MacDougall sat calmly through Moodrow’s tirade, still stiffly erect. “Very moving, Sergeant. Would that you had managed to apprehend him before he came to our city. In any event, we intend to try Mr. Baumann in Vermont.”
“What kind of cop are you?”
“I don’t have to sit for your impertinence, predictable as it is. This interview is concluded.”
“Can I at least see him?”
MacDougall grinned. “You’re sure you won’t abduct him?”
“Cut the crap.”
“We’ll have him ready before you get to the jail.”
Moodrow left without another word. MacDougall was right. Arguing was fruitless. Later he would phone Epstein and let the lawyers straighten it out. In the meantime, he would try to soften Baumann up, just in case the state of Vermont decided to release him. Still, even though resigned to the situation, Moodrow was not in the best of moods as he walked across the two hundred yards of the macadam parking lot between MacDougall’s office and the Brattleboro city jail, nor was his mood improved by the sight of Frankie Baumann’s partner, Angelo Parisi, bent over the trunk of a ‘62 Pontiac Grand Prix, struggling to extract the spare tire. What followed, however, proved to be just the mood elevator the policeman needed to make the afternoon bearable for, as Moodrow passed, Angelo Parisi, stoned out of his mind on Quaaludes, looked up from his flat tire and recognized the sergeant.
“Well, well,” he said, from the very depths of his euphoria, “lookee what we got here, the chiefest piggy on the Lower East Side.”
Moodrow stopped for a second to absorb two pieces of information. First, Baumann could no longer be turned because having seen Moodrow on his way to question Baumann (and he could be in Brattleboro for no other reason), Angelo would spread the word and Baumann would no longer be trusted by the Golden Nomads. Second, Moodrow realized that as far as Brattleboro was concerned, he was not a cop, but a private citizen and subject to the same laws as anyone else. Nevertheless, grinning with malice, he swung face to face with the very stoned Angelo Parisi.
“Hey,” Angelo cried, realizing his mistake. “Youse can’t do nothin’ ta me. This ain’t New Yawk.”
Casually, with utter contempt, Moodrow slapped both palms into Angelo’s chest, sending the young hoodlum reeling backwards into the side of the Pontiac.
Angelo, not so stupid as to try to fight back, put his hands in front of himself defensively. “Whatta ya gonna do? Whatta ya gonna do?” was the best he could come up with.
“Get in the trunk, Angelo.”
“What?”
“Get in the trunk.” Moodrow’s voice was calm and even, as if he’d made the most reasonable request imaginable.
“I ain’t gettin in no fuckin’ trunk.”
Once again, Moodrow slapped both palms against Angelo’s chest and once again Angelo slammed into the side of the car. “Get in the trunk.”
Very slowly, as if he was being pushed against his will by a powerful wind, Angelo Parisi began to move toward the back of the car, Moodrow echoing every step. Just as they reached the open trunk, Angelo looked inside, seeing the tire iron and contemplating the feel of it in his hands as it crashed into Moodrow’s skull. Then he heard the low rumble of the detective’s laughter and, like Paco Baquili, he began to cry even as he stepped inside.
“You got no right, you motherfucker. You got no right.” He kept up the chant, each syllable widening the smile on Moodrow’s face, until he heard the snap of the trunk lock closing. Then, as Moodrow, the keys to the Pontiac in his pocket, walked toward the jailhouse, Angelo began to kick and shout for freedom.
Once inside, Moodrow paused to consider his situation. There was no hope of turning Baumann, so his original objective was dead, though he was sure the New York district attorney’s office would press for extradition. There was a moment when he considered not speaking to Baumann at all, of simply returning to the airport after a quick call to Captain Epstein, but then, on a whim, he decided to see Baumann, to chat for a few moments about Ronald Jefferson Chadwick and a Greek named Johnny Katanos.
Under most conditions, cops and robbers are deadly enemies, even when the robber is a snitch. They simply hate each other. But on occasion, when neither has anything to gain or lose, they relate to one another like corporate adversaries, salesmen for competing firms meeting unexpectedly in a hotel bar and pausing to talk shop. This was Moodrow’s position, though not Frankie Baumann’s, as they first encountered each other in the small, green room that served Brattleboro as an interrogation cell.
“I am not about to turn rat, Sergeant,” Frankie Baumann, taller than Moodrow, but thin, almost spectral, said in his slow, southern drawl. “It is simply not in my nature.”
“So who asked you?” Moodrow replied, taking a seat across from Baumann. “I just thought I’d drop in for a little talk. You know, you shouldn’t have cut up your wife like that. She wasn’t ratting on you. Now she’s dead and you’re going bye-bye forever. Man, it’ll be box time before you hit the streets again.”
“Well, I guess that is just the fate God had in store for me. See this here?” He pointed to a jailhouse tattoo on his forearm which read Born to Lose. “I guess I have known the truth of this for a long time. I have no regrets.”
“I could see that. I could see you’re a tough guy. I wouldn’t even bother trying. By the way, you got a little piece of luck going here. Vermont doesn’t want to give you up.”
Baumann’s face, previously grave, crept up into a smile.
“But,” Moodrow continued, “we’re not quitting yet.”
“No surprise there, Sergeant.”
“I gotta say, though, the neighborhood’s been very quiet since you been gone. I think the last real blast we had was when Chadwick bought it.”
“Oh, yes, I do recall the incident. Always wondered about that one. Hurt me, too. Mr. Chadwick was an old rival of ours. Fact is, we were planning a little action. Only problem being, we didn’t know exactly when the man was going to be heavy. No sense killing folks if there is no reward forthcoming.”
Moodrow leaned forward. “But some asshole must have known the inside, because they took Chadwick for a heavy piece. Least that’s the way I heard it.”
Baumann, caught up in the gossip, joined eagerly. “Word on the street is only one gentleman responsible. Greek fella name of Zorba.”
“You mean Johnny Katanos?”
“Heard that was his real name. But we all called him Zorba.”
“Yeah? You think it’s possible? I mean one fucking guy.”
“Well, now, I can’t say for sure, but I must admit that fella Zorba was about as bad as a man can be. Why, one day I saw him tear apart the biggest damn nigger in the whole city. And he did not pick that fight. Fact is, the boy tried to step aside, but when he was faced down, he ‘bout killed the coon. Never thought I would feel sympathy for a nigger, but this one took just the worst beating, and right out where the whole street could see. The most amazing thing about it is just how cool that Greek boy made himself. When I get down to a real fight I pretty near go crazy, but not that Zorba. It was like a stroll down St. Mark’s Place for all he showed. Shoot, I am just glad I never had to tangle with him myself.”
“Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Moodrow responded. “I tried like hell to run that prick down, but I couldn’t find him. Like he just rolled off the edge of the Earth.”
Baumann smiled, knowing Moodrow was probing, but willing to go along. “Now I do believe that boy hailed from out in the boroughs. Queens comes first to mind. We were hoping to recruit him to our cause at one point, but he turned us down. Did a little investigating, though we never did pick up the exact on his home. Just Queens, somewhere.”
A chilly afternoon for late March, crisp and clear; Johnny Katanos with Muzzafer alongside him, parked the van across from 426 West 10th Street, in Manhattan, the home of A&B Oxygen Supply.
“What time is it?” Johnny asked.
“One o’clock.”
“How do you know what he’s doing?” Muzzafer rolled the side window down a couple of inches, trying to keep it from fogging.
“I’ve seen him. When it’s warmer, the men eat out in the yard.” He started the car and flicked on the rear window defogger. “Say, Muzzafer, you know what I always wanted to ask you? What’s it like inside an Arab jail? You were in jail what? Six months?”
“Seven.”
“But who’s counting, right?” Johnny smiled, taking his time. “So what’s it like in an Arab jail? They tough or what?
Muzzafer unzipped his jacket. The defroster blew all the heat up to the top of van. His hair was sweaty, his feet cold. “There are two kinds of jails in most countries. In most civilized countries. Even in Russia there are two kinds. We were political prisoners. Criminals were kept away from us.”
“You mean, so they wouldn’t hurt you?”
“I expected you to say that, but you’re completely wrong. If anyone in that prison hurt one of us, he hurt all of us. We have a reputation for getting even. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it.” He looked straight at Katanos, a thin smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “The thing about criminals, their limitation, is that they aren’t prepared to die. As revolutionaries, we expected an early death. We embraced the idea. All of our heroes were dead. Many of our contemporaries, as well. We sang in the mornings. Right after we prayed on our knees to Allah, we sang of our willingness to sacrifice our lives. We held seminars, taught ballistics, organization, forgery, smuggling. Most of our jailers supported us. They gave us food, cigarettes, newspapers. I met revolutionaries from every continent but Antarctica. I met Germans, Irish, Afghans, Colombians, South Africans. We’d all been living in Amman, in Jordan, thinking we were protected. Then one day Hussein’s secret police rounded us up like cattle, held us while he drove all the Palestinians out of his country, then let us go. The funny part is that while we were in jail, we made associations that still hold up today. You can see it in our own project. A Libyan operation armed by Cubans with American ordnance smuggled by Colombians. Learning how to set that up was what jail was like for me. The criminals, I think, had it a lot tougher.”
Though he read the implied threat, Johnny listened without changing expression. He wore a quilted down vest and a loose, wool shirt tucked into black, corduroy pants. Reaching into his shirt pocket for a roll of Life Savers, he smiled innocently before he began to speak. “Man, that sounds more like paradise than prison. If American jails were like that, you’d have to lock the poor people out. How old were you when you went inside?”
“Seventeen.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was getting at. Kid joints are worse than regular jails. Every day I had to fight and I wasn’t even in there for a crime. I was just there because I was between foster families. Like for almost four years. And all those kids ever did was play sports and fight and fuck each other.” Johnny passed the Life Savers over to Muzzafer. “Know why I think they used to fight so much? It’s because they were so horny. When I was fifteen years old I had a hard-on almost all the time. I woke up hard, walked around hard, and went to sleep hard. And I wasn’t the only one. The niggers were desperate horny. Them guys would jerk off under the bench in shop class. Race to see who would come first. God help the kid who couldn’t fight.”
“Wait a minute.” Muzzafer waved his arm in Johnny’s face. “That him?” He gestured to a truck pulling out of the yard.
“What’s the number on the hood?”
“Eight.”
“And what number are we looking for?”
Johnny struggled to keep his voice relatively neutral. The way Muzzafer had answered his question about jail, cool and unafraid, made him wary. The bastard wasn’t scared of him and that, in itself, was intriguing. In Johnny’s world, prior to meeting Theresa, little guys like Muzzafer, if they weren’t actually holding a weapon, were always afraid.
“What time is it?” Johnny asked again. Suddenly he realized that Muzzafer might try to kill him. Not here and not in the near future, but it was possible the Arab would kill him for breaking up the project. That’s why Muzzafer wasn’t afraid. Because he knew that he could do it.
“One twenty-three.” Muzzafer kept his eyes on the entrance to the yard. The Greek’s patronizing tone was becoming more and more irritating. Under ordinary circumstances, he would slap the man who dared to challenge him, but these circumstances were far from ordinary. Through his superiors, any project leader could arrange for the ultimate lesson to be administered to rebellious soldiers and these same soldiers all knew it, but in New York, under the conditions which he himself had created, there was no higher authority. What could he do? Hit Johnny Katanos? Shoot him? There wouldn’t be any Army without him and the oddest thing was that Johnny never challenged Muzzafer when the whole group was together. Never embarrassed him in front of the women. For a moment, Muzzafer tried to imagine himself explaining why he’d had to kill Johnny Katanos. Theresa would tear him to pieces.
They sat in silence, watching the traffic on 10th Street, until Johnny, deadpan, asked for the time.
“It’s one twenty-eight,” Muzzafer replied.
“Crystal ball time, man. I say in exactly two minutes, right when the lunch whistle blows, truck number 4 is gonna come rumbling out of the yard The guy driving it’ll go east to Sixth Avenue, then north, into midtown traffic. Guess where he’s actually headed.”
“The Bronx.” Muzzafer meant it as a joke.
“How the fuck you know that?” For a moment Johnny was taken aback, the first time Muzzafer had ever seen him even slightly out of control.
“I was kidding.” Muzzafer explained.
“Yeah?” He looked at Muzzafer closely for a moment, then flashed his biggest smile. “Well, you win the grand prize, little buddy, ’cause that’s exactly where he’s going. Most days he takes the New Jersey run, but two afternoons a week he services whatever accounts number 3 can’t handle.”
“So why does he use Sixth Avenue? How come he doesn’t take the West Side Highway or Tenth Avenue and go around the traffic?”
“OK, this is really beautiful. He takes Sixth Avenue because of a little pizza shop at 32nd and Sixth, Gino’s Genuine, where they sprinkle their pizza with dope instead of cheese. No shit. Every time he stops there, the counterman passes him a small bag, a slice of pizza and no change for his twenty. I figure it’s probably coke, but who gives a fuck? As long as he goes there.”
At 1:30 the sound of an air horn interrupted their conversation and a GMC with an open stake body and the number 4 painted on the hood, pulled out of the yard and headed east on 10th Street, with Johnny and Muzzafer in pursuit. They followed it through heavy traffic to Sixth Avenue between 31st and 32nd, where, as predicted, the driver double-parked next to a stretch limo and ran into Gino’s Genuine.
“Son of a bitch,” Muzzafer said. “You were right.”
“This is some fucking town, partner. I mean these guys are more wide open than a transvestite’s cheeks.”
Muzzafer ignored the comment. The scenario was perfect for their needs. Manufacturers are forbidden to carry compressed gas in closed trucks in New York and the slats on number 4’s stake body offered easy access to the chained cylinders of oxygen and acetylene. Muzzafer could feel the blood rising. This was midtown Manhattan, not Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Every street was crowded and the further north truck number 4 drove, the more crowded it would get.
“Take a count,” Johnny said. “Count the cylinders.”
“Forget it,” Muzzafer responded. “That’s the first thing I did. There’s twenty oxygen and eighteen acetylene. Let’s get out of here.”
As they drove toward the Midtown Tunnel, and Muzzafer began to consider the situation, to formulate a plan for the execution of the project, Johnny wa
tched him closely, trying to sense the moment when Muzzafer would be least prepared to hear what he was going to say. For Johnny, it was a kind of stalking, of waiting for the prey to relax before he began moving forward. He would never allow himself to become as lost in his thoughts as Muzzafer. No situation was safe enough for that.
“Hey, Muzzafer, you’re not gonna believe this. Guess what happened yesterday afternoon? Guess?”
Muzzafer looked up, startled. “What?”
“I got Janey. I popped her good, man.”
“What?” He couldn’t believe he’d heard it right.
“I humped little Janey. Humped the shit out of her.”
“Are you serious?” Muzzafer felt the news drop over him like a wet snowfall. If Effie found out… “Does Effie know?” he asked frantically. “Why did you do that? I ought to kill you for that.”
“Relax, Effie doesn’t know anything.” Johnny laid his hand on Muzzafer’s leg, tapping the smaller man’s knee. “And Theresa doesn’t know, either. And don’t look at me like it was my fault. We were down in the laundry room and she got all over me. I mean it’s obvious the bitch hasn’t seen a cock in a long time and she’s tired of plastic.” He stopped for a moment, to give Muzzafer a chance to respond, but Muzzafer was too angry to open his mouth and Johnny, quick to seize advantage, leaned close, whispering in his best “buddy to buddy” voice. “But lemme tell you exactly what happened. And don’t let me forget about the freckles.” He pushed his elbow into Muzzafer’s ribs and for the first time, Muzzafer recognized that this whole project, the choice of targets, the location, the method, was entirely in Johnny Katanos’ hands. “She’s got freckles on her fucking tits, man. They’re exactly the same color as her nipples. And real blonde pussy hair that’s blonder than the hair on her head, and that’s the first time I ever saw that. Would you believe she said if I go down on her, she’s gonna kick me in the balls? She said she’s had enough tongue to last her into the next century.”
A Twist of the Knife Page 13