Dream of a Falling Eagle

Chapter 7

It was a good thing that I was enjoying a personal buzz from the quick and successful completion of the poetry business, because it looked, at least from my point of view, as if the electorate was going to get a lot more than it had bargained for in the last election, and the country was going to sink even deeper into a right-wing malaise that could last for decades.

Three days after I'd returned from Huntsville, CNN reported that the Honorable Mabel Roscowicz, the only remaining liberal on the Supreme Court after the death of Richard Weiner, had died in her sleep, apparently the victim of a heart attack. Now the next president would have two Supreme Court vacancies to fill, which meant the Court was going to swing even further past the center, all the way over to the hard right. The ultra-conservatives currently in power, and the very conservative president likely to be elected, were going to leave behind quite a legacy, even if, at some time in the future, the voters began to have second thoughts about their stewardship. Depressing. And it was almost enough to make me forget Garth's little tutorial on the things that were important. Francisco's interruption didn't help.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Francisco?" I asked irritably, glancing up from my computer.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's somebody here who insists on seeing you. He doesn't have an appointment."

"Again? I must be living in sin."

"I told him you're very busy, but he won't take no for an answer. He claims it's extremely urgent."

"Fuck him," I said, turning back to my keyboard. "Let him sit out there as long as he wants. If he keeps disturbing you, have one of Veil's security people throw him out."

"It's Taylor Mackintosh, sir."

I typed in a line, stopped again, leaned back in my chair, and frowned at Francisco. "The Taylor Mackintosh?"

"Yes, sir. That Taylor Mackintosh."

"I thought he was dead."

"He looks alive to me, sir. He's waiting in the outer office."

"What the hell does he want?"

"He won't say, sir. He demands to talk to you."

I grunted, turned off the computer. "All right, send him in."

The old man who walked into my office was about five feet nine or ten, but he had always loomed larger on the screen-shot from low angles, or mounted on a horse, or with female leads who were always shorter than he was-in the movies I remembered from childhood and which still occasionally showed up on cable TV. Taylor Mackintosh had to be pushing eighty-five, but he was still obviously pretty spry. I'd heard rumors that he suffered from Alzheimer's disease, but his very pale blue eyes seemed clear and in focus as he glared at me from across the room. He was impeccably, if somewhat oddly, dressed in a gray, three-piece Armani suit with snakeskin cowboy boots. He wore a shirt that matched his eyes, and a black bolo tie with a turquoise clip. He looked and carried himself like, well-an old movie star. The only jarring note in his appearance was a cheap, impossibly ill-fitting and badly dyed toupee that made it look like he had a dead or sleeping muskrat on top of his head. A two-thousand-dollar suit and a muskrat toupee made me think that maybe the rumors about his diminished mental capacity were true. Either that, or he needed to hire himself a new dresser.

Taylor Mackintosh had to consider Charlton Heston, a younger man, his bete noire. Mackintosh had been the star of choice for virtually every biblical epic made-until Heston had come along. Mackintosh had played God on any number of occasions, but never Moses-and he was still known to harbor deep resentment over the fact that Heston had been chosen for that part. The irony was that Mackintosh, unlike Heston, was no friend of the arts. Dismissing his own career, he had, in his dotage, announced that the arts were for "lesbians and fairies," and did not ever deserve to be supported with a cent of taxpayers' money. Mackintosh also had a raging passion for guns, any gun, all guns of any size, shape, caliber, or color. He would dearly love to have been chosen as spokesman for the NRA, but again, Charlton Heston had gotten there first. He had comforted himself by agreeing to become TV-and-print spokesman for a tiny but very vocal band of gun lunatics that had thrown religion into the mix and which called themselves Guns for God and Jesus-or "Gingivitis," as they had affectionately been dubbed by certain members of the ultra-liberal media who didn't share their conviction that it was the God-given right of every man, woman, and child in America to own an Uzi and armor-piercing ammunition. Gingivitis was too nutty even for the NRA, which had been known to deny that the group even existed. I had no idea what Mackintosh could want with me.

"Good afternoon, sir," I said, rising and extending my hand. Age has its privileges, and Mackintosh's movies had given me hours of pleasure and much-needed escape from the pain and loneliness of my childhood in the single, shabby movie theater that still stood in my hometown in Peru County, Nebraska.

He marched across the office, stopped in front of my desk. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he reached into an inside pocket of his suit jacket and drew out a gold-plated fountain pen. "I'd just as soon skip the formalities, Frederickson," he said in a voice that had once been deep and resonant but was now raspy with age. "I'll give you my autograph, but I'm here to talk turkey."

I sat back down and motioned for him to pull up a chair. "I'll pass on the autograph, Mr. Mackintosh, but I'll be happy to listen to you gobble-as long as it doesn't take too long."

He didn't much like that, but it was hard for me to tell if he knew why he didn't like it. "I understand you're in possession of certain items that could prove damaging to a very good friend of mine."

I stared up into the angry, watery blue eyes and vaguely wondered if he was referring to the investigation of the CIA, or their Haiti connection. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Mackintosh," I replied at last.

"You've got some so-called poems by some so-called Thomas Dickens."

Now there was a surprise. Mackintosh had not sat down, but was instead leaning on my desk and glowering down at me, so close I could smell his age and aftershave lotion. I stared back into the famous face for a few moments, then shook my head in disbelief and said, "Kranes told you about this?"

"What do you plan to do with these so-called poems?"

"Well, I hadn't planned-"

"Forget whatever you were about to say, because it would only be a lie. I know what you're planning to do, and I'm here to head you off at the pass. Nobody will believe you, but you could prove to be a nuisance. So I'm going to give you and your partner some nuisance money. Every man has his price, and I figure I have a pretty good idea what this business should be worth to you. So I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. It's better than you're going to get anywhere else, because the tabloids won't pay for a story about some stupid poems. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's for the two of you."

It was the second time in three days I had gaped at somebody in awe and wonder, but this time my reaction wasn't feigned. The old man spoke gibberish in a patois of lines from old movie scripts. It suddenly struck me that Taylor Mackintosh was, indeed, quite insane, and I found myself feeling sorry for him. "Let's back up and waddle around the barnyard a little more slowly, Mr. Mackintosh," I said evenly. "You have to be very specific about what you think is a problem, and what you plan to do about it. I am not going to discuss any client's case with you. You have just this one second chance to get it right, because my time is limited. Now, take a deep breath and tell me why you're here."

He flushed, straightened up. "Bill Kranes is a good friend of mine. He's also one of the best men this country has ever produced. You and your liberal pals have cooked up some half-baked scheme to make him look bad just because he's written and published some poetry. You found out he used a pen name, and so you went out and found some black ex-convict to say he actually wrote them, and that Bill copied his work. Then you phonied up some old poetry magazines to back you up. You're planning to try to embarrass him and damage his reputation with this story."

"Your good friend Bill told you this?"

"He didn't have to. I'm not as naive as some people in this country, and I know what you're up to. I don't care what proof you say you have; I know this Thomas Dickens didn't write those poems of Bill's."

"And just what makes you so sure of that, Mr. Mackintosh?"

"Anybody with a lick of sense knows niggers can't write good poetry."

Ah. There went the last traces of my sympathy for the aged movie star with the bad toupee, and I wondered how much different his views could have been even before plaque had begun seizing up his brain cells. His statement left me not quite speechless. I sighed, shook my head, and said, "You are a clever old fox to figure that out."

"This man's a hero, Frederickson. The country is just starting to get on the right track after you liberals damn near destroyed it. The country needs his leadership, and friends of his are not going to stand idly by while people like you try to sully his name."

"You talk like he's going to run for president. Wouldn't that be a hoot."

"Two hundred thousand dollars, Frederickson. That's the absolute limit of what a group of people I represent are prepared to offer you to make this business go away. In return, you and your nigger partner will declare in writing that this slander about Bill copying the poems isn't true, and you pledge not to try to smear Bill, whether or not he decides to campaign for the presidency. Have we got a deal? You write up the letter, and I'll cut you a check right now."

"Don't you think I should consult with my partner in crime?"

"What nigger garbageman is going to turn down a hundred grand? You can probably give him ten or fifteen, and he'll be happy as a pig in shit. You can keep the rest for yourself."

Try as hard as I might, I just couldn't work up any kind of real mad at Taylor Mackintosh; the famous movie star was now just a deranged old man who had lived long enough to make a total fool out of himself. What I found profoundly puzzling was the question of why William P. Kranes would confide in such a man, one who could prove profoundly embarrassing to Kranes as well as to himself. If Kranes didn't trust me and wanted to risk blowing himself out of the water by using somebody like Mackintosh as a front man, that was his business, but I wasn't going to be any part of it. And I was going to continue to try to shield my satisfied client, who had never even asked if Jefferson Kelly was the plagiarist's real name, and who had indeed refused the "honorarium," which had been returned to Kranes by certified check, along with my bill.

"Look, Mr. Mackintosh," I said quietly. "You've wandered onto the wrong movie set here. The script you think you're following just doesn't exist. There's no plot to embarrass or smear anyone. The problem you're referring to, if there ever was such a problem, has been successfully resolved."

"You expect me to believe that? Do I look like a fool?"

"I don't give turkey shit what you believe," I replied, my patience beginning to wear a bit thin, "and what you look like is between you and your mirror. For the life of me, I can't understand why your good friend Bill discussed this with you-he must be even stupider than I thought. But I will guarantee you this: he will not want you discussing this with anyone else, and he won't be your good friend much longer if you do. You should just forget the whole thing. That's the only free advice I'm giving out today."

"How much money do you want, dwarf?!"

"Cut!" I snapped, leaping up from my chair and jabbing a finger in the direction of the door as I stifled an impulse to burst out laughing. "Get the fuck out of my office before I throw you out! You used the D word!"

His head snapped back and he retreated a step, obviously startled. I made a shuffling motion as if I was coming around from behind my desk, and he scurried backward, almost tripping over his feet. When he had reached the open door, he turned back, his seamed, leathery face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. "I can destroy you, dwarf!"

"There's the D word again! Get!"

He got. I instructed Francisco not to even tell me the next time somebody showed up wanting an audience, and I went back to work.

I worked through the lunch hour, then skipped downtown to pick up our Freedom of Information documents, which had finally arrived. About 80 percent of every single page was blacked out, which we had anticipated, and which was fine with me. Garth and I didn't have time to fully analyze the information anyway, and all those blacked-out pages were going to look good in an appendix; Congress could decide for itself how badly it wanted to find out what was hidden beneath all that inky darkness. I grabbed a hot dog and coffee from a Sabrett vendor, and had just finished eating when my beeper went off. It was Garth. I walked to a pay phone at the corner and called the office. Garth answered. "Yo."

"Mongo," Garth said in a soft voice that was tinged with sadness. "Meet me at the southwest corner of the Sheep Meadow."

"What's up?"

"Moby's dead. Somebody blinded him, sliced off his tongue, and cut out his heart. Henry called me. The police found your card in his pocket, and they want to talk to us."

Garth and I stood in silence at the edge of a copse of trees in Central Park, just inside a drooping band of yellow police tape, staring at the mutilated body of Moby Dickens. There was no blood on the grass, which, considering all the brutal surgery that had been performed on him, meant he had been slaughtered elsewhere and his body dumped here, where it was certain to be discovered at dawn by some birder, walker, or jogger. Moby Dickens wasn't Haitian, probably didn't know much of anything about Haiti, and couldn't have cared less about the CIA. His murder was apparently intended to send a personal message. To us.

"Jesus, Garth," I said, my voice cracking as tears rolled down my cheeks. "I gave him up. I did exactly what he didn't want anybody to do, which was to identify and describe him. I gave up his name, race, and occupation. I betrayed a client, and I might as well have painted a target on his back."

"You didn't kill him, Mongo," Garth said, putting an arm around my shoulders and drawing me closer to him.

"Oh yes, I did," I sobbed.

"What you did was a judgment call. You told Kranes about him in order to drive home a point. I'd have done exactly the same thing if I'd gone down there."

"Garth, I'm going to find and kill the sons of bitches who did this."

"What's going on, guys?"

I quickly wiped my eyes and put on a pair of sunglasses I'd brought with me before I turned to Henry Stamp, the NYPD detective who'd called Garth. Stamp was a stubby man with a wrinkled face and expressive green eyes that had remained burnished with kindness despite twenty-five years with the police, and all the things he had seen during that time. He was a good man, and both Garth and I liked him very much.

"His name is Thomas Dickens," I said to the detective in a voice that still cracked slightly. I cleared my throat. "He's a poet."

Henry Stamp turned to look at the naked, mutilated, heavily tattooed body lying on the grass at the edge of the trees. "A poet," he repeated in a flat tone.

"He also worked for the Sanitation Department. He's got an apartment down in the East Village."

"We know his name and address, Mongo. It was in his wallet, along with seventy-three bucks in cash. Your business card was in his pocket, and we were hoping you could shed some light. Obviously, robbery wasn't the motive. Somebody really took their time and did a number on this guy, then dumped him here. We're still looking, but we haven't found his heart. Whoever took it out must have left it where they killed him."

"They took it with them."

"How do you know that?"

"We've seen this kind of killing before. This is the seventh victim of a kind of voodoo hit squad that's been operating across the country for the past few months. I know how this will thrill you, hut the FBI is going to want to know about this right away. You should call them first chance you get."

The detective had been writing in his notebook. Now he stopped, looked at me. "Jesus, I hate the FBIs."

"Yeah, well," I said, choking back a sob, "into each life a little rain must fall. You'll be working with them on this."

"You care to elaborate a bit for me, Mongo? There have been six other killings just like this one?"

I nodded, swallowed hard. The sun was hot on the back of my neck, and my mouth was very dry. I looked away from the body. "Garth and I have been working for a Presidential Commission, investigating possible violations of U.S. law by the CIA in Haiti over the past few decades. The other victims were all Haitians who were potential informants or witnesses."

Stamp grunted. "This Dickens was Haitian?"

"No. He's American, born in the South. He spent most of his life in prison. I don't know how long he's been out. He was a member of the Fortune Society, so you can check with them for details. I suspect they'll want to make the funeral arrangements; if they don't, Garth and I will."

"So what's the connection between this guy and the Haiti thing?"

"There isn't any."

"That makes the two of you the connection between the six other vies and this one."

"I guess."

"I take it he was a client of yours?"

"Yes."

"What was his problem?"

"Nothing important-and nothing to explain this. Lou Skalin down at the Fortune Society referred him to us. I told you he was a poet, and he took his work very seriously. Somebody was plagiarizing his poetry-altering it slightly and submitting it to poetry journals under another name." I paused, glanced at Garth. He was staring at me impassively, watching and waiting to hear what I was going to say. "I told him we'd look into it sometime in the future, when we weren't so busy with this other thing."

The detective thought about it, shook his head. "A man comes to you because somebody is plagiarizing his poetry, and he ends up being killed in the same manner as six other victims who were all Haitian and linked to an entirely different investigation. That doesn't make any sense, Mongo."

"That's right," I said, again glancing at Garth. My brother was still staring at me, and he had raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "It doesn't make any sense."

"That's it?"

"That's it, Henry. Sorry we can't be of more help."

Back in my office I stared down into my coffee cup, seeing Moby Dickens' face on the surface of the steaming black liquid. Rage had supplanted sorrow, and the strong coffee did nothing to wash away the taste of bile in my mouth.

"You kind of caught me by surprise back there, Brother," Garth said quietly from where he was sitting on the couch. "Why didn't you tell Henry the whole story? Kranes is the connection."

"Sure he is," I said to the black face floating in my coffee. "I want another crack at Kranes myself, and I don't want to have to stand in line."

"Mongo, have you thought this through?"

"Ah. A metaphysical query if ever I've heard one. You mean, do I appreciate the irony in the fact that I gave up Moby Dickens to a right-wing prick, and thus somehow marked Moby for death, but won't give up said right-wing prick to the police, who would then immediately move to apprehend the people responsible, all the way up the ladder?"

"You've thought it through."

"Now here's a poser for you. How many police, FBI agents, reporters, public relations spokesmen, and baying politicians does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"So many that we'd never see the light. I get it, Mongo. This time I'm going with you."

"For sure," I said, looking up at him and nodding. "I'll need your take on whether or not he's giving me straight answers. As far as the police and FBI are concerned, they're going to find Moby's poems and Jefferson Kelly's imitations anyway, if and when they search his apartment, and they can do with them what they want." I paused and took a deep breath, but my rage still burned. I abruptly swept the computer printouts and other papers off the top of my desk with my forearm. "Fuck this report. I'll give them a report. I swear I'm going to find out who killed him, Garth."

"And why he was killed."

"Yes."

"You think Kranes could be directly involved?"

"Anything's possible, but I can't see it."

"Maybe he whispered to his CIA buddies something to the effect, 'You've got a problem, and I've got a problem, and will nobody rid me of this potential embarrassment?'"

"So the CIA says, 'Yes, sir, we'll send out our voodoo hit squad right away, and dump the body in the Fredericksons' backyard so they'll know you're not a man to mess with. Teach 'em a good lesson.' That's more stupid than even they're capable of-and Kranes himself may be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. Kranes sits on the Intelligence Committee, so he pretty much knows what we're up to. He'd know about the voodoo ritual killings. He doesn't want to be embarrassed by having the fact that he's a plagiarist made public. So his solution to the problem is to arrange for an unbelievably brutal murder where we could immediately link him to the victim? I don't think so. In less than a dozen words to Henry, or to the press, I could have made sure that William P. Kranes did nothing else for the rest of his life but answer questions about plagiarism and murder."

"Whatever the reason, it was unbelievably stupid, if for no other reason than they've made you seriously angry."

"You've got that right."

"But we're agreed it was our same voodoo boys who did the killing, not some copycat who may have read about the others?"

"And who picked Moby as a random victim?"

Garth nodded. "Just making sure we look at all the possibilities."

"That surgery is bloody, but distinct. It was our boys."

"Agreed."

"Why?" I said, pounding my fist on the desk. "Even in the unlikely event that the CIA would do any kind of wet work to protect Kranes's little secret, why not just put a bullet in Moby's head and dump him off some pier? Why whack him in a way that immediately focuses our attention on them and Kranes?"

"Good question. And yet we're agreed that the company is responsible, in the sense that they run these killers, and somebody ordered them out."

"It is most seriously bewildering."

Garth smiled thinly as he gestured toward the papers strewn over the floor at the side of my desk. "Maybe their intent was to distract us from our pressing work at hand."

"If that's the case, they've certainly succeeded."

"Could we be looking through the wrong end of the telescope? Maybe they intended to embarrass Kranes by linking him to a murder investigation and exposing his secret."

"Kranes is not only the best friend the company has, but the most powerful. Why would they try to gut him in what promises to be their greatest hour of need?"

"Just moving the ball around the court, Mongo."

"There's no shot there."

"Which brings us to your visitor this morning. From the way you described the conversation, Taylor Mackintosh is at the top of the stupid chart."

"Deranged is a more accurate description."

"A perfect match. Deranged is also a very accurate description for Moby Dickens' murder, and the manner in which it was done."

"It would be a perfect match if not for the fact that Moby was already dead, and probably had been for hours, when Mackintosh came in here. He was ready to cut me a check for two hundred thousand dollars, which I could presumably have toted right down to the bank. He may be deranged, but he's not crazy enough to throw away two hundred thou and draw attention to himself if he knew Moby was dead, or even if he suspected that somebody planned to kill him. Besides, here's the bottom line: if you were the CIA, would you use a jerk like Mackintosh for anything?"

"Come on, Mongo. They use people like Mackintosh all the time. You know that."

"Yeah, you're right. But in this case, what would they have been using him for? To deliver a message to us about a black ex-convict and poet who's about to be offed by their own voodoo hit squad?"

Garth grunted, nodded his head. "It's not only seriously bewildering, but surpassingly strange."

"Well," I said, putting aside my coffee mug and pressing a button on my intercom, "it's time to begin getting unbewildered. We don't have a money trail to follow, so we'll set off down the stupids trail."

"Yes, sir?"

"Francisco, get Margaret in here or hire a temp. You're about to become coauthor of our report to the Presidential Commission. It means you'll have to bring yourself up to speed on everything we've done to date, finish organizing it, and compose a first draft-which, incidentally, is probably going to be the final draft. You can use my office and files, but I'm afraid I've made a bit of a mess back here."

"I have copies of everything on diskettes, sir, and I believe I am up to speed."

"Bless you."

"Thank you for the opportunity, sir."

"Before you do anything else, call Mel over at the William Morris Agency. They may represent Taylor Mackintosh. If they don't, ask Mel who does. Then get a message to his agent that I want Mackintosh in my office at the earliest possible opportunity for an early Thanksgiving, and if he's not here within twenty-four hours it's his old turkey ass that's going to get basted." "Sir?"

"Just make sure Mackintosh gets the message. He'll understand. Then call William Kranes's PR people. Tell them you're a reporter for some newspaper and see if you can't find out his schedule for the next few days. I want to know where to find him on short notice."

"Yes, sir."

I spent the rest of the afternoon resorting papers and preparing a detailed outline for Francisco to follow. I was on my way out of the office when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Mongo, it's Lucas Tremayne. I've been trying to get hold of Garth. He's not up in his apartment, and his answering machine isn't on."

"Are you home?"

"Yes."

"If you look out your window in a little while, you'll probably see him cutting the grass. He's up in Spring Valley paying a courtesy call on Carl Beauvil, bringing him up to date on some of the things that have been happening around here. He's got some chores to do around the house, so he's staying there overnight. Or you can leave a message with me."

"I'll go over to see him later, but I want you to know this too. I'm sorry it took so long for me to take care of this business, but it's not a subject Haitians-even those who know and trust me-like to talk about, even among themselves."

"Uh, what business and subject are we talking about, Lucas? As I recall our last conversation-"

"You'll recall I said I wanted to help. I memorized the photograph you showed me of the voodoo altar, and I had one of my storyboard artists do a rendering from my description. Then I started showing it around the Haitian community up here."

I sighed. "Not a good idea, Lucas. Not a good idea at all."

"I finally got some answers, Mongo. I found a voodoo priest who'd talk to me. I know what the symbols mean, and why the altar was set up that way."

"So do we, Lucas. I talked to Fournier. He said the Spring Valley victim was using his picture as an icon, praying to him like he would to a saint. He was asking forgiveness for his sins, or something like that."

There was a silence on the other end of the line that lasted for several seconds. Finally Lucas Tremayne said, "I don't know why Guy

Fournier told you that, Mongo, but it's bullshit. I have absolute confidence in my source, and he tells me that the arrangement of the symbols and objects on that altar is what he calls a 'protection array.'"

"The general was praying to Fournier for protection?"

"No, Mongo. The victim was praying for protection from Fournier. I don't know what Fournier did to that man, or what the man thought Fournier was going to do to him, but the victim was absolutely terrified of him."