“Friedman. I’ve got to.”
“Oh. Pete.” As she said it, I felt her forefinger on my spine, playfully moving up — then down. Ann and Pete were friends. So she would tease me while I talked to him.
Surprisingly, Friedman answered on the first ring.
“It’s Frank. Sorry.”
He sighed: a long, deeply resigned exhalation. “I just walked in the house. Just this minute.”
“Trouble?”
“With the Secret Service and the FBI and all the other goddamn agencies of the federal government. Not to mention the Cubans. They don’t listen. They’re amiable enough. But they don’t listen.”
“The FBI doesn’t listen, either.”
He snorted. Then: “What’s happened?”
“I’ve got more trouble for you. For Castro, too, maybe.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Detail by detail, as concisely as possible I repeated the conversation I’d just finished with Bill. Friedman was silent for a moment. Then, softly and earnestly, he began to swear. As I listened, I rolled over on my back. Giggling, Ann began kissing my ear. Finally I heard Friedman say:
“You know these people — Leo, and the rest of them. What d’you think?”
“I think we’ve got to take it seriously. We’ve got to find Leo. Fast.”
“I’m glad you said ‘we,’ ” he answered dryly. “If that’s an offer to help, I accept.”
“It’s an offer.”
“What about Bill? Do you think he’s got his facts straight?”
“You know him better than I do,” I countered. “What d’you think?”
He sighed again. “I think he’s probably got his facts straight.”
“So what now?”
“Does Leo live in San Francisco?”
“Yes. But I don’t know where. I talked to him in his office.”
“Why don’t you come over here? I’ll find out where he lives. We can go from here.”
“Right.”
“Let’s take that,” Friedman said, pointing to a cruiser parked in his driveway.
“That’s against regulations, taking a cruiser home.”
“Since I’ve only been home for approximately forty minutes, I guess I’m clean.”
I waited until he wedged his two hundred forty pounds beneath the steering wheel before I asked, “Where’s Leo live?”
“Sea Cliff,” Friedman grunted. “Thirty-second Avenue, north of Lake Street.” He backed out of the driveway and turned north, driving smoothly, at a moderate speed. Even in hot pursuit, Friedman never seemed to hurry. But he was usually first on the scene.
I switched on the radio, turning the volume down. “Do you have a codeword for the Castro security thing?” I asked.
“Yes. Counterpunch.”
“That’s pretty catchy. Your idea?”
“Of course.” He yawned.
“You want me to drive? At least I got two hours’ sleep. You can close your eyes.”
“Frankly,” Friedman said, “I’d rather have no sleep than two hours’ sleep. Besides, as soon as Castro leaves town — tonight, that is, at ten forty-five — I’m going to leave town, too. For three days’ fun in the sun. Except that, the way I feel now, we may stay a week.”
“Where’re you going?”
“San Diego. Clara’s aunt has a place there, on the beach. She’s in Europe.”
“Have you got Leo’s house under surveillance?” I asked.
“Naturally.”
“Did you call the FBI?”
“No.”
I looked at him. “Why not?”
“Because, if Leo should happen to be home, playing the part of the innocent industrialist, one of two things might happen. One, he might have an explanation for everything, which would make us look silly, especially if we’d called the FBI, our natural enemies. Or, two, we might get lucky and foil an assassination attempt single-handed. Which would make us heroes. Plus it would also confound the FBI, our natural enemies.”
“I doubt that he’ll give us an explanation. More likely, he’ll refuse to give us an explanation, and start raising hell, and call his lawyer. He’ll try to run over us. That’s his style.”
“A real honcho, eh?”
“Yes.”
We drove for a few moments in silence before Friedman ventured: “It’s too bad that you had to waste Howard. If he’d fingered Leo, we’d have our case, no sweat.”
Remembering the sound of Howard’s head hitting the rocks, I didn’t reply.
“I’m wondering how Howard fits into all of this,” Friedman said.
“I think it’s obvious,” I answered. “He was a hired gun. He was probably hired to kill Castro. Then, when Booker uncovered the assassination plot, Howard was hired to kill Booker. Bill thinks Booker tried to blackmail Leo, threatening to blow the whistle on the plot. From what I know of Booker, I think it’s a pretty good theory.”
“How’d Alex get mixed up in all this?”
“Alex overheard Booker and Leo talking about it — about something Leo and Rosten are ‘planning’ for today. That’s why Leo ordered Alex killed.”
“I wonder whether Leo’s had time to hire another triggerman,” Friedman mused. He turned left on Twenty-fifth Avenue. In ten minutes, we would arrive at Sea Cliff.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Which is precisely the reason I think you should call the FBI. They should be interrogating Rosten right this minute. He’s the only real leverage we’ve got. We’ve got him dirty. He might talk. And, God knows, we need all the information we can get.”
“It doesn’t sound like Rosten’s much of a talker,” Friedman answered laconically.
“Still, we’ve got to try.” I turned to him, saying heatedly, “You’re just being goddamn foolish, Pete, not calling the FBI. This private feud you’ve got going with them is going to cost you one of these days.”
“Let’s see what happens at Leo’s house.”
“But, Christ, minutes might count.”
Amused, he glanced at me aside. “The older you get, the more you’re developing a talent for turning dramatic phrases, you know that? Some of them are a little trite, maybe. But, altogether, I think it’s a step in the right direction. When I first knew you, I thought you were a little too taciturn.”
“And the older you get, the more stubborn you get.”
“What time does Castro get in town, anyhow?” I asked truculently.
“Eleven A.M.” Grimacing now, Friedman glanced at his watch. “Exactly eight and a half hours from now.”
“What’s his schedule?”
“He’s flying in from Dallas, on a commercial jet. He lands at eleven, like I said. He’ll have a press conference in the VIP lounge, which is supposed to end at eleven-thirty. From there, he drives to City Hall.”
“Will there be a parade?”
“No,” Friedman answered. “Just a motorcade. He’ll get off the Bayshore Freeway at Seventh Street, and travel down Bryant to the Embarcadero. He’ll drive through the Embarcadero Center and the Golden Gateway, and then go south on Montgomery Street, through the financial district. He’ll go west on California, then south on Polk Street. He’ll drive down Polk directly to the City Hall, where his honor will be waiting on the steps. As I understand it, they’ll have the blue carpet out — not the red. That’s because Castro’s a commie, as I get it.”
“Will he have an open car?”
“No. It won’t be a parade situation. He’s scheduled to travel at twenty-five miles an hour, once he gets off the freeway. Beginning at Montgomery and California, the intersections will be held open for him. They don’t anticipate any crowds along the streets, though. Not until he gets to the Civic Center.”
“What’s the rest of his day?”
“The usual. Lunch at the Commonwealth Club, followed by a speech. An appearance at the Press Club, dinner at the Bohemian Club. It’s a pretty tight schedule. He hasn’t even booked rooms at a hotel. At ten forty-five, he leaves for Los Angeles, where he’ll spend the night.” He turned right on Lake Street.