“You’re right, Mr. Kallen—Mike—this is an A-1 building.”
He smiled, pleased. “Good thing, since I live here. And if you’ll give me two or three minutes, I’ll get a jacket and call for the car.” And without waiting for a response, he turned left and jogged across the lobby and down the hallway.
I called Yolanda, told her what Kallen wanted me to do, that I’d be later getting to the office than I thought. She told me I’d be even later than that because Carmine wanted to see me at the restaurant, and she made me promise not to bring back “any of that ass-widening pastry.” I closed the phone, wondering whether Sandra had made any unwise comment about Yolanda’s posterior and hoping she hadn’t because I liked Sandra and didn’t want her to be murdered. True to his word, Kallen reappeared zipping a black leather bomber jacket. He had changed from the black leather slip-ons he’d worn earlier to a pair of Doc Martens. The only color in his ensemble was a blood red scarf that I’d bet was cashmere. This definitely wasn’t the suited-and-tied big-time property manager I’d met earlier. I followed him out of the building and down the steps as a black Lincoln Town Car eased around the corner and slid to a stop.
“That’s our ride,” Kallen said. He approached the car, opened the back door, held it for me, then slid in beside me. The car was rolling again before the door was closed. “I’m visiting all my buildings today. I do that every Monday,” he said.
“Well, if the others are as A-1 as this one, you won’t be late for lunch,” I said, and he gave an appreciative chuckle. Then he reached inside his jacket and took a BlackBerry from his pocket and I took that as a sign that we wouldn’t be sharing small talk and chit-chat on the ride downtown, which was fine with me. While Kallen scrolled through his messages, I scrolled through the thoughts in my brain. That Carmine wanted to see me so early either was very good news or very bad news; either Sam Epstein was alive and well or he was in pieces in the East River. I wished I’d asked Yolanda how he sounded when he called but knowing Carmine, he probably sounded like he was trying to be charming and anyway, Yolanda was focused on ass-widening pastries, not Carmine Aiello’s tone of voice. I knew, though, if he’d sounded tight or tense, she’d have picked up on that and mentioned it. Could be Carmine was just doing what he said he’d do, which was get back to me on Monday. I had been avoiding thinking about what to say to Dave Epstein; no point in making myself crazy. I didn’t have anything to say to him until I heard what Carmine had to say, but if Carmine had no info, good or bad, on Sam’s whereabouts, then I knew I’d have to insist that Dave file a missing person report. And I’d have to be prepared to file it on his behalf if he refused, which could drop me naked in a vat of boiling oil. I wasn’t on the best of terms with my unfriendly neighborhood guys in blue. In fact, some of them actively disliked me. I could just imagine their response to my filing a four-day-old missing person report.
“What the fuck . . . ?” Kallen’s shout jolted me out of my daytime nightmare and I tuned in to see that we we’d reached the Avenue B building and that there were three squad cars blocking the street. Just as the car cruised to a stop and I noticed that two cops were holding on to a skinny, old bald guy and two more were holding on to a Goth-looking young guy who was screaming at the bald guy, the driver of our car threw it into park and jumped out, running for all he was worth away from the police action. “You son of a bitch! You come back, you son of a bitch,” Kallen yelled at the long-gone driver, then he let loose a stream of what I was sure was profanity in what sounded like Russian, but could have been Czech or Polish or Lithuanian or anything else Eastern European. He opened the car door and hurled himself out, slamming the door so hard the car shook, and he barreled toward the fracas in front of his building as fast as the driver had run from it.
I jumped out of the car, closing my door a bit more gently, and hopped into the front seat and closed that door, too. I whipped out my phone and punched the button that got me Yolanda in a hurry. I told her what had just happened and flipped the visor and read her the info on the livery driver’s license. Then I quickly got out of the car, ran to the rear, read her the license plate number, and threw myself back into the driver’s seat. Yolanda asked me what I thought was going on and I told her the truth: I didn’t know but I was about to go find out. I closed the phone then pulled the big Lincoln out of the middle of the street and over to double-park beside a row of beat-up and battered-looking cars. I switched off the ignition, grabbed my carryall from the back seat, and hustled over to the growing crowd on the sidewalk. The Goth-looking kid was still screaming, only now it was Kallen screaming back at him instead of the bald guy, and the two cops who weren’t holding anybody were trying to get Kallen and the Goth to shut up. Then the larger of the two, a Ving Rhames look-alike, whipped his handcuffs off his belt and dangled them in the air in front of his face, and silence reigned.
“Who wants to go to jail?” he purred, sounding like a Bengal tiger. “Nobody? Good, ’cause I don’t feel like all that paperwork first thing on Monday morning. Now.” He looked at Kallen. “Who are you, sir, and what do you know about this young man?”
Kallen shot the Goth a nasty, withering look, then turned his attention to Officer Bengal Tiger, whose name tag read T. JETTER. “My name is Mike Kallen and I work for the company that manages this building and I don’t know who this is but I do know that he doesn’t live in my building.”
“Yes I do!” the Goth screamed. “Apartment four-twelve!” He was too tall to be so skinny and he had way too much dirty black hair for my taste and I didn’t much care for his wardrobe choices, but this was no East Village street urchin, addicted to drugs and/or alcohol since he could walk. His teeth were beautiful, his skin and eyes were clear, and his nails were manicured.
Kallen held out a hand toward the skinny bald guy who, upon closer inspection, wasn’t old at all, just prematurely bald, and the guy passed over a sheet of paper from the rolled up sheaf of papers in his hand. Kallen read it, then looked at Officer Jetter. “The tenant in four-twelve is named Rosemary Days and she lives alone.”
“I live there with her! She’s my girlfriend!” Goth screamed. Every time he opened his mouth it was at top volume. I was waiting for the Bengal tiger to smack him but Officer Jetter obviously was too well trained for that.
“Rosemary Days is the only name on the lease,” Kallen said, deliberately and very calculatingly keeping his tone moderated, “and only the people named in the lease can legally live in the building.” And he shot Goth-boy a gotcha look.
“Fuck that shit, man! I live in apartment four-twelve with Rosemary Days. She’s my girlfriend! I come home this morning and there’s some fuckin’ lock on the fuckin’ door and I can’t get in! I’m knocking for somebody to open the door when this bald asshole shows up talking about he’s the building manager and I don’t live here and he’s gonna put me out! This fuckin’ building don’t have a fuckin’ manager and I do fuckin’ live here!”
I looked at the building and sure as shit, there’s a brand spanking new door. Then I looked at the skinny bald guy and sure as shit, he’s got a ring of keys attached to his belt and a copy of the tenant list he’d given to Kallen. No wonder Kallen looked so smug earlier. He’d transformed the building from a dangerous dump to a safe haven for tenants like Rosemary Days.
Officer Jetter also did a visual inspection of the new door and asked the question that I was thinking: “When did the new door go up?”
“We started the work on Friday and completed it on Saturday,” Kallen said. “But all the tenants got their keys Friday night.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jetter asked.
Kallen nodded and pointed to the bald guy. “Boris personally delivered the keys to each tenant and got a signed receipt for the keys from each tenant.”
Boris nodded and rifled through the sheaf of papers he had rolled up in his hand and pulled one out and extended it to Jetter who took it, read it, and returned it. “When were you last here?” the cop asked the G
oth.
“Thursday night,” the boy answered, not screaming for the first time, but still too loudly and very nearly smart enough to see where this was headed. He might behave like a street kid but he definitely didn’t have street kid smarts.
“It’s Monday morning,” Jetter said. “You haven’t been here since Thursday? And you wonder why you can’t get in? It’s a wonder Miss Days didn’t change the lock on her apartment door.”
“She did,” Boris said, speaking for the first time. “Or rather I did.” He rifled through his sheaf of papers again, pulled out what I could read as MAINTENANCE REQUEST FORM. “She said somebody had tried to break into her apartment.” Here he shot a poisonous look at Goth. “The lock looked tampered with, and it was old, so I changed it. She paid for it. Or she will.” He passed the paper to Kallen. “It will be added to her rent.”
I looked at Goth boy, hoping he’d have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t. He started whining about needing to get his stuff and how he’d already paid for half of this month’s rent and the bitch better give him his money back, getting louder with each whiney word, until finally Jetter did smack him on the back of the head.
“You got ID on you?” Now the boy got some sense but it was too little, too late. He slowly and reluctantly reached into his back pocket and retrieved a battered wallet attached to a silver link chain, like a dog collar. He opened the wallet, took out what looked like a student ID card, and gave it to Jetter who looked briefly at it, then passed it to his partner. “I hear about you being over here again, Allen Copeland, I’m gonna lock your ass up. Understand me?” Allen Copeland nodded miserably. “Where does Rosemary work?”
“At NYU. She’s a graduate assistant in the math department.”
Now everybody looked at Allen. A graduate student at NYU was hooked up with him? Jetter shook his head in the disbelief we all felt. “I better not still be a cop when my daughters start dating because if they ever bring home anything that looks like you, I’ll shoot ’em. No, I won’t. I’ll shoot what looks like you if it’s standing in my living room looking for one of my daughters. And I’ll lock your ass up you go near that girl’s job, you understand me, Copeland?”
Copeland gave everybody dirty looks but he kept his mouth shut, nodded his head that he’d heard Jetter’s warning, took back his ID, and loped off down the street. He had a funny-looking walk, rising up on his toes and bouncing along. Then Jetter looked around at everybody and said to nobody in particular, “That little creep is a grad student at NYU, too.” And he walked away as did the other cops.
“You sure know how to throw a surprise,” I said to Kallen.
“I hadn’t planned on it being quite so dramatic,” he said.
“I’m no less impressed,” I said, and meant it, and then turned my attention and extended my hand to Boris. “Phil Rodriquez,” I said.
“I am Boris,” he said, shaking my hand, no last name offered which is what I wanted since I already knew the Boris part. Boris with an Eastern European accent. I’d bet money he could cuss up a blue streak like Mike did in the car when the driver tucked tail and ran. Bet the driver could cuss in the same language because I’d also bet not only didn’t he speak much English—his fear of cops was the real thing—his arrival to these shores was recent and probably not legal.
And thinking about the long-departed driver made me remember to dig in my pocket and retrieve a key ring, which I extended to Kallen. He hesitated. “The keys to the car. I moved it and locked it after the driver, ah, departed.”
The big man’s face contorted and clouded over and I expected more foreign language profanity, but he willed himself in control, took the keys, smiled—a real smile—and thanked me. “I’d forgotten about the car, with so much other stuff going on. Thank you, Phil.”
He was being really and honestly pleasant now and all I really wanted was to get away. I didn’t like the feeling I was having about Kallen and his building, and that feeling wasn’t helping the feeling I was having about hearing what Carmine had to say. “I know you’ve got a few things on your mind this morning, Mike, so why don’t I come back, say, Wednesday or Thursday? I’m really anxious to see what you’ve done. Maybe Boris won’t mind showing me around?”
“I’ll do it myself! Thursday morning? About ten?”
We made a date and I trotted to the corner to find a taxi.
Carmine was reading the racing form and picking his teeth when I got to the coffee shop. He didn’t look stressed or worried, but then again, he wouldn’t; Sam Epstein was my problem, not his. The plate of pastries was in the middle of the table and the waitress was topping off his cup. She looked up, saw me, smiled, and said something to Carmine. He looked up, motioned me over to the table. I hung my coat on the rack in the front of the place and stood there for a moment, inhaling. This little restaurant, coffee shop, pastry shop—whatever it called itself—was the best-smelling place in New York City. Cinnamon and yeast and butter and vanilla and . . . and . . . did warm have a scent? Because this place also smelled warm. Carmine’s mother’s sister owned the place and it was his de facto office, although as far as I knew, I was the only non-Italian allowed to meet him here.
“Rodriquez. How’s it hangin’?”
His standard greeting. We shook hands and I sat down as the waitress put the soup-bowl sized cup of cappuccino before me. “Buon giorno, Senora Geruso.”
“Buon giorno, Senor Rodriquez,” she said, and walked away.
“You look like you just shot yourself in the foot,” Carmine said.
“You’ve got a way with words, Carmine,” I said, “but you make the point, and I’d rather that’s what’s wrong with my foot than maybe what I just stepped in.”
“Which is what?”
“Russians, maybe.”
He gave a low whistle of serious dismay. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
“It wasn’t on purpose! I thought it was just a job. Now it’s looking maybe like it’s Russians, or some kind of Eastern Europeans.” I drank some of my coffee and stared at the plate of pastries, imagining my ass widening and wondering whether Connie would comment if it did. “I’m hoping I can tread lightly, finish the job, and back out of the door before what’s so far only a bad feeling turns into something really bad.”
He gave me a strange look. “Epstein’s connected to fuckin’ Russians?”
That deserved an out-loud laugh, and I gave it one. “No way, Carmine. Separate issue all the way around.”
“Good thing ’cause I wouldn’t give him back to you if he was. I hate fuckin’ Russians.”
I choked on the big gulp of cappuccino I’d just taken. “You’ve got him?”
He shook his head. “But I know where he is and you get him back all in one piece. But I need something outta this.”
“Okay,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. I tended to forget that Carmine was Mafia. Low-level but Mafia just the same. “Tell me what you need, Carmine.”
“I need to keep my nephew and myself outta this.”
“Joey Mottola? I didn’t know he was related to you.”
“He’s related to my wife by marriage, which makes the little piece of shit related to me, otherwise you could drop him in it and I wouldn’t give a flyin’ fuck.”
I thought for a moment. I didn’t give a flying fuck about Joey Mottola, either. I was hired to find Sam Epstein and if Mottola could lead me to him, I’d let him lead me. I had only one problem but it was a big one. “You know a man died in that fire.” I made it a statement, not a question and I didn’t add what I was thinking, which was if there’s a worse way to die I don’t know what it is.
Carmine was nodding his head; he knew where I was going. “McQueen started the fire. Casey was the front lookout and Joey was in the back, watching the alley.”
“Where was Epstein?”
“Tied to a chair to keep him from runnin’ to the cops.”
“And what’s to keep one of them from coming after Epstein
next week or next month?” I looked at Carmine, waiting for an answer. He looked back at me with the answer in his eyes. Now I was doing the nodding. I believed Carmine only because I was sure he’d slapped the Mottola kid around a bit to get the true story and that kid wouldn’t risk lying to him. Not if he wanted to keep walking without a limp. And McQueen and Casey wouldn’t risk crossing Joey Mottola if they wanted to keep walking, period. “All right, Carmine. I don’t have a problem with that, with keeping Mottola out if it.”
“You’re keeping me out of it, too, Rodriquez. I don’t know nothin’ about no fires, I don’t know nothin’ about that Epstein asshole, and if comes down to it, I don’t know nothin’ about you, either.” And he meant every word of that.
“You know I don’t talk about you out in the world, Carmine!” I hoped I sounded more offended than terrified. I wouldn’t tell anybody but Yolanda that I had asked Carmine Aiello for help, and I wouldn’t have told her if I could have gotten around it. “This is private, Carmine. Whatever happens between us stays between us. Always.” He gave a satisfactory nod and I exhaled relief. A moment too soon, as it turned out.
“And stay the fuck away from fuckin’ Russians. Whatever it is you got goin’ with those assholes, Rodriquez, drop it. Let it go.”
He was serious, which made me more nervous about Kallen than I already was. “Why, Carmine? Exactly.”
A Murder Too Close Page 11