Flynn, p.12
Flynn, page 12
part #1 of Flynn Series
“Actually, his secretary did. He sent the actual message.”
“And what happened to the papers which were signed?”
“We’re not prepared to expose those in detail, Mister Flynn,” Winton said quickly. “I’m afraid you’d have to bring the full force of the law—I mean, United States law—to see them. Nothing under the rug, of course, but international credit communications, you know—I mean, we have our own international credit to consider.”
“I didn’t ask to see them,” said Flynn. “I asked, what happened to them?”
“We have our copies,” Winton said simply. “The Minister had his.”
“He took them with him?”
“Yes,” said Winton. “As far as we know. That would be normal procedure.”
“We went forward with our communications of confirmation the next morning precisely as arranged,” Mattock said. “Needless to say.”
Flynn blinked at him. “Needless to say.”
“Banking does go on,” Winton said. ‘The death of a single man … I mean, these arrangements are so delicate.”
“Tell me,” Flynn said, as he resettled the contents of his pipe bowl. “About the Minister. What sort of a man was he?”
“Very cautious,” said Mattock.
The three men laughed.
“I believe Mister Flings knew the Minister best,” said Winton.
“We’re laughing, Mister Flynn, because the Minister-was, well, overly cautious.”
“Even by our standards,” said Mattock.
“A great deal of what we did between Wednesday and Monday,” said Winton, “was, frankly, hand holding. This man, the Minister, had never been through this sort of a deal before. Well, what could you expect? He’s only been in office a short time; it’s a new government in Ifad—”
“Not a classy fellow?” asked Flynn.
“Well—” continued Winton, settling his dark green tie inside his dark brown suit, “they’re a government newly in office; they find a quarter of a billion dollars in their basement, in gold; supposedly they’re representing The People, doing their first deal with us big guys—”
“He was nervous?” asked Flynn.
“Scrupulous,” said Frings.
“Overly cautious,” repeated Mattock.
“He went over and over and over everything,” said Frings. “He balked at the most common, standard phrases. Everything had to be translated seven ways to Sunday, and then reinterpreted and explained again and again.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing?” said Flynn.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” agreed Winton. “Actually, Mister Flynn, there was no reason for his being here at all. We were glad to entertain him, of course, however difficult that was—”
The three men laughed again.
“—but really what we were doing was educating him on how to press buttons, you see… .”
“Why was entertaining him difficult?” asked Flynn.
“Oof! He was scrupulous that way, too,” said Frings. “Food and drink. Impossible! Thursday morning we had to go out and hire an expert. A consultant. On how to entertain this fellow. No liquor, of course. Dietary laws I still don’t understand. To the point of superstition.”
“Usually, Mister Flynn,” Winton explained, “Arabian businessmen these days are a little more flexible, in their personal habits. At least those sent abroad are.”
“Even the Minister’s secretary, Mihson, was somewhat flexible. Not Rashin. Even Mihson expressed a degree of exasperation.”
“The Minister,” said Winton, “was a very precise, deliberate, inflexible man.”
“You were glad to see the back of him,” said Flynn.
Winton smiled. “We would never say such a thing.”
“And Mister Frings,” asked Flynn, “you took him to the airport?”
“Yes,” said Frings. “In the bank’s Lincoln. Which then dropped me at my apartment.”
“You didn’t enter the airport with the Minister?”
“No,” said Frings. “Didn’t want to cause too much attention, you know. Bad enough as it was, the man traveling with a secretary and a bodyguard. Anyhow—”
“You were glad to see the back of him.”
“I’d never say such a thing,” said Frings.
“How did he act on the way to the airport? Normal?”
“For him. He sat in the corner of the back seat clutching his attache case. Thanking us. For a nice time.”
“Well,” Flynn banged his pipe ashes into a gold ashtray on the desk. “So do I. Thank you. For a nice time.”
Winton laughed. “You were no trouble, Mister Flynn.”
Flynn said, “Are you sure of that, now?”
“Going back to Rome right away?” asked Mattock.
“Possibly.”
Sincerely, Frings said, “I could take you to the airport, Mister Flynn.”
“You could not,” said Flynn. “You never know. I might be superstitious myself.”
Twenty
If Sassie was right, that Charles Fleming’s, Junior’s, room on Forster Street was a complete mess, Flynn was never to know it.
Through the thin door, he heard two sports programs blaring simultaneously from radios.
Flynn had to pound his fist.
“Who is it?”
The radios did not diminish in volume.
“Inspector Flynn! Boston Police!”
“Go away!”
” ‘Go away,’ he says,” muttered Flynn. “What kind of an imposter do I have to be to do my job now?” He shouted, “Open up! I need to talk with you!”
“You want to talk to me about my father!” Chicky’s voice was near hysteria.
“I do! You’re right, lad!”
Chicky’s voice, quieter, much closer to the door, said, “Do you have a warrant?”
Flynn hesitated. The young man was the son of a judge. He probably knew what he was talking about. Cautiously, Flynn said, “What kind of a warrant?”
“A search warrant,” Chicky said. “An arrest warrant.”
Flynn said, “I’ve got a beguiling smile.”
“Get out of here!” the voice shrieked.
“Listen, lad, I only need to talk with you. Not search you or arrest you!”
The volumes of both radios increased to crashing noise levels.
“Get the fuck out of here!” the voice shrieked, now fully hysterical. “Go away! Go away! Go away!”
“Ach, well.” Flynn buttoned his overcoat. “There’s a lad in more trouble than he knows … standing on his rights.”
Twenty-one
“Good-bye, Fucker.”
Marion “Forker” (as the newspapers were obliged to write his name) Henry, ex-World Middleweight Champion boxer, had said nothing.
Flynn had questioned him gently, fairly sure the boxer was not a great repository of information, anyway.
The boxer, dejected, depressed, possibly recently catatonic, had remained sitting in the plastic chair in a bedroom of the suite in the cheap hotel near Boston Garden. The window shades were down. One bedside light shone dully. His shoulders extended far beyond the shoulder seams of his shirt; his arms far below the bottoms of his sleeves. The shirt was taut across his chest and voluminous around his waist. Clothes looked as inappropriate on Marion Henry as they would on a Greek statue, a Mack truck, or any other massive sculptural achievement.
Staring into the darkest corner of the room, Fucker had listened to Flynn’s first questions without responding at all.
Finally, he put his mammoth hand to the crown of his head and wiped down his hair to his forehead a few times as if whisking off water after a shower, then rubbed his face, vigorously, in a circular motion. He sat forward, and put his hands on his chin.
He began to say something, and stopped.
The boxer was crying.
“Listen.” Alf Walbridge closed the door between himself and Flynn in the living room and Fucker in the bedroom. “Inspector.”
Alf Walbridge, Fucker’s manager, was a skinny little man in a Stewart plaid vest.
“You got to understand.”
“What do I have to understand?” asked Flynn,
“The kid’s not himself.”
“Who is he, then?”
“I haven’t let any reporters see him at all, We should have been back in Detroit by now. The kid won’t move.” Alf jerked his thumb toward the bedroom door, “Percy Leeper’s biggest mourner.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Flynn.
“Listen. Have you ever boxed?”
“Not by prearrangement,” said Flynn.
“You look like you could’ve. Listen. You’ve got to get psyched up for it. Weeks you train. I’m gonna kill the son of a bitch. I’m gonna kill the bastard. Running five miles, working the bag, skipping rope, working with a partner—everything’s done to the rhythm, I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna kill him. Everybody says to you, Kill the bastard, Fucker, kill him, kill him.”
“I agree,” said Flynn. “The metaphor is excessive.”
“Listen. Think how he feels. He goes into the ring, ready to kill the bastard. It’s a fair fight. He loses to the Leeper. He comes back, hurting bad, inside and out, really suffering, no press, suddenly he’s a bum, and then he begins to really resent and hate. Got it? The psyching machinery we’ve been working on for weeks goes haywire. It always does. Then he really wants to kill the bastard. They always talk rematch, right away, quick. They want it the next night. I’ll kill the bastard, Alf, I’ll really kill him. Then, while he’s in this mood, three, four o’clock in the morning, whatever it was, he hears the fuckin’ plane blew up, Percy Leeper’s on it, blown all over the fuckin’ harbor. Get it?”
“I think so,” said Flynn.
“Listen, that kid in there is really suffering. He’s got guilt for killing a hundred people. He believes he was really wishing the Leeper dead. It’s very big in his mind. Can you understand?”
“I can understand,” said Flynn. “But the thought never entered my wee mind that Fucker might be the assassin. I was thinking more of the people behind him, his friends and supporters.”
Alf s chin jerked up. “What d’ya mean?”
“People like you. And your friends.”
“What are ya talking about?”
“I’m talking about the mob,” said Flynn.
“What are ya talking about? The mob.”
“The mob,” said Flynn.
“Jesus! Every time anybody says anything about the fight game, they’re talking about the mob right away. Sure there’s been money behind Fucker, invested in him, we aren’t sure exactly where it all came from. There is in the real estate business, too. In the banking business. In the cookie business. In the police business, Flynn!”
“I expect you’re right.”
“So what are ya saying?”
“Supposing Percy Leeper had been paid to throw the fight and he found himself winning against your Fucker and decided he liked it, or maybe couldn’t help himself and won anyway—”
“Never happened!” The little man was outsized by his own indignation. “Never happened!”
“What did happen,” Flynn continued in his quiet voice, “is that Percy Leeper, after fighting a whole match, got on the first plane leaving this country— four hours later—and that plane blew up!”
“Never happened!”
“It happened,” said Flynn. “The plane blew up.”
“Listen. Leeper wanted to get home fast, while the fans were still cheering. Big airport scene. It always happens. It’s good for endorsements.”
“The plane blew up.”
“Nothing like that happened. Listen. Are you crazy? The big guys don’t play like that. Listen, how much would the payoff on a match like this be? A half a million? Maybe. A million? Not for the Middleweight. So you think the big guys would kill a hundred people because they lost a half a million bucks on a match? Don’t be crazy.”
“I don’t know ‘the big guys.’ “
“A little guy? Maybe. Like this pharmacist here in town, in trouble a hundred grand, his banker, his uncle or somebody says no, credit’s always been good, he’s always paid, so he bets another hundred G’s on Fucker. And loses.”
“A pharmacist?”
“Now there’s a desperate man. What d’ya say? A madman!”
“Was the pharmacist’s name Fleming, by any chance?”
“I don’t know. Heard about it in the bar downstairs. Chicky, Chicky something. He’d blow up an airplane. Killing a hundred people? The big guys are too cool for that, Flynn. And what d’ya think? You think only America’s got a mob? Why don’t you suspect the English mob paid us off to lose?”
“Did they?”
“No. Nobody paid anybody. This was a clean fight. When you get into a world championship match, Flynn, there’s no funny stuff. Believe me. It gets too expensive. Too many eyes and ears. It would ruin the game. Listen.” Alf picked up a newspaper off the coffee table and slapped it down again. “I admit. Fucker’s beaten some fighters who are classier than he is. Okay? He got the championship fair and square. There’s no way he could beat the Leeper. Everybody knew that except one stupid pharmacist in Boston. You think the big guys didn’t know that? You’re crazy. Maybe the whole thing was a setup. From the beginning. You get me? I admit. Somebody’s been making that kid in there look better than he is. For a long time now. Leeper outclassed him. Outfought him.”
The little man fell into a cheap, upholstered chair.
“With Leeper dead,” asked Flynn, “who gets the World Championship now?”
“No one. It has to be contended.”
“But Leeper’s death puts your boy, Fucker, back at the top of the heap, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Even without the championship, he returns to his former position: he’s the man to beat, right?”
Alf said, “I suppose so.”
“You ‘suppose so’? You know so. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here in this dank hotel room in Boston nursing the boyo. Would you?”
Alf Walbridge put his hands on top of his head and looked at Flynn.
“You know, Flynn. You’re a brave man.”
“It’s possible,” said Flynn, “that someone, or some people did not want the Middleweight World Championship crown to leave the United States. When you consider all the possibilities resulting from control of the championship, you find yourself thinking of millions and millions of dollars, not just a few hundred thousand.”
“You’re on the wrong track, Flynn. Listen to me: absolutely the wrong track,”
“Am I, indeed?”
“Absolutely on the wrong track.” The man sat forward in his chair. He was sweating. “And if you’re not,” he said, quietly, “believe me, Fucker and I know nothing about it.”
“I’m sure,” said Flynn. “But I’m not sure that boyo sitting alone in that dark bedroom, doubled over with suffering, isn’t giving the question full consideration, in at least one part of his damaged brain.”
“I tell ya, his guilt is pure psychological.”
“Call me,” Flynn said, “if either one of you want to give me some names.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alf Walbridge said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Twenty-two
“Not very well,” Flynn answered into the telephone mouthpiece. “We’ve developed some interesting local leads, but we haven’t had anything I’d call a real break yet.”
At the other end of the line, John Roy Priddy— N. N. Zero—said nothing, waiting for Flynn to amplify.
Alone in his office, Flynn swiveled his desk chair, put his feet on the radiator, and looked out his window at the lights on the harbor.
“For example,” he said, “the English actor, Daryl Conover, walked off an expensive production of Hamlet opening night, leaving the producer, Baird Hastings, with a bagful of cats meowing for their suppers. As Robert Cullen Hastings, our boyo was trained by the United States Army as a demolition expert. We also know he bought a quantity of dynamite to help in his gardening a short while ago.”
“Sounds good,” N. N. Zero said.
“Doesn’t it, though? We know he didn’t buy the dynamite to blow up the airplane—nothing that premeditated—but we know he could have had dynamite Monday night when Conover walked off on him, absolutely ruining him. And, after watching him a bit, I’d say he’s a man of moods.”
“Worth further investigation,” N. N. Zero said.
“Yes. We would need to pin down precisely where Hastings was from eleven-thirty to three Monday night, Tuesday morning. Simple matter.”
“You haven’t done so?”
“Then,” said Flynn, “there’s the Human Surplus League joyfully claiming credit for the human fireworks display. Nobody seems to be getting anywhere at the job of finding them. As I told you, I sent my own lads, Todd and Randy, out to track them down. Haven’t heard anything from them yet.”
“Yes.”
“There’s another small possibility,” Flynn said. “As I told you, aboard that plane was the English boxer, Percy Leeper. He had just won the World Middleweight Championship.”
“What could he possibly have to do with it?”
“I’ll tell yGu,” Flynn said. “There’s a rumor around that his opponent, Fucker Henry, the ex-champion, enjoyed pretty strong backing from the mob. Either they might have been double-crossed by Leeper, who couldn’t help himself winning, despite after possibly being paid off. Or they simply didn’t want to lose control of the Middleweight crown this side of the Atlantic. In either case, I understand, from only one source, mind you, that Leeper’s timely demise makes Fucker Henry the top contender again—the man to beat. I would guess there could be millions involved in having control of the next championship matches, to say nothing of the illicit profits to be reaped from the resultant wagering.”
” Tucker’? Is that what that nickname really is?”
“It is,” said Flynn.
“The newspapers print it Torker.’”
