Ice Blues - Stevenson Richard (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации TXT) 📗

For the time being, it is in your interest if I do not explain the details of this project completely. This way you will be protected if anything goes wrong.

Some people are very pissed off at me, but all you would have to do is show this letter bearing my signature to prove your lack of knowledge.

If you ask anybody, you might get an earful from certain people that I am a rotten apple. Well, I have had my ups and downs, good times and bad, this is very true, I admit. But all that is in the past, and for the first time in my life I am taking a positive attitude toward certain things instead of negative.

I have a chance to make up for a very great amount of evil, and don't you think I would be a "real shit" and a coward if I did not embark on this project?

You must be confused, but I am asking you as a gay friend and a concerned citizen to trust me!!

I will be back in Albany as soon as I clear up some matters and I will contact you. Please take what you charge as your fee and for your expenses. I hope you don't mind me doing it this way, but I don't have any choice. You are the only person I can trust right now who is "street-smart" and not connected with me in an "obvious" way.

When you find out the nature of the project you have participated in, you won't be ashamed. You will be proud of yourself, just like I will be proud of myself for the first time in my fucked-up life.

Your friend, (signed) Jack Lenihan

I reread the letter, and then I began to forget about the weather.

FOUR

I phoned Timmy, who said he was alone in his office reading a book, probably Nanook of the North.

"Don't go back to the house."

"Why?"

I described the morning's events and read him the letter.

"You talked me into it. I won't go back to the house."

"I've got a room at the Hilton. Come over here when you're ready to leave.

I'm either Hiram Nestlerode or Tom Selleck, I'm not sure which."

"Your usual state of affairs."

"Or Engelbert Humperdinck."

"Nah."

I said, "What do you make of it?"

"It's obvious. Lenihan stole some big doper's payoff boodle, and he was going to use it to finance-I don't know what-blowing up the Federal Building?"

"It wouldn't require a 'fortune'-Lenihan's word-to do that. No, it's something big but less loony, something that only a rigid mind would consider wrong or morally ambiguous. Maybe something with political implications-an act against the machine he's known to loathe. He seemed so certain that I'd approve."

"It wasn't morally ambiguous to him. But he might have been nuts."

"Yeah, but you can be nuts and be right. It's happened in history."

"King of Hearts must have come around again. Are you going to show Bowman the letter?"

"I guess not. No, that letter is confidential. It's from a client."

"A dead client. Your contract with Lenihan-which didn't exist when he was alive anyway because you'd never agreed to be a party to it-is breached upon his death.''

"Is that the kind of so-called logic they taught you at Georgetown? I'd always thought the Jesuits had a finer appreciation for the moral potential in legalistic murk. Anyway, until I hear otherwise I'm going to consider Lenihan's estate as my client. His estate, and his good intentions. He really sounds in the letter as if he was about to climb out of the grubby pit he thought he'd spent all his life in. Maybe I can still help him do that."

"Don, he'll never know."

"Yeah, he won't. I want to meet the people who prevented him from knowing it though. That has nothing to do with contracts."

"Well, you're going to do what you're going to do."

"Short of getting my head bashed in, yes. Or yours. If it looks as if it's coming to that, the hell with it."

"Thank you."

"I'll give them the money and fly to San Juan. If I have it."

"Who's delivering the money to you?"

"Lenihan didn't say. I plan on asking the deliverer a few questions though."

"Maybe it'll never show up. Maybe it's on the way to San Juan or Bogota.

Then where will you be?"

"Room 1407 at the Hilton. For the rest of my life."

"Well, you'll get to finish Proust."

I phoned a contact at the Federal Building and asked him if Jack Lenihan's name had come up in any recent narcotics investigations.

"Funny you should ask. Ned Bowman was just wondering about that too. I just got off the line with him."

"What frame of mind was he in?"

"He was the usual charmer. Hey, Strachey, what do you think of all this snow? I figured you'd be off at Killington or Mount Snow. Half the younger guys in the office are out sick today-called in with the flu, but, hell, I know better than that."

"The snorkeling is poor at Mount Snow this time of year. So when Bowman asked about Lenihan, what did you tell him?"

"Lenihan was clean as far as I know, and I'd know. Evidence can take a while to develop-forever in too many cases-but names I've got plenty of.

They come up, and Lenihan's is not one of them. I'd say he learned his lesson when he slipped away from us in eighty-two. That's rare, but it happens."

"Isn't it possible he'd just gotten back into it? Within the past couple of weeks?"

"Possible, yes."

"His killing has the earmarks, right?"

"From what little I know. But being clubbed on the brain is a real popular way of getting killed in America. Aunt Minnie, Cousin Bud-everybody does it. Don't you read the Post?"

"I'm just looking for a pattern here."

"I see it was your car Lenihan got dumped in. If it was dopers I'd say they were sending you a message, Strachey. Listen, pal, you got some kind of problem? You know what we're here for."

I said, "No, no problems of mine. I'm just trying to clear my car's good name."

"What's its name?"

"Rabbit."

"No investigator worth shit is gonna have a car named Rabbit. My car's called Fox. You really ought to get one of those, do your work a world of good. Look, if I can help out, let me know. And if you should hear about anything relating to my field of expertise that might interest me, I'd appreciate it."

"Sure, as always."

"Not always."

"Sometimes."

"That's more like it."

I spent half an hour phoning Herb Brinkman and other people who had known Jack Lenihan socially. I learned that he had had no known close friends other than Warren Slonski and that no one had even seen him socially for the past three months. He had pretty much dropped out of sight in mid-October. Everyone who had known Lenihan had been shocked by the news of his death and couldn't imagine that he had made such a lethal enemy-unless he was dealing dope again.

I lay back on the bed I'd rented for a night-or longer- and thought about Lenihan's letter. Outside, the gray sky over the Rensselaer hills was falling apart as if an icebreaker had chugged through it. White sunlight poured across my legs, was gone in an instant, then broke over me again. It was twenty till ten and I had time for one more quick call, to a friend at American Airlines.

"Don Strachey. I need some flight information."

"Where to, Donald? To warmer climes, I'll bet."

"I wish. But this isn't for me-yet. A John C. Lenihan may have been in Los Angeles on Monday. I'd like to know when he went out there and when he came back."