«You’re filth, De Spadante.» It was all he could think to say.
«I like that better than ‘not desirable,’ amico. It’s stronger, more positive, you know what I mean?»
«Have you finished?»
«Just about. I want you to know that the private troubles you got are going to stay very confidential. Your burdens are safe with me. No newspapers, no television or radio broadcasts; everything quiet. You want to know why?»
«I might be able to guess.»
«Yeah, sure you can… Because you’re going to go back to Washington and wrap up your little subcommittee. Write a nice report that slaps a few wrists and makes a couple of people get fired—we’ll tell you who—and call it a day. You got that?»
«And if I refuse?»
«Oh, Christ, amico. You want to put your loved ones through all this rifiuti. I mean, what the hell, a little old man in Cos Cob and all those pictures of the drunken kid. They’d look terrible in the newspapers. And a matter of two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of uncut Turkish—the cops found it, you know what I mean? They couldn’t say they didn’t. Last, your pretty lady at the Plaza; that hotel security—he’s a very respected retired police officer—he wrote up exactly what he saw. You don’t even want to see it privately. It’d bring back all kinds of things; like the lady’s big drinking problem. That was very real; we got a doctor who helped her a few years back. You know how people think. They never really trust an ex-drunk. There’s always that possibility that she’s not so ex. Or maybe she just substituted another hangup. You know how people think.»
«Everything you say would be exposed for what it is. Lies.»
«Of course, you deny!… But enough of those items are solid, Trevayne. Real solid, you know what I mean?… And I read in a book once: accusations—especially with a little foundation, some background, a few photographs, they hit page one. Denials, they come later—on page fifty—between salami ads… Take your choice, Mr. Trevayne. But think it over good.»
Trevayne watched the slow smile emerge on the fat Sicilian lips; the satisfied hatred in the tiny eyes, surrounded by rolls of flesh.
«I get the idea you’ve waited a long time for this, De Spadante.»
«All my life, you snot-nosed, velvet pig. Now get out of here and do what I tell you. You’re just like all the rest.»
38
Robert Webster received the telephone call in his White House office and knew it had to be an emergency. The caller said he had a message from Aaron Green and was instructed to deliver it personally. It couldn’t wait; Webster was to meet him within the hour. By three o’clock.
The two men agreed on the Villa d’Este restaurant in Georgetown; second floor, cocktail lounge. The Villa d’Este was an insane conglomeration of Victorian pastiche and Italian Renaissance, had six floors, and catered to a tourist luncheon crowd. No one of consequence in Washington arrived at the Villa d’Este until the late-evening hours, when a tourist couldn’t get a reservation unless he had a personal introduction from his senator.
Webster arrived first, in itself a bad omen. Bobby Webster made it a point never to be the one waiting. The advantage of immediate control was too often lost while listening to low-keyed but impressive explanations of tardiness.
And so it was when Aaron Green’s man finally showed up, fifteen minutes late. He spoke in rapid, short sentences, making his points apologetically but with an unmistakable air of condescension. He’d had a number of other calls to finish; Aaron Green expected him to accomplish one hell of a lot for a single day in Washington.
And now he could allocate the proper time to their immediate concerns.
Webster watched the man, listened to the understated but confident words, and suddenly realized why he felt uncomfortable, anxious. The man from Green was an operator, as he was an operator. He was comparatively young, as he was young. He was on his way up in the labyrinth world of conglomerate economics, as he was on his way up in the contradictory world of power politics. They both spoke well, carried themselves with assurance, had bearings that were at once strong and yet obedient to those to whom obedience was due.
But there was one profound difference between them, and both men knew it; it needed no elaboration. Green’s man was dealing from the position of strength; Robert Webster was not and could not.
Something had happened. Something that directly affected Webster’s value, his position of influence. A decision had been made somewhere, in some conference or over some very private dinner, that would alter the course of his immediate existence.
The emissary from Green was his first warning and the cause of Bobby Webster’s profound sense of anxiety. For he recognized the preliminary stay of his own symbolic execution.
Webster knew he was on the way out. He’d failed to control the necessities; the best he might hope for was to retreat and salvage what he could.
«Mr. Green is very concerned, Bobby. He understands that solutions have been agreed to without his having been consulted. It’s not that he expects to be called every time a decision is made, but Trevayne is a sensitive area.»
«We’re simply discrediting him. Linking him to De Spadante, that’s all. Deballing his subcommittee. It’s no big deal.»
«Perhaps not. But Mr. Green thinks Trevayne might react differently than the way you’ve anticipated. He might make it a … big deal.»
«Then Mr. Green hasn’t been given an accurate picture. It doesn’t make any difference how Trevayne reacts, because there won’t be any charges leveled. Only speculations. And none of us will be involved… As we see it, he’ll be compromised to the point of ineffectiveness.»
«By associating him with De Spadante?»
«More than verbal association. We have photographs—they came out beautifully. They place him unquestionably at the hospital in Greenwich. They’re candids, and more damaging the longer they’re looked at… Roderick Bruce will release the first of them in two days.»
«After De Spadante is taken to New Haven?» Green’s man was staring hard at Webster, his voice skirting the edge of insult.
«That’s right.»
«De Spadante will be very much in the news then, won’t he? Mr. Green understands he’s to be removed from the chessboard.»
«That decision emanated from his own associates; they consider it imperative. It has nothing to do with us, except that it happens to be advantageous to our objectives.»
«Mr. Green isn’t convinced of that.»
«It’s an underworld action. We couldn’t stop it if we wanted to. And with those photographs, properly documented by a couple of Greenwich doctors, Trevayne becomes implicated in the entire mess. He’s finished.»
«Mr. Green thinks that’s oversimplified.»
«It’s not, because no one’s going to claim anything. Can’t you see that?» Webster now utilized the tone of impatient explanation. It was useless.
The conversation was no more than a ritual dance. The best Webster could expect was that Green’s man—for his own protection—might carry back the total strategy to Green; that the old Jew would see the benefits and change his mind.
«I’m only an assistant, Bobby. A messenger.»
«But you do see the advantages.» It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
«I’m not sure. This Trevayne is a determined man. He might not accept … implications and quietly go away.»