“No way,” Howard said again. “There’s just no way.”
“You’re right,” I said tentatively, making Howard turn and look at me. “It makes no sense that a former president of the United States would be phoning someone like Thomas and using him for the CIA. It’s ridiculous. You’re absolutely right.”
Howard could tell I was going someplace with this, so he waited.
“I mean, you’ve seen what Thomas can do. He has an extraordinary talent. But at the same time, his view of reality is sometimes at odds with what the rest of us believe. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was much younger.”
Thomas gave me a disdainful look that said, That doesn’t mean I’m not right.
I continued, “I mean, this whole thing about all the maps disappearing, and black ops. It’s kind of over the top. But let’s say you have someone with a tremendous gift, but who also tends to believe in grandiose conspiracies, who believes that very powerful people are interested in what he has to offer. Do you call him up and say, ‘Hi, this is Joe Blow. I wonder if you could do a little snooping around for me?’ Or do you call him up and say, ‘Hi, I used to be president of the United States, and I need your help.’”
Howard studied me for several seconds. “What are you saying?”
“Okay, I’m gonna come clean here. I’m saying that my brother’s not doing work for the CIA, or the FBI, or Bill Clinton, or Franklin Delano Roosevelt. But he is, unknowingly,” and at this point I looked apologetically at Thomas, “helping Carlo Vachon.”
“Who?” Thomas asked.
“Vachon?” Lewis said. “The mob guy?”
Even Nicole, who had been doing her best to look disinterested in the proceedings, perked up at that.
“A mob guy?” Thomas said.
“And,” I continued, “they value Thomas so much, and keep such close tabs on him, there’s a very good chance his people are watching this place right now.”
SIXTY-ONE
“PREPOSTEROUS,” Howard said. “That’s simply preposterous.”
“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” Lewis said, shaking his hand at Howard. “When I was checking this guy out”—and he nodded at me—“I came across one of his drawings, his illustrations, you call them. Of Carlo Vachon.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I did it for a magazine, and he liked it so much, he wanted to buy it.”
“It wasn’t a flattering portrait,” Lewis said. “You had him sticking up the Statue of Liberty.”
“Mob guys love that kind of thing,” I said. “It’s like politicians. Even when you do a cartoon savaging them, they want the original framed on their wall. Better that kind of attention than none at all.”
“I still don’t believe it,” Howard said.
“I didn’t want to take any money for it—not that he offered, since I think he was expecting it for nothing. But when we said he could have it, he invited me to lunch.”
“You had lunch with Carlo Vachon,” Howard said.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
Think fast. “The Tribeca Grand.” Where Jeremy and I had met with Kathleen Ford.
“What did you have?” Howard asked.
Don’t try to lie any more than you have to.
“I have no idea. I was scared shitless and remember almost nothing.” I paused. “I drank a lot. But he asked me about my family, and I got to talking about my brother, and what he does, and Vachon became very, very interested.”
Howard didn’t say anything this time. He waited.
But Thomas jumped in. “You never told me about this. When did this happen?”
“Just hang on.” To Howard, I said, “Vachon didn’t care all that much about the rest of the world, but having a guy who knew New York City with his eyes closed, who could remember every street detail, he said he could use someone like that. For some of the same reasons Thomas mentioned, like if you have an agent on the run. Except it’s not agents. It’s people working for Vachon.”
“I’m not happy about this, Ray,” Thomas said. “You should have told me about this.”
“He’s not an easy guy to say no to,” I said. “You know how many murders are tied to the Vachon family? You think I was going to tell a guy like that to get stuffed?”
Howard and Lewis were exchanging looks, wondering whether to believe this crock of shit. The good thing was, it seemed to be buying me some time. Time for what, I didn’t know. But we weren’t dead yet, and that was definitely a plus. I wondered what efforts, if any, were being made to find us. Julie had been intending to come back to the house. What would she have done when she found the house empty, no sign of us, the car still in the driveway?