homosexuals were harassed by unknown men. Several bars in the West Street area came in for the same treatment—the owners threatened, beaten up. Sometimes, they just disappeared.”
“The Mafia?” Noel asked.
“Maybe. Probably not. The techniques are classic syndicate methods. But, the Mafia has more or less abandoned penny ante business like bars and clubs. Nowadays they play the stock market, sit on the boards of directors of multinational corporations. More money there. The one bar in the area which we know to have mob connections was subjected to the same treatment. I can’t see them hurting their own people, can you?
“No,” Loomis went on, “whoever is behind this wants us to think it’s the Mafia or that it’s unorganized, merely random. But I think it’s quite shrewdly organized. By one man—the man we call Mr. X. The mystery man. The operative who was cut up that morning was supposed to be linking up with Mr. X. Evidently he was discovered to be a decoy.”
Noel ate his second bagel, drank his third cup of coffee, and listened fascinated. Loomis was like a TV police series come to life, sitting in his kitchen.
“Mr. X wants everything the Mafia has given up. And more, too. Maybe pornography, more than likely a boy prostitution ring up on Forty-second Street. But those are only sidelines compared to really profitable operations—large-scale drug smuggling, wholesale larceny from the ships that dock on the closed piers on the West Side. We don’t know what else. But he seems to be building a little empire right under our noses. And he’s not very nice to anyone he feels is in his way.
“We still haven’t gotten a shadow of him. Whenever we think we’re coming close, there’s another clubowner beaten or killed, another operative slain, another takeover completed. Like magic. The man must have a sixth sense about us. It would need a sixth sense, because only those directly involved, and now you, Mr. Cummings, even know that Whisper exists.”
“Whisper?”
“That’s what our unit’s been nicknamed. Because it’s so hush-hush. We’re not even directly funded. We’re staffed by members of the U.S. Drug agency, state and city police. Our salaries are all laundered through an innocuous city agency I cannot name.”
“Is that why you were in the abandoned federal jail?” Noel asked, trying to piece it all together.
“Were. We’ve moved again. I’m not free to say where. I’ve been in the intelligence business for thirty-five years, starting with the OSS in the Mediterranean, during World War Two. I’ve never run across anyone so elusive. We’re never left with a clue. His men must be professionals, his organization small enough to deal with information leaks and betrayals, but large enough to operate against three of our men at any one time. Our informers report in every day. That morning they had nothing to report. They never have anything to report. It’s exasperating.
“Meanwhile,” he said, lowering his voice, “after chasing his shadow for so long, I’ve gotten to know a bit about Mr. X.”
Loomis’s last words recalled the shadows, the stabbing of Kansas in the debris-filled room. Had Mr. X been holding the cigarette lighter?
“He’s smart,” Loomis said; “no half-assed petty crook. He has this intuition about policemen: more than caution. More like true paranoia. And I admit this is a long shot, but I’m willing to defend it—he’s a homosexual himself.”
Noel had followed Loomis’s reasoning right to the end. “But haven’t all his victims been homosexuals?”
“Or decoys. Exactly. Mr. X’s businesses are exploitative. But in order to. exploit a certain group you have to know how they can be exploited. Mr. X has the magic touch: he knows which bars and clubs are most popular, which are only fly-by-night, or financially shaky. And when he moves in, it’s done legally, tight as a drum. My theory is that one day Mr. X just woke up, looked around, saw
“The Mafia?” Noel asked.
“Maybe. Probably not. The techniques are classic syndicate methods. But, the Mafia has more or less abandoned penny ante business like bars and clubs. Nowadays they play the stock market, sit on the boards of directors of multinational corporations. More money there. The one bar in the area which we know to have mob connections was subjected to the same treatment. I can’t see them hurting their own people, can you?
“No,” Loomis went on, “whoever is behind this wants us to think it’s the Mafia or that it’s unorganized, merely random. But I think it’s quite shrewdly organized. By one man—the man we call Mr. X. The mystery man. The operative who was cut up that morning was supposed to be linking up with Mr. X. Evidently he was discovered to be a decoy.”
Noel ate his second bagel, drank his third cup of coffee, and listened fascinated. Loomis was like a TV police series come to life, sitting in his kitchen.
“Mr. X wants everything the Mafia has given up. And more, too. Maybe pornography, more than likely a boy prostitution ring up on Forty-second Street. But those are only sidelines compared to really profitable operations—large-scale drug smuggling, wholesale larceny from the ships that dock on the closed piers on the West Side. We don’t know what else. But he seems to be building a little empire right under our noses. And he’s not very nice to anyone he feels is in his way.
“We still haven’t gotten a shadow of him. Whenever we think we’re coming close, there’s another clubowner beaten or killed, another operative slain, another takeover completed. Like magic. The man must have a sixth sense about us. It would need a sixth sense, because only those directly involved, and now you, Mr. Cummings, even know that Whisper exists.”
“Whisper?”
“That’s what our unit’s been nicknamed. Because it’s so hush-hush. We’re not even directly funded. We’re staffed by members of the U.S. Drug agency, state and city police. Our salaries are all laundered through an innocuous city agency I cannot name.”
“Is that why you were in the abandoned federal jail?” Noel asked, trying to piece it all together.
“Were. We’ve moved again. I’m not free to say where. I’ve been in the intelligence business for thirty-five years, starting with the OSS in the Mediterranean, during World War Two. I’ve never run across anyone so elusive. We’re never left with a clue. His men must be professionals, his organization small enough to deal with information leaks and betrayals, but large enough to operate against three of our men at any one time. Our informers report in every day. That morning they had nothing to report. They never have anything to report. It’s exasperating.
“Meanwhile,” he said, lowering his voice, “after chasing his shadow for so long, I’ve gotten to know a bit about Mr. X.”
Loomis’s last words recalled the shadows, the stabbing of Kansas in the debris-filled room. Had Mr. X been holding the cigarette lighter?
“He’s smart,” Loomis said; “no half-assed petty crook. He has this intuition about policemen: more than caution. More like true paranoia. And I admit this is a long shot, but I’m willing to defend it—he’s a homosexual himself.”
Noel had followed Loomis’s reasoning right to the end. “But haven’t all his victims been homosexuals?”
“Or decoys. Exactly. Mr. X’s businesses are exploitative. But in order to. exploit a certain group you have to know how they can be exploited. Mr. X has the magic touch: he knows which bars and clubs are most popular, which are only fly-by-night, or financially shaky. And when he moves in, it’s done legally, tight as a drum. My theory is that one day Mr. X just woke up, looked around, saw
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