Not long ago, Washington’s famed Akebono cherry trees, a gift in 1912 from Japan, had been in full bloom, attracting hundreds of thousands of tourists to witness their splendor. Now, the blossoms were gone, and this early Sunday morning at the Tidal Basin was quiet, except for a dozen joggers running their weekend route around the basin.
Smith stood in front of the Jefferson Memorial, dressed in his sweats, windbreaker, and squashed rainhat. The sky was a pristine blue; no rain forecast for that day.
A few minutes past seven, Jim Shevlin, dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt, bounded up the stairs to Smith’s side. He glanced up at the nineteen-foot bronze statue of Jefferson and said, “Good morning, Tom.” Smith looked at him and said, “The same to you, Jim. Did I get you out too early?”
“For a Sunday morning, yes. Sunday mornings were made to sleep late. Anyway, you sounded like what you wanted to talk about was urgent, and I figured since you weren’t suggesting breakfast, and insisted on meeting beneath the shadow of our third president, I’d better show. What’s up?”
“We’ve had a run, let’s take a walk.”
They came down the steps of the rotunda and walked along the eastern edge of the basin, passing the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and proceeding down along the treelined western edge of the water. Smith stopped abruptly and said, “Jim, I think I can deliver Herbert Greist to you.”
Shevlin looked at him quizzically. “Deliver to me? Why would you say that?”
“Look, Jim, let’s not play cloak-and-dagger. I don’t have time. Let’s just say that because of your previous employment with the FBI, you obviously know people within that organization who would be interested in knowing where Herbert Greist is. I thought I’d pass along the information to a fellow attorney as a favor, as a friend.”
“As long as it’s on that basis, proceed.”
They moved on again, Smith talking as they walked. “I’m being blackmailed by Greist.”
That stopped Shevlin in his tracks. “You’re being blackmailed? What the hell for?”
“For nothing. Greist seems to think he has some deep, dark secret from my past that is worth money to me. He doesn’t. Besides being an alleged Communist sympathizer and probable spy, he’s a cheap hustler. The point is that I’ve agreed to pay him the money.”
“Why would you do that?”
“So I can ascertain exactly where he is tonight and pass that information on to you, so that you can pass it on to your former employer.”
“I see. You say tonight. Where?”
“New York. Actually, I’m not personally going to meet him. Let me back up a second. He’s not going to be there, either. He’s arranged to have a bagman waiting in a hotel in New York City. I’m sending Tony Buffolino with the money. I thought some of your friends back at the Bureau might enjoy accompanying him.”
“Who the hell is Tony Buffolino?”
“An old friend of mine. He’s—”
“That guy you defended, that foul-ball cop?”
“All in the past, Jim. Mr. Buffolino is now a respectable private investigator, and, I might add, a damn good one. Could we stop these diversions?”
“Go ahead.”
By the time they had circumnavigated the basin and once again stood on the steps of the memorial, Smith had filled Shevlin in on what was to happen that night. “Interesting?” Smith asked.
“Very.”
“Will you pass it along to your friends?”
“Yes, I think I will. Let’s see, I seem to remember somebody who might be interested in getting involved in this little exercise this evening. Where will you be for the rest of the day?”
“Home until noon. Annabel, Tony, and I are flying to New York this afternoon. We’ll be at the Waldorf.”
“Okay, Mac. I, or someone from the Bureau, will get in touch with you either before you leave or in New York. Tell me, though, about this Buffolino. You really feel secure in sending him?”
“Yes. He’s on crutches. Had an accident out in California about a week ago, but he’s pretty good at getting around on them, at least good enough to get out of the way of another accident. Anything else you need to know?”
“Nope. Going for a run?”
“Yes, I’ll jog back to the house. You?”
“Heading straight home for a good breakfast, a couple of hours with the papers, and a phone call or two, not necessarily in that order. Talk to you soon.”
Annabel had packed and taken a cab to Smith’s house. It was noon; Smith made salad. She sat at the kitchen table reading the papers while he put the dishes in the dishwasher. He said, “Do you know what’s interesting about all of this, Annie? Greist is blackmailing Ewald in return for keeping quiet about his affair with Roseanna Gateaux. That tells me that neither he nor Mae Feldman have the stolen files on the Kane Ministries.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Or he could be just looking for enough money to get out of the country—with the files—and use them later to go after bigger stakes.”
Smith shook his head. “I don’t think so. Those files have ended up in the hands of someone else, maybe the people who roughed up Tony and took the box from Mae Feldman’s house.”
“Who, in turn, undoubtedly turned them over to whomever they’re working for,” she said.
“Exactly. The point right now is that Greist doesn’t have them.”
Tony’s cab arrived an hour later, and Smith helped him in with his small suitcase. The doctors at the university had redressed his wounds with a less cumbersome bandage; he was now able to wear his suit pants over it. To the surprise of Mac and Annabel, he was no longer on crutches. He had a cane.
“Are you steady enough on that?” Smith asked.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“You look very distinguished,” Annabel said. “A gentleman with his cane. Impressive.”
“All you need is a bowler hat, and you’d be right at home in London,” Smith said.
“I always wanted to go to London,” Tony said. “Why don’t you get somebody murdered, get us a British client, and send me there?”
Mac and Annabel looked at each other. There would be no new clients once this was over. They both knew it, but no sense dashing Tony’s hopes.
Their three o’clock shuttle landed on time at La Guardia. Smith had arranged for a car to meet them, and they were driven to the Waldorf. New York City was so pleasant on Sunday, Smith thought, without the traffic jams and hordes on the streets. Very pleasant indeed. For five minutes. The rain began and was soon heavy; Annabel quietly hummed “April Showers” as the hired car pulled up in front of the hotel. They were taken to their rooms, which were across the hall from each other, and spent an hour in Tony’s room going over plans for the evening.
“When do you figure they’ll call?” Tony asked.
“The FBI? I don’t know. They might not call us at all, just show up at the hotel without telling us. It really doesn’t matter, although I would be more comfortable knowing their plans.”
“Who do you figure will be in the room?” Tony asked.
“I have no idea, some crony, some gofer. Maybe even Mae Feldman.”
“I’d like it to be Mae Feldman,” Tony said. “Nothing I’d like more than to finally lay eyes on that woman. She damn near lost me my leg.”
“Have you heard from Carla Zaretski?” Annabel asked.
“Yeah, she calls all the time. She keeps threatening to come to Washington, and I keep telling her I’m goin’ out of town.”
“Has she ever mentioned the money she took from Mae Feldman’s bank account?”
“Nope, and I don’t mention it. Should I have?”
Smith shook his head, “No, not yet.”
An aluminum Samsonite camera case sat next to Tony’s chair. Smith had taken it from his closet at home, removed the camera and accessories that were nestled into cutouts in the foam lining, and given it to Tony as the case he would use to carry the money. In it was a few thousand dollars Smith always kept in a safe at home. Annabel had arranged it in a layer to cover pieces of blank paper beneath. With luck, the person on the receiving end wouldn’t dig too deeply.
“Where will you be?” Tony asked.
“Right here. Get this thing over with and come back as quickly as possible. Ready, Tony?”
Buffolino reached under his suit jacket and patted the bulge beneath his arm. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready. Any last-minute instructions?”
“Just protect your flanks,” Smith said. Annabel kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey, I like that,” Tony said. He looked at Smith warmly. “Don’t worry, Mac, I respect you too much ever to make a move on your woman.”
She had been in room 7 for the past two hours. She hadn’t bothered to remove her raincoat because she was cold, and because she wanted an extra layer of protection while sitting in the dirty and only chair in the room, or on the edge of a bed covered with a soiled, torn bedspread. She smoked; an overflowing ashtray and half-filled empty coffee container held the stubbed-out results.
She checked her watch: eight o’clock. One hour to go. She’d considered leaving many times since arriving early in the afternoon, but knew she couldn’t. Herbert would be furious. No telling what he would do to her. Because there was no phone in the room, she went down to the shabby lobby and called him from the pay phone. He snapped at her, “Why did you leave the room?”
“It’s ours until—”
“Go back to the room, Mae. You never know. They might come early.”
She hung up, went outside, and bought three packs of cigarettes and a cup of coffee to bring back with her.
When she heard the groan of the stairs fifteen minutes later, she knew someone was approaching the door. She’d been sitting on the edge of the bed; she tensed, stood, and went to the door, placed her ear against it. As she did, the person knocked, the sharp sound reverberating through her head. She pulled back. Another knock. She moved closer to the door and asked in a voice that broke, “Who is it?”
“It’s Herbert,” Greist said.
“Herbert?” Why was he here? They were to meet later, a few blocks away in a bar. “Herbert, is that really you?”
“Damn it, Mae, open the door.”
She was both confused and relieved. Maybe he’d changed his mind and would replace her, or stay with her. That would be good. She hated being the one in that dingy room waiting to accept blackmail money.
Greist hit the door with his fist. “Open it, Mae.”
She drew a deep breath and turned the knob. Greist carried a battered brown leather valise in his left hand. His right hand was in the pocket of his topcoat. “Thank God you’re here,” she said, standing back to allow him to enter.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Herbert, I think we should leave,” she said. “We don’t need Ewald’s money. We can find our own way, be together and not have to worry about—Oh, no.” He’d brought his right hand out of his pocket. In it was a revolver. “Herbert, what are you doing? Why would you …?” She began to retreat, her hands in front of her face, back and back until she bumped against the room’s only window, which she’d opened to allow smoke to escape. “Dear man, please don’t hurt me. We’ve shared so much, and there’s so much to do together in the future if … if you don’t … hurt … me.” She whimpered like a puppy about to be hit with a rolled-up newspaper for soiling the rug, and cowered, shook, and said words to God.
Greist slowly crossed the room, the revolver still aimed at her face. When he was close to her, he raised his right arm and brought the full weight of the weapon against the side of her head. She fell to her knees; blood trickled from her left ear. He brought the weapon down on the top of her skull, and she pitched forward, her face landing on one of his shoes. He quickly replaced the revolver in his pocket, dropped the bag, and managed, with difficulty, to raise her up from the floor. She was unconscious. He leaned her against the window, and while holding her semi-erect by the front of her coat, opened the window with his other hand. The space outside was almost black, an air shaft, covered with years of the city’s grit and grime. He slowly allowed her to sink back until her head and shoulders were out the window. Then he pushed her the rest of the way until she disappeared from view. Seconds later, the thud of her body hitting ground came back at him through the open window.
He looked down and saw her at the bottom of the shaft. Light from a first-floor window illuminated the body. She’d landed on her back, arms and legs akimbo. Her eyes were open, and there was what might be construed as a smile on her large red lips.
Greist picked up his bag and went to the door. He peered out onto the landing. There was no one there, and no sign of anyone coming up the stairs. He slowly closed the door, locked it, and sat in the room’s only chair, waiting for the arrival of the money. He felt relief at what he’d just done. The woman was an albatross, always complaining, always second-guessing him. She’d lost the money and lost the files that were his ticket to retirement. Everything was gone now—everyone—his daughter and the mother of his only child, and that was good. It was better to be alone. Fewer problems, less worry. Now, all he had to do was accept the money, find a way to elude the FBI dragnet that had been cast for him, and get out, go to where he would be appreciated, maybe Cuba, or Panama, the Soviet Union itself, or Hungary, someplace where he and the money would go a long way.
A weary smile crossed his gray face. It would work now that they couldn’t complicate his life. It was always someone else who caused trouble.
Tony Buffolino said to the desk clerk, who’d just awakened from a nap, “I got to see somebody upstairs.” The clerk shrugged and opened a magazine featuring naked couples. Tony cursed the lack of an elevator as he slowly went up the stairs, his leg throbbing with every step. When he reached the fourth-floor landing, he stared at the door to number 7, went to it, listened, then knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. Nothing. Had this all been a joke? Had whoever was there decided it might be a trap and left? Had Greist made that decision?
“Who is it?” a voice asked through the door.
“Tony Buffolino. I got something for you from the senator.”
There was silence again.
Buffolino knocked. “Hey, open up. I got what you want, and I ain’t gonna stand out in this hall much longer.” Something smelled bad to Buffolino, and it wasn’t the urine versus the cheap disinfectant that permeated the hotel. Why the delay in opening the door? This was to be a simple transaction. He pulled his .22 from beneath his arm and concealed it behind the aluminum Samsonite case.
Inside, Greist was going through his own set of concerns. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that the person in the hallway might not be delivering money. It could be a trap, the FBI, the New York police. Ewald might have set him up. He put his mouth close to the door and said, “Identify yourself.”
“For Christ’s sake, I already told you my name is Tony Buffolino and I got the money you’re waiting for. Password, Ewald. Five seconds, no more. Five seconds or you can go whistle.”
A lock was undone, the handle was turned, and the door opened slowly. The gray man backed up to the center of the small room and stood at the foot of the bed. Tony stepped over the threshold. Greist held a leather bag in his left hand; his right hand was in his topcoat pocket.
“Here,” Buffolino said, making a little move toward Greist with the aluminum case. “Here’s your money.”
Greist backed up further until he was almost to the window. “Put it on the bed,” he said. “Just put it on the bed and get out.”
“Yeah, sure, no sweat.” Tony kept his eyes on Greist’s right-hand coat pocket. You’ve got a piece in there, he thought. Because his weapon was already drawn and hidden behind the metal case, he wouldn’t have a problem getting the drop on the man, whoever he was.
Buffolino slowly walked to the foot of the bed. He realized that the moment he tossed the case on it, his revolver would be exposed. That’s okay, he told himself. Dump the case, hold him in place with the gun, and back out. No sweat. But then his eyes went to a red smear on the windowsill, to Greist’s left. No question about it. Why would there be blood on the windowsill? Who was this guy? Had he killed someone else? Buffolino noticed that the window behind the man was fully open.
“I got a question for you,” Buffolino said.
“No questions. Leave the money,” Greist snapped, his right hand stirring.
“Somethin’ ain’t kosher here,” Buffolino said. “Are you Greist?”
“I said no questions.” The guy was obviously on the edge now. His hand started to come out of his pocket. Buffolino didn’t hesitate. He tossed the metal case into Greist’s chest. Buffolino’s cane had been dangling from his left wrist. He grabbed the curved handle, held it out, and threw himself at Greist, the point of the cane catching him in the chest and driving him back and halfway out the window. Buffolino was instantly on top of him. He pressed the snout of his revolver tight against Greist’s left temple. “You move that right hand, loser, and you’re dead meat.”
He yanked Greist up straight by the front of his coat and threw him against the wall, knocking a lamp to the floor. He rammed his revolver against the back of Greist’s neck and said, “Okay, creep, you pull that right hand out real slow.”
Greist did as he was told, his revolver dangling from his index finger. “Lay it on the table nice and easy,” Buffolino said. “Do it my way, or I’m gonna leave a lot of you on this wall.”
Greist lowered the weapon to the table and deposited it with a clunk.
“Nice, you take instructions real good,” Buffolino said. “Turn around, slow, very slow.”
Greist followed instructions and stood with his back to the wall, his arms raised above his head. There was a wild, frightened look on his face. Buffolino realized for the first time how old he was. At least he looked old, sickly, all gray and pasty, breath coming hard.
“What’s your name?” Buffolino asked.
“This is wrong,” Greist said. “Don’t you know what you’ve done? I’ll tell what I know about Senator Ewald.”
“You know nothin’,” Buffolino said. He nodded toward the windowsill. “Whose blood is that?”
“Blood?”
“Yeah, don’t play dumb with me. You stay right here, don’t move, don’t even blink. You blink, you’re a former human being.” He slowly backed to the windowsill, his .22 leveled at Greist’s chest. He ran a finger over the red blotch and examined what came off the sill.
“You don’t understand,” Greist said, trying to inject calm and reason into his voice. “We can make a deal. Believe me, I—”
“Shut up!” Buffolino leaned out the window, dividing his attention between Greist and the air shaft. He quickly looked down and saw the body at the bottom. He checked Greist and looked down again, longer this time. “Oh, damn it to hell,” he said, “no.” Looking up at him, with her heavily made-up eyes and garish red mouth formed into a twisted smile, was Carla.
“What’d you do that for?” he said to Greist.
“Please, listen to me. We can split the money you have. Give me half. Just give me a quarter of it, so I can leave. Take the rest. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
Buffolino came up close to Greist once again and shoved his revolver up under Greist’s chin. Greist whimpered, whined, “No, please, don’t.”
“What the hell did you kill her for? What’d she ever do to you?”
“She was …” He had trouble speaking because of the iron pressure under his chin. “She was stupid. Let’s talk. I know we can …”
Buffolino took a few steps back. His face was a mask of rage and frustration. What he did next was pure reflex, no thought directing the movement. He brought his cane up off the floor and smashed the end of it against the right side of Greist’s face. Greist slowly slipped to his knees. He’d begun to cry.
“You cockroach. Come on, stop your bawlin’ and get up.”
Greist preceded Buffolino out of the room and they slowly made their way down the narrow stairs, Buffolino somehow carrying both cases and his cane in his left hand, his right hand steadying his revolver at the back of Greist’s head. His leg throbbed, and he misstepped. Greist began to run. Buffolino found his balance and stumbled after him through the lobby. The desk clerk looked up from his magazine, and when he saw the gun in Buffolino’s hand, threw up his magazine and ducked so that he was below the level of the counter. Greist made it through the front door.
Across the street, two men in raincoats came at him. Tony looked left and right; men dressed similarly closed in from the sides. Greist was surrounded and held. One pulled out a badge. “Simmons, FBI.”
“Yeah, I knew you guys were coming. Tony Buffolino. This is the shyster Herbert Greist. There’s a body at the bottom of an air shaft. Mr. Greist pushed a nice older woman out the window.”
“You don’t understand,” Greist wailed. “It was an accident. She jumped.”
“And hit her head on the windowsill going out,” Buffolino said with disgust. Simmons, the leader of the group, dispatched two of his men to confirm what Tony had said. They returned and reported that there was, indeed, a dead woman at the bottom of the air shaft.
“So, here he is, your Commie spy. You don’t mind if I leave him with you? I got to check in with my boss. And here’s his bag. Empty, like him.”
“You have to come with us,” one of the agents said.
“No, let him go,” said Simmons. “You’re going to meet with Mackensie Smith at the Waldorf?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll contact you there. Nice job.”
“Yeah,” Tony muttered. “Nice job.” He looked at Greist. “I should’ve done you up there, creep. She was a nice lady—a little kookie maybe, but nice. You shouldn’t’ve done that to her. She didn’t deserve it.”
He limped painfully up the street, the brushed aluminum Samsonite case in his left hand, the cane in his right, supporting his weight. A rare Sunday night in the rain yellow cab stopped at a corner and discharged a passenger. Tony slid into the backseat and laid his leg across it. “The Waldorf Astoria,” he said painfully, “and don’t step on it.”