The Thomas Berryman Number

He smiled now as Wynn started to read the

Boston Globe

again. The money was apparently in his left side jacket pocket. He kept rubbing his elbow up against it.

Harley John Wynn couldn’t have helped noticing Toy as he left Fogarty’s bar. Toy looked like a drunken lord: he had long blond hair, and an untroubled face.

He walked slowly behind a college boy in a mauve Boston College sweatshirt. He waded through various kinds of Volkswagens on the street; then he calmly sat down on Harley Wynn’s bench.

In his own right, southern lawyer Harley Wynn was a cool, collected, and moderately successful young man. He knew himself to be clearheaded and analytical. He identified with men like Bernie Cornfeld and Robert Yablans—the brash, bootleg quarterback types in the business world. Now he was making a big play of his own.

Wynn’s generally

together

appearance didn’t fool Ben Toy, however. The southern man’s hands had given him away. They were sweaty, and had taken newspaper print up off the

Boston Globe.

Telltale smudges were on his forehead and right on the tip of his nose.

“I was just thinking about all of this,” Wynn gestured around the street and environs. “The fact that you’re nearly an hour late. The faggots … You’re trying very hard to put me at a disadvantage.” The southerner smiled boyishly. He held out an athletic-looking hand. “I approve of that,” he said.

Ben Toy ignored the outstretched hand. He grunted indifferently and looked down at his boottips.

Harley Wynn laughed at the way nervous men try to condescend.

Toy still said nothing.

“All right then,” Wynn’s southern twang stiffened. “… Horn’s a fairly intelligent nigger … Very intelligent, matter of fact.”

Toy looked up and established eye contact with the man.

“Horn has affronted sensibilities in the South, however. That’s neither here nor there. My interest in the matter, your interest, is purely monetary.” He looked for some nod of agreement from Ben Toy.

“I don’t have anything to say to that,” Toy finally spoke. He lighted a cigarette, spread his long, bluejeaned legs, sat back on the bench and watched traffic.

The young lawyer began to force smiles. He was capable of getting quick acceptance and he was overly used to it. He glanced to where Toy was looking, expecting someone else to join them.

“You’ll be provided with detailed information on Horn,” he said. “Daily routines and schedules if you like …” The lawyer spewed out information like a computer.

“All right, stop it now.” Toy finally swung around and looked at Wynn again. His teeth were clenched tight.

He jabbed the man in the stomach with his fist. “I could kill you, man,” he said. “Stop fucking around with me.”

The lawyer was pale, perspiring at the hairline. He wasn’t comprehending.

Toy cleared his throat before he spoke again. He spit up an impressive gob on the lawn. Headlights went across Harley Wynn’s eyes, then over his own.

“Berryman wants a reason,” he said. “He wants to know exactly why you’re offering all this money.”

Toy cautioned Harley Wynn with his finger before he let him answer. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I haven’t been fucking with you,” Wynn said. “I understand the seriousness of this. The precautions … Infact, that’s the explanation you want … There can be no suspicions after this thing is over with. No loose ends. This isn’t a simple matter of killing Horn. My people are vulnerable to suspicion. They want no questions asked of them afterward.”

Ben Toy smiled at the lawyer’s answer. He slid over closer to Wynn. He put his arm around the pin-striped suit. This was where he earned all his pay.

“Then I think we’ve had enough Looney Tunes for tonight,” he said in a soft, Texas drawl. “You owe us half of our money as of right now. You have the money inside your jacket.”

Wynn tried to pull away, “I was told I’d get to talk with Berryman himself,” he protested.

“You just give me the money you’re supposed to have,” Toy said. “The money or I leave. No more talk.”

The southern man hesitated, but he finally took out the brown envelope. The contact was completed.

Ben Toy walked away with fifty thousand dollars stuffed around his dungarees. He was feeling very good about himself.

Over his head the City Hall clock sounded like it was floating in the sky.

Bongg. Bongg. Bongg.

Inside the pub window Thomas Berryman was clicking off important photographs of Harley John Wynn.

The Thomas Berryman Number had begun.

New York City, June 12

Six days after the first exchange of money, a white pigeon walked down Central Park South in New York City, stopped to taste a soggy wad of Kleenex, then flew up to the granite ledge surrounding the windows of Thomas Berryman’s apartment.

Berryman says there are always pathetic city pigeons perched on his ledge. And that they’ll never look in at him or anyone else.

There are also long cigarillo ends all over the ledge.

And there’s an old Texarkana trick of burning off bird feathers with cigars.