Abel Baker Charley (29 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

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BOOK: Abel Baker Charley
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The disappearance was faster than even Harrigan ex
pected. Twilley drove Baker directly from the parking lot to the Cincinnati airport. By the time Baker left Twilley's car,
he was dressed once again as a traveling executive. Harrigan
followed Baker onto a United L-1011 bound for Los Ange
les, spending the entire four-hour flight in the first-class lounge, where he could stay out of Baker's sight.
Late the following morning, Harrigan followed Baker
through three changes of cabs until he arrived at the rental office of Marina Del Rey. There he used a cashier's check to lease a houseboat, which he chose from among the six thou
sand tightly packed pleasure craft moored there. Interesting,
Harrigan thought. A man pursued could leap endlessly from
boat to boat as if they were tenement roofs. And access to
Baker's section was restricted by an electric gate activated
by a coded plastic card. Harrigan booked a room overlook
ing the marina and settled in.
Baker was Peter Binford there. A freelance film re
searcher, if anyone asked. The houseboat never left its slip,
although Baker would occasionally rent a Soling or a Hobie
for a singlehanded sail. On shore, much of his time was spent
in libraries. Harrigan would watch from a distance as a curi
ously flaccid and torpid Baker would leaf through as many as
forty volumes in a day or a year's worth of microfilmed files
and newspaper pages.
Only Harrigan knew he was there. For several months on
and off, ignoring increasingly anxious queries from Duncan
Peck, who was ignorant of the whereabouts of either man,
Harrigan watched. He watched until he began to notice sub
tle changes in Baker's behavior when he was near. He had
the odd feeling that Baker seemed to know, sometimes quite
abruptly, that Harrigan was close. Harrigan discovered one
day, accidentally, that if he backed away to the proper dis
tance, Baker would relax. It was his feeling, although he
could not say why, that Baker's comfort had more to do with range than with distance. There was a point at which Baker
could feel his presence, he thought, or someone's presence,
and a point at which he could not. Harrigan learned to rec
ognize that point through a curiously unmotivated anger he
would feel when he crossed it. Harrigan understood that least of all.
He began watching from greater distances. He watched
and followed as Baker began to fly off every week or so to
a different part of the country. Four times, Harrigan man
aged to follow him to a particular town before he lost him.
During three of those visits, someone in that town disap
peared. In the other, the office of a corrupt city commis
sioner was wrecked and two burly staff members critically injured by an unidentified berserk who walked in off the
street. It might have been coincidence. Harrigan thought
not.
Then there was Las Vegas. Harrigan tracked him there
twice, although Baker might have stopped there as many as
six other times en route back to Los Angeles. That many
days were unaccounted for. There were at least two
differ
ences,
Harrigan thought, about the Las Vegas visits. The first was that Harrigan detected a certain furtiveness about Baker
in Las Vegas that was not present elsewhere. It was as if
Bake
r was somewhere he was not supposed to be or doing
something he was not sanctioned to do. The second was that
Baker amused himself in Vegas. He gambled.
Perhaps
amuse
was not the right word, Harrigan re
flected. There was a clear seriousness of purpose to the man.
Nor, come to think of it, was
gambling
the right word. For
Baker did not gamble. He simply won.
He won at twenty-one and he won at baccarat. He would
play for an hour at most, until he won significantly or until
a crowd began to gather, then he would move on to another
casino. And it was the limp and distant Baker, the Baker of
the library, who played these games, but the ordinary, aver
age Baker who walked from resort to resort Average! More
than once the word struck Harrigan as particularly apt, but
the source of the impression remained just out of reach.
In any case, Baker won. He would play silently, commu
nicating only with nods to the dealer, and just as silently
pocket his winnings and move on. Then, during the second visit to Las Vegas that Harrigan observed and at Baker's
sixth casino of the evening, two men approached him and
steered him firmly toward an office marked Security. Harri
gan knew at once what had happened. Baker had been spot
ted not as a fugitive but as a card counter, a professional
player of any game in which cards already played could be
memorized. Harrigan knew the procedure once a suspected
counter was spotted. He would be photographed by the se
curity staff of any casino, then banned, and his photograph
would be distributed among all the major gaming houses.
Won't this be interesting! thought Harrigan.
Halfway to the office, Baker the limp and silent gambler
became the erect and speaking Baker whom Harrigan knew
best. It was, in fact, a protesting Baker. Twice he held back,
shaking off the hands that guided him as he attempted to
persuade the men that the floor manager had been wrong.
They were not having it. One man advanced to open the
door while the other pressed his palm against Baker's back
and pushed. Harrigan saw Baker's body stiffen and coil as
the door closed upon him. All that was missing was the large
yellow towel and Howard Twilley.
Har
rigan didn't bother to try listening at the door. He
knew what was happening there. And he knew that there would be no photographing Jared Baker. Besides, he fully
expected Baker to reappear in a matter of minutes, which he
did, a look of weary resignation on his face. He left at once
for the bus station.
From that day forward, Baker became something of a
homebody. He settled in on his houseboat, and for almost
two months more he barely budged except to walk to a pay
phone every few days. All the calls were to his daughter.
Harrigan had no means of tapping all the pay phones near
the marina office, but the phone of the Carey house had been tapped for nearly a year. After each call, Harrigan would dial
a number, and the conversation just recorded would be
played back to him. They were harmless, caring calls that
gave away nothing. But Harrigan began to notice a pattern of long interludes of silence on the tapes. Occasionally, Tina
would respond to a silence as if words had just been spoken.
Troubled, Harrigan began observing Baker's calls through a powerful telescope, fearful that Sonnenberg might have pro
vided some exotic scrambler that deflected Baker's voice
when he chose not to be heard. There was no such device.
Baker's mouth did not move during the periods that matched
the recorded silences. Nothing at all happened except that his body seemed to sag during those moments.
Then suddenly, soon after the longest of the silences was
followed by a happy squeal on his daughter's end, Baker
moved. He abandoned his houseboat and went to New York.
He flew via four different connections and under four dif
ferent names and then proceeded to two different hotels. The last, as Harold Mailander. A klutzy name, mused Harrigan,
for such a slippery son of a bitch.
“But why are you here,
Baker?'' he'd asked during the
plane ride that beat Baker's flight by half a day. And again
as he stared through prisms of rainwater on the windshield
of the blue Oldsmobile. Could it simply be to visit your
daughter? Or to be reprogrammed by the mysterious Dr.
Sonnenberg? Or to make someone else disappear? Or,
more precisely, to make your little girl disappear! In that
case, Mr. Baker, if that's it, and I'm growing goddamned
sure that it is, I'm afraid I'll have to take some action. Be
cause if you get away with her, we'll never see you again, will we, Mr. Baker?
There, said Harrigan to himself. That much is reasonably
straightforward. Not what you'd call buttoned up, but straight
forward. I spend these many months getting to understand you, watching you develop your talent, watching you run re
cruitment errands for your Dr. Sonnenberg, and then, I think,
watching you begin to regret that talent. I have an overpow
ering intuition that you were about to become a dropout
twice removed, funded, apparently, by the casino establish
ment of Las Vegas, Nevada. I suspect, incidentally, assum
ing Sonnenberg taught you to forage for funds in that
manner, that Las Vegas is at least one source of his own con
siderable income. Yes, Baker, this business gets more straight
forward all the time.
Until tonight, that is. Tonight, Baker, something very pe
culiar happens. Let's consider it together. Baker takes an id
iotic stroll through the park. Baker comes upon two young
pigs who are about to ravage a covergirl type. Baker goes Wolfman again and rips the bejaysus out of them. Except one of them isn't just any pig. He's Domenic Tortora's pig.
I know you weren't tailing him because I was tailing you. No way, therefore, for you to know that those particular
bums would go looking for action in this park on this par
ticular night. And even if you did know, how would you find
them? Young John and his mesomorph friend certainly
didn't leave a map showing where they hoped to waylay a
screen goddess if one should happen by.
What does that leave? It leaves coincidence. Or it leaves that Baker knew where he'd find them. Coincidence leads nowhere of interest. We'll ignore it. So if you knew, Baker,
and we skip over the question of how you knew, the next question becomes why. Why would a man who goes so far
out of his way to lay low do something that is sure to bring
Tortora and everyone Tortora can buy right down on his ass?
It doesn't make sense, Baker. It probably makes no more
sense to our friends Sonnenberg and Tortora, or even Dun
can Peck, all of whom are no doubt going through this same
exercise about now. The difference is that I've got you,
Baker. Or do you have me? We're about to find out, aren't
we, lad?
12
Connor Harrigan knelt at the edge of the bathtub in Tanner
Burke's suite, grunting as he worked his fingers over the
dead man's pockets and the lining of his uniform. Behind
him, Baker stood quietly, apparently indifferent to Harri
gan's work. Now and then he would stare thoughtfully at his
own image in the washstand mirror.
The more Harrigan searched, the more certain he was
that he had not executed a New York City police officer. The
man's second weapon, a gas pistol equipped with either
killing or tranquilizing darts, tended to argue in that direc
tion, but the possibility remained, however dim, that he was
a legitimate cop moonlighting as a contract killer. Possible, but not at all likely, he thought. The man carried nothing. Not a label. Not a scrap of paper except the blank sheets of
his notebook. Only a single coin.
He was not likely to be an associate of Stanley Levy, who
worked alone except for accompanying muscle, or any other
criminal hireling. Contract killers rarely, if ever, bother to
strip themselves of traceable documents and never of cash.
Too much of an inconvenience for a useless theatric that
would cause only a modest delay in their identification. Nor would the ordinary hoodlum worry much about protecting
his patron's anonymity once he himself was cold meat. Even
religious killers seemed unwilling to pass anonymously to
their reward these days.
What abut Sonnenberg? Could he be another of Son-nenberg's spooks? Probably not. Sonnenberg, in his arro
gance, would have laid a masterful trail of false paper
before he'd do anything so banal as a stripping of docu
ments. The coin, Connor. Why a coin? Coins are for tele
phones. You were going to call someone, weren't you, you
rascal.
Suddenly, very suddenly, Harrigan felt a change inside him. It was a curious surging. An emotion. An anger. And
then it passed. He waited for a moment, thinking it might re
turn, but it did not. There was only the sensation of Baker behind him. Baker was moving.
A glance over his shoulder told him that it was not dan
ger that he felt. Baker made no move toward him. The tall
man's eyes were upon the policeman's black notebook,
which lay on the tile floor.
Harrigan pushed to his feet. He threw a towel across the
dead man's face and closed the heavy shower curtain. A
drawer slammed shut in the other room and some wooden
hangers clattered across a closet rod. Tanner Burke was dressing. The sound seemed to disrupt whatever it was that
disturbed Jared Baker. His face softened. Baker glanced once in the direction from which the sound had come and
then toward the bathtub, and his eyes saddened. Harrigan
could almost read his mind. What was she feeling? he was
wondering. What could she be thinking, knowing that she'd just held doors open so that the first corpse she'd likely ever
seen could be carried in and dumped in her bathtub? Harri
gan knew because he wondered those things himself. And
what of you, Baker? he thought. Harrigan turned to study
him, idly picking up the policeman's notebook as he did so.
The two men had barely spoken. Harrigan's response to
Baker's return of his greeting was only to take a weary
breath and to reach for the feet of the dead policeman, indi
cating the heavier end as Baker's portion. “His eyes” was all
that Tanner Burke had whispered, and Jared Baker bent to
close them. Jared Baker the family man. Jared Baker the
suburbanite from green and tranquil Connecticut. For most
of his life, his bigger problems included whether his lawn
had enough lime on it and what to do when the shit backed
up from the septic tank. Now it's a year and a half later, and he can stand around a bathroom daydreaming after almost
getting shot, after meeting a guy who's been dogging him
for months, and after carrying two hundred pounds of dead
beef through a hotel corridor with a movie star, for Christ's
sake, trotting ahead of him. What does it take, Baker? What
does it take for you to say fuck this, I can't handle it,
and
then give the job to your friend I saw in Dayton? I want to
see that, Baker. I want to see you do it right up close and
then I want to know how.
“Does the woman know what you are?” Harrigan asked quietly.
Baker straightened.

The woman? If you mean Ms.
Burke, the answer is no.”
“God save us.” Harrigan blinked. ”A feminist Franken
stein.”
Baker ignored the remark. His eyes fell upon the note
book turning in Harrigan's hands.
“If she doesn't know, she must damn well be curious
after seeing you do your tricks in the park.”
“She didn't see that.” Baker kept his voice low. “Not clearly, anyway. She didn't even know my last name until
she heard you say it. Ms. Burke is not a part of this, Harri
gan.”
Harrigan jerked his thumb toward the shower curtain.
“Can I assume that's why you sent in your scrub team
against our friend in there? If it is, your consideration for the
lady's sensitivities could have gotten all goddamned three of us killed. In fact, Mr. Baker, it seems that she's a hell of a lot
handier in a brawl than you are.”
A smile tugged at Baker's mouth and he looked away.
The thought seemed to please him. Harrigan made a dis
gusted face. So much, he thought, for provoking Baker by impugning his virility. The pain in the ass is proud of her.
She dances in with those dumb little kicks that she probably learned from some picture she did, kicks that wouldn't have knocked a zit off the cop except they surprised him, and he's proud of her. He lets her do the fighting while all the time he
could tear the guy in half, but instead he holds on for dear
life like he learned to do in the fourth grade and . . . Ohhh,
Baker ... stupid me.
“She's going to know, Baker. She's going to read the pa
pers this afternoon.”
Baker turned away. Toward the mirror. Slowly, hesitantly,
he reached for the hot water tap and turned it on. Next, he
reached for a hotel towel, which he held under the running
water for several moments before bringing it to his face.
Harrigan tensed. He lowered his hand and placed it over the
gas pistol, which lay on the tub's edge. With one finger, he
quietly worked back the bolt so that part of the chambered
dart could be seen. It was yellow. A tranquilizer dart. Three
cc's were enough for a water buffalo, and there would be
more in the pistol's butt. Harrigan eased off the safety.
But it wasn't happening. What he'd seen happen behind
a towel in a Dayton, Ohio, boxing ring wasn't happening. No swelling sensation. No cooling of muscles. If anything,
Baker seemed to be softening.
“Charley?”
No answer.
”I feel her, Charley. I feel her thinking my name. What is
she thinking about me, Charley?”
“scared.”
“Scared of me?”
“scared, telephone.”
“She's afraid of the telephone?”
“afraid to call, afraid to not call, abel says don't let her
call”
“Never mind what Abel says.”
“now she thin
ks
,
don 't call police, don 't get baker in trou
ble.”

“Never mind that either. Charley, what's in that note
book? Why do I keep wanting to look at that black note
book?”
telephone number, i saw a phone number there and you didn't.”
“Whose number, Charley? Why is it important?”
“ask abel.”
“Tell me, Charley.”
“abel says don't tell you. abel says send him out now.
there are more bad people outside, abel says don't tell you
who because you don 't send him anymore when i tell you.
abel says you should have called him on the stairs before.
abel says that's why I told you those men were there, i told you so you could send him and you didn

t
.

“Charley, damn you
...”
“Jared?” Tanner Burke's fingers reached from the door
way and touched his arm. Harrigan saw the towel fall away
from his face and he saw the face harden again. All but the
eyes. The eyes took on a smitten look as they absorbed the
lovely young woman who'd entered. She had changed into a
brown tweed jacket, slacks, and a yellow turtle neck that
made her natural coloring seem all the more healthy and
clean. Tanner wore no jewelry save the simple gold studs in
her ear and a single topaz ring. She was dressed to go out.
Harrigan relaxed his grip on the gas pistol and smoothly
tucked the weapon under his coat.
“Jared,” she said quietly, not looking at the older man,
“are you going to tell me?”
Baker half-turned and reached out a hand. She took it ten
derly and held it in both of hers.
Oh, Jesus, thought Harrigan. And now we have the bride
of Frankenstein. We don't have enough trouble already.
What's worse is, if he gets away from me, he's going to try
to tell her. He won't show her, but he'
d
tell her. And he prob
ably hasn't sense enough to tell her a decent lie.
“Jared,” she said, her voice firmer now, ”I sat in there
staring at the phone. I came this close to calling the police and telling them that one of their officers is in my—”
“He's not a policeman.” Baker shook his head. “There's
nothing in his pockets except a coin and a phone numb—” Baker caught himself too late. Out of the corner of his eye
he could see the wave of astonishment that crossed Connor Harrigan's face. By the time he turned fully, the notebook was in Harrigan's hand again and Harrigan was riffling through it a second time. And then he saw it. The light was right and he saw it, not in the notebook but written in ink
across the spine of the black vinyl cover. There were ten dig
its. And they were written backward.
Baker watched as the astonishment faded and a small sat
isfied smile began to take its place.
”I think we'd all better have a chat,” said the older man.
“Here's the thing,” said Connor Harrigan, squeezing a tea
bag over his cup. He was speaking to Tanner Burke. ”I wish
with all my heart that you were not involved. I wish it even
more than Mr. Baker—”
“Could I ask who you are first?” Tanner interrupted.
Harrigan wiped his fingers on a Kleenex and reached for
his small cowhide case, which he opened and passed to her.
“The name is Connor Harrigan. The card you're reading
says that I'm with the Department of the Treasury. I am, but
loosely. There are other cards in that case saying that I'm a
lot of different people doing a lot of different things. Those
are false. The absolute truth is that I am indeed Connor Har
rigan and that I am in the permanent employ of the General
Accounting Office of the United States Government.”
Tanner looked blankly at him. Baker seemed to be barely
listening.
“Disappointed, aren't you?” Harrigan smiled pleasantly.
“You wanted James Bond or
some such
.”
“What I wanted,” she said evenly, “was to be told who
you are and what your interest is in Jared Baker.”
Harrigan shrugged and gestured toward Baker, inviting
Tanner to ask his confirmation. Ask the man, he thought.
Let's both find out what Baker knows.
Baker met his eyes and held them. Harrigan thought he
saw a twinkle, as if Baker was letting him know that he un
derstood the game. Baker turned to face Tanner Burke.
“It's true as far as it goes,” he said. “Harrigan's an inves
tigator. He can investigate any department he pleases if the
use of federal funds is involved. His base is the GAO be
cause no one can fire him if he steps on the wrong toes in the
course of any of the special jobs he takes on.”

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