“When you and Lam got together,” he asked, “did you spend much time in Chinatown? Does he have any connections there?”
Gee shook his head and took another sip. “Don’t think so,” he replied. “I go a lot, to get special tea and herbs. We ate there a couple of times. I wanted to show him real Chinese food, but he likes Cuban better. Mostly he cooks for himself, but he eats out at a Cuban restaurant when he sells a picture. He took me once. Here in the West Village.”
“Little Havana, on Cornelia Street?”
Another sip. “Yes, I think that’s it.”
O’Connell put the bottle on the floor, where the artist could reach it easily, and got down to business. “Yun, I’d like you to do me a favor,” he began. “The reason I’m asking about Lam is because he was killed last night, and I want to find out who did it. Will you help me?”
Gee almost dropped his glass. He stared at the detective, clearly horrified. “What? He’s dead? How?”
“We don’t know much yet. I have to wait for the autopsy to find out the cause of death, but he was killed in his apartment, probably in the early evening. A friend found his body around ten thirty p.m., and he hadn’t been dead long.”
O’Connell didn’t mention the decorations. Gee was upset enough, no need to make it any more gruesome. “The favor is this,” he explained. “Will you ask around, quiet like, in Chinatown? Find out if any of the tong boys know him. It’s just a hunch of mine, but I can’t shake the feeling it ought to be followed up on.”
He tried to make it sound like a casual request, but they both knew it could be dangerous. You messed with the tongs at your peril. They peddled information to the police when it suited their purposes, but they dealt harshly with unauthorized snitches. Gee would have to be very careful how he handled it.
With an unsteady hand, the artist reached down for the bottle. He refilled his glass and took a long swallow of liquid courage. “I’ll ask and let you know,” he promised.
Eight
Breton opened his apartment door to the sound of his daughter, Aube, singing along with the gramophone in the front parlor as she watched her mother practicing on the trapeze.
Jacqueline Lamba’s lithe body wrapped itself around the crossbar and uncoiled into a swan-dive pose, perfectly balanced on the horizontal support. Her skintight leotard showed off the athletic figure that had captivated audiences at the Café du Dôme, where she had performed underwater acrobatics in a giant fish tank. Breton had been among the most deeply captivated. Their passionate affair and subsequent marriage inspired several of his poems, but Lamba’s ardor had begun to cool when Breton’s fellow Surrealists failed to take her seriously as an artist.
They were notorious for objectifying their women, and their misogyny was only enhanced by Lamba’s beauty.
They had included a few of her watercolors and collages in their exhibitions, but she knew it was only because she was Breton’s wife. In Paris she relied on him for entrée into the stimulating creative and intellectual milieu that was revolutionizing art and literature, yet she could never become a full-fledged member in her own right. She was growing more independent in New York, where she was no longer constrained by their tight-knit circle.
If she and Aube heard Breton enter, they did not acknowledge his presence. Aube continued to sing, and Lamba went on with her practice routine. After his ordeal at the precinct and the five-flight climb to their apartment, he was too tired to interrupt, and anyway, he dreaded telling her what had happened. He had been out all night, and that would have to be explained as well. Instead, he made his way to the bedroom and barely got his overcoat off before falling onto the bed, enormously grateful for its softness. He managed to kick off his shoes and loosen his tie before sleep overtook him.
Half an hour later, her routine finished, Lamba bathed and dressed quickly. She kissed Aube on each cheek, told her not to wake her father, and left the apartment. The seven-year-old girl was quiet and studious, perfectly content to read or draw or play by herself all day. She spoke hardly any English, so she had no friends her own age outside the Lycée Français de New York, for which their American benefactor, David Hare, was paying.
Lamba had learned English at school, which gave her a distinct advantage in her new surroundings. That morning, she had an appointment. She descended quickly to the first floor, let herself out of the building, ran down the stoop, then headed east, to 42 Bleecker Street.
Nine
Matta’s apartment was at 5 Patchin Place, in the row of nineteenth-century buildings lining the picturesque cul-de-sac’s east side. Dillon rang the bell at nine a.m., by which hour, he thought, all decent Christians should be awake, especially on a Sunday. He had been to early Mass and ridden the subway in from Queens to take the morning shift, so his day was well along.
It took several rings to get a response. Two flights up, he was admitted to a room that was in shambles from the previous night’s revels—overflowing ashtrays, half-empty glasses of wine and liquor, soggy crackers topped with curling cheese slices. A man asleep on the couch filled out the decor. Matta was unshaven and obviously hung over. He eyed the detective with apprehension when Dillon identified himself and displayed his shield.
“Was there a complaint about the party?” he asked. His English, enriched by the lilt of his native Spanish, was excellent. “I thought the downstairs neighbors were away this weekend.”
“No complaint, sir,” answered Dillon. “I’m here on another matter.” As he spoke, he realized that the last word, pronounced with his New York accent, sounded just like this fellow’s surname, and he looked momentarily embarrassed.
In spite of the artist’s condition, his well-known wit had not deserted him. “One Matta is all you will get today, Officer. My wife and kids are out of town.
“Let’s go into my studio,” he suggested. “We don’t want to disturb the sleeping beauty.”
He led the way to what had been the front parlor, which now housed his workspace. In addition to the usual tools and materials, a painting in progress on an easel, and a shelf full of art books and catalogs, the room boasted a pair of upholstered chairs, shabby but comfortable, and an electric hot plate.
Matta directed Dillon to one of the chairs and asked if he wanted coffee or tea, which the detective declined. The artist’s manner was relaxed, perhaps a bit too casual in light of the fact that he didn’t yet know the purpose of the inquiry. He’s not firing on all cylinders, thought Dillon, but that’s about to change.
“Last night,” he began, “you had a number of guests, your artist friends, I’m told.” He didn’t stop to explain how he knew this. “One of them, a fellow called Breton, came in late and left quickly with his pal Duchamp.” Dillon’s pronunciation contorted the names, but Matta knew whom he meant. “Do you know why they went off so suddenly?”
Matta shrugged. “Frankly, Officer, I didn’t see Breton arrive, and I don’t know when Duchamp left. It must have been while I was here in the studio, discussing my latest painting with a colleague. When we came out, Duchamp was gone, but I didn’t think anything of it.”
Suddenly it dawned on Matta that Dillon had information about his own party that even he wasn’t aware of. He became guarded.
“How do you know who came and went from here? And why are you asking me about them?”
Now Dillon had to decide how much to reveal. He was trained to withhold as much information as possible and, when required to answer a question, be as vague as possible. The reasoning was that suspects were more likely to give something away if they didn’t know where the questioning was leading.
But Matta wasn’t really a suspect, though the time of death hadn’t yet been firmly established. If Lam were killed in the early evening, Matta probably would have been able to do the deed and get back to his apartment in plenty of time to greet his first guests. Could be he had a grudge against the guy, some personal
score to settle. Dillon decided to see how he would react to the news of Lam’s death.
“I’m inquiring into an incident that was reported by Breton and Duchamp last night,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “According to the report, Breton called on a fellow named Wifredo Lam, who was supposed to be here at your party, and found him dead on the floor.”
Matta was suddenly alert. His guarded expression dissolved into what Dillon took to be the astonishment you’d naturally feel when told of a close friend’s sudden death. But it was alarm that caused Matta’s head to jerk back, his brows to knit, and his mouth to open with a quick intake of breath. He stared at Dillon in what appeared to be utter confusion, a mixture of shock and disbelief. He doesn’t know how to react, his hangover is in the way was Dillon’s assessment. That was true, but it wasn’t the cause of Matta’s anxiety. His worries went deeper.
Then his Spanish fatalism kicked in, and it dawned on him that nature must have played a cruel trick on Lam, as well as himself. His expression softened and turned inward. He sighed heavily.
“Poor Lam,” he muttered. “He’s been through so much. Uprooted, hiding out, never knowing if the next knock on the door would be the Gestapo. We were all in danger, but he more than the rest because of his color. Before the war it was easier for him in Paris than New York, as you may imagine. Until Hitler and his racial purists arrived.”
He shook his head, silently indicting the prejudice he perceived as endemic to American culture and which was even more sinister in Nazi ideology.
“Was it his heart?”
Either he’s a great actor, Dillon thought, or he really doesn’t know that Lam was murdered.
“No, sir,” he answered. “It was not from natural causes.”
“Then what happened? An accident?”
“Apparently not, though the actual cause hasn’t yet been determined. It appears someone killed him.”
Matta was speechless. His expression changed again, this time to wide-eyed amazement. He stared at Dillon as if seeing him for the first time. When he did speak, it was almost a whisper, in his native tongue.
“Madre de Dios.”
Ten
After taking down the names and addresses of as many of Lam’s friends as Matta could recall—his memory was not helped by his morning-after state or his distress—Dillon decided to hang around Patchin Place instead of returning to the station. He had a hunch that Matta would need to share the news with someone, and he wanted to find out who that might be. His experienced scan of the apartment confirmed that there was no telephone, so it would have to be done in person or from a public pay phone. He crossed Tenth Street to the police call box on the corner and rang the precinct. Sergeant Joseph Ryan was on desk duty.
“Joe, it’s Pat here. I’ve just come from interviewing that artist guy who threw the party last night. I want to keep an eye on him for a bit, no special reason. He’s up in the apartment now, but if he comes down, I’m gonna follow him, just in case he leads me somewhere interesting. Don’t know how long I’ll be, so you’d better send someone else up to Harlem to check out the Cubans.”
The sergeant was hesitant. “We got Fitzgerald, but he don’t speak Spanish.”
“Don’t need to,” Dillon assured him. “He’s to go straight to the Twenty-Third. Call ahead and get Officer Diaz to meet him. She knows the territory and everybody in it.”
“She?” said Ryan, certain he had misheard.
“That’s right, boyo. Juanita Diaz. She’s tough, smart, and a good one to have at your back in that neighborhood. I worked with her on a weapons case a year or so ago, and I would’ve been lost without her. Tell Fitz to be respectful. She’s a bit sensitive.”
“Don’t worry, Pat. Fitz’ll handle it okay.”
“Have the photos come in yet? He’ll need some ID shots.”
“A courier brought ’em over from the morgue about ten minutes ago,” Ryan told him. “I’ll see to it that he gets as many as he needs.”
Just then Matta emerged from his building and walked down the alley, past the iron gate that barred the drive, and onto Tenth Street. Dillon turned away, told Ryan he was moving, and hung up. The artist went left, then downtown on Sixth Avenue. He turned onto Bleecker Street and headed east. Dillon followed at a good distance, though his quarry seemed to be paying no attention to anyone or anything around him. There was hardly any motor traffic on a Sunday morning, but Matta managed to step in front of the solitary taxi cruising Broadway.
Good thing for him the cabbie’s a lot more alert than he is, thought Dillon. He’s got plenty on his mind. Is it just sorrow he’s feeling? Maybe he and Lam were really close. But he couldn’t dismiss the notion that there was something more behind Matta’s agitation, and his rush to head out suggested it was worthwhile to follow that instinct.
It was turning into a fine October day, Lord be praised. Dillon hated tailing people in the rain.
Eleven
Endowed with a head of ginger hair, emerald eyes, and a dusting of freckles on his cheeks, Officer Brian F. X. Fitzgerald was the epitome of the Irish cop. Not that he stood out in a department long dominated by immigrants from Ireland and their descendants. True to form, he was following in the footsteps of his father, and of his father’s father, and of his father before him. Brought to this country as an infant during the Great Hunger, Fitzgerald’s great-grandfather had joined the force in 1873, when it was already half Irish.
Brian’s mother would have preferred the security and safety of the priesthood for her firstborn, but his hero-worship of his father—as well as his robust attraction to the opposite sex—set him on a different path. He did well in high school, breezed through the police academy entrance exam, and joined the force at twenty. Now, still a bachelor six years later, he was thinking of settling down.
The only catch was finding the right girl. Everyone had expected him to tie the knot with Mary Dolan, his high school sweetheart. But they’d been drifting apart for some time and had broken up a year ago. There was no denying he cared for her—he’d told her that often enough—but something kept holding him back. We know each other too well, he rationalized to himself. We’re more like brother and sister. Then he would seesaw, review her many assets, and conclude that she was just right for him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to pop the question.
Sick of their on-again, off-again romance, Mary enlisted in the WAVES in fall 1942 and shipped out to the Naval Air Station in Kansas, where she promptly snagged herself a dashing flyboy.
“Such a lovely girl. You’re a fool to let her slip through your fingers,” his mother had scolded, while his father winked a knowing eye and confided that there were plenty of other pebbles on the beach. Especially with so many eligible young men overseas.
Twelve
Carrying several headshots and a full portrait of Lam’s body in costume, Fitzgerald headed uptown to the Twenty-Third Precinct. Ryan had called to alert Officer Diaz, who would serve as his liaison to the Spanish-speaking community and specifically the Cuban contingent.
She was waiting at the desk when Fitz arrived. He had tried to form a mental picture of her as he rode north on the subway and had come up with the image of a matronly type of no-nonsense female cop, with sallow skin, black hair pulled back in a practical bun, and a thick Spanish accent. His stereotyping left him unprepared for the tall redhead who greeted him. He was five foot nine, and her eyes were level with his. Her hair fell to her shoulders in auburn waves.
One look told her that her fellow cop had expected someone very different.
“Officer Fitzgerald, a pleasure.” She greeted him politely, her English accented by the slurred consonants of a New York City native. Her handshake was firm but not aggressive. She held it for a few moments to give him time to recover while she chatted amiably.
“I look forward to working with you. From what your sergeant told me, it’s
an interesting case. He didn’t give me much detail, but I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”
Fitzgerald’s double take had settled into a cross between confusion and pleasant surprise. The extended handshake had also given him time to find his voice, although not his full composure.
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will. I mean, yes, Officer Diaz.”
Her smile was alarmingly genial. “Please call me Nita.”
“I answer to Fitz.”
“I think we’ll get along fine, Fitz. Downtown cops don’t come this far north very often, but I worked a case with a detective from the Sixth not too long ago. Dillon is his name.”
Fitzgerald was starting to relax. “We’re both on this one. It’s a killing, maybe manslaughter, maybe homicide. I guess Ryan told you that the victim is Cuban. I want to find out if he was involved in anything up here that could have gotten him killed.”
Nita nodded. “Let’s go back to the office, and you can give me the details.” She paused and came to a decision. “I know you’re wondering about me,” she said as they walked down the hall. “My family is Cuban, too. They were bankers down in Havana. My parents came to New York before I was born. My dad opened a branch of the bank here in Harlem. Hispanics were just beginning to displace the Italians in this neighborhood, and he thought the community was underserved. He was right. None of the Anglo banks wanted to do business with the immigrants.
“Dad’s bank was there for folks who’d never had savings or checking accounts before, or access to loans, so they could buy furniture or open a business. When the Depression hit, and a lot of his customers lost their jobs or their earnings fell off, he carried their loans. It was a financial lifeline for many families around here,” she explained, then got to the point.
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