although he secretly despised the less than attractive Kershman — provide the service himself when Kershman so desired.
The protective shell provided by DeLaroza had done Its job. Kershman had become a pathologically private man, terrified by normal social situations. He had no close friends and seemed irresistibly drawn to the sordid side of life. His need to occasionally escape the cocoon was fulfilled by playing fantasy roles. He cultivated bizarre relationships, subtly exploiting them in order to bolster a veneer of superiority that covered a battered and confused self-image. One was an alcoholic veterinarian who worked for the humane society. Kershman frequently visited him on those days set aside for the extermination of unwanted animals. Kershman often achieved orgasms watching the puppies and kittens in the final spasms of death. Another was a self-defeated police detective to whom Kershman represented himself as a journalist for several foreign news agencies so he could accompany the policeman on assignments or buy him lunch and listen to the gruesome details of some particularly shocking police case.
Kershman had just poured a cup of tea when the red light near his phone began blinking. It meant that DeLaroza wanted him. He picked up the receiver and punched 0. DeLaroza answered immediately.
‘Can you come up here right away, Dr. Kershman?’ he said softly.
‘Of course,’ Kershman answered. He went into the console room and unlocked the private elevator to DeLaroza’s office. He punched out an intricate code in a hidden keyboard and the car rose two storeys.
DeLaroza was seated behind his desk pondering over an open briefcase.
He nodded and handed Kershman the cassette from the meeting with Hotchins. ‘Add this to Gwai-lo,’ he said.
‘Right away.’
‘Are you totally current with the laws regarding political contributions?’ DeLaroza asked.
‘Of course, sir. The full disclosure laws,..’
‘I don’t care for a review,’ DeLaroza said, ‘just make sure that everything we do with the Gwai-lo file from now on will stand the most rigid investigation.’
‘I’ve always been extremely careful on that file,’ Kershman answered.
‘1 want to move five million dollars into the campaign account. We’ll start with a million. I’d like it in today if that’s possible. The rest of the money will be made available to you during the next ten days or so in cash from my personal accounts.’ He shoved the briefcase across the desk. ‘Here is the first million. Any problems?’
‘No, sir. I would suggest we make them all personal contributions. Keep them low, no more than fifty thousand per individual, range from thirty to fifty I would say. We can backdate the contributions arid arrange for Jefferson Trust to loan this million, using the pledges as security. That way it will not appear as if all the contributions were made in a short period of time. I’ll rearrange the accounts and —‘
‘Doctor.’
we can reimburse with bonuses spread out over—’ ‘Dr. Kershman?’
Kershman, who bad been momentarily entranced by his evaluation of the ploy, stopped. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m not interested in how. I assume you know exactly how to handle that. Just keep me informed on the progress. I would like to know which of our people we are going to use, so I can brief them personally.’
‘Right.’
‘I think that should do it,’ DeLaroza said.
‘May I ask, sir,’ Kershman said, ‘are we going to move on the final phase of the Gwai-lo project?’
‘Yes. The cassette is self-explanatory. I may add some personal notes to the file later today.’
‘Well,’ Kershman said, his thick lips rolling back in a fat smile, ‘may I say I am delighted?’
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’ DeLaroza said. ‘Yes sir. I was hoping it would be this election.’ DeLaroza smiled and leaned back in his chair. Not even Kershman knew that he had been planning this move for more than sixteen years. He felt a sudden surge of excitement. His fingertips tingled.
‘He’s ready,’ DeLaroza said. ‘He’ll never be readier.’
Chapter Six
‘Jesus,’ Friscoe bellowed as he swept debris into one corner of his desk, shoving into a single disordered pile case reports, tile folders, bits of paper, a half-eaten Swiss cheese on rye and a cardboard container of coffee with what looked like penicillin floating on top. ‘I wish to hell we could get the goddamn clean-up committee down here. What we got here is the makings of a bubonic plague.’
He was stringing a reel of tape on the Sony which now sat on the cleared space on his desk.
‘What we got, Sharky, is about two hours of phone taps here, spread over about three, four weeks. It’s all legal — Judge Alvers gave us the flag. Now before we get into this good I want you to listen to this take just so’s you’ll get an idea of the range of this little operation. We got each take tagged on front, so you’ll know who, what, and where. The rest, it speaks for itself.’
He turned on the switch and adjusted the volume. The tape hissed for a moment and then Livingston’s voice came
on.
LIVINGSTON: This tape is PC-1, a recording of a telephone conversation between the subject, Tiffany Paris, made from the phone in her apartment, Suite 4-A, the Courtyard Apartments, 3381 Peachtree Street, Northwest, November 22, 1975, one-ten P.M., and two male callers, the first identified as Neil, n.l.n., and the second Freddie, n.l.n., also referred to as Freaky Freddie.
Click.
