Sharky's Machine Page 8

  “I’ve been told to forget it.”

  “Probably the best thing to do. What’s gonna happen with Tully, Tully’s gonna end with his toes up one of these days. He’s too stupid to stay alive. It’s still tough, y’know. Nobody likes to take the gas pipe when they been workin’ a thing as long as you were. Anyways, I got something down here you can maybe get your dick into. So far what we got is odds and ends, see? Nothing ties together yet. But it’s lookin’ pretty good. Here and there.”

  “You’re a little vague,” Sharky said.

  “Paranoid,” Friscoe said.

  “Oh,” Sharky said and laughed at Friscoe’s candor.

  “What it is, every once in a while one of my boys turns up something sounds interesting. Not the usual stink finger, hands-up bullshit but something maybe we can make a little mileage outa. What happens, I don’t wanna give anything away, see what I mean? What I don’t want, I don’t want Homicide or Bunco or some lace doily outfit workin’ special for the chief stealin’ my melons, okay? Fuck that shit. I figure it starts here, I wanna keep it here. The other thing, I don’t make a habit, see, of goin’ down to the DA with my dick in my hand. Unless we make a heavy case, we don’t nail it down, I flush it. We got a machine goin’ and we can’t put it together, it goes down the toilet.”

  He slurped coffee and kept talking. Sharky found himself breathing for him.

  “Just so’s you know the territory down here, let me tell you, here’s how I feel about Vice. I got sixteen years in, almost seventeen. I been on foot in the boondocks. Did a two-year trick in a blue-and-white. Had one partner snuffed out from under me and another one, he tried to drive through a warehouse wall, ended up in a wheelchair. I got out lucky with a bad back. I been in Bunco, six years in Robbery, I did a short tour in Homicide and I was in the IA for about two minutes before I ended up here.”

  Sharky laughed. He could just see Friscoe in Internal Affairs in his sneakers and sweatshirt, investigating complaints against his fellow officers.

  “Internal Affairs,” Friscoe went on, “I told ’em to stuff it. I got to deal with snitches every day. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna snitch on my own, see what I mean?”

  Sharky nodded. There was a rumor you could not even be interviewed for the IA unless you’d been born out of wedlock.

  “Anyways, I personally don’t give a rat’s ass what the public does,” Friscoe growled. “Some guy wants to stick his dick in a coffee grinder, who am I to argue, okay? It’s his dick. Personally I got better things to do. I could care less some shirt salesman from Dubuque comes inta town, wants to pay out fifty, a hundred bucks to get laid, get a little head, shit, why not? Live and let live, I say, but it’s where they put you. The Bat, the commissioner, the chief, whoever puts you where you are. Like I say, I got almost seventeen in, so I don’t growl too loud. Mainly we got misdemeanors down here. Hooking. Pandering. Freak show. It takes a lotta time, effort, to make a misdemeanor case, okay? I mean, nobody’s sucker enough if he pays some chippie fifty to gobble his pork, he’s gonna show up in court and testify against her. He’s gonna head for the hills first.”

  “So what’s the answer?” Sharky asked.

  “So we make a case against somebody for trickin’ it’s gotta be the cop makin’ it and that means he had to make a deal and money had to change hands. What we really look for is felony. Extortion. A and B. Juvenile crimes. The worst. But it’s rare. Mostly what we do, we answer complaints and do what we can to keep the streets clean. If we get a handle on something good, it’s gravy on the potatoes. You want some mud? It’s strong enough to play fullback for the Falcons.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Another thing. We got that fuckin’ DA Hanson comin’ up for re-election so he’s got all the Baptists, the bluenoses, Billy Grahamers fired up right now…. The schmuck hasn’t done anything but indict homos and jack-off artists for two years, but he’s makin’ a lot of noise right now so he’ll look good to the PTA, that kinda shit. To listen to him, see, you’d think you can’t take a breath of fresh air downtown without gettin’ the clap.”

  Sharky broke up again, but Friscoe went right on, ignoring the laughter.

  “Anyways Hanson is keepin’ me busy just on routine, shakin’ up the ladies on the street, bustin’ the massage parlors, movie pits, hourly hotels. What I want, see, I want to zero you in on this thing we got a handle on, let you loose, see what you can do. I give you Arch—that’s Livingston—and Papa and anybody you can dog-rob outa some other department. That’s your whole army.”

  Sharky nodded. “I’ve heard stories about both of them.”

  “Whaddya hear, good or bad?” Friscoe asked.

  “Both. Depends on who you listen to. The guys I listen to say they’re in sudden death playoff with the best there is.”

  Friscoe beamed, obviously pleased. “Livingston there, he’s got thirteen in. Best goddamn street cop in the House. He’s cautious but lotsa smarts upstairs, right? College guy like you. Papadopolis, a hell of a cop. Papa doesn’t give a shit. He’ll stake out the governor’s toilet you tell him to. Been shot three times; don’t even remember where the scars are. And that’s your machine. Oh yeah, one other thing. You gotta understand the politics of the House, see. All of us down here, in the cesspool here, we either don’t know the politics, see, or didn’t give a shit. Or maybe what it was, we were too hard-headed. That’s what happens, you don’t suck ass, play by the book, all that shit, you end up down here in the fuckin’ leper colony. I been hearin’ about you, the last two, three years. The word’s been around the department head’s on you, okay? Some say you’re a hardhead. Others say you’re dynamite on the street. Thing is, I give you maybe three, four years, you’ll walk.”

  “To where? I’ll have eight years in. Where the hell do you go after sinking that much time in the cops?”

  “I dunno, but y’see, Sharky, you’re too goddamn contrary to suck up to the system and too smart to live in it. I heard this morning, from this buddy of mine in IA, he calls me before I got a cup of coffee in me, tells me The Bat’s getting ready to flop you out of detectives and give you a six-and-six. Even upstairs they figure you got a raw deal. I mean, the way I look at it, what do they want? Maybe you should’ve given the creep a ticket to Detroit and cab fare to the fuckin’ airport, right? So I go up to see Jaspers and I tell him I gotta have some help and could I have you since I heard he was bustin’ you outa the narcs. The Bat thinks it over a minute or two and finally says, ‘Okay, but tell him to keep out of my hair.’ And then he says something real strange. He says, ‘Tell him to keep his shoes on in my office.’ What the fuck was that all about?”

  “My foot itched.”

  “And you took off your shoe and scratched it, that it?”

  “Right.”

  “Bad form. Very bad form. You gotta understand about The Bat, about them all. Shit, look, it’s a lotta fuckin’ crap protocol up there, see? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re a third or second-grade detective, you’re a maggot to them. Takin’ off your shoe, that makes sense to you, but to a creep like The Bat, it’s death warmed over. That’s what I mean, I see you walkin’ a coupla years from now. You gotta roll along and take the punches, let the big shots grab the big collars, keep your face off the front page, don’t make waves. That kind of thing. Otherwise what happens, you end up down here. Me, I should give a shit. Two years I make captain, probably get assistant in charge of Criminal Investigation, some nice job to go out on. Another two years I take my retirement and fuck it. But you, you’re gonna kick ass a lot and get kicked a lot. It’s what always happens you got a guy who’s smart, savvy, don’t mind taking a chance or two now and then.”

  “You sure paint a rosy picture.”

  “Truth. I deal in truth. What comes from bein’ a Boy Scout my younger years. Point is, see, it takes me a long time to say something, but I’m glad to have you down here, okay?”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “It goes for Arch there and Pap
a. Arch, he was the first black cop on the force. And he didn’t suck ass, didn’t eat any shit. The ones that followed him, they, y’know, stuck their dick in the air see which way the wind’s blowin’, kissed the right asses, moved on up there. Fuckin’ Uncle Tom shit, but Arch, he didn’t bow down nowhere along the line. So here he is, best fuckin’ street cop on the force bustin’ hookers and library freaks.”

  “What happened to Papa?”

  “Papa was in Bunco workin’ under a shitass name of Shaushauser, a fuckin’ Nazi. He’s dead now. Rest his soul, all that shit, but he had it comin’. Anyway Papa brought down two, three big scams and this Shaushauser he takes the collars and even ends up with a citation. One day Papa has enough. He’s in the locker room with Shaushauser and suddenly he starts playing handball, only Shaushauser’s the ball. Bim, bam, bim, he takes the lieutenant off the wall a coupla times, ties his feet in a knot, goes about his merry business. Shaushauser goes to the hospital, Papa does a ten-and-ten, a year back in uniform, and then down here. That’s what I mean about the system, Sharky. You can’t beat the motherfuckers, so you either give in or walk. I see you walkin’, all I’m sayin’. Anyways, it ain’t gloryland here but it’s better than what you had, you ask me. You know what they say—Fuck around with frogs you end up with warts on your dick.”

  “I think it’s ‘Lie down with dogs and get up with fleas.’”

  “Right, just what I said. Now let’s get goin’. Hey, Papa, hang up the phone goddammit, we got business. Arch, get your ass in here. We can’t wait until the day after tomorrow you finish that report. And somebody bring the tape recorder. Let’s put some goddamn wheels on this machine.”

  5

  The man who arrived at one o’clock at the private suite in the Regal Hotel was short and unkempt. He needed a shave, his graying hair was frazzled and uncombed, his fierce gray eyes ringed with circles. He wore a pair of baggy slacks, a mismatched sports jacket, and his tie was a disaster. He carried a cheap plastic snapshut briefcase under his arm and a copy of The New York Times he had brought with him on the early morning flight from Washington. And he was hyper; energy vibrated around him. He sucked noisily on an empty pipe, walking in tight little circles waiting for someone to answer his knock.

  His appearance was deceiving. Julius Lowenthal, former advisor to two presidents and a gnawing antagonist for a third, had once been described by a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist as having the appearance of a burlesque comic and the mind of a Borgia.

  One did not court Lowenthal’s services; he offered them. On this morning he was about to meet Senator Donald Walden Hotchins, Jr.

  He was greeted at the door by another political curiosity. Physically, Charles Roan was Lowenthal’s alter ego: a tall, husky, pleasant man with an ebullient personality, boundless energy, and a taste for three-piece tailored suits. He was an open, buoyant man, unlike the caged lion that was Lowenthal. As Hotchins’s campaign manager Charley Roan had overcome two major drawbacks: he was a former All-American football player—a jock—and he had been Hotchins’s roommate in college. Sixteen years earlier, when Hotchins had challenged one of the strongest old-line machine politicians in the state for governor, his appointment of Charley as campaign manager had been regarded as a joke. Nobody laughed anymore. Roan had been the architect of a remarkable success, had guided Hotchins through two terms in the statehouse, a term as governor and finally had helped him defeat the state’s senior senator. It was Roan who had discreetly let it be known to Lowenthal that Hotchins needed him.

  The suite was modest, a living room furnished with comfortable but undistinguished hotel furniture, a bedroom with a king-size bed, and a small kitchenette. Only a few of Hotchins’s closest confidants knew he maintained the suite. The senator was standing near a window when Lowenthal entered the room. He smiled and limped across it with the aid of a highly polished shillelagh, a tall, lean, handsome man, well-tanned, with blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was casually dressed in flared slacks and a dark blue sports shirt. He shook hands with Lowenthal.

  “How’s the foot?” Lowenthal asked.

  “It’s okay. Occasionally it acts up when the weather’s bad.”

  Lowenthal smiled. “Can you run on one leg when the weather’s bad?”

  “He can run on his hands if he has to,” Charley Roan said.

  “I appreciate your coming,” Hotchins said. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Sure I do,” Lowenthal said. “Anybody who runs for public office is crazy. Anybody who runs for this office is mad as a hatter.”

  Hotchins smiled. “Okay, welcome to the tea party. How about some coffee?”

  “Cream and sugar,” Lowenthal said. “I stayed in the airport motel in Washington last night and sneaked out. I don’t think anybody knows I’m here. Once the press finds out, the cat’s out of the bag. I’d like to forestall that as long as possible.”

  “You can stay here. Nobody knows about this suite but a few of us. My press secretary, Pete Holmes, is at a luncheon. He’ll be along in an hour or so. He’s very good at handling the media.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Well,” Roan said, rubbing his hands together, “what do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Lowenthal said raising his eyebrows. “What do I think about what?”

  “I think what Charley means is, What do you think of our chances?”

  Lowenthal stuffed tobacco into his battered pipe and lit it, almost disappearing in a nuclearean smokecloud. He waved the smoke away with a hand.

  “I think if you can survive until the convention, once you’ve made the announcement, you’ve got a chance. I also think that is one big if.”

  “I’m not a pussyfooter, Julius,” Hotchins said. “Are you interested in working with us?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Senator.”

  “Great. That’s great!” Roan said and slapped his hands together. Lowenthal felt a moment of annoyance before remembering that exuberance was one of the prices one paid for youth. “I took the liberty of talking to Bob Fitzgerald at the National Committee yesterday,” Lowenthal said. “I hope you don’t object. I realize it was a bit unorthodox going ahead before we talked, but the timing seemed right to me. I operate on instincts, been living with them a long time. Usually don’t take time to question them, I just go.”

  “And how does Fitzgerald feel about us?” Hotchins asked.

  “Well, you got to remember that Fitz is an old party bull. He’s been chairman of the NC for ten years. He’s tough, probably the best machine politician this country’s seen since Tammany. He’s like an odds maker. He adds it all up and then he makes his bet.”

  “And?” Hotchins said.

  “And he’s still betting on Humphrey.”

  “Humphrey!” Roan bellowed. “Jesus Christ, he’s already been whipped once. Does he want to hand the election to Ford?”

  “The way he sees it, it’s going to be a free-for-all in New Hampshire, Wisconsin, West Virginia, and all the early runners are going to burn out in the stretch. We’re talking about a lot of money and a lot of endurance. Hubert can afford to wait it out until May, maybe even June, then jump in at the last minute after all the shooting’s over and walk off with it.”

  “So,” Hotchins said, “what it’s going to take is a long-distance runner with a lot of money.”

  “That’s it,” Lowenthal said.

  “And he’s writing us off, right?” Roan said.

  “He thinks Carter’s going to be the man in the South. And he doesn’t even give him a chance. He doesn’t think either one of you has a chance nationally. Doesn’t think you have the clout. You’ve stepped on too many toes. The insurance companies, the lobbyists, nuclear power. You’ve kicked a lot of ass, Mr. Senator.”

  Hotchins smiled. “And there’s still plenty of kick left in my good foot,” he said.

  “But that’s where the money is,” said Lowenthal.

  “We got the money,” said Roan.

&n
bsp; “We’re talking big money. Big money.”

  “We have big money. And we have stamina.”

  “How about Carter?” said Lowenthal.

  “Well, how about him?” Hotchins said.

  “He’s going to run. I talked to his people last week.”

  “We can take Carter,” Roan said. “He hasn’t got the charisma Hotch has.”

  “And he’s soft on some key issues. I know Jimmy. We get along fine. I like him. But we can take him,” Hotchins said. “We can beat him right here in the back room before he gets started. I guarantee it.”

  Lowenthal nodded. “I agree. I think you can. But you’re going to have to beat him out of the gate and that means starting the race too soon. It’s dangerous.”

  “He’ll have to do the same. It’s a question of who comes out first. And we’re coming out next Monday,” said Roan.

  “Next Monday!” Lowenthal looked shocked.

  “We’ll lock the state before Jimmy gets out of bed,” Roan said. “Then hit New Hampshire like the blizzard of ’88.”

  Lowenthal shook his head. “You’ll be on oxygen before spring,” he said.

  “No way,” Hotchins said and the intensity of his retort surprised Lowenthal. “I can hop faster and farther than any of them can run on two legs. I’ve been training for this for too long. Let ’em think we’ll burn out. Let Fitzgerald think so.”

  Lowenthal nibbled on his pipe. He was seeing a new side to Hotchins. Tough. Obsessed. A man who did not consider losing. Maybe he could do it. Maybe he just had the fever to do it. He decided to try another approach, another test. “Let me put it this way,” he said, “You know how the National Committee works. They control party finances. They can also play hell with the convention, with delegates’ votes, simply by screwing with the convention rules. They browbeat, cajole, threaten, blackmail, call in favors—there are a hundred ways they can steal committed votes. You could go all the way to the wire and see it vanish in a two or three-ballot donnybrook.”

  “They tried it on Kennedy and got their ass handed to them,” Roan said.