Flynn, p.20
Flynn, page 20
part #1 of Flynn Series
Tsin said, “In being an arms supplier to other nations.”
“I would have been murdered?” Rashin al Khatid’s throat was raspy. “By my government? By Mihson Taha and Nazim Salem Zoyad?”
Tsin shrugged. “A man can die only so many times, Comrade Excellency.”
Slowly, with pauses caused by weakness, Rashin al Khatid turned from the table and stood up.
He bowed slightly.
He said, “Excuse me.”
Slowly, a man dazed, he left the dining room, closing the door softly behind him.
Tsin, leaning forward, arms folded on the table, had watched him go.
“Got to slap these Goddamned, Third World nations around, Flynn,” he said. “Until they learn some manners.”
Flynn took out his pipe and tobacco pouch.
“This wasn’t really an emerging nation or Third World problem,” said Flynn. “More a matter of cut-* throats and thieves. Pirates, really.”
Tsin chuckled. “It’s quite marvelous, really. The little bastards actually tried to con the United States of America and the People’s Republic of China. We forget that they still think they can.”
Flynn lit his pipe, without a word.
Shaking out his match, he asked, “And what will happen to our excellent bookkeeper friend?”
“We’ll find room for him somewhere,” answered Tsin. “We can always use another astute observer of the Middle East.”
“I doubt you’ll have one in him.”
“Nothing teaches like experience, Flynn. Rashin al Khatid is now an experienced man.”
“He is that.”
“More tea, Flynn?”
“I’d better wend my way. Something called a Grover is meeting my plane in Boston.”
Before leaving the dining room, Tsin took a box from a buffet and handed it to Flynn.
“Cigars,” he said. “For your wife.”
“Very kind of you,” said Flynn, “I’m sure. Tell me, Tsin, where is the Ifadi gold?”
Tsin shrugged. “Ships that pass in the night. Some sink. Some don’t.”
“The gold is in China?”
“It will plug the teeth of thousands and thousands of Chinese workers. Think of that, Flynn.”
“I’ll bet.”
Tsin opened the front door.
Flynn lit his pipe again. “And did the Chinese ship carrying arms really sink?”
“No. The five Ifadi agents were thrown overboard,” Tsin said. “They sank.”
Thirty-nine
“Sorry to have to ask you to stop by on a Saturday, Frank.” Boston Police Commissioner Edward D’ Esopo stood up, coatless and tie askew, behind his desk and held out his ham-like hand, “I know you want to get home.”
Again, Captain Reagan was sitting in a side chair in full parade dress, appropriate for either a wedding breakfast or a funeral supper.
“Happened to be passing by anyway,” Flynn said, shaking hands with the Commissioner.
Flynn sat in a curved-back leather chair near the desk. He slid the desk ashtray toward him.
The Commissioner sat down and put his hands behind his head.
“I suppose you know why we wanted to see you, Frank.”
“Rotation?”
Flynn knocked his pipe bowl against the ashtray.
“What’s rotation?” the Commissioner asked Captain Reagan.
Captain Reagan laughed and waved his hand as if swatting flies.
“It’s Inspector Flynn’s word for sending Captain Walsh’s nephew back to the beat.”
“I don’t want to talk about that now.” The Com-
missioner swung himself in his swivel chair to face the desk. He put his forearms flat on the desk and folded his hands. “Truth is, Frank, no one can win ‘em all.”
“I’ve heard,” said Flynn.
“And no one,” added the Commissioner, “can deal with the feds. Not for long, anyway.”
“The Fibbies want me off the case, is that it?”
“What are Tibbies’?” the Commissioner asked the Captain.
Reagan said, “Those who fib?”
“The FBI,” drawled Flynn.
“That’s it, Frank. They say you’re never around. That you’ve been no help to them. They don’t understand half of what you say—and I think they may have a point, there. You went out and arrested the widow of a federal Judge—”
“—only for lunch.”
“They don’t accept your solution to the Human Surplus League.”
With a penknife, Flynn was scraping the inside wall of the bowl of his pipe into the ashtray.
“And I agree with what you said at first, Frank,” the Commissioner continued. “This really isn’t a matter for the Boston Police. You called this assignment ‘baby-sitting.’ I really don’t blame you for not wanting to sink your teeth into it.”
“Thank you.”
Flynn blew air through his pipe.
“You needed some time off.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad you took it.”
“Indeed, indeed.”
“What’s really needed here, in this liaison position, is more of a diplomat.”
“Indeed.”
“More their idea of a cop.”
“Ah, yes.” Flynn peered down the stem of his pipe. “May I offer a candidate?”
“Ah,” Reagan sighed. “Up comes the name of Sergeant Whelan again.”
“I’ve already assigned Captain Reagan, Frank.”
Reagan slapped his thigh and laughed. “I’ll be retired a hundred years before this one is solved!”
“Oh, I don’t know. The FBI say they’re very close to a solution now,” the Commissioner said.
“Charles Fleming, Junior, and his Da?” asked Flynn.
“Why, no.” The Commissioner looked at a piece of paper on his desk. “Hastings. Baird Hastings. The theater producer.”
“Good, good,” said Flynn. “That’s a solution that won’t embarrass the People’s Republic of China, The Republic of Ifad, or the United States of America. It won’t even embarrass Baird Hastings.”
The Commissioner’s great bull eyes blinked at him.
“Anyway,” Flynn added, “I know they won’t find a solution in ‘Alf Walbridge et al.’ “
“Who’s that?” asked the Commissioner.
“Fucker Henry’s manager. You know, if there really were an FBI all these years, there couldn’t possibly be an ‘et al.’”
“Frank, what are you saying?”
“Just mumbling,” said Flynn. “It’s the shock of being dismissed.”
“Well.” The Commissioner ran his eyes over his desk. He grabbed another piece of paper. “Here’s a case that might interest you, Frank.”
“Oh?” Flynn put his dead pipe in his mouth.
“Yeah. Two men were released from jail this morning, on a writ of habeas corpus, and were gunned down on the sidewalk, before they could hail a taxi. Machine-gunned.” The Commissioner looked at the Captain. “Sounds like an old-time gangland slaying, doesn’t it?”
“What were they in for?” asked Flynn.
The Commissioner consulted his paper. ” ‘Conspiracy to Commit a Misdemeanor’—whatever the hell that means.”
“What were their names?” asked Flynn.
“Ah—Abbott and Carson. And they had United States passports to prove it. Gave their addresses as the Hotel Roy ale.” The Commissioner laughed. “Pretty expensive place to conspire to commit a misdemeanor!”
“I wonder—” said Flynn.
The Commissioner looked at him. “What?”
“Well, I’m thinking.” Flynn left the dead pipe in his mouth a moment, and then removed it. “Captain Walsh’s nephew—as he’s known in this office—has been working with me sometime now. And I’m just wondering if this wouldn’t be a good case for him to take charge of by himself. His first case, on his own. You know, let him have it.”
Reagan groaned. “Sergeant Whelan again.”
“Grover,” Flynn growled.
“Not a bad idea, Frank,” said the Commissioner.
“You know, give the kid a break, and all. Seeing you tell me he did so well at the Police Academy, don’t you know?”
“Is he up to it, Frank?” the Commissioner asked.
Flynn answered, “He is, if anybody is.”
“Well, good idea, Frank. Captain Reagan will see where the case is at the moment and perhaps get in touch with your Sergeant Grover.”
“Whelan,” said Reagan.
“Whelan,” said the Commissioner.
“Lovely,” said Flynn. “Lovely.”
Hands flat on the desk, the Commissioner raised himself to a standing position.
“Well, my desk is reasonably clear for a Saturday afternoon.” He beamed at Flynn. “Not even a shoe box on it.”
“My ‘lunch,’ ” chuckled Flynn.
“Whose hand was that, anyway, Frank?”
“I have no idea,” said Flynn. “No idea at all.”
Forty
“I’m sure you’re right, Grover. I’m sure you’re right. Good night.”
Flynn slammed the door of the black Ford.
He had had quite enough of Grover’s complaints on the ride home that Flynn had so mishandled their involvement in the biggest criminal case in the history of Boston that now Grover would never be able to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Even Flynn’s having put Grover in for a case of his own did not soften Grover’s anger and disappointment.
The Ford accelerated harshly, and screeched around the corner to the left.
“You’d think somebody wanted him home,” Flynn said to himself.
Violin under his arm, Flynn went through the gate, along the walk toward the large, Victorian house.
A jet airplane taking off from Boston’s Logan Ah> port thundered across the harbor.
Flynn looked up at it, as it came over the house. A great monster. A 747, window lights along its length, even in its great, obscenely sagging belly. Its red and green lights winked in a frantic, threatening rhythm. The noise of its huge engines was horrible.
Flynn felt like reaching up and grabbing it down from the sky.
Instead, the jet roaring away in the sky, he climbed the steps to the porch of his house and, with his free hand, worked his key in the lock.
“Oh, God,” Flynn said. “I want my tea.”
Gregory Mcdonald, Flynn
