Free Montaro Caine by Sidney Poitier Page B

CROWD AT THE “21” C LUB WAS THINNING OUT AS THE LUNCH hour drew to a close. In front of Montaro Caine was a plank of salmon he hadn’t touched and a tumbler of scotch he had touched far too much of. His wife had been telling him that he needed to eat more and drink less. Every day at about this time, a text message from Cecilia would pop up on his phone—“Have you eaten yet?” “What’re you having for lunch, Monty?” Given the stress he was experiencing on all fronts, Montaro knew that Cecilia was right to worry. Yet, the facts remained before him in the forms of a full plate and an empty glass.
    Larry Buchanan’s appetite, however, seemed to be faring just fine. When Larry was nervous, he ate; he was finishing off the last of his French fries while Montaro continued to press him for information about Colette Beekman and Herman Freich.
    “I need you to tell me everything you can about those two,” Montaro said.
    “I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you, Monty,” said Larry, but Montaro knew that his old college buddy wasn’t telling him the whole story.
    “Tell me, where are they now?” Montaro asked.
    “At the Waldorf, I guess.”
    “No, they’re not,” said Montaro. “They checked out yesterday morning before they came to see me.”
    “How did that go, by the way?”
    Montaro glowered, irritated by Larry’s obvious diversionary tactic, the one he had been using ever since the two men were freshmen at the U of C and Larry relied on Montaro to get him out of trouble with girls. “Who are they, Larry?” he pressed.
    “They’re investors, Montaro. Honest to God, that’s all I know.”
    “How did they come to you? Do you know who pays their hotel bill?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Well, I do,” said Montaro. “Have you ever heard of a company called Socoloux Limited?”
    “Can’t say that I have.”
    “They don’t let you in on much over there at that office, do they, Larry?”
    “That’s a dirty crack, Monty. For Christ’s sake, will you get to the point?”
    “The only known address for Socoloux is in care of your law firm.”
    “No shit!”
    “No shit, buddy. No shit. I put my best man on it and that’s all he could come up with. Now, who the hell are Beekman and Freich? What do they do? I mean,
really do
? I’ve got to know and I’m leaning on you, Larry.”
    “Jesus, I can’t,” said Larry. “I told you before—being a junior in a sea of seniors has its disadvantages.”
    “You’re gonna have to do better than that,” said Montaro. “I’m gonna need you to give me some answers.”
    Larry looked away. “I just can’t do it,” he said.
    “Yes you can.” Caine stared unblinkingly at Larry. “Which one of the seniors handles them personally?”
    Larry turned back to face Caine. He hesitated before answering. “Hargrove,” he said.
    “The head man?”
    Larry nodded. “Yes, Monty,” he said. “But look, if you’re thinking …”
    “Yes, you know exactly what I’m thinking,” said Caine. “Goddamn it, I did you the favor of meeting with Beekman and Freich and I’ve got nothing to show for it. Now, you’re going to do me the favor of finding out everything you can about them.”
    As the two men stared at each other, Larry began to sweat. He looked down at his plate in search of some comfort, but there was no food left on it.

9
    D R . H OWARD M OZELLE WAS AN OBSTETRICIAN WHO OPERATED the Mozelle Women’s Health Center on East 67th Street near the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center and had done so for nearly forty years. He was a good-hearted man of considerable integrity, a throwback, many said, to a previous age. He rarely ever refused a patient regardless of their insurance status or their ability to pay. His idealistic approach was perhaps not particularly beneficial to his bank account, but it was not all that dissimilar from that of his wife of forty-one years, Dr. Elsen Mozelle, a professor of European history at Columbia University; she