«Those are the rocket plants, aren’t they?»
«Rockets, propulsion fuel, pads, launch tracks … the Peenemünde of the Pacific, as we affectionately call that mess.»
«They’re necessary. They’ve got to keep functioning …» Bonner caught himself.
«Ah, so, Mr. Moto!… Don’t burden me with evaluations, man. Remember?»
«I know; not your bag… So what about them?»
«So they’re a loss leader, and I do mean the leader of the losses, Charlie. And for a very good reason that Trevayne suspects. Genessee has no business buying from itself.»
«That was thrown out of court.»
«My turn to evaluate.» The long-haired, wigged accountant laughed. «The court was thrown out of court. Because a few other people made evaluations… Trevayne wants more information on Bellstar. Only, here again, like Pasadena and Houston, he’s mining some personnel files. Frankly, I don’t dig; they’re not going to tell him anything. Wrong turn on his part. He doesn’t pass ‘Go.’»
Bonner wrote in his notebook. «Did he get any more specific?»
«No, man. He couldn’t. Your Mr. Trevayne is either very dull or very cozy.»
A drunk careened off the wall at the far end of the short alley. He was a tourist, obviously; dressed in a jacket, slacks, tie, and an American Legion barracks cap. He leaned against the brick, unzipped his trousers, and proceeded to urinate. The accountant turned to Bonner.
«Come on, let’s get out of here. The neighborhood’s going to hell. And if that’s a tail, Major, I’ll grant you’re imaginative.»
«You may not believe this, man, but I hate those professional heroes.»
«I believe you, man. You look like you hate good… I know a quiet mahogany a few blocks west. We’ll finish up there.»
«Finish up! We haven’t begun! I figure you’ve got about two hundred and ninety dollars to go… Man!»
«We’ll make it, soldier-boy.»
An hour and ten minutes later, Bonner had just about filled his small spiral pad with notes. He was getting his three hundred dollars’ worth—at least in terms of the accountant’s recollections. The man was amazing; he was capable—if he was to be believed—of recalling exact phrases, specific words.
What it all meant would be up to someone else, however. All Bonner could make of the information was that Trevayne and Company covered a lot of ground but didn’t do much digging. However, again, that could be an erroneous conclusion on his part.
Others would know better.
«That about does it, Major,» said the Genessee executive from under the long, false hair. «Hope it gets you a pair of ‘birds’; that is, if you’re really a soldier type and not some kind of crusading nut.»
«Suppose I was the latter?»
«Then I hope you nail G.I.C.»
«You can be flexible, I see.»
«Pure rubber. I’ve got the objectives of a scavenging mongrel. I’m my cause.»
«That must be nice to live with.»
«Very comfortable… And I’ve got you boys to thank for that comfort.»
«What?»
«Oh, yes, man! A few years ago I really dressed like this. I mean, I meant it! Protests, peace marches, walkathons for the dried-up Ganges, every man was my brother—black, white, and yellow; I was going to change the world… Then you mothers sent me to ’Nam. Bad scene, man. I got half my stomach blown out. And for what? The pious, plastic men with their square-jawed bullshit?»
«I’d think that kind of experience might have renewed your energies; to change the world, I mean.»
«Maybe some, not me. I lost too much meat around the middle; I paid my dues. The saints are pimps, and Jesus Christ is not a superstar. It’s all a bad scene. I want mine.»
Bonner rose from the small, dirty barroom table. «I’ll pass the word. Maybe they’ll make you president of Genessee Industries.»
«It’s not out of the question… And, soldier, I meant what I said. I want mine. If Trevayne’s in the market, I’ll let him bid; I want you to know that.»
«It could be dangerous for you. I might have to blow out the other half of your stomach. I wouldn’t think twice about it.»
«I’m sure you wouldn’t… But I’m fair about such things. I’ll call you first and give you a chance to meet the price… If he’s in the market, that is.»
Bonner looked at the accountant’s enigmatic smile and the somewhat crazy expression on his face. The Major wondered whether the evening was one hell of a mistake. The Genessee man was toying with him in a very unhealthy way. Bonner leaned over, his hands gripping the sides of the table, and spoke firmly but calmly.
«If I were you, I’d be awfully careful about fishing on both sides of the river. The natives can get very unfriendly.»
«Relax, Major. I just wanted to see you spin; you spin like a top… No sweat. I like what’s left of my stomach… Ciao.»
Paul pushed himself up. He hoped he’d never have to see this strange, unhealthy young man again. He was the worst type of informer—and usually the best at his job: a sewer rat who scurried around the tunnels of filth and had no fear of the sunlight, only a certain disdain. His only commitment being himself.
But then, he’d admitted that.
«Ciao.»
20
The young attorney, Sam Vicarson, had never seen Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a silly thing to want to do, he supposed, but he’d promised himself. And now he had two hours to himself, before the five-thirty session in Trevayne’s room. The subcommittee chairman had called the two hours a bonus for extraordinarily good behavior during the Genessee conference.
Sam Vicarson suggested they be given Academy Awards instead.
The taxi pulled up to a clam bar with baskets filled with seaweed and large hemp nets piled in front.
«This is where the wharf begins, mister. Straight north, along the waterfront. Do you want to go to someplace special? Di Maggio’s maybe?»
«No, thanks: this’ll be fine.»
Vicarson paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. He was immediately aware of the heavy odor of fish, and wondered—since the whole area had a contrived appearance—if it was piped in. He smiled to himself as he started down the street with the curio shops and the «atmosphere» bars, the fishing boats bobbing up and down in their slips, nets everywhere. A half-mile travelogue prepared by a very knowledgeable Chamber of Commerce.
It was going to be fun. It was going to be a fun two hours.
He wandered into a number of shops, and for laughs sent postcards to several cynical friends—the most atrocious postcards he could find. He bought Trevayne and Alan Martin two grotesque little flashlights about three inches long and shaped like sharks; the mouths lit up by pressing the dorsal fins.
He strolled out to the far end of a pier, where the boats had an authentic look about them; or, more correctly, the men around them seemed intent on making their living from the water, not from the tourists. He started back, stopping every twenty yards or so to watch the various crews unload their catches, hose down the slicks. The fish were fascinating. Different shapes; odd speckling of colors amidst the predominant grays; the lidless eyes so wide, so blank, so dead yet knowing.