Frenchy's mood was peculiar: he had no doubts, no qualms, and he felt, at least superficially, good, even well. But he was aware that he'd crossed some kind of divide and that it really was tricky on this side. He needed to maneuver very carefully here, and keep his goal in mind, and not get hung up. He had to get out of here with something other than just his skin: he had to get something positive, something that would take him where he wanted to go.
At the same time, though he didn't feel it, a pain lurked somewhere. It left traces, like tracks in the snow, as now and then odd images floated up out of nowhere to assail him: how Earl had saved his life when he fell forward into Carlo's line of fire during the training, the rage he felt when he wasn't named first man on the entry team, the oddest sense of happiness and belonging he'd begun to enjoy on the raid team. It was so strange.
This time, Owney was more respectful and less suspicious. He seemed like a colleague. He sat at the desk smoking a cigar and the Irishman sat at his side. Frenchy could see a Life magazine article with D. A.'s picture in it and a newspaper clipping of Earl. Drinks were offered, twelve-year-old Scotch whiskey. Frenchy took a cigar and lit it up.
'It checks out, old man,' said Owney, who had suddenly transformed himself into a stage Englishman. 'But the problem, my new friend, is that it's not enough. Most important: where are they? Second most important: how can we get at them?'
'Oh, I've got that all figured out,' s*rid Frenchy, taking a big draft on the cigar, then chasing it with just a touch of the old, mellow Scotch. 'I've designed something that's really sharp. I mean, really sharp.' He raised his eyebrows to emphasize the point.
'Hadn't you best ask the lad his price, Owney?' asked the wise Irishman. 'If it's cream he's givin' you, it's cream he'll want in return.'
'What do you want, old man? Money? Filthy lucre? Judas got his thirty pieces, how many pieces do you want?'
'Money?' said Frenchy. 'You're making me laugh, Mr. Maddox. You have me confused with a greedy little schemer who wants to buy a new Ford coupe. I am beyond money.'
'That makes him truly dangerous,' said the Irishman. 'He's bloody Michael Collins.'
Frenchy leaned forward.
'I've done my homework. I know how big you were in NewYork.'
'True enough, Owney was the tops,' said the Irishman.
'You still know people back there. I mean, big people. Judges, attorneys, bankers. You know them or you know people who know them. People with influence.'
Frenchy's blazing ambition filled the room. Or was it his despair or his courage? Whatever, it was almost a little frightening. He leaned forward even further, fixing the two of them with eyes so hot they unsettled. The two gangsters felt the power of his will and his inability to accept that he couldn't get what he wanted.
'I want you to get me a job with the government.'
'Jesus,' said the Irishman. 'I'm thinking the boy wants to be an FBI agent! We should shoot him now.'
'No,' said Frenchy. 'Not at all, not the FBI. It's called the Office of Strategic Services. It's the spies. It's very tony, very Harvard, very old law firm, very ancient brokerage. Most of the people who work for it went to the same schools and they sit and drink in the same clubs. They're special, gifted, important men, who secredy rim the country. They're above the law. You think you're important? You think you're big? Ha! You only exist because you fiilfill some purpose of theirs. You supply a need and so they let you survive. They answer to no one except their own cold conscience. They are the country, in a way. I want to be one of them. I have to be one of them.'
'Jesus, Johnny,' said Owney. 'The boy wants to be a spy.'
'You can do it. Earl and D. A. couldn't do it, because they're nothing in the East and no matter how great they are, nobody out East would notice or care. It's a club thing. You have to get into the club. I know you know people. I know you could make three phone calls and I've suddenly got someone going to bat for me. That's what I want.'
'I could make a phone call.'
'To an important man.'
'I could make a phone call to an important man.'
'He could go to bat for me. He could make them hire me. He could tell them?'
'Yeah, yeah,' said Owney. 'Wouldn't be easy, but it could be done. Your record, it's okay?'
'If you look close, it's spotty. But from a distance it looks good. Right schools, that sort of thing.'
'So, what are you going to give me?'
'Okay,' said Frenchy, taking a draft on a cigar. 'I'll tell you how to get them.'
'We're all ears, boyo,' said the Irishman.
'You have to have good men, though.'
'We have five of the best,' said the Irishman.
'And you'd be one of them, Mr. Spanish,' said Frenchy. 'Or should I say Mr. John St. Jerome Aloysius O'Malley, armed robber extraordinaire, called Spanish for the olive cast to his skin. As I say, I do my homework.'
He sat back, beaming.
'Ain't he the smart one/' said Johnny. 'A sly boyo, misses not a thing, that one.'
'Kid, you're impressing me. You are making me happy. Now make me happier.'
'I'm going to make you unhappier. They know where the Central Book is. Right now, they're trying to figure out how to hit it. So you don't have a lot of time.'
This was Frenchy's specialty, as it turned out. He had a gift for conspiracy, but under that, and far more important, he had a gift for conviction. It was an almost autistic talent, to read people in a flash and understand how to beguile them along certain lines. He knew he had them now, and he even had a moment's pleasure when he realized he could play it either way: he could set these guys up for Earl or he could set up Earl for these guys. Any way he came out on top! It was so cool! He held his own life in his hands; he could do anything.
'How did they find it?'
'They didn't,' said Frenchy. 'They're not smart enough. I found it for them.'
He quickly narrated his adventures at the phone company on Prospect Avenue.
'Fuck!' said Owney, devolving to East Side hoodlum. 'That fucking Mel Parsons! I knew he was no good! I'll get that changed right away!'
'Barn door and all the animals fled, sport,' said Johnny Spanish. 'listen to the boy here. He's smart, he's got some talent. See what he's got to offer.'
'Okay,' said Frenchy. 'D. A. had us quartered at the Lake Catherine dam, in the pump house.'
'Fuck!' said Owney, this elemental truth right under his nose at last revealed.
'But he won't go back there. He's smart. When he goes operational again, he'll find some other place. You'll never find it. And even if you do, what are you going to do? Go in with a thousand Grumleys, kill everybody? There'd be a huge stink, the governor would have to call out the National Guard. What does that get you?'
'Go ahead, sonny,' said Johnny.
'So you have to ambush them. But you've got to do it in such a way that when they're finished, it's not going to be a scandal. It's going to be a joke.'
'You have the floor, kid. Keep talking.'
'What would be a temptation they couldn't resist? That Becker couldn't resist?'
'Now, see, Johnny was talking about that today too. You guys sure you ain't related?'
'Possibly his lordship's triple-great-grandfather fucked me triple-great-grandmother the scullery maid in her bog cottage in County Mayo in 1653,' said Johnny.
'I don't think we ever had any Irish servants,' said Frenchy, completely seriously. 'Anyway, here it is: the Great Train Robbery.'
There was a quiet moment. The two men looked at each other.
'Yeah, I thought so,' said Frenchy. 'That was the biggest thing that ever happened here. October 2, 1940. Five men take out the Alcoa payroll, kill four railway guards and get away clean with several million dollars. In the Hot Springs yard! Big news! Great job! It's even said that a certain Owney Maddox built the biggest casino in the world in 1941 on the proceeds of that job. It's also said that the great Johnny Spanish, the world's smartest armed robber, masterminded the job.'
