CHAPTER 9
Phillip was every bit as good a chef as he declared.
Elliot was treated royally to a dinner that started with
grapefruit halves and tossed green salad, proceeded through filets
of coconut-orange chicken, green beans with almonds, and candied
yams, then was topped off by Southern pecan pie served with
chickoried café au lait. Elliot complimented Phillip, among
other things, on his abilities in matching up ration points.
After dinner, over cognac and cigars (Elliot accepted the
former only), Elliot repeated his story for Mr. Gross: how his
father's name had been on a secret arrest list, the plan to leave
the country, his trip to find the gold and what he had learned
upon his arrival home -- even his theory about the possible link
between Al and the tzigane cabdriver. He retold the events
after his escape from the apartment, finishing up this time by
including what he had learned about his part in precipitating a
riot. Several times Mr. Gross asked for clarification of a point
or for additional information.
Mr. Gross puffed on his cigar one last time, then snuffed it
into his ashtray. Elliot noticed himself holding his breath and
consciously took in air. Finally, Mr. Gross said, "Have you
considered the possibility that your family may already be dead?
I don't ask this to be cruel. When I was your age, I lost my
entire family except for one brother -- Phillip's father, whom we
lost later -- to the Nazis."
Elliot swallowed, about to answer in the affirmative, then
suddenly changed his mind. "I've thought about it, Mr. Gross, but
I find it inconceivable that the authorities would just kill three
private citizens in cold blood."
"It was inconceivable in 1943, too. But it happened." Mr.
Gross allowed Elliot to digest the thought for several seconds,
then added, "But, to be honest, I think it is likely that all
three are still alive at the moment. This is not wishful
thinking; there are a number of sound reasons why this should be
true. Even so, while we must proceed on the assumption that your
family can still be helped, I want you to face the possibility
that it may be too late."
"I understand."
"All right."
"Maybe," said Elliot, "it would be best to try forcing the
authorities into the open. Possibly hire a lawyer to get a writ
of habeas corpus. Or maybe I should just march into the offices
of The New York Times and tell them the entire story."
"I can see your point, and if that's what you decide to do,
I'll be happy to help in any way I can. But I advise against
it."
"Why?"
"Call it intuition if you like," said Mr. Gross, "but it is
my belief that, if your family is still alive, you'd be running
the risk that exposing their kidnaping -- and I use the term
advisedly -- might make certain you would never see them alive
again."
"Then what are you saying? That I should sit tight and not
do anything?"
"No, action must be taken -- quietly."
"Are you telling me to hire a detective?"
"This would be beyond any normal investigators. They would
have their licenses revoked if they stepped on any political
toes."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
Mr. Gross took a sip of cognac and paused a moment. "In the
jewelry business one meets many people. Some of them tell me that
almost anything can be obtained -- for a price. You told me that
you have the means. The question remains how much you are willing
to spend."
"All of it," said Elliot firmly. "All the gold I've got. I
figured that out yesterday."
"Then, if you like," Mr. Gross continued, "I'll ask some of
my associates what is possible. I can't do anything until
tomorrow, so you'll spend the night here. Phillip will make up
the couch."
"Mr. Gross, you're a real lifesaver."
"I hope to be."
At that instant, the grandfather clock in the dining room
began striking eight o'clock. Mr. Gross rose. "Five minutes
slow, Phillip. Your turn to wind."
Mr. Gross retired to his bedroom to read, and Phillip, having
finished his kitchen duties, asked Elliot if he were up to a game
of chess. Elliot was, and Phillip set up on the dining table.
After picking the white pawn out of Phillip's clenched fists,
Elliot opened with pawn to king's fourth. Phillip responded
king's pawn to fourth rank also. Elliot played king's bishop to
queen's bishop fourth, then said, "By the way, how did you know
that Mrs. Tobias was being fired?"
Phillip grinned. "Let's leave it that the ventilation shaft
between the second floor men's room and the headmaster's office
directly below is a useful source of information. And she wasn't
fired." He moved his king's bishop likewise.
White queen moved to king's bishop third. "Why did she
quit?"
"A power play," said Phillip. Black queen's knight's pawn to
fourth, threatening white bishop. "Mrs. Tobias wanted to teach
her political views, Dr. Fischer said she was hired to teach, not
to propagandize."
Elliot's queen took the pawn at king's bishop seventh.
"Don't you think that's a rather nasty violation of her academic
freedom? She was a bitch -- granted -- but fair is fair."
"Nonsense," said Phillip, taking Elliot's bishop with the
knight's pawn. "It's no more a violation of her freedom than
refusing to charter a plane to Los Angeles when you want to go to
Miami. What she did on her own time was her own business."
"You can't take that bishop, Phil."
"Huh? Why the hell not?"
"Because I mated you last move."
Phillip stared at the board, then said softly, "Shit."
Elliot grinned fiendishly.
Bright sunlight awakened him. After a few minutes trying to
keep it out, he gave up, pulling himself into a sitting-up
position. A few moments rubbing his eyes, several seconds to
remember where he was. He rubbed his calves, removing the kinks
-- the couch had been too short for him -- then came wide awake,
hearing that the apartment was absolutely silent except for the
ticking from the grandfather clock was a note on the dining table
impaled on the white king, the night's battlefield still
displaying his victory. He padded over.
Ell,
We didn't want to wake you because you seemed to need
the sleep. There's hot coffee in the percolator and you can
feel free to rustle up anything you want to eat. Suggest you
stay put. My uncle and I will return by mid-afternoon.
Keep your powder dry,
Phil
It seemed to Elliot, after he had performed the usual morning
rituals, that no day had ever passed so slowly. He felt that
there was an immense pressure compelling him to action . . . but
he could not move. He felt as if some great achievement was
demanded of him . . . but that he did not have the strength to
perform it.
He tried reading a novel chosen from Phillip's shelves: he
was unable to read more than a few pages before his mind began
to wander. He turned on the television. The games seemed
impossibly insipid, and he turned the set off angrily.
Finally, he selected a holosonic cassette and put it on
Phillip's music system; it was the Reiner-Chicago Symphony
recording of Brahms' Third Symphony. Finding it soothing, he was
able to sit for the first time in hours. Elliot sank into
Phillip's recliner, and when the second movement began, he closed
his eyes.
The Grosses returned home together at about four o'clock.
"It's all set," Phillip's uncle said as soon as the door closed.
"The chairman doesn't like to take this sort of case, but --
knowing your father was at stake -- decided to help."
"The chairman?" Elliot asked anxiously.
"Merce Rampart," said Mr. Gross. "Chairman of the
Revolutionary Agorist Cadre."
"Elliot stood stunned, as if again hit by the tire wrench.
His mind was a jumble of conflicting imagery. All in the same
instant he felt betrayed, vulnerable. "These are your
'associates'?"
"Yes," Mr. Gross said.
"You approve of what they do?"
"Wholeheartedly."
"Phil? How do you feel about all this?"
"I don't know much more than you do, Ell."
Elliot stood there a moment, weighing the lives of his family
against political considerations he was not yet fully competent to
weigh. At present the government was on one side, and he -- along
with his family and an "unholy alliance between the Mafia and
anarchist-terrorists" -- was on the other. But what if loyalty to
his family required him to choose the wrong side?
His father's words came back to him: "It's much too late for
me to impart values to you; but if you don't have them, then I'm
not much of a father."
"All right," said Elliot. "I'll see this Rampart. What do I
have to do?"