The Osterman Weekend: A Novel, Page 2

  The two officers in the car looked briefly at one another, about to race away. But Cardone had run to the curb.

  “Hey!”

  The patrol car stopped.

  “Yes, Mr. Cardone?”

  “What’s with the police routine? Any trouble around here?”

  “No, Mr. Cardone. It’s vacation time. We’re just checking against our schedules when residents return. You were due this afternoon, so we just wanted to make sure it was you. Take your house off the check list.”

  Joe watched the policemen carefully. He knew the officer was lying, and the policeman knew he knew.

  “You earn your money.”

  “Do our best, Mr. Cardone.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Good day, sir.” The patrol car sped off.

  Joe looked after it. He hadn’t intended to go to the office until mid-week, but that had to be changed now. He’d go into New York in the morning.

  On Sunday afternoons, between the hours of five and six, Tanner closeted himself in his study, a walnut-paneled room with three television sets, and watched three different interview shows simultaneously.

  Alice knew her husband had to watch. As Director of News for Standard Mutual, it was part of his job to be aware of the competition. But Alice thought there was something sinister about a man sitting alone in a half-lit room watching three television sets at the same time, and she constantly chided him for it.

  Today, Tanner reminded his wife that he’d have to miss next Sunday—Bernie and Leila would be there, and nothing ever disturbed an Osterman weekend. So he sat in the darkened room, knowing all too well what he was going to see.

  Every Director of News for every network had his favorite program, the one to which he gave extra attention. For Tanner it was the Woodward show. A half hour on Sunday afternoon during which the best news analyst in the business interviewed a single subject, usually a controversial figure currently in the headlines.

  Today Charles Woodward was interviewing a substitute, Undersecretary Ralph Ashton from the State Department. The Secretary himself was suddenly unavailable, so Ashton had been recruited.

  It was a gargantuan mistake by the Department. Ashton was a witless, prosaic former businessman whose main asset was his ability to raise money. That he was even considered to represent the Administration was a major error on someone’s part. Unless there were other motives.

  Woodward would crucify him.

  As Tanner listened to Ashton’s evasive, hollow replies, he realized that a great many people in Washington were soon going to be telephoning each other. Woodward’s polite inflections couldn’t hide his growing antagonism toward the Undersecretary. The reportorial instinct was being frustrated; soon Woodward’s tones would turn to ice and Ashton would be slaughtered. Politely, to be sure, but slaughtered nevertheless.

  It was the sort of thing Tanner felt embarrassed watching.

  He turned up the volume of the second set. In ponderous, nasal tones a moderator was describing the backgrounds and positions of the panels of experts who were about to question the U.N. delegate from Ghana. The black diplomat looked for all the world as if he were being driven to the guillotine in front of a collection of male Madame Defarges. Very white, well-paid Madame Defarges.

  No competition there.

  The third network was better, but not good enough. No competition there either.

  Tanner decided he had had enough. He was too far ahead to worry, and he’d see Woodward’s tape in the morning. It was only five-twenty, and the sun was still on the pool. He heard his daughter’s shouts as she returned from the country club, and the reluctant departure of Raymond’s friends from the backyard. His family was together. The three of them were probably sitting outside waiting till he finished watching and started the fire for the steaks.

  He’d surprise them.

  He turned off the sets, put the pad and pencil on his desk. It was time for a drink.

  Tanner opened the door of his study and walked into the living room. Through the rear windows, he saw Alice and the children playing follow-the-leader off the pool diving board. They were laughing, at peace.

  Alice deserved it. Christ! She deserved it!

  He watched his wife. She jumped—toes pointed—into the water, bobbing up quickly to make sure that eight-year-old Janet would be all right when she followed her.

  Remarkable! After all the years he was more in love with his wife than ever.

  He remembered the patrol car, then dismissed the thought. The policemen were simply finding a secluded spot in which to rest, or listen to the ball game undisturbed. He’d heard that policemen did that sort of thing in New York. Then why not in Saddle Valley? Saddle Valley was a lot safer than New York.

  Saddle Valley was probably the safest place in the world. At least it seemed that way to John Tanner on this particular Sunday afternoon.

  Richard Tremayne turned off his one television set within ten seconds after John Tanner had shut off his three. The Mets had won it after all.

  His headache had left him and with it his irritability. Ginny had been right, he thought. He was simply edgy. No reason to take it out on the family. His stomach felt stronger now. A little food would fix him up again. Maybe he’d call Johnny and Ali and take Ginny over for a swim in the Tanners’ pool.

  Ginny kept asking why they didn’t have one of their own. Heaven knew they had an income several times that of the Tanners. Everybody could see that. But Tremayne knew why.

  A pool would be that one symbol too much. Too much at age forty-four. It was enough that they had moved into Saddle Valley when he was only thirty-eight. A seventy-four-thousand-dollar house at thirty-eight years of age. With a fifty-thousand-dollar down payment. A pool could wait until his forty-fifth birthday. It would make sense then.

  Of course what people—clients—didn’t think about was that he had graduated from Yale Law in the top five percent of his class, had clerked for Learned Hand, had spent three years at the bottom of his present firm’s ladder before any real money came his way. When it came, however, it came rapidly.

  Tremayne walked out to the patio. Ginny and their thirteen-year-old daughter Peg were cutting roses near a white arbor. His entire backyard, nearly half an acre, was cultivated and manicured. There were flowers everywhere. The garden was Ginny’s pastime, hobby, avocation—next to sex, her passion. Nothing really replaced sex, thought her husband with an unconscious chuckle.

  “Here! Let me give you a hand,” shouted Tremayne as he walked toward his wife and daughter.

  “You’re feeling better,” said Virginia smiling.

  “Look at these, daddy! Aren’t they beautiful?” His daughter held up a bunch of red and yellow roses.

  “They’re lovely, sweetheart.”

  “Dick, did I tell you? Bernie and Leila are flying east next week. They’ll be here Friday.”

  “Johnny told me.… An Osterman weekend. I’ll have to get in shape.”

  “I thought you were practicing last night.”

  Tremayne laughed. He never apologized for getting drunk, it happened too seldom, and he was never really difficult. Besides, last night he had deserved it. It had been a rotten week.

  The three of them walked back to the patio. Virginia slipped her hand under her husband’s arm. Peggy, growing so tall, her father thought, smiled brightly. The patio phone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” Peg dashed ahead.

  “Why not?” shouted her father in mock exasperation. “It’s never for us!”

  “We’ve simply got to get her her own telephone.” Virginia Tremayne pinched her husband’s arm playfully.

  “You’re both driving me on welfare.”

  “It’s for you, mother. It’s Mrs. Cardone.” Peggy suddenly covered the receiver with her hand. “Please don’t talk too long, Mother. Carol Brown said she’d call me when she got home. You know, I told you. The Choate boy.”

  Virginia Tremayne smiled knowingly, exchanging a conspirator
ial look with her daughter. “Carol won’t elope without telling you, darling. She may need more than her week’s allowance.”

  “Oh, mother!”

  Richard watched them with amusement. It was comfortable and comforting at the same time. His wife was doing a good job with their child. No one could argue with that. He knew there were those who criticized Ginny, said she dressed a little … flamboyantly. He’d heard that word and knew it meant something else. But the kids. The kids all flocked around Ginny. That was important these days. Perhaps his wife knew something most other women didn’t know.

  Things … “things” were working out thought Tremayne. Even the ultimate security, if Bernie Osterman was to be believed.

  It was a good life.

  He’d get on the phone with Joe if Ginny and Betty ever finished with their conversation. Then he’d call John and Ali. After Johnny’s television shows were over. Perhaps the six of them could go over to the Club for the Sunday buffet.

  Suddenly the memory of the patrol car flashed across his mind. He dismissed it. He had been nervous, edgy, hung over. Let’s face it, he thought. It was Sunday afternoon and the town council had insisted that the police thoroughly check out the residential areas on Sunday afternoons.

  Funny, he mused. He didn’t think the Cardones were due back so early. Joe must have been called by his office to get in on Monday. The market was crazy these days. Especially commodities, Joe’s specialty.

  Betty nodded yes to Joe’s question from the telephone. It solved the dinner problem. The buffet wasn’t bad, even if the Club had never learned the secret of a good antipasto. Joe kept telling the manager that you had to use Genoa salami, not Hebrew National, but the chef had a deal with a Jewish supplier, so what could a mere member do? Even Joe, probably the richest of them all. On the other hand he was Italian—not Catholic, but nevertheless Italian—and it had only been a decade since the Saddle Valley Country Club first let Italians join. One of these days they’d let Jews in—that’d be the time for some kind of celebration.

  It was this silent intolerance—never spelled out—that caused the Cardones, the Tanners and the Tremaynes to make it a special point to have Bernie and Leila Osterman very much in evidence at the Club whenever they came east. One thing could be said for the six of them. They weren’t bigots.

  It was strange, thought Cardone as he hung up the phone and started toward the small gym on the side of his house, strange that the Tanners had brought them all together. It had been John and Ali Tanner who had known the Ostermans in Los Angeles when Tanner was just starting out. Now Joe wondered whether John and Ali really understood the bond between Bernie Osterman and him and Dick Tremayne. It was a bond one didn’t discuss with outsiders.

  Eventually it would spell out the kind of independence every man sought, every worried citizen might pray for; there were dangers, risks, but it was right for him and Betty. Right for the Tremaynes and the Ostermans. They had discussed it among themselves, analyzed it, thought it through carefully, and collectively reached the decision.

  It might have been right for the Tanners. But Joe, Dick and Bernie agreed that the first signal had to come from John himself. That was paramount. Enough hints had been dropped and Tanner had not responded.

  Joe closed the heavy, matted door of his personal gymnasium, turned on the steam dials and stripped. He put on a pair of sweatpants and took his sweatshirt off the stainless-steel rack. He smiled as he noticed the embroidered initials on the flannel. Only a girl from Chestnut Hill would have a monogram sewn on a sweatshirt.

  J. A. C.

  Joseph Ambruzzio Cardone.

  Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione. Second of eight children from the union of Angela and Umberto Cardione, once of Sicily and later South Philadelphia. Eventually, citizens. American flags alongside countless, cosmeticized pictures of the Virgin Mary holding a cherubic Christ-child with blue eyes and red lips.

  Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione grew into a large, immensely strong young man who was just about the best athlete South Philadelphia High had ever seen. He was president of his senior class and twice elected to the All-City Student Council.

  Of the many college scholarships offered he chose the most prestigious, Princeton, also the nearest to Philadelphia. As a Princeton halfback he accomplished the seemingly impossible for his alma mater. He was chosen All-American, the first Princeton football player in years to be so honored.

  Several grateful alumni brought him to Wall Street. He’d shortened his name to Cardone, the last vowel pronounced very slightly. It had a kind of majesty, he thought. Like Cardozo. But no one was fooled; soon he didn’t care. The market was expanding, exploding to the point where everyone was buying securities. At first he was merely a good customers’ man. An Italian boy who had made good, a fellow who could talk to the emerging new-rich with money to spend; talk in ways the new-rich, still nervous about investments, could understand.

  And it had to happen.

  The Italians are sensitive people. They’re more comfortable doing business with their own kind. A number of the construction boys—the Castelanos, the Latronas, the Battellas—who had made fortunes in industrial developments, gravitated to Cardone. Two syllables only. “Joey Cardone,” they called him. And Joey found them tax shelters, Joey found them capital gains, Joey found them security.

  The money poured in. The gross of the brokerage house nearly doubled, thanks to Joey’s friends. Worthington and Bennett, members, N. Y. Stock Exchange, became Worthington, Bennett and Cardone. From that point it was a short leap to Bennett-Cardone, Ltd.

  Cardone was grateful to his compares. But the reason for his gratitude was also the reason why he shuddered just a bit when a patrol car appeared too frequently around his house. For a few of his compares, perhaps more than a few, were on the fringes—perhaps more than the fringes—of the underworld.

  He finished with the weights and climbed on his rowing machine. The perspiration was pouring out and he felt better now. The menace of the patrol car began to diminish. After all, ninety-nine percent of the Saddle Valley families returned from vacations on Sunday. Who ever heard of people coming back from a vacation on a Wednesday? Even if the day were listed as such at the police station, a conscientious desk sergeant might well consider it an error and change it to Sunday. No one returned on Wednesday. Wednesday was a business day.

  And who would ever take seriously the idea that Joseph Cardone had anything to do with the Cosa Nostra? He was the living proof of the work ethic. The American Success Story. A Princeton All-American.

  Joe removed his sweatsuit and walked into the steam room, now dense with vapor. He sat on the beach and breathed deeply. The steam was purifying. After nearly two weeks of French-Canadian cooking, his body needed purifying.

  He laughed aloud in his steam room. It was good to be home, his wife was right about that. And Tremayne told him the Ostermans would be flying in Friday morning. It’d be good to see Bernie and Leila again. It had been nearly four months. But they’d kept in touch.

  Two hundred and fifty miles south of Saddle Valley, New Jersey, is that section of the nation’s capital known as Georgetown. In Georgetown the pace of life changes every day at 5:30 P.M. Before, the pace is gradual, aristocratic, even delicate. After, there is a quickening—not sudden, but with a growing momentum. The residents, for the most part men and women of power and wealth and commitments to both, are dedicated to the propagation of their influence.

  After five-thirty, the games begin.

  After five-thirty in Georgetown, it is time for stratagems.

  Who is where?… Why are they there?

  Except on Sunday afternoon, when the power-brokers survey their creations of the previous week, and take the time to restore their strength for the next six days of strategy.

  Let there be light and there was light. Let there be rest and there is rest.

  Except, again, not for all.

  For instance, not for Alexander Danforth, aide to the President of the U
nited States. An aide without portfolio and without specified activities.

  Danforth was the liaison between the all-securities communications room in the underground levels of the White House and the Central Intelligence Agency in McLean, Virginia. He was the compleat power-broker because he was never in evidence, yet his decisions were among the most important in Washington. Regardless of administrations, his quiet voice was heeded by all. It had been for years.

  On this particular Sunday afternoon, Danforth sat with the Central Intelligence Agency’s Deputy Administrator, George Grover, beneath the bougainvillea tree on Danforth’s small backyard patio, watching television. The two men had reached the same conclusion John Tanner had reached two hundred and fifty miles north: Charles Woodward was going to make news tomorrow morning.

  “State’s going to use up a month’s supply of toilet tissue,” Danforth said.

  “They should. Whoever let Ashton go on? He’s not only stupid, he looks stupid. Stupid and slippery. John Tanner’s responsible for this program, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  “Smart son of a bitch. It’d be nice to be certain he’s on our side,” Grover said.

  “Fassett’s assured us.” The two men exchanged looks. “Well, you’ve seen the file. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Fassett’s right.”

  “He generally is.”

  There were two telephones on the ceramic table in front of Danforth. One was black with an outdoor plug-in jack on the ground. The other was red and a red cable extended from inside the house. The red phone hummed—it did not ring. Danforth picked it up.

  “Yes.… Yes, Andrews. Good.… Fine. Ring Fassett on Redder and tell him to come over. Has Los Angeles confirmed the Ostermans? No change?… Excellent. We’re on schedule.”

  Bernard Osterman, C.C.N.Y., Class of ’46, pulled the page out of his typewriter and glanced at it. Adding it to the bottom of a thin sheaf of papers, he stood up. He walked around his kidney-shaped pool and handed the manuscript to his wife, Leila, who sat naked in her lounge chair.

  Osterman was naked too.