The next day Nick was whistling C’est fume, C’est fume in the midst of restoring his office after its deconstruction by the FBI when Gazelle stuck in her head and in her now customary paranoid whisper hissed: "Nick, FBI"
"Show them right in," he said.
It was agents Monmaney and Allman. They clearly felt that they could dispense with the usual opening pleasantries now that Nick's ass belonged to them.
"Did you leave the city yesterday?" Monmaney barked.
"What," Nick said, going on with his cleanup, "and violate the terms of my bail?"
"You got into a cab outside this office. The driver drove evasively, breaking several traffic laws. For which he has been detained. And questioned."
"Picking on Muslims again, eh?"
Agent Monmaney clenched his fists.
"I'd say he drove quite normally, for a District cab driver."
"He says you told him that we planted something in his trunk."
"Well, you'll have noticed that his English is a little rough. He must have misunderstood me. I did ask him if he ever kept plants in his trunk."
"You're cocky this morning, Nick," Agent Allman said. "Yes, I am," Nick grinned. "I feel much better." "You bought a ticket to Winston-Salem, North Carolina." "I did?"
"You want to add perjury to the list? You put it on your air travel card. We have the receipt. And you stayed at the Motel Eight in Winston-Salem. We have that receipt, too."
"Aha."
"What's that mean?"
"I lost my wallet yesterday. Someone must have used my credit cards to fly to Winston-Salem. I must say, odd choice for a travel destination. I'd have gone to someplace more fun. I only noticed it missing this morning. I called them in stolen." He smiled. "You'll be able to verify that."
"Slick, Nick. By the way, everything you say will be used against you."
"Are we under arrest again?"
"No," Agent Monmaney said. "For the time being."
"You know," Nick said, "I understand how you guys feel about me. But for what it's worth, I didn't kidnap myself. And you're going to find out that I didn't. So when you do, let's all have a drink together and say, Fuck was all that about?"
They regarded Nick dubiously. "You're expecting good news?"
"Oh yes," Nick said. "Very."
"Does it have anything to do with your visit to Winston-Salem?" "Don't recall I said I was in Winston-Salem." "Let's go," Agent Allman said.
"Say," Nick said, "why don't you let Akmal go. You can't blame him for being spooked. You guys have been kind of tough on those poor Muslims."
"Come on," Allman said to Monmaney.
"Ta ta," Nick said.
"Asshole," Monmaney said on the way out.
The visit by the Untouchables, along with his decision not to accept the Captain's hush money, had Nick's mood rising like a souffle. He couldn't wait for the Captain. He walked to BR's office and, once again ignoring his secretary's remonstrations, went in. Jeannette was with him.
"Ah," Nick said, "teamwork. That's what it's all about, isn't it." BR scowled. "What do you want, Nick? You're not even supposed to be here."
"But I work here."
"You're on leave. Effective as of now."
"No," Nick smiled, "I don't think so. But I think you're about to go on a long leave. And so is Mata Hari over there. Don't forget your rubbers, Jeannette."
Jeannette said, "You can't prove a th—"
BR shushed her, indicating by pantomime that Nick might be wearing a wire. It was so deft that Nick wondered if this was the first time he'd performed it.
Nick wagged his finger at Jeannette. " 'Ooh, Nick, ooh. Here, take the condoms. I got the extra large. ' That'll make for fun in the courtroom. As for you, my wonderful, supportive boss, clear something up for me. I couldn't figure out why your rent-a-kidnappers let me live. But it occurred to me that maybe they screwed up. Am I getting warm?"
BR stared.
"So you and your dominatrix girlfriend cooked up the condoms-in-the-NicArrest-boxes scheme? Very neat."
"Nick," BR said in a forbearing voice, "you've been under a lot of stress. I think you ought to get some professional help."
"Yes," Nick said. "I have been under a great deal of stress. YOU ASSHOLES!!!"
BR and Jeannette started.
"Sorry," Nick said. "Stress. Well, see you round Cellblock C."
Nick closed the door behind him feeling much better. When he reached his office, Gazelle was sitting at her desk looking particularly woeful.
"Cheer up," said Nick. "Things are going our way." "You didn't hear?" "Hear what?"
"The Captain died this morning."
"What I don't understand," Carlinsky said, "is why you didn't tell me this before."
"I didn't know it before. And would you please stop saying that. It's very annoying."
"So, as you see it, BR had you kidnapped. The kidnapping failed.
Then he and Jeannette framed you by contriving to get your prints on the boxes of what you thought, in the dark, were condoms, but were actually the nicotine patch boxes." "Right."
"You don't have any proof."
"No," Nick said, "I don't keep a video camera in my bedroom." "And you shared this scenario with Mr. Boykin the night before he died."
"Yes. He was going to fire BR and Jeannette and then. " "Don't hold back, please. It's very counterproductive." "He's dead. Why does it matter what he was going to do?" "Everything matters."
"He asked me to consider taking the fall, in order to spare the industry massive embarrassment. In return for which I'd be extremely well compensated. I decided I wasn't going to do that, and fight it all the way. Then he died."
"Was this conversation recorded?"
"No."
"Too bad. Not that it would have been admissible, but we could have gotten it into the press's hands. It would have caused such an uproar that it would have made it very difficult to empanel a jury. And we'd have ended up with a dumber one. You'll have gathered by now that I like a dumb jury. Dumber the better. Now, as to this matter of Mr. Boykin suggesting that BR may have had something to do with these tobacco liability litigants' deaths by smoke inhalation, that," he said, puckering, "is a very full can of worms."
"Yes. Nightcrawlers."
"Though again, we have no evidence."
"So, we'll start an investigation into their deaths," Nick said. "We'll feed the press, shake the bushes, the trees. Something'll drop out of them. It'll be great." Nick rubbed his hands together.
"Perhaps. But before we go pointing fingers at high places, you need to consider. It is a high-risk defense strategy. Because if there isn't something, and we've gone trampling on graves, alleging conspiracies that even Oliver Stone would reject, then we'll end up making everyone extremely mad, especially the judge, and you might end up serving a longer stretch of time than even the maximum. At sentencing time, he can decide to make you serve the term for each count consecutively, rather than simultaneously. He can also send you to a maximum security prison. And I'm not sure that's an experience you would enjoy. Of course, that's your decision. Myself, I like a good courtroom dust-up. But it's your ass, not mine. As it were."
Nick was considering all this, to the sound of steel doors clanging shut in his ears, when Carlinsky's secretary came over the speaker. "It's Mr. Rohrabacher, from the Academy of Tobacco Studies. He says it's extremely urgent. I told him you were with a client."
Carlinsky said to Nick, "I guess I should take that."
He picked up the phone. "Yes. Yes. Yes, he is here. I see. Have you told him? I see." He looked at Nick and arched his eyebrows. "Yes. All? Well, yes. We handle those. Of course. We're a large firm. I see. Let me speak with the managing partners and I'll have an answer for you by the end of the day."
Carlinsky hung up. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid this is awkward. I'm informed that you are no longer with the Academy of Tobacco Studies."
This was a common phenomenon in Washington, finding out from a third party that you've just been fired. Usually, you hear about it on CNN, or over the phone from a reporter calling to confirm that the locks on your office were changed while you were out picking up your dry cleaning. Nick was not all that surprised, especially after receiving the frosty interoffice memo from BR informing him that he was not welcome at the Captain's funeral.
"Well, to hell with him. Let's fight him."
Carlinsky pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. "That might be awkward."
"I know you're expensive. But I'm sure we can work something out. You can attach my salary for the rest of my life." "It's not that. It's a conflict of interest." "What conflict of interest?"
"I can't defend one client by pitting him against another client." "What 'another' client?"
"Our firm has just been asked to become legal counsel to the Academy of Tobacco Studies." "You mean, just now?"
"Yes. Obviously, having the Academy of Tobacco Studies as a client would mean a considerable amount of business. What with all these smokers suing. But I guess I don't need to tell you that, do I?"
"No," Nick said, "you don't."
"If it were just my decision, it would be one thing. But I have a fiduciary responsibility to report the offer to the partners. On the other hand, who knows. Perhaps they'll decline."
"What I don't understand," Nick said, "is why you didn't tell me you were such a dick before."
"I assumed you knew," Carlinsky said.
Nick stepped off the elevators into the Academy's reception area. Carlton was waiting for him.
"Nicky," he said, blushing. "Could I have a word with you?"
"Okay," Nick said. "We can talk in my office."
"Uh, that's what I need to talk with you about." Carlton was whispering. "BR said — gee, Nicky, I feel like a real asshole having to tell you this."
"I think we're all feeling like that these days, Carlton." "Yeah. Do you want me to bring your stuff to your apartment, or.?"
"That would be fine. Do I get to say good-bye to people, or is this a Stalin thing, where I just disappear without a trace?" Carlton blushed again. "If it was me. "
Jeannette clicked by, looking very smart in suede. "Nick," she smiled. "Just leaving?" She looked at Carlton. "I told you I wanted those budget numbers now." She turned and walked off in the direction of BR's office.
Carlton said, "Our new executive VP. What a fuckin' headache, huh?"
Tobacco Lobby Fires Nick Naylor
Rohrabacher Says He Is "Shocked" By the FBI's Evidence Against Him
BY HEATHER HOLLOWAY MOON CORRESPONDENT
The Mod Squad was no longer meeting at Bert's, but in a dark corner of the Serbian Prince restaurant in suburban Virginia. They deemed this a safe bet, since not many people went to Serbian restaurants anymore. It was so empty, in fact, that they wondered how it managed to stay open. Bobby Jay said that it was obviously a front for Serbian arms merchants. In any event, it was a suitable milieu for the Merchants of Death, for two reasons. The press wasn't likely to find them here; nor were the Muslims. The FBI, seeking revenge for Nick's escape in the taxi, seemed to have convinced Akmal that Nick was an agent provocateur working for the Israelis, and had provided him with his phone number, address, mother's maiden name, everything. What space was left on Nick's answering machine tape after all the calls from reporters was taken up with abuse and threats from a number of people with Middle Eastern accents.
"They cut off my medical insurance," Nick said into his black coffee. "Do you know how hard it is to get medical insurance when your previous place of employment was the Academy of Tobacco Studies?"
"Do you need health insurance if you're a federal prisoner?" Polly said. Polly, herself fleeing reporters, was in elegant mufti, sunglasses, and shawl. She looked like a cross between Jackie O and Mother Russia. And with the sunglasses, in this dark, she kept knocking things over.
"No," Bobby Jay said, stirring his coffee with his hook. "Prisons have their own doctors. Naturally, they're very highly qualified, all from Ivy League medical schools."
"Could we not talk about this," Nick said morosely.
"I'm sure it won't come to that," Polly said, touching his arm.
"That's what everyone's been telling me. Like, I might get really lucky and end up on a converted military base in a desert for ten years. It's a very consoling thought."
"Sounds a whole lot better to me than Lorton," Bobby Jay snorted. Lorton was the prison in Virginia where they sent the overflow hard cases from the D.C. jails. It enjoyed a reputation as a not particularly nourishing environment, especially for inmates of the Caucasian persuasion.
"You're not going to Lorton," Nick said, annoyed by the attempt at one-downmanship. "You're a handicapped Vietnam vet, it's a first offense. You'll get six months, suspended. So please, spare me the Ballad of Reading Gaol."
"Oh yeah? Then how come the lawyers tell me the prosecutor is just itching to put me away? First, I'm white, secondly, I work for the most hated lobby in America—"
"Whoa. The gun lobby is not the 'most hated lobby in America.' Do I need to remind you that I am personally responsible for the deaths of over half a million people each year, whereas you are barely responsible for thirty thousand—"
"Oh, Jesus," Polly said.
"I'm sorry," said Nick. "I'm not in a good mood right now." "How odd," Polly said.
"The Captain's funeral is tomorrow. I've been told in no uncertain terms that I'm not welcome. And guess who's giving the eulogy." He shook his head. "BR."
As the sweat pooled inside his fake beard and fake nose, Nick reflected that it was a good thing the Captain had asked to be buried up in Roaring Gap, where it was a little less infernally hot than Winston-Salem. It was sweltering inside the Baptist church, and jam-packed. Nick's rubber nose felt like it was going to drop off and the pinched, elderly woman sitting next to him was already looking at him strangely.
There were reporters in the back, some from the national press. The Captain's passing, amidst the kidnapping scandal, was being played as The End of an Era.
whither tobacco?
BR had just taken the pulpit.
"Doak Boykin," he began, "strode the world of tobacco like the colossus he was. He would give you the shirt off his back. He was, truly, the salt of the earth."
God, who'd written this swill for him? (Jeannette.) Vilified in his autumnal yean, his heart patched with parts from barnyard swine, and now eulogized by a Judas with a fondness for cliches. The man deserved better, even if he was a mass murderer.
"He was a man who believed in the Constitution of the United States of America, especially the parts about individual liberties and the right to the pursuit of happiness."
That was in the Declaration of Independence, but never mind.
"I think everyone gathered here would agree that, these days, it takes courage to stand up to the politically correct and the sanctimonious, who are trying to destroy a perfectly legal American product."
A deft bit of self-praise. Murmurs of approval.
"And the Captain had that kind of courage, in spades. I also know that many of you agree that he would have been saddened by the recent events in our own backyard. If there was a silver lining to his far too premature parting, it was this — that he will not have to endure the slings and arrows of misfortune that his misguided, overambitious, and perhaps mentally ill protege has brought down on our house."
The entire tobacco establishment, the heads of the Big Six — his new peers, now that he had completed his climb up from the world of vending machines — were all sitting in the front pews. And now he was distancing himself from Nick by making it clear that he had been the Captain's Frankenstein monster.
"Suh? Suh?"
It was the woman next to him, hissing: "Would you mind not growlin'? And there is something very wrong with your nose."
The Captain had been cremated — a brave choice, Nick thought, for a tobacco man; the press would have a good snigger over that— and his ashes scattered at the lake, from where he'd called Nick many times on his cellular while casting for one of the big ones.
The crowd along the shore for the scattering was deep, but Nick, being tall, was able to see from the rear. The Captain's family were all standing on the wooden pier: his wife Maylene and seven daughters, Andy, Tommie, Bobbie, Chris, Donnie, Scotty, and Dave, all in hats and dabbing at their eyes with lace hankies. The Captain's ashes were in a large silver cigarette box, a nice touch.
The minister, a squat, pink man in robes, read what the program said had been the Captain's favorite Old Testament passage.
"And Nahar did go unto the place of Gunt, who had been unrighteous and split the tongue of Nahar's brother, Rehab, with a rock. And he did say to him, 'Thou boil and pestilence,' and did strike a flint on the rock, which madeth a spark, with the which he set fire to the hem of Gunt's tunic, and Gunt did flee, quickly, out of the land, for he was on fire. And Nahar said to his brother, Rehab, 'Now thou seeest that smoke and fire are good and have their purpose. And Rehab sayest, 'Yeth.' "
"A-men," said the assembled.
"And now," the minister said, "we commit his ashes to the deep.."
The man standing next to Nick said to his wife, "Ain't but four foot deep theah."
"Hush," his wife said.
". where they await in hopes of eternal resurrection. "
As he spoke, the silver cigarette box with the Captain's ashes was passed from daughter to daughter, who each spooned out a little bit of old dad into the lake and passed it on to the next. It was very touching.
Nick felt a firm, gripping hand on his bicep. He spun around and saw a sheriffs deputy, young, meaty, and with a big semi-auto pistol handle protruding from its holster. Over the cop's shoulder, Nick saw the pinched, elderly woman pointing out Nick to someone.
"You Nick Naylor?"
"Uh. "
"Sir, we have been advised by the FBI to take you into custody. Would you come with me?" He tugged.
Shit, thought Nick,
disgraced protege arrested at mentor's funeral; new charge is added to list: bail violation.
He followed, awaiting the now-familiar snap of steel around his wrists.
Suddenly a man was at their side.
"Officer," he said in a commanding voice. He flashed a badge. "Raleigh FBI. Good work, deputy. I'll take it from here."
The deputy beamed and relaxed his grip, releasing Nick into the custody of — Gomez O'Neal.