Two Jakes by Lawrence de Maria Page A

took one look at “officer” Bobo
and became instantly docile. A few minutes later the attendant brought two
off-duty Marines to sit in the first seats of coach. They looked in at Bobo,
who nodded at them. They turned and started scanning the rest of their cabin.
U.S. Marines know when their flank is secure. The flight was diverted to
Indianapolis. The people the pilot was worried about proved harmless, or were
rendered harmless by Bobo’s presence. By the time they landed, Scarne had
gotten most of the details of the catastrophe and was anxious to call his
secretary. At the time his office was at One Liberty Plaza, directly across
from the Trade Center complex. Bobo was also frantic.
    “My
cousins work a boiler room in the North Tower. I hope they made it.”
    Bobo
wasn’t talking about a maintenance shop. It was an open secret that Mack and
the Sambucas controlled a small brokerage house that specialized in pumping
shares of companies that had no products, revenues, earnings or future. The
boiler room also ran the biggest football pool in lower Manhattan. After
landing, they jumped in a cab and headed into town. Scarne figured they’d have
a better chance of renting a car outside the airport. They almost struck out.
The clerk at the rental counter in the Indianapolis train station claimed all
his cars were reserved. Fortunately for them (and unfortunately for him), he
was of Middle Eastern extraction, and Bobo was having none of it. They left in
a brand new Volvo, unlimited mileage.
    On
the ride out of town, Scarne got through to Maria Marquez, his secretary at the
time.
    “You’re
gonna need a new office,” she began without preamble. Puerto Rican girls were
tough once they brushed the dust off.
    After
12 grueling hours, they arrived on Staten Island, where Scarne was supposed to
deposit his “prisoner” at the 120 th Precinct in St. George.
    Bobo
wasn’t happy. “I gotta see my family, Jake. Then I’m gonna go into the city and
look for my cousins. You can’t turn me over.”
    A
sworn officer of the law, Scarne knew he couldn’t let Bobo go.
    “Here’s
my cell number. Check in with me every day. I’ll square it with the D.A. He’s
got other things on his mind right now. But if I tell you to surrender, get
back here. I’ll be in the city, too. I’m trusting you, Bobo.”
    “Don’t
worry, Jake. My word is good. And I’ll never forget this.”
    It
was, and he didn’t. Bobo spent a month at Ground Zero even after he learned
that his cousins survived. He was worth four men. The D.A., who acted honorably
for once, finally pulled the string and Bobo surrendered. His rescue efforts,
attested to by dozens of firemen and cops, were acknowledged in his sentencing
report. He did a year on an involuntary manslaughter plea.
    At
that, he got off easier than Scarne or Mack. They both enlisted, something
neither of them let him forget.
    ***
    As
Scarne and Bobo walked into the dining room, Mack and his father were already
seated at the huge table and, as usual, debating politics.
    “Scumbags,
all of them.”
    “Well
put, Dudley” George Mack said. “Very profound.” He smiled at Scarne. “Jake,
there are more horses’ asses in this country than horses.”
    “I
recall you telling me that once or twice Mr. Mack. I could be wrong.”
    That
brought a gentle slap to the back of Scarne’s head from Patricia Mack, who was
walking by carrying a large tray of lasagna, which she put down next to a round
platter of antipasto. Jake found it curious that she served the antipasto and
pasta together. He had mentioned it to her once. And only once.
    Now
she said, “You know George has a dozen more piquant sayings to go through
before dessert. Might as well let him get them all out.”
    Then,
addressing her husband, she added, “And you shouldn’t call your own son a
horse’s ass in front of company.”
    “Jake’s
not company. He’s family.”
    “And
truth is a defense,” Scarne added helpfully.
    “What
about