons whom you might suspect. Suppose I wanted to influence a Senator in behalf of a client so that the Senator would influence someone else. There would never be a direct approach. It would come instead from the Senator’s bank or a chief political supporter or even from another Senator whose own bank might be exerting similar pressure on him. It’s all quite indirect.”

“But eventually somebody, somewhere gets bribed.”

“For every corruptor there must be a corruptee and in the thirty-three years that I’ve spent in Washington I have seen money accepted greedily by some most respectable persons up to and including those of cabinet rank.”

“You do a nice lecture on morality,” I said, “but none of it explains how Angelo Sacchetti is blackmailing you, does it? And why tell me all the secrets? I’m no confession booth.”

Cole was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly as if again debating with himself about how much more he could safely say. “I’m telling you the details, Mr. Cauthorne, because it is one way, perhaps the only way, that you will be impressed with the importance and gravity of what I’m going to ask you to do. I promise to be as brief as possible, but when I’m through I think you’ll realize the utter seriousness of the present situation. Only my complete frankness can convince you of that.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll listen.”

“Good,” he said and paused again as if trying to remember the thread of his tale. “My former partner, the late Mr. Mecklin, realized quickly what had happened to him. He was not a fool, but his bitterness towards the administration caused him to plunge into the affairs of my sponsors in an almost gleeful manner. He became obsessed with their potential ability to exercise power, and power was all that really ever interested Mecklin other than gambling. So he advised them to diversify.”

“And they did?”

“Not at first. They were reluctant to take advice from one whom they considered to be an outsider. After Mecklin died I advised them to do the same thing, and they did. They went into the stock market, into banking, into manufacturing, and a number of other legitimate enterprises.”

Cole paused. I waited for him to continue. When he did, his voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

“During our years together, Mecklin grew quite fond of me and he once said, quite early in our association, in fact, ‘Protect your flanks, son. Records. Keep records of everything. Tangible evidence, Charlie, will be your only protection when they finally turn on you and, by God, they will.’”

“You followed his advice, I take it.”

“Yes, Mr. Cauthorne, I did. I have been counselor or, if you prefer the more romantic title, consigliere, to my sponsors for nearly thirty years. It has not always been a harmonious relationship, of course. There were some who opposed me.”

“What happened to them?”

Cole smiled and when he did, I could almost feel sorry for whomever he was thinking of. “Several of them were deported when the authorities suddenly discovered that they were not really born in the United States as they had claimed. Others were arrested, convicted, and sentenced to rather lengthy prison terms on the basis of new evidence that mysteriously came into the hands of the appropriate law enforcement agencies.”

“The evidence was carefully documented, of course.”

“Most carefully. It was always sufficient to provide an airtight case.”

“It’s nice to know that sometimes you cooperate with our national guardians,” I said.

“They have learned to live with me — and I with them. Actually, we both seek the same ultimate goal — a rational structure for illegal activities.”

“And this is where Angelo Sacchetti comes into the picture?”

“Indeed he does, Mr. Cauthorne. You may not know that Angelo and I were never close despite my being his godfather, which has an unusually deep significance among my sponsors. I tried to educate him, but that failed miserably. He was expelled from three colleges and whenever that happened, he turned up in New York where my sponsors promptly spoiled him with too much money and too many women. They thought he was wonderful while I couldn’t abide him — even when he was a child. I was more than happy when he decided to enter the motion picture industry. He wanted to be an actor. God knows he had the looks, but unfortunately he couldn’t act.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “I’ve also heard that he was a complete ham. That’s probably the real reason he winked when he went over; he couldn’t bear to keep the act to himself.”

“You are quite probably right,” Cole said. “At any rate after he moved to Los Angeles he sometimes flew into Washington, usually to borrow money which, for foolish, sentimental reasons, I quite readily lent him. At least I did until a little over two years ago.”

“Why did you stop?”

Cole shrugged. “I didn’t really. I merely asked him when he intended to repay the sums that he had already borrowed. He went into a total rage and stormed out of the room. This very room, in fact.”

“Then what?”

“He left that same night, quite suddenly, but not empty-handed.”

“He took something of yours with him?”

“Yes.”

“Something you’d like back?”

“Yes again.”

“What?” I said.

“There is a safe in this room — or there was. Angelo simply opened it, probably in search of cash. He found something better. Microfilmed records. As I’ve said, I keep meticulous records.”

“How did he open the safe, with a nail file?”

Cole sighed and shook his head. “Angelo is not stupid. When he wanted to learn, he could, and my sponsors and their associates in New York were willing teachers when he visited them. He learned a great many things from them and one of the things that he learned was how to open a safe. I had suddenly been called out of town; the servants were asleep, and Angelo simply blew it open.”

I rose and walked over to the cut-glass brandy bottle and poured myself another drink without asking. Then I moved over to the fireplace and watched the apple logs burn for a while. After a time, I turned to Cole who was watching me carefully.

“I can understand most of it,” I said. “Angelo found out that you were providing evidence on a more or less regular basis to the police or the FBI or God knows who. If your associates or sponsors or whatever you call them found out about it, you’d live another day, possibly two. So Angelo blackmails you out of nearly a million dollars which you paid and probably didn’t miss too much. But what I don’t understand is why Angelo pretended to die, nor do I understand why you’ve suddenly decided that I can do something to get you off the hook.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little complicated, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“Most things involving a million dollars are.”

“Yes, they are, aren’t they? But let’s take you first. What I want you to do is fairly simple. I want you to find Angelo Sacchetti, retrieve the missing records, and return them to me. For this I am willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

“In Los Angeles, it was only twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“The matter has become more urgent since then.”

“Urgent enough to double the price?”

“Yes. Plus expenses, of course.”

“All right, let’s say I accept.”

“I hope that you will.”

“I haven’t yet, but let’s say that I do. Where do I find Angelo?”

“In Singapore.”

I stared at Cole. “You mean he was always in Singapore?”

Cole shook his head. “No, after he disappeared and pretended to be dead, he went to Cebu City in the Philippines. From there I understand that he went to Hong Kong and then established his present operation some eighteen months ago in Singapore.”

“What operation?”

Cole sighed and stared into the fire. “With the help of my reluctant financing and with the knowledge of tactics and procedure that he learned from my sponsors in New York, Angelo Sacchetti now runs a rather smooth operation in Singapore.”

“What kind?”

“Name it. He’s introduced numbers; he is most prominent in the loansharking business, and he has branched out lately into business insurance, or so I understand.”

“You mean the protection racket.”

“If you prefer.”

“You understand from whom?”

Cole rose and joined me at the fireplace. He gazed into it while I warmed my back. “In my dealings with the government, Mr. Cauthorne, there is as I mentioned earlier a certain amount of mutual accommodation. Quid pro quo, if you like. The government knows that Angelo is not dead and that he was in Cebu and Hong Kong and they also know what he’s doing in Singapore.”

“And that’s where you got the pictures of him,” I said. “From the government.”

“From the government,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “It’s clear so far. But why did he have to pretend to be dead?”

“Because he didn’t want to get married.”

Someone sighed deeply and I was almost surprised when I realized that it had been me. “You said it was a little complicated.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Cole said.

“Shall we try it again?”

“It’s not really all that complicated; it just takes a while.”

“I’ve made it this far; I may even go the distance.”

Cole nodded. “I’m sure that you will, Mr. Cauthorne.”

He moved back to his leather chair and sank into it. For the first time the strain that he was under seemed apparent. His hands twitched slightly and he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“Marriage among my sponsors and their associates is a most serious matter. Virtually all of them are Catholic, at least in name, and divorce is uncommon, if not rare. They marry for life and because of the rather unusual nature of their businesses, if you will allow the term, the children of one group of my sponsors tend to marry the children of another group.”

“I’ve heard that they are called families, not groups.”

“All right. We’ll use that term, if you prefer.”

“Angelo was quite popular among the members of a certain New York family which is headed by Joe Lozupone. No doubt you’ve heard of him?”

I nodded.

“In fact, Lozupone was so taken with Angelo that he flew down to Washington to see me. His proposal was that Angelo marry his daughter, Carla.”

“Why didn’t he ask Angelo?”

“Because this is the way that things are arranged. There would be a substantial dowry, of course, and Angelo would be welcomed into the family firm, if he so desired.”

“What happened?”

“I approached Angelo who was in Washington on one of his periodic visits. He agreed and promptly hit me up for a loan of fifteen thousand dollars. I think he was gambling heavily. I informed Lozupone and he informed his daughter who was then a sophomore, I believe, at Wellesley. Lozupone himself never got past the eighth grade.”

“Then what?”

“Lozupone held an engagement party in New York. The girl, whom Angelo hadn’t seen in years, came down from Massachusetts and Angelo flew in from Los Angeles or Las Vegas or wherever he was. They literally despised each other on sight. Angelo told me the engagement was off and flew back to Los Angeles that same night. I immediately assumed my role as counselor and tactfully suggested to Lozupone that the engagement be a long one — long enough to allow the girl to get her degree and perhaps even take a tour of Europe. Lozupone readily agreed. I telephoned Angelo, and for once he was amenable. He even called Lozupone and borrowed five thousand dollars from him on the strength of his new status as future son-in-law. Well, two years ago Carla was nearing graduation and the Lozupone family was making plans for a rather sizeable wedding.”

“And it was then that Angelo decided to play dead,” I said.

“Yes. But he needed money and that’s when he came to Washington and blew the safe. Then he disappeared in Singapore and began to blackmail me a few months later. Lozupone, of course, has his own sources and he’s found out that Angelo isn’t dead. He’s now furious and has directed his anger at me. Our relations cooled, then grew strained, and finally disintegrated. Lozupone announced to his family, and to the four other families in New York, that he considered me his enemy and Joe Lozupone, I needn’t add, is a most dangerous enemy to have.”

I shrugged. “Why don’t you get rid of him like you got rid of the others?”

“I’ll answer that in a moment. When Angelo’s death was reported, Carla went into mourning. When it was discovered that he was alive, Lozupone swore that Angelo would marry her. It was an affair of honor to him and he takes such things seriously. In an effort to heal the breach between Lozupone and myself, a representative of another New York family approached me and suggested that I provide Carla with an appropriate escort to Singapore where she intends to find Angelo and to marry him. I agreed. I agreed to provide you, Mr. Cauthorne.”

“Then you made a mistake,” I said. “But you still haven’t told me why you just don’t take Lozupone out of circulation by dropping some of that mysterious evidence in the mail to the FBI or somebody.”

“Because, Mr. Cauthorne, I don’t have it. Angelo has the only copies that exist. And I need that information. I need it very much and this charade with the girl Carla will give me breathing time.”

“He’ll still keep on blackmailing you; he’s smart enough to have had other copies made.”

“I’m not worried about the blackmail, Mr. Cauthorne. I’m worried about Lozupone. Angelo can be bought; Lozupone cannot. The only thing that concerns me about Angelo is that nothing must happen to him, or the blackmail material will be promptly forwarded to New York by a third party. The arrangement wheezes with age, but it works.”

“You’re in trouble, Mr. Cole,” I said. “It’s almost a pity that I can’t help you.”

Cole gripped the arms of his chair and leaned towards me. His eyes no longer twinkled or flashed behind the thick glasses. They seemed to grow still and flat. His tone lost its warmth when he spoke and his voice had the accents of someone who had grown up in East Harlem, the hard way.

“Don’t give me that shit, Cauthorne. There’s a phone on my desk. All I have to do is pick it up and by tomorrow morning your partner’s wife will be in the hospital with acid burns and they aren’t easy to fix.”

“Don’t try it,” I said.

“I have nothing to lose,” he said and I hoped that his threat was as empty as his voice.

I looked at him for what seemed to be minutes, but it could have been only five seconds or so. “You never really got all the way out of it, did you?”

“Out of what?”

“The gutter.”

“This is no game, no make-believe, sonny boy. For the sake of your physical as well as mental health you’ve got two things to do. You’ll take the girl Carla to Singapore and you’ll also retrieve the documents from Angelo.”

“How?”

“I don’t know how. That’s your job. Use the girl. Charm her. Tell Angelo you’ll get her — and the family, especially the family — off his back in exchange for the documents. Figure it out yourself. That’s what you’re being paid fifty thousand dollars to do.”

I made the decision then, the decision that I had known I would make all along. I rose and started towards the door.

“Acid, Cauthorne,” Cole called after me. “You’re forgetting the acid.”

I stopped and turned. “I’m not forgetting anything. I’ll go, but not because of anything you’ve said. I’m going for myself and I’m not taking any jilted female with me.”

“That’s part of it,” he said. “I need the time.”

“Not my part.”

“She goes.”

“Why doesn’t she go by herself? She can talk Angelo into getting married and they can spend their honeymoon in Pago Pago.”

“I don’t think so,” Cole said.

“Why not?”

“Because Angelo married a Chinese girl in Singapore a year and a half ago.”