The Procane Chronicle (15 page)

After we had our drinks he sat in the chair opposite me and twinkled some more. “It must be a big day for you,” I said.

“Yes, I believe it is. I’ve been up since six. You look as though you had a good night’s rest.”

“It was fine.”

“Well,” he said, raising his glass, “to luck.”

We drank to that and then he said, “Of course, luck won’t have very much to do with it.”

“Planning,” I said.

“Careful, exact planning with virtually every minute precisely scheduled.”

“What if your—uh—victims, I suppose—what if they lag a little or move ahead of schedule?”

“Both contingencies are provided for.”

Procane looked happy. There was no other way to describe it. He kept smiling and beaming even when there was nothing to beam about. He also seemed a little nervous. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, but it was the nervousness of anticipation, not apprehension.

I was curious so I asked him, “What do you like better, the planning or the execution?”

He seemed to think about it for a moment. “The execution really, although I’m rather hard pressed to make a choice between them. I hate to keep comparing it with painting but that’s the only other thing that I do at all well. There’s a great amount of pleasure in the selection of a subject, in studying shape and form and color, and in planning my approach, but it never equals the feeling I get when I make that first brush stroke on canvas. After that it goes all too quickly. I paint very fast, Mr. St. Ives.” He paused and twinkled some more. “I steal fast, too.”

“What about afterward?”

“Afterward,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a quiet time touched in both instances with a kind of melancholy, I think. The aftermath.”

“Guilt?”

“Regret. Never guilt.”

“When?”

“Only after a painting; never after a theft.”

“Why after a painting?”

“I always have the feeling that somehow I should have done it better. I’m never quite sure how I could have done better, but there’s always the nagging feeling that I should have. I never feel that way after a job.”

“No remorse either? After a theft, I mean.”

“I’ve never felt remorse about anything,” Procane said and I found myself believing him. He paused a moment and looked thoughtfully at the fire. “As I’ve said, I’ve felt regret often enough, but never remorse because remorse implies guilt and I’ve never felt that.”

“Did you ever wonder why? Nearly everyone feels guilty about something or other.”

“I’ve thought about it and decided that it’s probably because I’m content to be what I am—a master thief and a tolerable Sunday painter. I don’t aspire to be anything—or anyone—else. I think a lot of guilt comes from people wanting to be what they assuredly aren’t and can’t possibly be. They feel guilty because they can’t, but think that they should.”

“How do you feel when you’re stealing something?” I said. “I mean what are your emotions or do you have any?”

“Is this for the report, Mr. St. Ives?” he said and smiled as if he liked any conversation that was chiefly about him.

“Maybe.”

“When I’m actually engaged in the theft—in the operation—I feel a kind of detached excitement I know that I’m totally involved in what I’m doing and my powers of concentration seem enormously expanded. I’m conscious of almost every detail. And my recall after it’s over is nearly total. I’ve sometimes toyed with the idea of painting a theft from memory. It might be interesting, especially one which involved a confrontation.”

“Like the senator in Washington?”

Procane looked surprised. “Oh, do they know about that?”

“They had some strong suspicions.”

“He was a totally corrupt man. Dead now. But he did look rather pathetic handcuffed to the radiator.”

“I only read a couple of entries,” I said, “but those journals of yours should be fascinating reading.”

“To specialists in criminology or to the general public?”

“Both, I’d think.”

Procane looked interested. “It would have to be done posthumously, of course.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Do you really think there’s a chance?”

“Myron Greene knows some publishers. He could handle it for you.”

Procane’s expression turned shy, almost embarrassed. “If it were published, do you think there’s a chance of it being turned into a film?”

I managed to keep a straight face. “I should think so.”

He was silent for a moment. “What do you think of Steve McQueen for the lead?”

“He’d be fine.”

“Of course, Brando has a little more depth, I think.”

“He’d be good, too.”

The door opened before Procane could do any more mental casting. It was the only time I had seen him slip out of his role as the gentleman thief—poised, urbane, and almost witty. It was something of a shock to discover that he desperately wanted not only to see his journals published, but perhaps even more desperately he also wanted himself portrayed up there on the silver screen by Brando or McQueen or maybe, in a pinch, Lee Marvin.

It was comforting to learn that he had some failings and that they were distinctly human and not the weird kind that might go with the mad master criminal who liked to bake kittens in the oven.

Through the open door came Janet Whistler followed by Miles Wiedstein. I was interested in learning how one dressed for a million-dollar theft and so I was a little disappointed by Wiedstein’s tweed sport coat, gray flannels, and dark-blue shirt open at the throat. At least his desert boots had gummed soles. He carried a thin black attaché case that he placed on the floor after he said hello to Procane and me.

Janet Whistler wore a dark-gray pantsuit and unremarkable black shoes. They both looked as if they had dressed up just enough to cash a small check at the corner liquor store.

They found chairs and Janet Whistler refused a drink from Procane. He didn’t bother to offer Wiedstein one. Procane cleared his throat and said, “I called both of you last night about my visit from the police. I’ve concluded that their interest in me should not prevent us from going ahead with our plans, so we shall continue as scheduled.”

“There’re getting to be a lot of dead bodies lying around,” Wiedstein said.

“We discussed that last night,” Procane said.

“I just thought I’d bring it up again to see if St. Ives has any ideas.”

“None except the obvious one,” I said. “Whoever killed Boykins and Peskoe could also have killed the kid cop, Frann.”

“Yes,” Procane said, “that seems logical on the surface. And it could also mean that they’re the ones who’re going to try to steal the million dollars and then tell the drug merchants to blame us.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to stop them from doing that,” I said, “even if you beat them to the million.”

The three of them exchanged a few remarks with their eyes and Procane said, “I have decided, Mr. St. Ives, that I can only let you in on our plans one step at a time. I’m sure you understand why. But let me also assure you that every precaution has been taken.” He stopped and then added, “Or will be within the next few hours.”

He wasn’t going to tell me anything until he thought that I needed to know it so I decided to stop asking. I was going along as the paid trained observer, the chronicler with an eye for the relevant detail, the biographer of a thief and his apprentices. I promised myself to remain cool, detached, and disinterested. A little Olympian even. I patted my pockets and debated about asking Procane whether I could borrow a pencil and something to write on.

He had turned to Janet Whistler. “You checked the shuttle flights?”

She nodded. “No delays to amount to anything.”

Procane looked at his watch. “The limousine is outside?”

“He picked Janet and me up,” Wiedstein said.

“Well,” Procane said, “I think we should be going. Will you do the honors, Miles?”

Wiedstein picked up the thin black attaché case and opened it. It was a fitted case lined with what looked like black velvet. Nestled each into its own nook were four automatic pistols not more than six inches long with beautifully engraved slides.

The case was first offered to Janet Whistler who took one, checked the magazine to make sure that it was loaded, and dropped it into her black envelope purse.

“A matched set, Mr. St. Ives,” Procane said, selecting one. “They’re seven-shot Walthers. The 1931 PPK model, although these are of quite recent manufacture and really most excellent.” He tucked his away in an inside jacket pocket that may have been specially tailored because I detected no bulge.

Wiedstein turned toward me. There was a smile on his face, another sardonic one, I decided. “St. Ives?” he said, making a gesture of offer with the open case.

“No thanks,” I said, “I’m trying to give them up.”

T
HE RENTAL LIMOUSINE THAT
met us at National Airport in Washington was the twin of the black seven-passenger Cadillac that had taken us to LaGuardia. But there was no similarity in the drivers. The one in New York had been a bitter, snarling Irishman who lectured us on how the niggers were getting all the good jobs until Procane pushed the button that raised the glass divider.

Our Washington driver was a slight, swarthy Cuban with a crisp smile and a high-pitched giggle that he let out each time the traffic went wrong, which it did every thirty seconds or so.

The weather was cold, around thirty degrees, with fat, low clouds that looked as though they wanted to spit wet snow at the Potomac. I had never had any luck with Washington weather. I either froze or fried.

Procane kept looking up at the clouds. He turned to Janet Whistler and said, “Well?”

“It’s supposed to clear around five,” she said.

I asked Procane why he was so interested.

“If it snows, it’s off.”

“No snow,” the driver said, cheerfully joining the conversation. His name was Manuel Carasa and he had the total unself-consciousness of those who like to strike up conversations at bus stops. “My nose say no snow,” he said, pointing to it so that we could be sure where it was. “From the first time I see snow six, seven years ago I can smell it. Always. No snow today.”

“What a relief,” Janet Whistler said.

“How did you get out of Cuba?” Wiedstein asked the driver.

“Castro, he let me go. First to Miami. Very nice there. Very warm. No snow. I learn English there. Then I come to Washington where it is very beautiful but not so warm except in the summer when it is very warm like Havana. Washington is more beautiful than Havana, no?”

“It’s pretty in the spring,” Wiedstein said. “I was here in April once with my high school senior class.”

“One could paint here,” Procane said. “I think it’s because of the trees. That should be a beautiful spot in the spring and fall.”

We were just past Seventeenth Street going west on Independence Avenue and Procane was looking out at a wooded area just south of the reflecting pool. In the middle of the woods was a small, fake Greek temple. For some reason it didn’t seem out of place.

“What’s that, driver?” Procane said.

“Memorial to dead in World War Number One,” he said. “All dead man’s names are written in stone. Just dead from Washington though, not dead from all over.”

“It’s rather pleasant,” Procane said.

“Over there at right is Lincoln Memorial,” the driver said. “Very famous.”

“Thank you,” Wiedstein said.

We went past the Lincoln Memorial and then along a four-lane highway that separated the Potomac from the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The Kennedy Center jutted out over the highway as if it wanted to edge as close to the river as it could. It had a series of round gold pipes running up its marble sides, but they looked to me as though they’d been added as an afterthought and a none too inspired one at that.

The center’s neighbor was the Watergate cooperative apartment complex where prices started at $44,000 for a one-bedroom unit and shot up to $150,000 for a three-bedroom affair with a wood-burning fireplace and a view of the river. I tried to remember whether I knew anyone who lived there, but decided that I didn’t although a future client might turn up in the place someday if the burglary rate continued to fulfill its early promise.

The driver started to snake the Cadillac through a series of switchbacks and crossovers and underneath what seemed to be an elevated highway of some kind. He made a right turn and about three blocks later I knew we were in Georgetown because I recognized the Rive Gauche, a pretty good restaurant where I’d once had some excellent snails.

If Washington has a ghetto, I suppose it’s Georgetown. Although anyone can live there, you’d probably feel more comfortable about it if you were rich or white, preferably both. Its narrow streets are lined with some fine old trees and some skinny houses all shouldered up together that are rather old, too, or try to look that way. If you’d bought one when Kennedy came in you could probably sell it now and double your money.

The young also live in Georgetown. The bright, quick, upwardly mobile young, and they give it a false sense of informality. Its real rulers are the rich, quiet, powerful families who eat politics three times a day and hunger for more. The rich and powerful also give Georgetown its hoity-toity air that makes a lot of its residents reluctant to be seen lugging home a six-pack of beer. Not quite forty years ago a large chunk of Georgetown was black slum so there may be hope for Harlem after all.

We turned right on N Street and two or three blocks later the driver stopped in front of a three-story house built of bricks that were painted white. The house was almost flush with the sidewalk as were its neighbors. The houses in that block were jammed up against each other. They were all brick and painted either gray or white and their lines were faintly federal, I think.

“Didn’t John Kennedy live on this street when he was a senator?” I said.

“A block or so on down,” Procane said and then told the driver to be back at ten that night. He led the way up the seven steps to the small porch, took out a key, and unlocked the door.

“That you, Mistah Procane?” It was a woman’s voice calling from somewhere in the rear of the house. He called back that it was and then turned to me. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Williams. She came down from New York yesterday to get the place ready.”