Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [72]
“Like being back home,” Pauling said, taking in the rest of the red-white-and-blue decor, including flags from the fifty states.
“A pleasant change,” Lerner said. “My friend named it Tren-Mos for Trenton and Moscow.”
“Very democratic.”
“Yes. I hadn’t thought of it that way. We can talk here. Too wet for the park.”
“Better food, too. I’ve set up a meeting with the guy your banker friend passed to you.”
“Good. When?”
“Tonight. I may put in for combat pay. We’re meeting at a disco. The Red Cat.”
“Disco not your musical cup of tea, Max?”
“You know it’s not. I brought six tapes with me, Ellington, Basie, Ella, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, and a vintage Miles Davis. My desert-island collection. We’re meeting at eleven.”
“Not past your bedtime?”
“Sure it is, but I’ll manage, catch a nap.”
Lerner chuckled. “Ah, yes, a nap. How did you reach this gentleman who’s fond of discotheques?”
“I called the number you gave me before you left, got a woman who thought she spoke English. She gave me another number. He was there.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him the banker suggested I call and that I would appreciate a chance to meet with him in person.”
“Did he balk, ask questions?”
“No, but I had the feeling the banker prepped him that a call would be coming. I’m sure he knows exactly what this is about.”
“I asked Mr. Miziyano for some background on this individual. He said he was a man of honor—”
“Of course.”
“A man of honor who could prove to be helpful in your business venture, provided you could come to terms.”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“That seems to be the asking price. Of course, others will have to be taken care of, too.”
“Like your fat friend.”
“And probably others. That’s not your concern.”
“What do I tell him about the money? Tonight, I mean.”
“That you’ll have to discuss what he has to offer with others.” Lerner smiled. “Your superior.”
“I’d like to give him the sense that I have more authority than that, Bill.”
“I’ve received final authorization for the money. Two hundred thousand. A bargain, actually, especially when you consider money is no object. If they demanded a million, they’d have it—provided their information is correct. You’ll have to make that judgment on the spot, Max. You’ll have the money with you; your discretion whether to turn it over.”
“I somehow don’t think they’ll let me leave without handing it over.”
“It’s out of my hands.”
Translation: You’re on your own, Pauling, no ties to anyone, nothing to fall back on except your own wits and experience in dealing with such people. In a sense, he preferred it that way. He had infinitely more faith in himself than in his employers, as well-meaning as Bill Lerner and the others might be.
“Any more questions?” Lerner asked.
“No.”
“You’ll see Sutherland before you meet.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Ah, our burgers and fries have arrived.” He turned to the waiter: “Ketchup, please.”
When Pauling walked into the Red Cat discotheque, he was engulfed in an orgiastic, undulating phantasmagoria. Music blared from six-foot-high speakers throughout the room, the thundering bass notes coming up from the floor and assaulting his legs like a jackhammer, the deafening, discordant scream of guitars and shrill voices numbing the senses. The vast dance floor was packed with gyrating men and women, mostly young, but with a few Pauling would have assumed had outgrown the disco craze.
This was music? He scanned the room. He’d been told to seek out the club’s manager, who would be at a raised podium on the north side of the club, from which the man could