Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

He handed Ferguson a generous Cutty on the rocks, which the vice-president took, although what he wanted was to toss it in the CEO’s face like they used to do in movies.

Ferguson sank heavily back into his chair and took a long pull at the drink. “I feel sick,” he said weakly.

“You’ll get over it,” Greenwood assured him. “There will be a nice little something in your next paycheck to help calm your nerves.”

Ferguson peered at Greenwood over the rim of the crystal glass. “What if I refuse?”

“Then you’re on the streets with no way to pay your alimony and child support,” Greenwood said quickly in a matter-of-fact tone, as though he were ordering oysters for lunch. “But why would you refuse? You don’t have anything to lose.” Greenwood could see the disbelief in Ferguson’s eyes. “Okay,” he conceded, “let’s do a worst-case scenario. You have to tell this little story, we later wind up in court for whatever reason, and you have to perjure yourself. The judge insists you disclose your sources, you refuse, and you go to jail. There’s some legal limitation about how long a judge can keep a person locked up on a contempt citation, like a year or something, and after that, you’re back here and on the job like nothing ever happened. And while you’re away, the company is paying your alimony and child support, your rent and utility bills, and we’re banking your salary and bonuses for you while you’re boarding at state or federal expense. When you get out, you’ve got a nice little nest egg and a clean slate. That almost makes it worthwhile to go up for a few months, doesn’t it?” Greenwood laughed heartily.

Ferguson didn’t. “You think everything that goes wrong can be fixed with money?” he asked.

“Fixed with money? No,” said Greenwood. “But money buys the means to make the fix. You just have to be quick on your feet.”

And he laughed again.

Later in the afternoon, Greenwood called Washington again. This time he wanted to talk only to Chappy Davis.

“How is Marshall holding together, do you think?” he asked.

“He’s nervous, and why shouldn’t he be? I’m scared to death myself.”

“Are you going to crack on me?”

“Have I ever?”

“No. But you’ve never had your balls exposed this way before.”

“Mine are no more exposed than yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If this ship sinks, all the rats will drown together.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. An honest assessment.”

“Is there a weak link? What about the two from Baltimore?”

“I paid ’em off and they’re history.”

“Their van?”

“Scrapped. They took it to a junkyard and had it crushed. It’s gone.”

“What if somebody made the plates?”

“What if they did? Bonaro registered it in some name he took off a tombstone. Phony address, too. With their payoff, they were going to buy a new truck and see how business is in Chicago. But I paid ’em enough that if business is slow in Chicago, they won’t feel a need to come back here for a good long time. I’ll be sending you the bill today. It’s heavy.”

“I told you that didn’t matter. You’ll get your money. You got any other concerns?”

“Only one. Parkhall.”

“How do you figure him?”

“Terrified. Sachs already had him in on the carpet once. His story is there was a bird in the engine the first time he looked at it, the night of the accident, and he never had any reason to doubt its authenticity. He says they bought it. Since he’s free, I guess they did, at least for the time being. The reporter went out to see him, too. That didn’t help.”

“Ultimately, you know, Parkhall’s the dumb fuck who blew this for us. Doesn’t he have any notion at all how a jet engine works? Jesus, how’d he ever get a job in this business? Why didn’t he put more of the stuff in the flow-through areas? Why didn’t he look for broken fan blades?”

“I asked him. He said he didn’t think of it; he just wanted to be done and get lost.”

“Well, he’s lost, all right.” Greenwood paused. “If he should disappear, does that cut off the trail to the rest of us?”

Davis closed his eyes in despair. He knew what was coming next. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he knew it had to.

“Besides Bonaro and Stock, he’s the only link to the rest of us.”

“Then he’s gotta go.”

“Oh, man,” Davis moaned. “With Bonaro and Stock gone, who’s gonna do it?” He knew the answer before he asked.

“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” Greenwood said.

“Mr. Greenwood, when I started working for you and Senator Marshall, murder wasn’t part of the contract.”

“The only contract we ever had was if you did what we told you to do, nobody would find out about the dead bodies or the drugs or the point-shaving in your past—”

“That was years ago. Nobody’s gonna give a damn today.”

“Is there a statute of limitations on murder one? Even if you’re not charged, what will the allegations do to your bright future in politics? Think about it.”

Davis had thought about it, even as dread of this very phone call weighted him down all day. He knew he wouldn’t say no. Why did he bother to struggle?

“Do it, Chappy,” Greenwood said calmly. “Just do it. Nothing showy. We’re not sending any messages this time. We want Mr. Parkhall to disappear.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Today.”

“I… I’ll try.”

“Call me when it’s over.”

“Yes, sir.”

That night Davis picked up Parkhall at his Virginia apartment on the pretext of going for a drive to talk about how to handle the new direction of the NTSB investigation. Earlier, the Senate aide had gone deep into northeast Washington, to a place where an old friend sold whatever was needed on the streets, and bought a hot .38-caliber snub-nose that he tucked into the back of his waistband. His jacket hid it well.

He and Parkhall drove south, in what apparently was a random direction, for Davis went to great lengths to pretend he wasn’t paying attention to where they were going. At one point, Parkhall asked why they were going so far, and Davis acted startled, saying he wasn’t even sure where they were. But he knew. They were in the upper Tidewater area, a place of bogs and swamps and poverty. Davis pulled onto a dirt road and stopped.

“I think we’re going to have to double back to get home,” he said. “But I’ve got to take a leak. How about you?”

“Not really,” Parkhall said.

“Well, do me a favor and try, okay? I don’t want to have to stop again on the way back. It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” Parkhall agreed.

They groped their way to neighboring trees, and while Parkhall had his pants open, concentrating on not splashing himself, Davis walked up behind him and put two bullets in his head. He pulled a small flashlight out of his jacket pocket and hoisted the dead body under the armpits. He cursed himself for not remembering he would be walking backward at this point, but by twisting his upper body around and holding the flashlight so it shone behind him, he was able to reach one of the mud bogs his mother always warned him not to get close to when he was a kid growing up around here. The bogs were graves for hapless animals, and probably for a few people, too, who fell into them accidentally and couldn’t get out before they were sucked into oblivion. He watched until Parkhall’s body disappeared completely, then threw the hot .38 in after him and started walking slowly back to his car.

He stopped halfway, at the same tree where Parkhall peed and died, to be sick.