Brian Garfield: Villiers Touch

All I want is not to want. Ever.

And now, right now, he had achieved that desire.

He stepped through the pedestrian gate, close behind Civetta. Charley, the chauffeur, had got out to hold the doors; he had the briefcase in his hand and turned to give it to Villiers. Villiers reached out for it and that was when a man stepped out of the shadows along the side of the road and said, “Federal agents. Stand still, please. You’re under arrest.”

Villiers’ head turned slowly, keening the night. Shadows moved into sight on both sides of the road, five men armed. One of them came forward to the car and turned the chauffeur around, forced him to plant his palms on the roof of the car, and frisked him.

“He’s clean.”

Civetta said, “Nobody says a word. Understand?”

A tall man with a big jaw separated himself from the circle and walked within two paces of him. “You’re Villiers. We haven’t met. My name’s Hastings-I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Villiers didn’t say anything. Hastings reached forward to the side pocket of Villiers’ jacket and withdrew a small disk from it. “Microphone-transmitter. We’ve got a tape of your whole conversation in a car just down the road. And a warrant to bring it into court.” Hastings was watching him with fascination and with satisfaction, hard and unconcealed.

Hastings spoke over his shoulder, “Bill, better get on the two-way and clear your men to arrest George Hackman and Sidney Isher.”

Civetta pushed himself forward. “I want a phone. I’ll have forty-eleven lawyers down there before you can sneeze. You got nothing at all on me.”

Hastings said mildly, “At the moment it’s not you we want, Mr. Civetta.” He turned and touched Villiers’ elbow. “Come on-you’ll ride with me.”

“Keep your hands off me,” Villiers murmured, and walked up the road ahead of him. A third man, with the wise face of a twenty-year cop, trailed along and got into the car with them, sitting in the back seat with his hand under the lapel of his coat.

Villiers said, “I believe I’m entitled to know what charge you’ve arrested me on.”

“You’ll have it spelled out on paper when we arrive in New York,” Hastings said. He put the car in gear and followed the two other cars toward the main highway. “I may as well tell you we’ve got complete sworn statements from Steve Wyatt and from Carol McCloud. Do I need to add anything to that? I’m sure you know what they contain as well as I do.”

Carol. Villiers closed his eyes down to slits and stared straight ahead at the red taillights of the Lincoln. He settled back in the seat and folded his arms across his chest; his chin drooped slightly, as if he were very tired.

Hastings said, “It’s been a long time coming to you, hasn’t it? You’ve had a good run for the money.”

“Mr. Hastings,” Villiers breathed, “I am not finished yet. I’ve still got the brain in my head, which is worth more than every stock certificate on Wall Street and every indictment you can draw up against me.”

Hastings gave him a strange glance. “Maybe.”

Villiers turned his head and looked at the man. “Maybe,” he said. And then he uttered a harsh, metallic laugh.

The news had leaked, inevitably. Reporters had the Tombs under siege-photographers, radio-TV truck crews, newsmen with microphones and notebooks. Hastings and Burgess led a wedge through to the door. Mason Villiers stared through the crowd, expressionless, while Civetta and Fields threw up their hands in front of their faces. “No pictures please!” A reporter crowded in front of Villiers and shoved a microphone in his face and yelled something; and Villiers said loudly, in a friendly voice, “Fuck yourself, friend,” which ensured that the soundtrack wouldn’t be aired.

They had to lean against the door to close it on the crush of newsmen. Burgess remarked, “I hate the whole breed-there’s not one of them who’d leave a stricken grieving widow alone without flash-bulbing and interrogating her to tears, and then they go ahead and write lies anyway.”

Quint was inside, with the U.S. attorney. One of Burgess’ men read aloud, in a bored monotone, the prisoners’ rights, at the end of which Civetta said loudly, “No talking until we get our lawyers down here. Not a word.”

Hastings all the while watched Villiers, but the tall man never cracked; he acted as if he were in complete control of his fate and looked forward to beating the rap. Burgess growled in Hastings’ ear, “There’ll be an arraignment, and they’ll get bail set, and the Goddamned outcome is murky as hell, tape or no tape. About all I can see is we’ve squashed the raid on NCI.”

“Isn’t that what it’s all about?” Hastings said. He looked at Burgess, and his eyes sparkled and flashed. “There’ll be another raid, Bill. And another one after that. God knows why they call it the securities market.”

After endless red tape and inconsequential talk the two men walked out and stood on the corner of Centre Street, and Burgess said, “It’ll rain soon.”

“You still playing poker Wednesday night?”

“Sure. You gonna be there, Russ?”

“You bet your ass I’ll be there,” Hastings said. “Warn them all to watch out for me, Bill-I’m going to be the Rommel of that poker table from now on.”

“Yeah,” Burgess said absently. “I wonder what’s going on right now inside his head.”

“Villiers?”

“I wonder if he ever thinks about all the people he swindled along the way.”

“Would you?” Hastings asked, and walked away from him. When he turned the corner he was thinking of half a dozen girls’ names and deciding which one to call tomorrow.

He turned uptown, deciding to walk. It was the deserted nadir of a very hot night; he moved north briskly, bright-eyed in a wilted seersucker suit. He remembered Mason Villiers’ cold eyes, which for a moment back there had mesmerized him, leading him to understand how and why Villiers was able to do the things he did; he remembered coming out of that brief entrancement suddenly with the realization that Mason Villiers was, after all, flesh. Not unique; I brought him down, he thought with hard satisfaction.

When you were on a tightrope, you had to walk carefully-but you had to keep walking.

The tiny smile on Hastings’ face hardened suddenly, like a scar, like a trap abruptly sprung.