“Ring no bells with me,” Jackie said. “But I’ll tell you an educated guess I can make.”
“What’s that?”
“At least one of the guys on the list is gonna be an enforcer. Maybe two.”
“I assume that’s like in hockey?” I said. “The enforcer’s the guy who scores no goals but runs up an hour in penalties every game.”
“Close to the same thing,” Jackie said. “Heaven’s Philosophers need at least one or two guys in charge of collecting money from people who’re slow payin’ what they owe the group. These enforcer guys keep the customers straight, making them toe the line. You see what I mean?”
“Got you, Jackie,” I said. “One or two goons.”
“They’re the guys you need to worry about most of all.”
“Because they’re tough?” I said.
“No,” Jackie said. “Because sometimes they need to kill people.”
Chapter Thirteen
Late Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in the office resisting another cup of coffee and fretting about Jackie Gabriel’s warning. The fretting was low-grade, not enough to distract me from the Flame assignment but enough to think I ought to advise Jerome Suggs what was afoot. As a matter of straight facts, Jackie hadn’t done much more than confirm the sort of information that Gloria’s research had aready unearthed. But coming from Jackie’s mouth, the situation of the Reverend Alton Douglas vis-à-vis the Heaven’s Philosophers people seemed more vivid and threatening.
The Reverend’s connection to Squeaky Fallis and the others meant he was tight with authentic villains. These included one or two guys who specialized in violence, possibly up to and including homicide. Whether any of the eleven Heaven’s Philosophers guys had a hand in the eight-million-dollar blackmail scheme remained up in the air. Now, more than ever, my intention was to move fast, and hope the schmoes on St. Clair didn’t catch on to my activities until after I squared around with the Reverend on all matters relating to the nine sheets of song lyrics.
I punched in Jerome’s cell number.
“I’ve been thinking, Jerome,” I said when he came on the line.
“I been thinking too, man,” Jerome said in his deep voice. He sounded enthusiastic about something. “I been thinking Scarlett Johansson.”
“I assume this is for the movie Flame’s supposed to be making and not just some free-form daydream you’re experiencing.”
“Supposed to be making, man? There’s no doubt he’s making it. And Scarlett Johansson, man, she’s the one can carry the load in a romantic thriller. Got some nice comedy too, this movie.”
“Uh–huh,” I said.
“Don’t you think so, man? About Scarlett for leading lady?”
“Tell me the storyline. Maybe that’ll help me with an opinion.”
“Flame plays a young guy just out of law school. Can’t get a job doing defence work, so he starts a blog to keep his hand in. Blog he’s doing, it’s all about cold cases, murders never solved. One day, this nice girl comes to him and says she likes his blog, but she says sooner or later Flame’s gonna stumble on her name in a case he’s blogging about. There’s people think she’s the killer. She says to Flame’s character, man, she never killed the victim in question, and she and Flame spend the rest of the movie finding the real killer and falling in love.”
“Not bad, Jerome,” I said. “Who came up with the story?”
“It’s mine, man. Original story by me.”
“You wrote the script too?”
“I wrote a script, man, but it’s been worked over by real professional Hollywood screenwriters since I did mine a couple years ago.”
“Let me get something straight, Jerome. The script idea for this movie of Flame’s is yours. You’re the guy with all the enthusiasm about it. Now you’re casting parts for it. So how come you tell me that Roger Carnale, Mr. Big Picture Man, deserves the credit when it somes to Flame as the new Cary Grant?”
“Man, that oughta be obvious,” Jerome said. “Mr. Carnale’s the boss of bosses. He hands out the money on Flame’s side of things. Mr. Carnale’s the man who meets with the Hollywood moguls. When he gets together with those dudes, man, I’m not even allowed in the same room. You see what I’m talking about?”
The conversation had wandered into the subject of a possibly internecine struggle at the Flame Group. This wasn’t anything I wanted to get myself involved in, though my natural inclination was to take Jerome’s side over Carnale’s. Still, no matter what else was going on, overall it was best for me me to stick to the blackmail scheme I was being paid to squelch. Leave the movie ambitions to the other guys.
“I’m with you on Scarlett Johansson, Jerome,” I said. “She’s a natural for the role.”
“But that’s not why you’re phoning me, man,” Jerome said, speaking without as much oomph as at the beginning of our conversation. “You’re calling because of what? You made contact with the Reverend Alton Douglas?”
“I expect to talk to him in depth tomorrow,” I said. “But in the meantime I’ve put myself in a position I like for future negotiations with the Reverend.”
“How’d you manage that, man?” Jerome said.
Should I tell Jerome about retrieving the Reverend’s no doubt illicitly obtained copy of the song lyrics? On the whole, I thought not. It might alarm Jerome who would pass on the word to Roger Carnale who’d be likewise distressed. No need to tell the client that stealth filching of documents was part of my repertoire.
“What’s more, Jerome,” I said, skipping over the answer to his question, “a bunch of certified criminals are part of the Reverend’s circle. I’ve got as far as identifying these guys. The next step is maybe I should think about using their connection to the Reverend as a plus for our side.”
“You’re losing me, man,” Jerome said. “Criminals and whatnot, what do you think’s going on anyway?”
“Just to keep it simple,” I said, “could you pass the word on to Roger that I’m meeting the Reverend tomorrow with expectations of knocking the man for a loop. You should preferably do that right away. Let him know I’m on top of things.”
“Tell Mr. Roger immediately, you say?”
“Please, Jerome.”
“Easier said than done, man.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. “The image I have of the Flame operation, it’s you and Carnale and the rest of your team in the penthouse suite of some midtown Manhattan tower.”
“Oh, man,” Jerome said, “Mr. Roger don’t even have a cubbyhole of an office in New York City. He got nothing down here at all.”
“Where does he work out of?”
“Toronto,” Jerome said. “But don’t ask me what street, what address, what neighbourhood, ’cause I haven’t the faintest idea, man.”
“The rest of the team is up here with him?”
“There isn’t what you call a team,” Jerome said. “We contract out the booking work, the publicity, security for concerts, all that. Everybody’s independent except me, and a guy name of Arthur Kingsmill who does the accounts. The two of them run their shop out of Mr. Carnale’s house somewhere in Toronto. They handle the money, pay the bills and such like. I’m on the road with Flame or else back here at my apartment on 125th Street. I’m taking care of our boy, Flame, and Mr. Carnale rings me on his cell five, six times a day. Tells me