21

Morris Panov sat listlessly in a chair by a window looking out over the pasture of a farm somewhere, he assumed, in Maryland. He was in a small second-floor bedroom dressed in a hospital nightshirt, his bare right arm confirming the story he knew only too well. He had been drugged repeatedly, taken up to the moon, in the parlance of those who usually administered such narcotics. He had been mentally raped, his mind penetrated, violated, his innermost thoughts and secrets brought chemically to the surface and exposed.

The damage he had done was incalculable, he understood that; what he did not understand was why he was still alive. Even more perplexing was why he was being treated so deferentially. Why was his guard with the foolish black mask so courteous, the food plentiful and decent? It was as if the present imperative of his captivity was to restore his strength-profoundly sapped by the drugs-and make him as comfortable as possible under the extraordinarily difficult circumstances. Why?

The door opened and his masked guard walked in, a short heavyset man with a rasping voice Panov placed somewhere in the northeastern United States or possibly Chicago. In another situation he might have appeared comic, his large head too massive for the asinine Lone Ranger eye-covering, which would certainly not impede instant identification. However, in the current state of affairs, he was not comic at all; his obsequiousness was in itself menacing. Over his left arm were the psychiatrist's clothes.

"Okay, Doc, you gotta get dressed. I made sure everything was cleaned and pressed, even the undershorts. How about that?"

"You mean you have your own laundry and dry cleaners out here?"

"Fuck no, we take 'em over to– Oh, no, you don't get me that way, Doc!" The guard grinned with slightly yellowed teeth. "Pretty smart, huh? You figure I'll tell you where we are, huh?"

"I was simply curious."

"Yeah, sure. Like I got a nephew, my sister's kid, who's always 'simply curious,' askin' me questions I don't wanna answer. Like, 'Hey, Unc, how'd you put me through medical school, huh?' Yeah! He's a doctor, like you, what do you think of that?"

"I'd say his mother's brother is a very generous person."

"Yeah, well, wadda you gonna do, huh? ... Come on, put on the threads, Doc, we're going on a little trip." The guard handed Mo his clothes.

"I suppose it would be foolish to ask where," said Panov, getting out of the chair, removing his hospital nightshirt and putting on his shorts.

"Very foolish."

"I hope not as foolish as your nephew not telling you about a symptom you have that I'd find somewhat alarming if I were you." Mo casually pulled up his trousers.

"Wadda you talkin'?"

"Perhaps nothing," replied Panov, putting on his shirt and sitting down to pull up his socks. "When did you last see your nephew?"

"A couple of weeks ago. I put in some bread to cover his insurance. Shit, those mothers are bleeders! ... Wadda you mean when did I last see the prick?"

"I just wondered if he said anything to you."

"About what?"

"About your mouth." Mo laced his shoes and gestured with his head. "There's a mirror over the bureau, go take a look."

"At what?" The capo subordinato walked quickly to the mirror.

"Smile."

"At what?"

"Yourself. ... See the yellow on your teeth, the fading red of your gums and how the gums recede the higher they go?"

"So? They always been like that-"

"It might be. nothing, but he should have spotted it."

"Spotted what, for Christ's sake?"

"Oral ameloblastoma. Possibly."

"What the hell is that? I don't brush too good and I don't like dentists. They're butchers!"

"You mean you haven't seen a dentist or an oral surgeon in quite a while?"

"So?" The capo bared his teeth again in front of the mirror.

"That could explain why your nephew didn't say anything."

"Why?"

"He probably figures you have regular dental checkups, so let those people explain it to you." Shoes tied, Panov stood up.

"I don't getcha."

"Well, he's grateful for everything you've done for him, appreciative of your generosity. I can understand why he'd hesitate telling you."

"Telling me what?" The guard spun away from the mirror.

"I could be wrong but you really ought to see a periodontist." Mo put on his jacket. "I'm ready," he said. "What do we do now?"

The capo subordinato, his eyes squinting, his forehead creased in ignorance and suspicion, reached into his pocket and pulled out a large black kerchief. "Sorry, Doc, but I gotta blindfold you."

"Is that so you can put a bullet in my head when, mercifully, I don't know it's going to happen?"

"No, Doctor. No bam-bam for you. You're too valuable."

"Valuable?" asked the capo supremo rhetorically in his opulent living room in Brooklyn Heights. "Like a gold mine just popped out of the ground and landed in your minestrone. This Jew has worked on the heads of some of the biggest lasagnas in Washington. His files have got to be worth the price of Detroit."

"You'll never get them, Louis," said the attractive middle-aged man dressed in an expensive tropical worsted suit sitting across from his host. "They'll be sealed and carted off out of your reach."

"Well, we're working on that, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan. Say-just for laughs-say we got 'em. What are they worth to you?"

The guest permitted himself a thin aristocratic smile. "Detroit?" he replied.

"Va bene! I like you, you got a sense of humor." As abruptly as he had grinned, the mafioso became serious, even ugly. "The five mill still holds for this Bourne-Webb character, right?"

"With a proviso."

"I don't like provisos, Mr. Lawyer, I don't like them at all."

"We can go elsewhere. You're not the only game in town."

"Let me explain something to you, Signor Avvocato. In a lot of ways, we-all of we-are the only game in town. We don't mess with other families' hits, you know what I mean? Our councils have decided hits are too personal; it makes for bad blood."

"Will you listen to the proviso? I don't think you'll be offended."

"Shoot."

"I wish you'd use another word-"

"Go ahead."

"There'll be a two-million-dollar bonus because we insist you include Webb's wife and his government friend Conklin."

"Done, Mr. Park Avenue, Manhattan."

"Good. Now to the rest of our business."

"I want to talk about the Jew."

"We'll get to him-"

"Now."

"Please don't give orders to me," said the attorney from one of Wall Street's most prestigious firms. "You're really not in a position to do that, wop."

"Hey, farabutto! You don't talk to me like that!"

"I'll talk to you any way I like. ... On the outside, and to your credit in negotiations, you're a very masculine, very macho fellow." The lawyer calmly uncrossed and crossed his legs. "But the inside's quite different, isn't it? You've got a soft heart, or should I say hard loins, for pretty young men."

"Silenzio!" The Italian shot forward on the couch.

"I have no wish to exploit the information. On the other hand, I don't believe Gay Rights are very high on the Cosa Nostra's agenda, do you?"

"You son of a bitch!"

"You know, when I was a young army lawyer in Saigon, I defended a career lieutenant who was caught in flagrante delicto with a Vietnamese boy, a male prostitute obviously. Through legal maneuvers, using ambiguous phrases in the military code regarding civilians, I saved him from a dishonorable discharge, but it was obvious that he had to resign from the service. Unfortunately, he never went on to a productive life; he shot himself two hours after the verdict. You see, he'd become a pariah, a disgrace before his peers and he couldn't handle the burden."