Ross Thomas - Chinaman’s Chance

Conroy thought about it. Finally, he nodded judiciously. “Yeah, fifty’d be about right.” He was making $16,345 that year.

“Suppose for the first issue you were going to do a story on, say, Pelican Bay,” Durant said. “Where would you start?”

Conroy finished his martini first. Then he held up the glass and looked at Piers. “You think I might have another one of these, Randy?”

“Certainly,” Piers said, and signaled the bartender, who quickly brought a fresh drink over.

“So you wanta know where I’d start, huh?” Conroy said. “Well, I’ll tell you where I’d start. I’d start back at Bowdoin in ’53, that’s where, because that’s when a couple of roommates were voted ‘most brilliant’ and ‘most likely to succeed.’ And you wanta know who those two guys were?”

“Who?” said Durant to keep it going.

“Vince Imperlino and a guy called Reginald Simms, who you probably never heard of. But you know who Imperlino is, right? At least you oughta know,” he said to Piers.

“I know.”

“Well, they got out of college, right? And Imperlino goes into the family business, which I don’t have to spell out for you, and this guy Simms goes into the CIA. And by ’61 they’ve both gone up in the ranks. So some CIA biggie about that time gets the bright idea that maybe somebody oughta slip something into Castro’s toothpaste — curare, maybe — who the fuck knows? Well, it’s just one hell of an idea, but who’s gonna do it? So the really heavy thinkers at the CIA decide to turn it over to some people who lost a lot when Castro took over, and that’s the mob, naturally. Well, now, who in the CIA is buddy-buddy with somebody in the mob? Simms, of course. Hell, he roomed with one of them. So Simms is told to get in touch with his old roomie, and Imperlino gets in touch with two other, older guys, real mob heavies by the name of Sam Consentino and Johnny Francini — you heard of ’em?”

“They’re dead,” Durant said. “Both of them.”

“Yeah, that’s sort of interesting too,” Conroy said, “but I’ll get to that in a minute.”

Artie Wu wasn’t at all sure that Conroy was going to last that long. The reporter’s voice was thick now and his eyes were wearing a bright glaze. But still he went on talking. And drinking.

“Well, the word is that Consentino and Francini tried three or four times, maybe even more, to snuff out Fidel, except it didn’t work out. But the Feds were so grateful anyway that they let both of them off the hook on a couple of tax matters that could’ve put ’em away in Atlanta for ten, maybe even fifteen years.”

“Mr. Conroy?” Wu said.

“Yeah?”

“I think I read most of this in the National Enquirer last week. Or maybe last year.”

“What you’re saying is that it’s not anything new, is that right, Professor?”

“Close, Mr. Conroy. Very close.”

“Well, lemme try this one on you. What would you say if I were to tell you that I’ve got incontruov — incontriv — that I’ve got solid evidence that would place Consentino and Francini in Dallas the same week that Kennedy got killed? What would you say to that, Professor?”

“I would, I think, ask how you happened to come by it.”

Conroy nodded wisely and then leaned over and wiggled a finger under Wu’s nose. “I’ve got certain sources, Professor. But they gotta be protected. You always protect your sources.”

Otherguy Overby, who always liked to get to the heart of any matter, said, “Are you saying these two guys killed Kennedy?”

This time Conroy looked arch, then crafty. “I’m not saying anything. I haven’t heard any firm offers around here yet, so I’m not saying whether they did or not.”

It was time for Piers to go into his buck-and-wing again, and he came on smoothly. “You know, Herb, in a town this size the man who holds down the job we’ve been talking about would be spending a lot of time in his car. Unproductive time. I’ve been thinking that perhaps a limousine with a driver and a phone and tape recorder would be a wise investment — from an efficiency viewpoint, of course. Even perhaps a small bar so the poor guy could relax once in a while. What do you think?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

“But I’m interrupting you,” Piers said. “Why don’t you continue?”

“I’m gonna jump ahead a little bit,” Conroy said. “After Dallas, well, Consentino and Francini couldn’t do anything wrong — not as far as the Feds were concerned. Consentino operated out of Chicago and Francini out of Miami, and they got rich and they got older. In the meantime, Imperlino’s moving up out here on the Coast. Then Watergate happened and all bets were off.”

“What do you mean?” Durant said.

Before Conroy could answer, the waiter started serving the shrimp cocktails. Conroy stared fixedly at his, convinced that one of the shrimp was still alive and wiggling. He picked it up with his fingers and bit it in two. He thought he could still feel it wiggling in his mouth, so he chewed it up and swallowed it. Any appetite he might have had deserted him.

“What do you mean about Watergate?” Durant said.

“I mean that the kid gloves came off. That Consentino and Francini were suddenly the focal point of a whole lot of interesting speculation. You see, almost ten years had gone by since Dallas. The people they’d been tight with in government, well, those people, some of them anyway, had died. Or retired. Or got fired. Instead of being sacred cows, Consentino and Francini had become just so much raw meat. So there they were, almost sixty then and looking forward to retirement, and all of a sudden they’ve got new tax problems, bad ones, and a Senate committee is breathing down their necks. So they decided to take immunity and talk.”

“But they didn’t,” Wu said.

“No, Professor, they didn’t. Before they could, Consentino gets shot in his basement in Chicago and Francini winds up in a fifty-gallon oil drum off Miami Beach.”

“And Imperlino?” Durant said.

“Well, Imperlino was having his own internal problems out here. But after Consentino and Francini aren’t around anymore, Imperlino all of a sudden gets anything he wants — including Pelican Bay. They handed it to him on a platter.”

“Who?” Wu said.

Before Conroy could reply, the waiter took away the shrimp cocktails, which nobody had seemed to want except Otherguy Overby, and started serving the steaks and the rest of the meal. Conroy eyed his steak with near revulsion. Overby watched him carefully. Five minutes, Overby told himself. He’s gonna last about five minutes more. Conroy looked around and focused finally on Piers. “Hey, Randy, you think maybe I might have another small one?”

“Sure,” Piers said, and signaled for another martini, which was brought almost instantaneously.

“Who gave Imperlino Pelican Bay?” Durant said.

“On a silver platter,” Conroy said, and swallowed some of his drink. “That’s how they gave it to him.”

“Who?” Durant said again.

Conroy was having trouble staying upright. He weaved a little in his chair. He peered through his alcoholic fog at Durant. “So guess who he brought in to help him divvy up the pie in Pelican Bay? His old college roomie, that’s who, Reginald Simms, and nobody knows that except me and now maybe you guys.” He turned to Piers. “You ever think of getting a Lear-jet for your magazine? Might be a good idea.”

“Who gave him Pelican Bay?” Piers said.

“I’ll tell you who knew the answer to that and a lot of other questions. I’ll tell you who knew the whole fucking story, even more’n I do. Congressman Ranshaw, that’s who, but the fuckers killed him.” Conroy stared down at his steak and the glistening Bearnaise sauce. It looked warm and comfortable.