He was wrestling with that one; we all knew it and he knew we knew it. And the battle was costing him, though none of us had any way to know how much. One thing we could take straight to the bank, though: If Abby Horowitz decided he was in, he’d be all the way in. He dipped his head. We had our answer and everybody resumed breathing.
“When do we want to do this?” I asked, and when no answer was forthcoming, and when I realized why, I almost managed a laugh. “You don’t think I’m going to let you three walk into the lions’ den alone, do you?” I managed to make a passable scoffing sound. “I’m going to be in the vehicle, watching and listening. So. I repeat: When do we do this?”
Abby looked at his watch. “I need to find out when Sabzanov is on shift. I’ll make a call and if he’s on now, I’ll go see him now. Give him a day to set it up—let’s say day after tomorrow?”
I was okay with that. Maybe by then I’d have gotten some sleep and my head would have stopped pounding and I’d stop hurting every time I breathed or moved.
“What are you thinking?” Eddie asked. “Right a moment ago. What were you thinking? ’Cause, ’mano, you shoulda seen your face!”
“I was thinking what bullshit it is in the movies and on TV when the PI takes an ass whip and he’s up and about like nothing happened that same day and I can barely move.”
“Maybe they’re just tougher than you,” Mike said.
“Could be,” I said. “Or maybe they just never went a round on an East Village sidewalk in the snow with Willie ‘The Tank’ Kearney.”
That was it, everybody agreed, and got busy cleaning up and putting the furniture back where it belonged, then Abby got on the phone. I couldn’t do much but sit and watch, so I went to my desk. Getting into and out of that chair was easier than with the sofa. I got my notebook out of the drawer and paged through it. I wouldn’t be able to write anything for at least six weeks—until the cast came off my right hand. I couldn’t write but I could think: Two really shitty situations apparently about to be resolved to our clients’ benefit. Couldn’t argue with that. Clients happy, us well paid, potential new work on the horizon. What’s not to like?
“Phil? What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
“No, Yo, I’m fine, really.”
“No you’re not!”
“Okay, I’m not fine. We don’t know who murdered Bill Calloway and shot Eddie and I’m not fine with that. If one of the Kearneys did that, I want one of them to pay for it. I want whoever set the Taste of India fire and killed that delivery guy to pay for it. If one of those guys—McQueen or Casey or Mottola—did it, I want one of them to pay for it. Tank can’t be the only guy to go down for murder. There were three of them, three murders, and maybe three murderers.”
“Maybe Tank did all three,” Yolanda said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, remembering how hurt he sounded beneath the anger: He’d rather trust a Jew than his own blood. He didn’t set the Taste of India fire and he didn’t kill Bill.”
“When we get the Kearneys here, we’ll get it out of ’em,” Mike said.
“How? What incentive do they have to rat out one of their own?”
“How about we can convince somebody to finger one of them for it?” Eddie asked.
“Convince who . . . Sam Epstein! That might just work, Eddie.”
“I don’t even think we have to convince him, Phil. I think we just have to tell the Kearneys that Epstein pointed the finger at them—we pick one of ’em, Thomas or Francis, I don’t give a shit which one—and say our promise not to go to the DA with the info we have doesn’t extend to murder.” Mike was wearing his shark grin. “They’ll give up the shooter.”
“Even if it was a relative?” Yolanda asked.
I was up and walking, my brain adding an additional diabolical twist to Mike’s plan. “I think they’ll throw Sammy back at us, or Joey Mottola.”
“Oh, shit,” Eddie said. “Then it’s on. If they drop Mottola in it, whether he did it or not, his people will go after the Kearneys.”
“Yep,” I said, “they sure will.” And I had to fight not to check the look I knew Yolanda’s face was wearing.
“What the fuck are you tellin’ me, Rodriquez, that these Karney fucks are sayin’ that Joey killed that insurance guy?” Carmine and I were drinking Sambuca along with our coffee instead of eating pastries, even though it wasn’t yet noon, and I was really liking the warm, relaxed thing the liqueur was doing to my insides. Carmine said it would make me feel better and he was right.
“Kearney, and yeah, Carmine, they’re trying to lay all the murders off on somebody else. We’ve got them cold on the fires and the insurance scam, but they figure they can ride that out. They’ve got plenty of cash. But they don’t know how to do jail time. They could drop Sam Epstein or Joey in the shit. They chose Joey.”
“Goddammit!” Carmine slapped his palm down on the table and the glasses and cups and saucers danced up and down.
“I’m letting you know, Carmine, before this hits the press.”
“What fuckin’ press? What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Rodriquez? How did this get to the press?” For the first time since I’ve known him, the fat man looked worried.
“I took it, Carmine. That’s how I was going to get even with Kearneys for the dirt they did and hurt they caused—expose them publicly. They’re trying to leverage me the back way. They know I was working for Epstein, so they offered to keep him out of it and drop Joey in it. And since they’re all the same family . . .” I didn’t have to spell it out for him, him being such a loyal Family member himself.
“Shit!” Carmine hit the table again, though not as hard. “Fuckin’ shit.” He grabbed a couple of coffee beans, popped them into his mouth. Chewing, he asked, “How much time do I have?”
“Two, three days at the most.”
“Okay, Rodriquez, thanks for the heads up.” He already was finished being pissed off and working out in his brain how to fix his problem. “By the way, which one of those fucks did you? Couldn’t have been Casey or McQueen, those skinny little bastards.”
“Another cousin, we call him Tank.”
“Fat, stupid-looking jerk? Looks like a Hell’s Angel on a bad day?”
I tried not to look or sound excited. “That would be Tank,” I said. “But how would you know him, Carmine? Why would you know him?”
“I don’t know the little fuck. He hangs around Joey. The Kearneys treat him kinda bad on account of how he looks, and he’s illegitimate.”
I choked on my Sambuca. Who called anybody illegitimate anymore? Carmine was even more of an old-school guy than I thought. “He’s what?”
Carmine grinned at me. He liked unnerving me, surprising me, saying things I didn’t expect. “His mother’s some old broad got knocked up by accident and this boy, Willie, or Tank, as you like to call him, was the result.” Carmine’s grin widened. “Tank’s a much better name for him, though, than Willie.”
“No shit,” I said. “I can’t tell anybody that a guy named Willie creamed my ass.”
Carmine laughed, made me put my money away, and walked me to the door, which was a first. Then I saw why. A taxi materialized out of nowhere. “You ain’t in no shape to walk,” he said. “By the way, Rodriquez, why didn’t you just shoot the bastard?”
“Delaney’s got my gun. He took it after Calloway and Eddie got shot.”
Carmine shook his head and headed back inside the little pastry shop. “That Delaney prick’s even stupider than I thought he was.”
Abby and I got back to the office at the same time. We entered to find Yolanda, Mike, and Eddie testing every piece of surveillance equipment we owned. Yolanda looked especially pleased, which pleased me no end. “Did we know that Tank was Mary Katherine’s illegitimate offspring?”
“Illegitimate? Nobody says that anymore, bro,” Mike said.
“I knew he was her son but I didn’t find the . . . ah . . . illegitimate aspect,” Yolanda said, and stopped herself befor
e she asked me how I found out.
“You talk to Sabzanov?” I asked, as much to change the subject as to know the answer.
Abby did his shark imitation. “What was the thing you used to say, Mike, about a blind guy shitting and running?”
“He didn’t know whether to run, shit, or go blind?”
Abby had started laughing when Mike started speaking and was holding his sides when he finished. “That’s from Georgia, y’all. I love that, and it perfectly describes Detective Sabzanov’s reaction to my little bombshell. I think he would have run if he could have, but since I had him cornered, he just shit his pants.”
“But he’s going to get you in?”
“Day after tomorrow. And no sex!” He gave me a look, then he grabbed my hand and shook it. “I appreciate the sentiment, Phil, truly I do. But my wife would’ve killed me a couple times over before you ever got the chance.”
“How’s that work, Abby?” Yo wanted to know. “How to you visit a brothel without engaging in sexual activity?”
“I’m going in as Sabzanov’s boss who he had to cut in to guarantee the protection. We do this in the daylight. I go in, suit, tie, polished shoes—and not Russian—check the place out, count the girls, discuss the weekly take, and slam, bam, thank you ma’am, I’m out the door. We have it all on tape, Richard King writes us a check with lots of zeroes, and everybody’s happy.”
Almost happy. “If we could just find Willie the Tank.”
Abby stood up. “Might be possible,” he said, and headed toward the back.
“Where’s he going?” Eddie asked. “Where you going, Horowitz?” he yelled.
“Be right back,” Abby answered.
“He’s weird,” Eddie said.
“But effective,” Yolanda said.
“Weird can be good,” Mike said. “Right, Phil?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe because you do dirty deals with Mafia lightweights?”
“This from a man who broke into a murder victim’s apartment not once but twice and stole pertinent information, evidence.” I made it a statement and let it hang. Mike and Eddie knew that I knew Carmine; they didn’t know how or why or that I had breakfast with him once a week. My cell phone rang and I got up and crossed the room to take the call. Judging from the catcalls, they all knew it was Connie, who was taking seriously her caretaker role, for which I was grateful. I was tired and I ached and I wanted to go to bed. I told her I was on my way home.
“So, what? You gotta go home?” Eddie asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said.
“Good God!” Mike said, and it wasn’t commentary on my being summoned home. Abby had emerged from the back transformed. No longer the suited and tied and wing-tipped exec, he looked like an East Village biker boy: Grungy black jeans, black biker boots, black T-shirt, leather vest with metal studs, and hair no longer neatly combed and gelled but sticking up in spiked points.
Yolanda was speechless. She walked a circle around Abby, looking him up and down, seeing but definitely not believing. “If I passed you on the street, Abby, I wouldn’t know you. I wouldn’t want to know you.”
Abby beamed. “Thanks! I guess that means I can scout biker hangouts and bars in search of Tank. Or Willie, as I’m sure he’s called in his own environment.”
I walked over to him, got really close, and sniffed. “They’ll make you in a second and toss you out on your sweet-smelling ass, Horowitz. You don’t stink, man! You gotta stink if you’re gonna hang with the Tank!”
Chapter Fourteen
It was dark when I woke up. I just lay there, assessing my body, thinking maybe I felt better, hoping it wasn’t just wishful thinking. Then I became aware of two things: Connie wasn’t beside me and the low hum of the street noise was louder than it should be for this time of night. I turned my head to check the clock: 7:42 the red dial glowed. That didn’t make sense; it had to be later than that if it was night—which it was because it was dark. It would be light if it were morning.
I raised myself to a sitting position and braced for the headache. It came but it was a much tamer version of it predecessor. I took a deep breath and that was a mistake. Shallow breaths were better. I worked my butt to the edge of the bed, planted my feet, stood. No nausea or dizziness. This was good. Walking to the bathroom was even better as it no longer hurt just to move. So, now that I was fully recovered, I needed to find Connie.
The door to the living room was closed, another one of those things I’d have to get used to. Not the door being closed but having somebody else in the place who also was considerate enough to close the door while I napped. And who also cooked! The delicious scent of food cooking met me when I opened the door, beating Connie by only a few seconds. She hugged me close and tight then quickly released me with an apology for hurting me. I grabbed her back and hugged her even tighter.
“You’re better.”
“Much.”
“You hungry?”
“Starving, and whatever you’re cooking, I’m ready to eat it.”
“Well, it’s not ready to be eaten yet, but we’ve got some snacks that’ll take the edge off until it is,” she said, leading me to the sofa. “Sit and put your feet up.” I did and she arranged pillows behind and beside me until I was comfortable. “Phil?”
“Hmmm?” I was settling into the sofa, thinking about snacks. And maybe a beer.
“You know you slept for twenty-four hours . . . ?”
“What?” But as soon as the words registered, I knew they made sense. The last thing I remembered was . . . what? I struggled to call up the memory . . . Abby looking like shit but smelling like a rose. At four or five o’clock . . . yesterday. I came home after that and it now was 7:42 and it wasn’t morning. “How’d I do that?”
Connie looked a little sheepish but not at all apologetic. “Pain pills. I gave you two when you got home last night and you were out cold in about half an hour. You have very little tolerance for drugs, you know?”
I nodded. I did know, which is why I had refused to take them. “So, how many of them have I taken?”
She laughed the laugh that I loved, kissed the top of my head, and headed for the kitchen. “Do you want a salad or green beans with your roast chicken and rice?”
“Both, and lots of it. And I hope you made a chicken for yourself.”
I was soaking in a tub of hot, aromatic, herb-infused water the next morning when Connie brought me the telephone. “Who is it?” I growled, not yet wanting to be “into the day.” In fact, I was thinking I could enjoy being an invalid for another day or so, sleeping, eating, bathing.
“I don’t know, Phil,” she was saying, when it rang again. I almost dropped it in the aromatic water. She punched it on for me and I answered. It was Carmine and he got right down to business, the central point being that Patrick Casey, Tim McQueen, and Willie Kearney were, and would be, at my disposal for as long as I needed them to be. I couldn’t tell, from his tone of voice, whether they’d still be alive, and I couldn’t ask him that in front of Connie, so I asked her to please write down the address and phone number Carmine gave me, then I gave her the phone because he’d hung up. “Is everything all right?”
“My building was torched by accident,” I said, repeating the repeatable part of what Carmine had just told me. “Accident’s the wrong word, I suppose. The yoga studio had been targeted but when the Kearneys found out that I owned the building, they cancelled it. But Tank, wanting to prove himself to his more accomplished family members—and wanting to get back at me—took the job on himself.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
I hesitated for just a second before telling her about Carmine. Not everything, but the salient points. She didn’t say so but I thought she recognized his name and his daughter’s name from her work counseling the families of rape victims. She also didn’t say anything about Carmine’s familial affiliation. What she said was, “If you’re going to have br
eakfast with him every week and eat three or four Napoleons, then you’re definitely going to have to go to the gym every day. Now, let’s get you out of this tub.”
We’d devised a means of getting me out before I got in: She looped a towel over the towel bar and I used my good arm to pull myself up while she stood behind me and pushed. All of this after the water had drained from the tub. It worked, too, which I was very happy about because even though I did feel better with each passing day, I was stiff and sore mornings, and the hot soak in whatever those herbs were just took all the soreness away.
Eddie the driver picked us up. We dropped Connie at the hospital first, then he took me to work. I missed my morning walk, especially now that mornings were warmer and brighter. Connie said we’d go for a long walk Saturday morning and then to the gym and if I didn’t die from the exertion, I could get back to my normal routine. I was looking forward to it. I’d called Yolanda after talking to Carmine, and she’d called the guys, and they all were waiting for me. Abby, thankfully, no longer looked like Tank’s best buddy, but he did look like a Wall Street banker: He had a busy day ahead of him, what with his rendezvous at Boris’s brothel and our meeting with brothers Kearney. The rest of us looked our regular selves. Except for me, I suppose, with the cast on my arm and the green-purple-and-blue-colored face. I was ambivalent about whether I wanted the Kearneys to see what Tank had done to me.
“That’s the same place where we picked up Epstein,” Mike said.
“What do you want us to do?” Eddie asked.
“Take a camera and go talk to ’em,” I said.
“What if they don’t want to talk?” Abby asked.
“Be persuasive,” I said.
“You’re not going?” Yolanda asked.
“No,” I said. “I’d start out in persuade mode.”
“Maybe they should, too, so we can have show-and-tell for the Kearneys when they get here,” Abby said.
A Murder Too Close Page 28