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"Was that a crack at me, Denny?"
"If the shoe fits, Cinderella."
****
"Gentlemen," Mr. H. Logan Hammersmith of First Philadelphia Bank amp; Trust said, "while I don't mean to appear to be difficult, I'm simply unable to permit you access to our personnel records. The question of confidentiality…"
"Mr. Hammersmith," Jason Washington began softly. "I understand your position. But:"
"Fuck it, Jason," Mr. H. Charles Larkin interrupted. "I've had enough of this bastard's bullshit."
Mr. Hammersmith was obviously not used to being addressed in that tone of voice, or with such vulgarity and obscenity, which is precisely why Mr. Larkin had chosen that tone of voice and vocabulary.
"I want Marion Claude Wheatley's personnel records, all of them, on your desk in three minutes, or I'm going to take you out of here in handcuffs," Mr. Larkin continued.
"You can't do that!" Mr. Hammersmith said, without very much conviction. "I haven't done anything."
"You're interfering with a federal investigation," Mr. Frank F. Young said.
"Now, we can get a search warrant for this," Larkin said. "It'll take us about an hour. But to preclude the possibility that Mr. Hammerhead here…"
"Hammersmith," Hammersmith interjected.
"…who, in my professional judgment, is acting very strangely, does not, in the meantime, conceal, destroy, or otherwise hinder our access to these records, I believe we should take him into custody."
"I agree," Frank F. Young said.
"May I borrow your handcuffs, please, Jason?" Larkin asked politely.
"Yes, sir."
"Would you please stand up, Mr. Hammerhead, and place your hands behind your back?"
"Now just a moment, please," Mr. Hammersmith said. He reached and picked up his telephone.
"Mrs. Berkowitz, will you please go to Personnel and get Mr. Wheatley's entire personnel file? And bring it to me, right away."
"We very much appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hammersmith," Mr. Larkin said.
The personnel records of Marion Claude Wheatley included a photograph. But either the photographic paper was faulty, or the processing had been, for the photograph stapled to his records was entirely black.
Neither were his records of any help at all in suggesting where he might be found. He listed his parents as next of kin, and Mr. Hammersmith told them he was sure they had passed on.
Mr. Young arranged for FBI agents to go out to the University of Pennsylvania, to examine Wheatley's records there. They found a photograph, but it was stapled to Mr. Wheatley's application for admission, and showed him at age seventeen.
When Mr. Wheatley's records in Kansas City were finally exhumed and examined, the only photograph of Mr. Wheatley they contained, a Secret Service agent reported to Mr. Larkin, had been taken during his Army basic training. It was not a good photograph, and for all practical purposes, Army barbers had turned him bald.
"Wire it anyway," Mr. Larkin replied. "We're desperate."
TWENTY-NINE
Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin, Chief Inspector (retired) Augustus Wohl, and Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin were seated around Coughlin's dining-room table when Inspector Peter Wohl came into the apartment a few minutes before ten P.M.
On the table were two telephones, a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of bourbon, and clear evidence that the ordinance of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that prohibited gaming, such as poker, was being violated.
"Who's winning?"
"Your father, of course," Charley Larkin replied.
