Muzzafer shook his head. The tanks were five feet tall and very solid. “They look pretty heavy to me. How would we conceal them?”
“Look at the trucks, man.” Johnny turned to face his companion. “How do you think they get them from one place to another? Every little gas station has tanks. Every construction job. Every body shop. I checked the yellow pages this morning and found sixteen wholesale supply houses in Queens alone. Look, I guarantee this company has steady customers and regular routes. One day the Bronx, one day Brooklyn, one day Queens. One day Manhattan. It’s just a question of putting the right truck in the right place at the right time.”
Within the universe of the 7th Precinct, Captain Allen Epstein was a god. He represented the immovable center around which all action revolved. Directives radiated from his office to every corner of the precinct, to each cop from patrolman to lieutenant, to each clerk, to the criminals in their cells, to the janitors and the secretaries. At first, he had viewed himself as a link in a chain of command that began at police headquarters on the Avenue of the Finest near City Hall and spread from there to the various precincts in the five boroughs. But, after several years, the 7th became its own entity to Allen Epstein, like a medieval manor surrounded by similar, rival manors. He had sworn fealty to the barons at headquarters, but he felt his real mission lay in protecting his neighborhood, the Lower East Side, from predation by outsiders as well as insiders.
It finally reached the point where any intrusion was met with suspicion, if not outright hostility. Even printed policy directives were carefully evaluated for fitness and those not found suitable, were not enforced, though they might be displayed on bulletin boards. But directives were nothing compared to visits from higher authorities and, though he faced it with fortitude, inwardly at least, Captain Epstein had reacted to the visit of Inspector Flynn and the two FBI agents as a father might react to the presence of rabid dogs in his children’s playground. For the next two days, he stewed, torn between his sense of outrage that anyone could doubt his ability to control his precinct and a nagging suspicion as to Moodrow and what he might be holding back. After all, he, Epstein, was a cop and cops traditionally do not care for the sort of anarchy espoused by the American Red Army. Finally—his gut unappeased by a carton of Mylanta—it was the cop who won out and he again summoned Stanley Moodrow to his office.
“Sergeant,” he began.
“Sergeant?” Moodrow inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Take the stick out of your ass. Or at least use some vaseline.”
Epstein smiled, suddenly ashamed. “Listen, Stanley, I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t have any goddamn choice there.”
“Forget about it. Anyway, they ended up looking like a couple of assholes. Fishing in a dry lake.” He leaned back in his chair, comfortable again. “Did I tell you I moved in with Rita? On Monday. It’s working out all right. So far. But what the hell, you gotta…”
“Stanley,” Epstein said, quiet but determined. “I’m glad to hear that your private life is going well, but that’s not what I asked you in to talk about.”
“I figured that,” Moodrow replied calmly. “And I also figure you ain’t gonna ask for no favor, else you would have offered me a fucking beer at least.”
“All right, take a beer, for shit sake.”
“How ‘bout you?”
“My gut’s on fire. I can’t.”
“That’s too bad,” Moodrow said, opening the can and flipping the tab into the wastebasket. “So what’s up?”
“I keep thinkin’ about the American Red Army. I mean we both know those cocksuckers meant to blow the shit out of the rabbi. I don’t care what they said in the papers. I spoke to Captain Marino in Williamsburg and he says the truck was parked there long before the opening was cancelled. Stanley, they coulda took out a couple hundred people. Including the goddamn mayor. That’s not fooling around.”
Moodrow broke in, irritated. “So what are you trying to say? You think I know where this fucking Army is?”
“No, I don’t think that. I know you’re a cop. It’s just that I remember you said you could run this guy down, that Greek you think hit Chadwick.”
“Right,” Moodrow said. “And I’ll tell you something else. When I found Hentados’ body, I took two ticket stubs from the Ridgewood Theatre on Fresh Pond Road out of his pocket.”
“Is that in your report?” Epstein asked, his face rapidly changing color.
“No, what difference does it make?”
“Ridgewood’s a white neighborhood. What the hell would Enrique Hentados be doing there?”
Moodrow smiled confidently, pulling on an already empty can of beer. “Glad to see you’re still a cop. Because that means you know what it feels like to get pulled off a case when you’re sure you could bust the dirtball. I went out to Queens and they told me I was an asshole. I came back and you sent me after a fourteen-year-old kid. Case closed, remember?”
“You shoulda put the goddamn tickets in your report,” Epstein shouted, already clutching his stomach.
“Well, I didn’t put the fucking tickets in the report. What good would it do? Listen, you say the word, I’ll take an I-DEN-TI-KIT over to Paco’s cell and get a picture of the Greek and the two pigs he was working with and go hunting. But if the Greek took Enrique to the movies in Ridgewood because he lives near there, that still takes in a lot of territory. Maspeth, Glendale, Middle Village, Forest Hills—could even be Long Island City or Woodhaven. We’re talkin’ about three quarters of a million people. Wanna give me a couple of months? Or maybe you got a ten-year-old for me to scare.”
Epstein sat back down, overcome by the obvious. “The bitch about it is that we really don’t know this guy is connected to these terrorists. I mean you could spend the next two months and not even find the guy or he’ll turn out to be innocent of everything, just a poor, scared slob who happened to disappear at the time when Chadwick got killed. It’s all a goddamn guess.” He paused, got up, walked to the refrigerator and, without thinking, took out two beers and opened them. “You want to hear something?” he continued. “You’re the most valuable guy in the precinct. You know everybody. You can do things no other cop can do. Look how easy you straightened that kid out. Any other detective would have wanted me to assign round-the-clock observation teams at the homes. They would have arrested every Puerto Rican kid within twenty blocks. But you just made it all go away. Shit, you’re my whole pipeline. I mean two tickets don’t make a goddamn case. Maybe he just went to the movies.”
“He didn’t have no car,” Moodrow said, deliberately turning their positions around.
“So?”
“So how did he get to Ridgewood? Times Square is the hangout for kids like him, not Ridgewood, where most likely he’d get his face stepped on if he walked out alone. Somebody had to take him there. Maybe he went to Johnny’s home for a day or two. Maybe they tried to persuade him gently. Maybe they succeeded and then killed him. Look, Ridgewood’s just too fucking remote to be an accident. People don’t go from the Lower East Side to Ridgewood unless they live there or they know somebody who lives there. The story is that they were lovers. Maybe the Greek takes the kid home so he can find a safe place for a blowjob. I don’t know, but the answer has to be somewhere in that neighborhood.”
“Too many goddamn ‘maybes,’” Epstein said, shaking his head. “I can’t lose you for that long on that many ‘maybes.’” You shouldn’t have held back those tickets, but it’s done and if it ever comes up, I’ll swear this conversation never happened. I want you to go up to Brattleboro, Vermont, for a couple of days.”
“Brattleboro?” Moodrow’s face dropped. “Fuck that, Captain. I just moved in with Rita. I can’t go.”
“You’re going, Stanley. The locals up there got Frankie Baumann on a minor drug charge. Traces of cocaine or some bullshit like that. A crap case, but they picked up our want on him off the computer. We got ten witnesses saw him kill his old lady in that bar and that’s murder, and I want hi
m back here.”
“So, why me, Captain? Send someone else.”
Epstein grinned. This was a punishment, for sure, and he was willing to let Moodrow know, even if Moodrow was the man he would have chosen in any event. “Baumann is our key into the Golden Nomads.”
The Nomads were an all-white motorcycle gang with headquarters in a steel-shuttered storefront on 7th Street and they were heavily engaged in the wholesale dealing of heroin and methamphetamine. Firmly entrenched after five years of operation, it had been initially hoped that they would be eliminated by the Young Warriors, the other white gang on the Lower East Side and a national organization, but after a single clash, the clubs had begun to cooperate. The Nomads bought from the mob and sold to the Warriors, among others, who then distributed on the streets. The Warriors were a street gang, anxious to uphold a reputation for mindless violence, while the Nomads were tightly organized and very paranoid about admitting new members or meeting new dealers. Busting the Nomads was a cherished goal shared by both Epstein and Moodrow and, characteristically, Moodrow found himself slipping into the cop’s world of possibilities, though he did not forget about Rita. Whether or not he actually went to Brattleboro, this was a matter that clearly needed discussion. The Golden Nomads had been the creation of three men: Pete Crosetti, Gilly Baker, and Frankie Baumann.
“So what’s the deal?” Moodrow asked, feeling the hook just graze his lip.
“Right now, Baumann’s facing thirty-five minimum. He’s forty years old with two priors. Bad priors with much violence, Stanley. The kind judges give out the max for.”
Moodrow shrugged. “If ever a man deserved the whole fucking thing, it’s Frankie Baumann. He was the enforcer. Everyone knew it.”
“Which only proves,” Epstein said calmly, a smile inching across his face in spite of his best efforts to appear neutral, “that he could be our key into the Nomads. How long have we been waiting? Four years?” He leaned across the desk and whispered into Moodrow’s ear. “I already talked to the goddamn DA. If we get the Nomads, Baumann pleads to second-degree manslaughter and walks away with ten. Thank about that shit, Stanley. The guy’s forty years old. If he gets the limit, he ain’t gonna see daylight until he’s seventy-five and that’s very old for a con.”
“So why me?” Moodrow asked.
The captain let his voice drop another notch, forcing Moodrow to lean into the desk. “All he knows is he’s being held on a minor drug charge. Whatta you think’s gonna happen when you walk into that interrogation room? This guy’s not a faggot, Stanley, but I want that the first time he figures out what’s facing him, his heart should drop down into his shoes and his balls should rise up into his throat. Then he’ll be ready.”
Moodrow sat still for a moment, sipping at his beer. “So how does this get us into the Nomads? You want inside the Nomads, you gotta put Baumann on the street and if you do that, he’ll run.”
Epstein, energized again, sat all the way back in his chair. “We got a guy working the streets right now. Black kid. Williamson. You know him?”
“Sure,” Moodrow smiled. “I busted him by mistake once. It made his reputation. I beat the hell out of him.”
“OK,” Epstein waved Moodrow off. “We’re gonna let Baumann introduce Williamson to the Nomads. As a buyer. Williamson’s been undercover for a year, so he shouldn’t arouse any suspicion. Let Baumann make bail and let Williamson help him out. Or let Baumann sneak into town and then let Williamson hide him out.”
“That sucks and you know it. You wanna run Baumann, you gotta find some legit way to put him on the street and if you do that, he’s gonna fly. Like you said, he ain’t no faggot. Listen, I got a guy in the slammer at Riker’s named Peter Chang, a Chinatown dealer I used to run before Frankie Rosen busted him last month with a couple ounces of speed. He can’t make bail and he’s waiting for me to help him out. Let’s make a deal with Baumann, but don’t reduce the charges right away. Let him and Chang become jailhouse buddies or even lovers. Then, from inside, Baumann introduces Chang to the other Nomads; Chang gets out on bail; Chang borrows money from the Chinatown shylocks to go back into business so he can split; Chang buys from his buddy’s old gang; we move in.” Moodrow paused, his jaw set. “Because I won’t help you if you put Baumann back on the street.”
Epstein also hesitated, but for quite a different reason. He allowed the scheme to sink deep into Moodrow’s gut, then yanked the hook until it caught. “What do the details matter? Sure, your idea’s better, but by the time you’re finished, it’ll be better yet. The main thing is go up to Vermont and turn Frankie Baumann, make him work for us. And that’s what you’re gonna do. What’ll it take? Two days? Three days? Give my regards to Rita.”
11
EVERYONE FEARS SOMETHING. EVEN the most battle-hardened military commanders, men who’ve sent other men to die again and again, who’ve seen the dismembered bodies of human beings in bomb craters, in instant ponds, bits of legs and arms lying thirty feet from limbless torsos, who’ve seen all these things and then sat down to a meal in the midst of the carnage, have that one special point of fear, usually kept hidden from the scrutiny of peers, that forces them to acknowledge the fact of their own mortality.
Stanley Moodrow was no exception. He, too, had his point of vulnerability, but, oddly enough, it had nothing to do with the inherent dangers of being a New York City cop. It was not the crazed killer lunging suddenly through the doorway, ten-inch butcher knife descending rapidly, that set him off. Nor was it the black ghetto revolutionary with mini-machine gun pouring round after round into his unmoving body. Even tenement fires, sudden and violent, requiring policemen to evacuate residents, usually nightmare situations for cops unable to judge how fast a fire is likely to spread, didn’t give Moodrow a second thought. He’d been in dozens, been burnt a few times, though never badly, and would not hesitate to go in again.
No, fortunately for his peace of mind, Moodrow’s fears did not revolve about his duties as a police officer. Like most of us, Moodrow was able to keep his fears at a safe distance. However, also like most of us, he occasionally had to confront them. Occasionally, as for instance, when ordered by his captain to chase after an out-of-town fugitive. Moodrow, it seems, hated to fly. It wasn’t while he was in the air that his problem surfaced, nor on the landing. Though he disliked landing, he was always prepared. His problem came along at the beginning of his flight, during the final moments before takeoff. As the plane swung into its approach and the engines revved to a deafening pitch, Stanley Moodrow, all six foot five inches of him, was transformed from a human being into a living fountain, pouring out sweat until the black stains showed plainly on his dark brown suit. Then, as the plane suddenly lurched forward, the sergeant would try his level best to leave all ten fingerprints in the armrest, for he knew that, without fail, seconds after the tires lifted off the ground, the aircraft would bank steeply toward whatever side he happened to be sitting on, while at the same time rattling like dice in the palm of a degenerate gambler. This undoubtedly explained why Moodrow spent the hour before his flight to Vermont in the airport lounge as a prelude to even more serious drinking on the plane. It also explained his headache and his utter lack of enthusiasm at being confronted in Brattleboro police headquarters by Captain Joshua MacDougall, patriarch of Brattleboro Police Headquarters, a fiftyish man, thin as a rail with translucent skin stretched taut across the fragile bones of his face. He sat, Captain MacDougall, legs crossed at the knees, the picture of New England elegance. Marshalling all the resources of his distaste for New York and New Yorkers, he allowed a slight smile to stretch the corners of his thin, white mouth.
“Yes, Cap… Excuse me, Lieutenant Moodrow. What can I do for you?”
“Sergeant Moodrow.” Moodrow sat quietly, too drunk to react.
Captain MacDougall shuffled the papers on his desk briefly, then looked into Moodrow’s bloodshot eyes. “Quite correct. Sergeant Moodrow. What can I do for you?”
“Didn’t Captain E
pstein call ahead? He said he was going to make all the arrangements. About Frankie Baumann.”
“Oh, yes, I recall the conversation. He wanted me to allow Mr. Baumann to be extradited to New York.”
“Yeah. We’re gonna bury him.”
“Bury?”
“Sure, we’ve got the fucker dead. He’ll max out to thirty-five plus.” Moodrow, unsure of how much Epstein had confided to MacDougall, deliberately kept any talk of deal out of the conversation.
MacDougall leaned forward, greedily, like a derelict about to suck on his bottle. “It appears we have a problem, Sergeant. We also want to punish Mr. Baumann.”
“For what? For a couple grams of coke? What’s the point?” Moodrow was sobering rapidly.
“A couple of grams of cocaine,” the captain chuckled. “Well, I’m sure that’s not very much in New York City, but we take it very seriously in Brattleboro.”
Moodrow shifted in his chair, eyes riveted on MacDougall, who sat motionless. The sergeant was trying to figure out what the Vermont detective wanted, if anything. “So what’ll he get in Vermont?”
“Get?” MacDougall spat it out.
“How much time?” Moodrow’s voice rose, in spite of his efforts at self-control. “How much time in Vermont for a couple of grams of coke?”
“Oh, I see. I would guess about two years served.”
“Two years. I could put that prick away forever.”
“You’ll certainly have an opportunity. As soon as he’s released from a Vermont penitentiary.”
“Bullshit,” Moodrow exploded, half-rising. “Come two years from now there won’t be any witnesses left, no evidence. You might as well let the scumbag off right now.” For several seconds he couldn’t talk at all, then it poured out. “You know what he did? Do you? He thought his old lady was gonna sell him out to the Feds, which she wasn’t. So he goes into the Circle X bar on 6th Street and starts slicin’. Doesn’t say anything. Not one fucking word. Like fifty times. Small cuts, with the tip, but you know how those things add up when you stick to them. Did the deed in front of fifteen witnesses, too. Now you can imagine that these witnesses are just a little reluctant to point him out in an open courtroom, what with his friends and all, but I got enough persuasions, I could get a few on the stand. But not three years from now. Then it’s dead, and you want to hear something else? I was in that bar a few days ago. It’s an old bar and the floorboards don’t have any varnish left on ’em so the blood soaked right in. All his pals hang out there, and they don’t let anybody stand on the stain. They want to preserve it for future generations.”
A Twist of the Knife Page 12