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."