Trevayne (5 page)

“Oh, my God!” Phyllis Trevayne looked at her husband.

“What happened then?”

“The other policeman took more pictures of the car and a close-up shot of my face. I can still see the flashbulb.… Christ, I was scared.… Then, just like that, they told me I could go.” The boy remained in the hallway, his shoulders slumped, the frightened bewilderment obvious in his eyes.

“You’ve told me everything?” asked Trevayne.

“Yes, sir,” replied the son, his fear clouding his nearly inaudible voice.

Andrew walked to the end table by the couch and picked up the telephone. He dialed the operator and asked for the number of the Cos Cob Police Department. Phyllis went to her son and led him into the living room.

“My name is Trevayne, Andrew Trevayne. I understand one of your patrol cars stopped my son on … where, Steve?”

“Junction Road, at the intersection. About a quarter of a mile from the railroad station.”

“… Junction Road, near the station at the intersection; no more than a half-hour ago. Would you mind telling me what the report says? Yes, I’ll hold.”

Andrew looked at his son, sitting in a chair, Phyllis standing beside him. The boy shivered and took several deep breaths. He watched his father, afraid, not understanding.

“Yes,” said Trevayne impatiently into the telephone. “Junction Road, Cos Cob side.… Of course I’m sure. My son is right here!… Yes. Yes.… No, I’m not positive.… Just a minute.” Andrew looked at the boy. “On the police car; did you see the Cos Cob name?”

“I … I didn’t actually look. It was off on the side. No, I didn’t see it.”

“No, he didn’t, but it would have to be yours, wouldn’t it? He was in Cos Cob.… Oh?… I see. You couldn’t check it out for me, could you? He was stopped in your township, after all.… Oh? All right, I understand. I don’t
like
it, but I see what you mean. Thanks.”

Trevayne replaced the telephone and took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“What is it, Dad? Wasn’t it them?”

“No. They have two patrol cars, and neither one has been near Junction Road for the past two hours.”

“Why didn’t you ‘like’ but ‘understand’?” asked Phyllis.

“They can’t check the cars of the other towns. Not without a formal request, which has to be recorded in the violations file. They don’t like to do that; they have arrangements. In case police cars cross municipal lines going after someone, they just haul them back informally.”

“But you’ve got to find out! They took photographs, they said Steve
hit
someone!”

“I know. I will.… Steve, go on up and take a shower. You smell like an Eighth Avenue bar. And relax. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Trevayne moved the telephone to the coffee table and sat down.

Westport, Darien. Wilton. New Canaan. Southport.

Nothing.

“Dad, I didn’t dream it up!” Steven Trevayne shouted; he was in his bathrobe.

“I’m sure you didn’t. We’ll keep trying; we’ll call the New York stations.”

Port Chester. Rye. Harrison. White Plains. Mamaroneck.

The picture of his son stretched forward, hands clamped to the hood of an automobile soaked with alcohol, being questioned by untraceable police on a dark road about an unknown man struck down—photographs, accusations. It made no sense; there was an abstract quality of unbelievability. As unbelievable, as unreal as his daughter and her friends and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of uncut heroin found in a milk box on the Swansons’ guest-house porch.

Insanity.

Yet it all had happened.

“The girls finally fell asleep,” said Phyllis, walking into the living room. It was nearly four o’clock. “Anything?”

“No,” replied her husband. He turned to his son, who sat in a chair by the large wall window. The boy was staring outside, his fear intermittently replaced with angry bewilderment. “Try to recall, Steve. Was the patrol car some other color than black? Perhaps dark blue or green?”

“Dark. That’s all. I suppose it could have been blue or green. It wasn’t white.”

“Were there any stripes? Any kind of insignia, no matter how vague.”

“No.… Yes, I guess so. I just didn’t look. I didn’t think …” The boy brought his hand to his forehead. “I didn’t
hit
anyone! I
swear
I didn’t!”

“Of course you didn’t!” Phyllis went to him and bent down, touching her cheek to his. “It’s a terrible mistake, we know that.”

“On top of a terrible joke,” added Trevayne, puzzled.

The telephone on the coffee table rang. Its effect was frightening, a jarring intrusion on private fears. Trevayne swiftly picked it up.

“Hello!… Yes, yes. This is his residence; I’m his father.”

Steven Trevayne leaped out of the chair and walked rapidly to the back of the couch. Phyllis remained by the window, afraid of the immediate moment.

“My God! I’ve been phoning all over Connecticut and New York! The boy’s a minor, the car’s in my name! I should have been called immediately! I’d like an explanation, please.”

For the next several minutes Trevayne listened without comment. When finally he spoke, it was five words.

“Thank you. I’ll expect them.”

He hung up the telephone and turned to his wife and son.

“Andy? Is everything all right?”

“Yes.… The Highport Police Station; it’s a small village about fifteen miles north of Cos Cob. Their patrol car was following an automobile down Coast Road, a robbery suspect they were checking out over their radio before an arrest. They lost him and swung west on Briarcliff Avenue, when they saw a man run down by a car that looked like yours, Steve. They radioed for an ambulance, informed the Cos Cob police, and after everything was taken care of, started back for Highport. They spotted you on Junction, swung onto a parallel street, and caught up with you a mile down the road by the intersection.… They could have let you go the minute they checked with Cos Cob; the hit-and-run had turned himself in. But they smelled the car and thought they’d give you a scare.… They’re sending us the photographs.”

The terrible night was over.

Steven Trevayne lay on his bed looking up at the ceiling; the radio was tuned to one of those endless all-night talk shows where everyone shouted over everyone else. The boy thought the cacophony might help him sleep.

But sleep would not come.

He knew he should have said something; it was stupid
not
to say anything. But the words wouldn’t come, any more than sleep came now. The relief had been so total, so complete, so needed; he hadn’t dared resurrect a doubt.

His father had first mentioned the words, unknowingly.

Try to recall, Steve. Was the patrol car some other color than black.…

Maybe. Maybe a dark blue or green.

But it was a
dark
color.

That’s what he should have remembered when his father said “Highport”

Highport-on-the-Ocean was the name on the sign on Coast Road. Highport
was
a small village; tiny, actually. It had two or three great beaches—off by themselves, and privately owned. During hot summer nights he and a few friends—never more than a few—often parked a couple of hundred yards down Coast Road and crept through the private property to reach one of the beaches.

But they had to be careful; they always had to keep an eye out for the Yellowbird.

That’s what they called it.
The Yellowbird
.

The village of Highport-on-the-Ocean’s single patrol car.

It was bright yellow.

Andrew Trevayne boarded the 707 jet at John F. Kennedy Airport for the hour’s flight to Washington.

He unlatched the seat belt once the aircraft completed its ascent and the warning lights were extinguished. It was three-fifteen, and he’d be late for his meeting with Presidential Assistant Robert Webster. He’d had his office at Danforth call Webster at the White House; say he was detained and that if because of the delay Webster wished to change the meeting place, he should leave instructions for him at Dulles Airport. It didn’t matter to Trevayne; he’d accepted the fact that he’d have to stay overnight.

He reached for the vodka martini from the pretty young stewardess and took a long sip. Placing the glass on the small tray in front of him, Trevayne latched the seat
halfway back and spread a hastily purchased
New York
magazine on his lap.

Suddenly he was aware that the passenger next to him was staring at him. He returned the man’s look and immediately realized he knew the face. The man was large, his head enormous, his complexion deeply tanned—more from birth than from the sun. He was, perhaps, in his early fifties, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. The man spoke first.

“Mr. Trevayne, isn’t it?” The voice was soft but deep, with a trace of a rasp. It was a gentle voice, however.

“That’s right. I know we’ve met, but forgive me, I don’t remember …”

“De Spadante. Mario de Spadante.”

“Of course,” said Trevayne, his memory instantly activated. Mario de Spadante went back to the New Haven days, the latter part, at any rate, about nine years ago. De Spadante had represented a construction firm involved with some buildings Trevayne and his brother-in-law were financing. Trevayne had rejected the bid—the builders had an insufficient history. But Mario de Spadante had gone a long way since those days a brief nine years ago. That is, if the newspapers were to be believed. He was reputed to be a power in the underworld now. “Mario the Spade” was the name often used—referring to his swarthy complexion and the fact that he had buried a number of enemies. He was never convicted of the latter, however.

“Must be nine, ten years ago, I’d say,” said De Spadante, smiling pleasantly. “You remember? You turned me down on a construction job. And you were absolutely correct, Mr. Trevayne. Our company didn’t have the experience for it. Yes, you were right.”

“At best, it’s always an educated guess. Glad you don’t resent it.”

“Of course not: Never did, to tell you the truth.” De Spadante winked at Trevayne and laughed quietly. “It wasn’t my company. Belonged to a cousin.… Him I resented, not you. He made me do his work. But everything always equals out. I learned the business, his business, better than he did. It’s my company now.… Look, I interrupted your reading. Me, I got to go over some
reports—a bunch of long-winded, eight-cylinder paragraphs with figures way beyond any math I ever took at New Haven High. If I get stuck on a word, I’m going to ask you to translate. That’ll make up for your turning me down ten years ago. How about it?” De Spadante grinned.

Trevayne laughed, taking his martini off the miniature shelf. He raised the glass an inch or two toward De Spadante. “It’s the least I can do.”

And he did. About fifteen minutes before landing at Dulles, Mario de Spadante asked him to clarify a particularly complex paragraph. It was so complicated that Trevayne read it several times before advising De Spadante to have it simplified, put in cleaner form before accepting it.

“I really can’t make much more sense out of this than to tell you they expect you to figure the large items first before tackling the smaller ones.”

“So what else is new? I use a square-foot unit plus profit, which includes the whole thing.”

“I think that’s what this means. I gather you’re a subcontractor.”

“That’s right.”

“That general contractor wants it done in stages. At least, I think that’s what it means.”

“So I build him half a door, or maybe just the frame, and he buys the rest from somebody else?”

“I’m probably wrong. You’d better get it clarified.”

“Maybe I won’t. Cost him double with that kind of bidding. Nobody wants to do half of somebody else’s job.… You just made up for ten years ago. I’ll buy you a drink.”

De Spadante took the papers from Trevayne and signaled the stewardess. He placed the papers in a large manila envelope and ordered drinks for Trevayne and himself.

As Trevayne lit a cigarette, he felt the plane gradually descend. De Spadante was looking out the window, and Trevayne noticed the printing—upside down—on the large manila envelope on De Spadante’s lap. It read:

Trevayne smiled to himself. No wonder the language was so obscure. The Pentagon engineers were the most exasperating men in Washington when it came to doing business.

He should know.

The message at the reservation desk consisted of Robert Webster’s name and a Washington telephone number. When Trevayne called, he was surprised to learn that it was Webster’s private line at the White House. It was only a little after four-thirty; he could have telephoned the switchboard. In Trevayne’s government days presidential aides never gave out their private numbers.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d get in; the stack-ups can be terrible,” was Webster’s explanation.

Trevayne was confused. It was a minor point, not worth mentioning, really, but Trevayne was bothered. The White House switchboard didn’t have hours.

Webster suggested they meet after dinner in the cocktail lounge of Trevayne’s hotel. “It’ll give us a chance to go over a few things before tomorrow. The President wants to chat briefly with you around ten or ten-thirty in the morning. I’ll have his firm schedule in an hour or so.”

Trevayne left the telephone booth and walked toward the main exit of the airport terminal. He’d packed only a change of shirt, shorts, and socks; he would have to ascertain the swiftness of the hotel’s cleaning and pressing facilities if he was going to have a White House audience. He wondered why the President wished to see him. It seemed a little premature, the formalities of his acceptance not having been completed. It was possible that the President simply wished to reaffirm personally Franklyn Baldwin’s statement that the highest office in the country was behind the proposed subcommittee.

If so, it was generous and meaningful.

“Hey, Mr. Trevayne!” It was Mario de Spadante standing by the curb. “Can I give you a lift into town?”

“Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’ll grab a cab.”

“No inconvenience. My car just got here.” De Spadante gestured at a long, dark-blue Cadillac parked several yards to the right.