Angels in Heaven

hands
with Blackie; and from the same team again a framed photo of Gerald Ford on the
White House lawn waving at the camera, standing in front of a group of
businessmen of some kind, the tallest of which bore a distinct resemblance to
L.A.’s tallest and most cuddly private I. And Sara had contributed a framed
reproduction of the United States Declaration of Independence, the one with all
those signatures on it, which she claimed to have won for being first in her
class in American history one year in high school, which I thought was about as
likely as her winning the Nobel Prize for poetry one year. But anyway, there it
was up on the wall behind my desk.
    When I was sure the lieutenant had
taken in all the visuals, including an ashtray I’d picked up in a junkstore one
time that was made out of a brass shell case, I rustled the papers in front of
me importantly and began, with Benny again acting as simultaneous translator.
    “We have quite a file on your Mr.
Brown,” I said, “of which these sheets are but the immediately relevant
material. And when I say ‘we,’ I am not necessarily referring to the United
States Cultural Association. I trust that you catch my drift.”
    He gave a meaningful glance at the
picture of Mr. Hoover and said something to the effect that my trust was not
altogether misplaced.
    I iced the cake by taking out my
wallet and flashing my FBI ID at him, a fake, needless to say, which I must
confess I’d used more than once before in my shameful career, but it looked
real enough with the fingerprint and photo and signature all in the right
places.
    “Excellent,” I said. When I reached
forward to pick up the pen from the desk set, I inadvertently let my unbuttoned
suit jacket fall open just enough so he could see I was wearing a shoulder
holster. “Dear me,” I said then. “I am forgetting my manners. We in the
organization are not, of course, allowed to have alcoholic beverages on the
premises at any time—it was a particular bugbear with our late, lamented
chief—but may I offer you a coffee? I could sure use one. It’s my one bad
habit, my wife says.” Here I laughed falsely. We all agreed we could use a
coffee. I pressed the intercom and said into it, “Miss Day, please, front and
center.”
    Benny got up and unlocked the door
for her, and when she came in, he asked her for coffees all round, please, and
why didn’t she make herself a cup while she was at it.
    “A small kitchenette,” Benny said to
the lieutenant when Doris had flounced through the door that did not lead to a
small kitchenette but to the back stairs. Benny and our guest at the feast made
small talk until Doris reappeared with four steaming cups of coffee on a tray
alongside a small pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes, all of which,
including the thermos of java, Benny had shopped for earlier. Sometimes my
guile appalls me. But not always.
    As soon as we had all served
ourselves and Doris had vamoosed and Benny had locked the door again, I continued:
“Are you at all familiar with the laws of extradition between our two
countries, Lieutenant?”
    The lieutenant confessed that his
knowledge of that complicated subject was minimal at best, which I was pleased
to hear, since so was mine.
    “I’m not surprised,” I said, sitting
back and shaking my head. “It can be a highly tortuous affair, and it is
sometimes to everyone’s benefit to endeavor to simplify procedures.” I gave the
handsome officer a long, cool, calculating look, as if I was trying to sum him
up. Then I said, as if I’d made my mind up, “May I speak with total frankness?”
    I may, it turned out. And I could
also be assured that whatever I said would go no farther than the four walls of
that very office.
    “Among men of honor, that is
sufficient guarantee,” I said sententiously. “Now. Your Mr. ‘Brown.’ We know a
good deal about him, including of course his real name.” I nodded in the
direction of the filing cabinet. “We know where he went to school. We know what
his grades were. Who his friends were, and are. We know every address, every
phone number, every car he has had and every job. We know what taxes he has
paid. And we know of some he hasn’t.”
    Benny smiled like a true yes-man.
    “We first became aware of his
criminal activities in late ... ’seventy-six, was it, Keith?”
    “Right, sir,” said Keith.
    “When he was part of the crew of a
seventy-six-foot shrimper that capsized in Morro Bay, in