The Road to Omaha (68 page)

“Yeah, he goes on a lot about that stuff, believes it, too.”

“Don’t
you
? I think I heard you say practically the same thing at the Ritz-Carlton, General.”

“Yeah, I believe it, but there’s a time and place to act on those principles and this isn’t
it
!… Yet what can he really
do
? A hysterical lawyer with bloodshot eyes and wet clothes running to a newspaper, like he suggested, with a story like ours? There’s no way they could confirm it; they’d call a truck from a funny farm.”

“I think I left out something,” said Jennifer.

“What?”

“He’s got the Brokemichael tape.”

“Sherman in Atlanta, you’ve got to be
kidding
, Redskin lady!”

“With all my Redskin heart, I wish I were. We can’t find it anywhere.”

“Holy pistols of Georgie Patton! He could nuke the whole enterprise. We’ve got to
stop
him!”

“
How
?”

“Call the Boston papers, the radio and television stations, and tell ’em all a lunatic’s escaped from the biggest mental institution in Massachusetts.”

“That won’t do much good when they hear the tape. The first thing they’ll do is make copies, then voice-print scans and match them with your friend General Brokemichael, either from newsreel tapes or just over the telephone.”

“I’ll call Brokemichael and tell him to stay off the phone!”

“The phone …?” said Jennifer pensively. “That’s
it
! All telephone companies have computerized printouts of every number called; it’s standard billing procedure. I’m sure Mr. Pinkus can get an immediate police order.”

“For what?”

“The number Sam called from the Birnbaum phone here! Except when you reached us early this morning, no one’s used that phone.”

“Someone did, and his name is Devereaux.”

Thanks to Aaron Pinkus’s exemplary relations with the authorities, Redwing’s suggestion was swiftly effective.
“Counselor, this is Lieutenant Cafferty, Boston P.D. We have the information you want.”

“Thank you so much, Lieutenant Cafferty. Had there not been an emergency, I would never have prevailed upon your office or your kindness.”

“Hey, come on, no trouble, sir. After all, every year at the department’s annual dinner it’s always Tinkus’s Corned Beef and Cabbage.’ ”

“An insignificant contribution compared to the services you render to our fair city.”

“Well, you just call us any time.… Here’s what we got from the telephone company. During the past twelve hours there’ve been only four calls made from the Swampscott number, the last being six minutes ago to New York City—”

“Yes, we’re aware of that one, Lieutenant. The other three, please.”

“Two were to your own house, Mr. Pinkus. The first at six-thirty-three last night and then this morning—”

“Oh, yes, I was reaching Shirley, that’s my wife. I forgot.”

“We’ve all met the missus, Counselor, and a grand lady she is. So tall and graceful, sir.”

“Tall? No, actually she’s quite short; it’s her hairdo. Never mind, what’s the fourth call, please?”

“It was made on the unlisted number out there at seven-twelve this morning to the residence of Geoffrey Frazier—”

“
Frazier
?” interrupted Aaron involuntarily. “How extraordinary …!”

“He’s a lot of things, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Pinkus, including a royal pain in the arse, forgive my language, sir.”

“I’m sure his grandfather employs far worse, Lieutenant Cafferty.”

“Oh, I’ve heard him, Counselor! Whenever we pull the lad into the tank, the old man asks if we can’t keep him a few more days.”

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant, you’ve been a great help.”

“Anytime, sir.”

Aaron replaced the phone and looked quizzically at Jennifer. “At least we know how Sam found the tape; he used Sidney’s private line in the study. That’s where we played it last night.”

“But that’s not what’s shocked you, is it? It’s someone named Frazier, right?”

“Exactly. He’s one of the most charming—I might even say lovable—men you could ever meet. A totally nice person whose parents died years ago in a plane crash when the inebriated Frazier, Senior, tried to land his seaplane on the Grand Corniche in Monte Carlo. Geoffrey was a classmate of Sam’s at Andover.”

“Then that’s why he called him.”

“I doubt it. Sam doesn’t hate people, that’s not in him, really, even MacKenzie Hawkins, as you’ve seen. But he does disapprove, disapprove deeply.”

“Disapprove—in what way, and why this Frazier?”

“Because Geoffrey’s abused and wasted his privileges. He’s a functioning alcoholic whose only purpose in life is the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain.… And Sam has absolutely no use for him.”

“He did today—about ten minutes ago on the beach.”

“The general’s right, we have to stop him!” said Aaron suddenly, turning back to the phone.

“How?”

“If we knew where he went in the boat, it’d be a place to start.”

“That could be
anywhere.
”

“No, not really,” said Aaron. “Things have changed along the shoreline; the Coast Guard and the Power Squadrons are constantly on the alert, not only for reckless boaters, but for people bringing in illegal substances from other craft farther out. Those with houses on the beach are asked to report any suspicious activity on their water frontages.”

“Someone may have called already then,” interrupted Jennifer. “That boat came
up
to the beach.”

“Yes, but Sam went out to get on board, no one got off.”

“Then we have the why-get-involved syndrome?” concluded Jennifer.

“Exactly.”

“Still, why not call the Coast Guard?”

“I would in a second if I knew what kind of boat it was, even its size or shape or color or the marina where it’s berthed.” Pinkus reached for the telephone, adding as he dialed. “But I just remembered, I do know something else,
someone
else.”

One of the secluded crowns of Boston is an isolated patch of ground on top of Beacon Hill called Louisburg Square. It is a compound of elegant town houses originally built in the 1840s, its small, manicured park guarded at the north end by a statue of Columbus, at the south by a monument to Aristides the Just. It is not isolated physically, of course: Mail must be delivered, garbage picked up, and the daytime servants have to get there as best they can without leaving their distressed vehicles among the Rolls-Royces, Porsches, and whatever cute, new American pretenders catch the fancy of the lairds of Louisburg. These lairds, however, are demographically semi-democratic—small
d
, presumably—for there is old, old money, old money, first-generation money, and newly acquired cash. There are inheritors, stockbrokers, lawyers, several CEOs, and doctors, especially one doctor who is also a major American novelist the medical profession would like to put into a coma, but he’s too good at both professions.

However, again, demographics notwithstanding, only one telephone rang at this moment, and it was in the tastefully ornate town house of the oldest old money in Boston, specifically the residence of R. Cookson Frazier. As the phone rang, the spry elderly gentleman in red, sweat-stained gym shorts sank a basketball accurately into the net of the small court he had built for himself on the top floor of his home. His sneakers squeaking on the hard wood beneath, he turned quizzically at the shrill intrusion. The momentary indecision ended when he remembered on the third ring that his housekeeper was down at the market. Wiping his brow beneath his white hair, he walked over to the wall phone and picked it up. “Yes?” he said, partially out of breath.

“Mr. Frazier?”

“This is he.”

“It’s Aaron Pinkus, Mr. Frazier. We’ve met several times, the last being at the Fogg Museum charity ball, I believe.”

“It was, indeed, Aaron, and why the ‘Mr. Frazier’? You’re damn near as old as I am and
I
believe we both agreed you wouldn’t look it if you exercised more.”

“Too true, too true, Cookson. There never seems to be enough time.”

“There won’t be for you, although you’ll probably be the richest man in the graveyard.”

“I’ve long since given up such ambitions.”

“I know that, I’m just goading you because I’m sweating like a pig, which is a poor metaphor—I’m told that pigs don’t sweat.… What can I do for you, old fellow?”

“It concerns your grandson, I’m afraid—”

“
You’re
afraid?” interrupted Frazier. “I’m terrified! What
now
?” Pinkus started to tell his story, but within eight seconds, at the mention of the speedboat, the old man broke in, shouting triumphantly. “That’s it! I’ve
got
him!”

“I beg your pardon, Cookson?”

“I can put him away!”

“What …?”

“He’s not permitted by law to drive his boat—
or
his car
or
his motorcycle
or
his snowmobile. He’s been deemed a menace on land, sea, and snow!”

“You’d have him sent to jail?”

“
Jail
? Good Lord, no. Simply to one of those places that can straighten the boy out! My attorneys have already arranged it. If he’s caught in even one of the violations, and there’ve been no injuries or legal redress from second parties, the court will permit me to take my own custodial measures.”

“You want to place him in a sanitarium?”

“I’d prefer to use another term, like a ‘rehabilitation center’ or whatever the code words are.”

“To go that far, he really has grieved you then.”

“He certainly has, but perhaps not in the way you think.
I know that boy and love him dearly—my
God
, he’s the last of the male Fraziers!”

“I understand, Cookson.”

“I don’t think you do. You see, whatever he is,
we
made him that way, our family did, just as I did with my own son, and I’m far worse because at least I was around, alive. But, as I say, I
know
him, and underneath that besotted exterior oozing with charm is a
brain
, Aaron! There’s another
man
beneath the overindulged boy, I sense it, I truly
believe
it!”

“He’s a very likable person and I certainly couldn’t contradict you.”

“You don’t believe me, either, do you?”

“I don’t know him that well, Cookson.”

“The newspapers and the television people obviously think they do. With every scrape he gets into, the labels are there. ‘Scion of wealth in drunk tank again,’ and ‘Playboy of Boston a disgrace to the city,’ et cetera, et cetera,
et cetera.
”

“The events apparently took place—”

“Of
course
they did! That’s why your news is the greatest gift you could give me. I can now take control of that overage delinquent!”

“How? His speedboat’s on the water and we don’t know where he’s going.”

“You said he pulled up to the Swampscott beach about twenty minutes ago—”

“Or slightly less.”

“To get back to the marina will take him at least forty to forty-five minutes—”

“Suppose he’s not heading for the marina? Suppose he’s going the other way?”

“North of Swampscott, the nearest refueling dock that permits outsiders is at Gloucester, and those cigarette boats drink fuel like six Arabs with straws in a single pot of tea. Gloucester’s about a half hour away.”

“You know all this?”

“I was commander of Boston’s Power Squadron for five consecutive terms; of course I know it. We’re wasting time, Aaron! I’ve got to call the squadron and our friends in the Coast Guard. They’ll find him.”

“One thing, Cookson. On board is an employee of mine named Devereaux, Samuel Devereaux, and it’s imperative that he be held by the authorities for me.”

“Bad business, eh?”

“No, not bad at all, merely impetuous. But it’s vital that he be held. I’ll explain later.”

“Devereaux? Any relation to Lansing Devereaux?”

“His son, actually.”

“Damn fine man, Lansing. Died much too young for a fellow of his abilities. For a fact, he led me into several lucrative investments.”

“Tell me, Cookson. After he died, did you ever make contact with his widow?”

“Could I do otherwise?
He
was the brains, I was merely some minor money. I transferred my profits to her accounts. As I say, who could do otherwise?”

“Apparently a number of people.”

“Damned thieving bloodsuckers.… I’ve got to get off the phone and make some calls, Aaron, but now that we’ve talked, let’s have dinner some evening.”

“A great pleasure.”

“With your lovely wife, Shelly—such a tall and graceful woman.”

“It’s Shirley, and, actually, she’s not tall, it’s her—never mind.”

The sky grew suddenly gray and the dark clouds above swelled in direct proportion to the angry ocean below. And off the coast of Massachusetts, Sam Devereaux held on to the stainless steel railing of the speedboat wondering what had possessed him to call Geoff Frazier, a man he thoroughly disliked.… Well, perhaps “disliked” was too strong. Nobody who knew “Crazy Frazie,” as he was sometimes affectionately called, could really
dislike
him, because the “Spaced Cadet” as he was frequently referred to, had a heart as big as his monthly inheritance stipend, which he would willingly give to anyone he knew to be in distressful circumstances. What disturbed Sam at the moment was Frazie’s maniacal maneuvers that intentionally sent the narrow, sleek, twin-engined cigarette boat into the monstrous waves.