“Distorted. I never aspired to sainthood.”
“Right now you’re angry. Anger saps the reason. For a while it can neutralize inhibitions. It can even cancel out a man’s deepest sense of moral rectitude — for a while. An angry man can make terrible mistakes. But anger wears off. If yours wears off after you’ve achieved your vengeance, how will you live with yourself?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Sarcasm would appear to be out of place just now. And if your anger wears off before you’ve exacted your revenge, what then? Suppose you find you’ve started something that can’t be recalled?”
“I won’t quit.”
“Naturally you feel that way now. But you may begin to question yourself in time. You’re a grown man whose life has conditioned you to accept certain values. You’ll never escape that conditioning — not for very long.”
Vasquez twirled the pencil in his fingers. “You’ll question things. It may lead to one of two results. Either you’ll become uncertain and your uncertainty will cause hesitation, or you’ll be so corroded and corrupted by your own acts of vengeance that you’ll have destroyed yourself along with your enemies. If the latter, the entire exercise is pointless. If the former then clearly a man who hesitates is more likely to be killed than to kill. I mean that both literally and figuratively. We are talking about killing, aren’t we?”
“No.”
For the first time he saw Vasquez taken aback. “No?”
“I’m not a killer. That’s their style, not mine.”
“Then what did you come to me for?”
“I want training. I want you to teach me how to get them off my back. How to neutralize them so that they never threaten me again.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“It’s not a job I could hire anybody to do for me. I want you to teach me how to do it myself. Without murdering them.” He felt the unconvincing tautness in his own smile. “The cliché happens to fit. Killing would be too good for them.”
2
Vasquez did not smile. “Tall order, Mr. Merle.”
“I know.”
“Expensive, I should think.”
“Naturally.”
“Time-consuming. Do you have any experience of violence?”
“Infantry, in Korea. I was at Inch̆n.”
“Combat officer?”
“Just a trooper. Private first class.”
“Hardly a decision-making position.” Vasquez looked to one side. “I’ve never attempted anything remotely like what you’re proposing. This isn’t a training academy. And you don’t want them killed. Just what is it that you do want done with them?”
“If I knew the whole answer to that I wouldn’t have had to come to you.”
“I see. Then you don’t really have a plan of action.”
“No.”
“As I said before, it takes more than resolve.” Now the brown eyes came back to him. “How old are you?”
“Forty-four.”
“After twenty years’ office work. Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“Yes.”
“To excess?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often is sometimes?”
“Too often,” he conceded. “But I’ll go on the wagon.”
“How’s your heart? General physical condition?”
“Good.”
“When was your last physical?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
“Better have a thorough checkup.” Vasquez pulled a yellow legal pad out of a shallow drawer and wrote something at the top of the page, underlining it with a flourish. Then he hesitated. “What do you prefer to be called? Mathieson or Merle?”
“I’ve got used to Mathieson but it was Merle who testified against them. It’s Merle they’re trying to kill and it’s Merle who’s going to stop them.”
Vasquez wrote with his pencil — a swift crabbed hand. He looked up. “Who’s the man you testified against?”
“Frank Pastor.”
Vasquez’s entire face changed when he smiled. He looked boyish. He wrote quickly on the pad. “Just Pastor alone? He’s the one you want?”
“I want Pastor and Ezio Martin and a Washington lawyer named C. K. Gillespie. There may be others. Certainly I want to know who threw the bomb into my house.”
“Enormous job.”
“Of course.”
“It’s a huge organization,” Vasquez said. “You must have seen the news two or three weeks ago — apparently they bought an entire parole board. Pastor walked out of prison, I suppose you knew that.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know anything about these men? Where they live, where their offices are, the patterns of their movements?”
“Not really. The New York area of course. I’m sure they’re insulated by guard dogs and bodyguards and electronic gadgets and God knows what else.”
“Those devices aren’t as formidable as you may think. A man can always be reached. You need only to study the movements until you find patterns. They don’t spend their entire time locked up behind walls and electric fences. They’re active men. They manage a vast industry. They’re always on the move. You can reach them. The hard part is to know exactly what to do when you’ve made contact.” He laid the pencil down. “Normally I wouldn’t touch this with a rake.”
“But?”
Vasquez flipped to a fresh page in the pad and applied his pencil. “I’m going to draw up a contract. I’d advise you give it careful consideration before you sign it.”
“Let’s discuss it first.”
“Discuss what?”
“The terms. Our separate obligations.”
“Nothing to discuss. Either you put yourself in my hands or you don’t. We’ll hold that check of yours in abeyance but I’d like a small retainer from you. I’m licensed to practice law in California and a retainer entitles us to the protections of the privileged-communications statutes. You’re employing me as an attorney and an investigator.”
“Why so cut and dried?”
“It’s the way I work. I’m arbitrary.” Vasquez smiled again, off center. “Take it or leave it.”
Chapter Ten
Long Island-Manhattan: 24–25 August
1
Anna made a word on the scrabble board and watched him enter the score. “You look beautiful with hair.”
“I was about to take it off.”
“Please don’t.”
“All this humidity, you sweat. The thing gets hot.”
“You’ll get used to it. You look like a movie star.”
He brooded at his rack of tiles. “I’ve got a seven-letter word here and no place to put it on that stinking board.”
A gust came off the Sound and shook the windows; she heard the rain on the flagstones outside. It ran down the panes in rivulets.
She said, “Time.”
“The hell. I’m going to sit here until I find a place to put it. It’s a lousy board.” He propped his chin in his hands and scowled. “One thing you learn inside. Patience.”
“You can’t take all night. It’s not fair.”
“Nothing’s fair.”
“What’s the matter, Frank? You came home tonight like something with a lit fuse.”
“All right, OK, I’m sorry. Look, I’m calm, everything’s fine. What did you want to talk about?”
“First tell me what’s the matter. Maybe you’ll feel better.”