To Save a Son (21 page)

“Nicky's dead,” he said abruptly, cutting her off.

There was complete silence. Franks waited, but when there was no response, he said, “Tina?”

“I'm here.” Her voice sounded quite strong. “How?”

“Shot,” said Franks. “A shotgun.”

“Oh,” she said, all emotion drained from her voice, even shock.

“I'm at the police station. With the people who came to the hotel. Maria's being brought in from Long Island. I suppose I should stay until she gets here.”

“Yes,” said Tina, sounding quite controlled. “You should do that.”

“Maybe she should come back to the house?”

“Is it bad?”

“Awful.”

“She won't have to see?”

“No.”

“Poor Maria.”

“Yes.”

“Who's going to tell Mamma and Poppa?”

Franks hadn't thought about it. Holding the telephone away, he said to Waldo, “Are there people with the Scargo family, up in Westchester?”

Waldo nodded. “Same time as we put a guard on your wife.”

Going back to the telephone, Franks said, “There are people looking after them. I suppose I'll have to tell them.”

Her hold went at last. He heard the sound of sobbing and then her obvious attempt to control it. “Oh, Eddie,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

“I don't know, not yet,” admitted Franks. “Don't worry. You're safe.”

“I don't feel safe, Eddie. Not anymore. I want it to stop. Everything to stop.”

“It will,” he said. “I promise it will.”

“I want you with me.”

“I'll come as soon as Maria gets here.”

“Please hurry.”

Franks replaced the telephone and thanked Schultz.

“What caused that death, Mr. Franks?” insisted Waldo. “What went on at that meeting yesterday?”

“My client doesn't choose to answer that question, not at this time,” Rosenberg said at once.

“When?” demanded Waldo, speaking to the lawyer this time.

“Is there going to be any prosecution of my client?” demanded Rosenberg.

“I don't decide that, do I?” said Waldo.

“Do you intend holding him?”

Franks blinked. It had never occurred to him that he might be physically detained: locked up. A criminal. He stared around the decaying, chipped building and wondered if the cells were somewhere here. Of course they were.

“Not at this time,” said Waldo.

“Has the district attorney involved in the case been told of the killing?”

“Yes,” said Schultz.

“I'll make contact tomorrow,” said Rosenberg. “Who is it?”

“Walter Ronan,” said Schultz. “You know him?”

“Yes,” nodded Rosenberg.

Everything was back to their idea of normality, thought Franks; sandwich-filling conversation. He forced his thoughts on, trying to go beyond these casual, unemotional men, the circle turning to his reflections in the car on the way here. All the fears had been justified. He'd despised Nicky and accused everyone of Hollywood fantasies, and they'd been right and he'd been wrong. And now Nicky—poor, frightened, cringing Nicky—was dead. Would Nicky be dead if he hadn't forced the dissolution meeting? Of course not, decided Franks. So Waldo was right; he'd pressed the trigger. And done more than kill Nicky. Taken away the corroboration for his own defense against the charges that had been prepared so carefully and were now to be deliberated upon by some district attorney named Walter Ronan. Did he lunch at the same club, off Fulton?

Franks looked helplessly toward Rosenberg, and said, “What's going to happen?”

The lawyer responded curiously, caught by the tone of Franks' voice. “You can go home to Scarsdale. Tonight. Tomorrow we'll meet at my office. Noon. By then I'll have made contact with the district attorney.”

There was the sound of movement from beyond the door and then a knock. It opened at once, and Franks saw Maria between two plainclothesmen. She walked sedately into the room, looking at him without any recognition. The place was too small to accommodate the agents who had escorted her from Long Island; they shuffled unsurely at the entrance and withdrew into the corridor.

“Mrs. Scargo?” said Waldo.

She nodded, looking at Franks. “It's Nicky, isn't it?” she said. “I thought it might be you, but now I know it's Nicky.”

“I'm sorry,” said Franks. Why weren't there better words!

“How?” she asked.

“Shot,” said Franks. “Leaving home this morning.”

“He said it would happen. You didn't believe him.”

“No.”

“Do I see him?”

“It's better you don't,” said Franks. When was she going to collapse?

Maria looked at Waldo, seated behind the desk. “You a detective?”

“FBI.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing now,” said Waldo. “There'll be protection.”

“Tina's at Scarsdale, with the children,” said Franks. “Come and stay there with us.”

“Do Mamma and Poppa Scargo know?” she said.

“I've got to tell them.”

“I think I should go to them. They'll need someone.”

“Come with me, then,” said Franks.

“He said it would happen,” she repeated. “He said that if it happened to him he hoped there wouldn't be any pain because he couldn't stand pain. He was a coward, you see. He knew it, which made it worse.…” She looked around to each of them as she talked, as if she wanted them all to understand. “He said it was going to happen and I didn't believe him, either.” And then she burst into tears.

18

The two agents who had brought Maria in from Long Island drove escort in a backup car. Schultz drove their vehicle, with Waldo in the front passenger seat. Franks was behind the driver, his arm around Maria. She had her head against his chest and reached across, as soon as the car began to move, taking his other hand in both of hers, needing the additional reassurance. Occasionally, unconsciously, she stroked his fingers. The dry sobbing—all the tears used up in the outburst of grief in the cramped office—was less now, but still shuddered through her every so often. The traffic that had occupied part of the earlier conversation was easier now, at dusk. Schultz drove hurriedly, both men constantly looking around them; the neon reflections of unseen, passing advertisements kaleidoscoped into the vehicle, tattooing them in strange colors. The car had a radio system, turned down so that the dispatcher's voice was a blurred, indistinct mumble. They had to stop at a light on Second and Franks heard Schultz say, “Shit!” Waldo snatched at the microphone and said “close up” and Franks glanced over his shoulder to see the second protective car drive right up behind them, so close he thought there was going to be a collision. They were able to go faster on the FDR Drive, and Franks supposed there was some identification on the vehicles to prevent their being stopped by traffic police. They crossed the bridge and picked up the Bruckner Expressway, and Maria settled tighter against him. Beneath his arm her breathing became more even and he wondered if she was asleep. It seemed absurd, but she was in shock and people behaved strangely—absurdly—in shock. He looked down and in a brief illumination he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he looked she opened them briefly, then closed them again. Waldo and Schultz spoke only rarely to each other, their voices low so Franks couldn't hear, and they never tried to talk to him during the drive. Waldo seemed to be making timed transmissions on the radio, and Franks guessed it was locked onto an agreed frequency, because the man never appeared to adjust it.

Franks was being gripped by a feeling of unreality and concentrated on fighting it because what was happening wasn't unreal. To think it was—to allow himself to think that it was a dream from which he would soon wake up—was trying to run away and hide. And Franks wasn't going to run away and hide. He wasn't going to do anything on his own anymore, because he'd promised Rosenberg that he wouldn't, and he knew he needed the lawyer; needed him like hell. But he wasn't going to let the bastards win by terrorizing him. He hadn't been frightened of them at the misguided dissolution conference, and he wasn't frightened of them now. He was frightened for Tina and the kids and Maria and the Scargos, but he wasn't frightened for himself. Even though he had seen the mutilated, blasted body of Nicky Scargo, Franks couldn't believe that anything like that could ever happen to him. Which was allowing the unreality he'd determined to resist, Franks recognized.

At last Waldo turned to the back of the car, and said, “You want to stop at Scarsdale first, to see your wife?”

“Please,” said Franks.

“The two guys in the car behind will stay over tonight,” said Waldo. “Come in to town with you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” said Franks. Would Rosenberg manage to find out what the district attorney intended doing by then?

Waldo turned back to his radio, and when they approached the house Franks imagined it had been to warn the people already guarding it that they were approaching. As they swept in through the gates, Franks briefly saw a marked police car in addition to the undesignated vehicles at the entrance. The warned agents appeared to have alerted Tina, too. A man opened the door, squinting out to assure himself who they were, but Tina was waiting just inside. Maria got hesitatingly from the car, as if she was unsure where she was, and Franks had to guide her across the porchway. Tina held out her hands, wordlessly. The two women clutched each other in a silent embrace, and then Tina led Maria off to the main sitting room, to the right. Only Waldo and Schultz came into the house. Franks said, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes,” said Waldo.

There was a tray in the smaller sitting room, where the main television was and where he and Tina sat in the evenings when they were alone. Franks poured scotch for them and brandy for himself, and said, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“All this?” said Franks, gesturing to the guarded grounds outside the window.

Waldo shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

“I can't believe that they'd try to kill me,” said Franks, remembering the reflections in the car.

“People never can,” said Schultz.

Franks thought back to their consideration at the precinct house, where they'd withdrawn from the room to let Maria cry out her grief just to him. He gave another enveloping gesture and said, “Thanks, for all this.”

“It's the job, Mr. Franks.”

“Did you mean what you said back there in the city? That there isn't a chance of connecting Pascara and Flamini and Dukes with Nicky's killing?”

“Not one in a million, I wouldn't think,” said Schultz matter-of-factly. “Even if we picked up the guys who did it. They probably wouldn't know of Pascara or anyone else, you see. It's not done that way. The contract comes down through middlemen to other middlemen. They're clean.”

“Why the public breakfast and the charity photographs, then?”

“Pascara and Flamini and Dukes are where they are—and have survived for so long and beaten a lot of raps—because they don't take chances. Any chances at all.”

The three men turned as Tina came into the room. She wasn't wearing any makeup and her eyes were wetly red. Franks wondered if Maria had cried any more. “She wants to go to the family,” said Tina. “I asked her to stay but she said she wants to go there.”

“I know,” said Franks. “We already talked about it. You okay?”

Tina humped her shoulders. “I don't know.”

“What about the children?”

“I told them that all the men were people who worked for you; that you were having a meeting. It's all I could think of. There've been several police cars and David's seen them. He couldn't understand that.” She shuddered. “He kept asking to see the policemen's guns.”

“You coming with us?” asked Franks.

Tina looked toward Waldo and Schultz, as if expecting some guidance. She said, “It would mean leaving the children.”

“They'd be quite safe.”

Tina shook her head doubtfully. “I think I'll stay. Will you be long?”

“I don't know,” said Franks.

“It isn't going to be easy, is it?”

“Nothing is, not anymore,” said Franks.

“Do you mind if we set out, Mr. Franks?” said Schultz. “After this we've got to get back to New York.”

“Sure,” said Franks. “Where's Maria?”

“Waiting,” said Tina. “She's ready.”

The change in Maria was very marked. She didn't appear to have cried, like Tina. She emerged from the larger room into the hallway quite composed, looking alertly around her, and said, strong-voiced, “Shall we go?”

She didn't sit against him in the car this time. Instead she pulled away, into the corner of the car, staring out at the vehicles and the darkened figures of the patroling guards as they went down the drive and out onto the highway. As they started northward, she said, “There'll be the funeral to arrange.”

“I'll do it,” said Franks.

“I can manage,” she said positively.

The shock had swung the pendulum in the other direction, Franks decided, from vulnerable to independent. “We'll talk about it later,” he said.

She didn't reply.

Franks twisted, looking over his shoulder. The escort car was tightly in position, and Waldo was back on the radio, maintaining his links. Franks supposed they were trained for situations like this. He was conscious of Waldo talking at greater length on the radio than he had before. The road directly outside the Scargo house was secured by roadblocks, as it had been in Scarsdale, so that no vehicle could pass without check. But this time Schultz stopped the car and Waldo got out. The huge man stood, head bent, in the lights of their own and another car, nodding to whatever was being said to him by a man whose features Franks could not properly see. The car actually moved when Waldo got back in, going down slightly under his weight. He looked over the seat at Franks and said, “Old man Scargo's causing trouble. He's ordered everyone off his property; says he doesn't want any police around.”