Mitchell Smith

by Daydreams

  “What about Classman?”

  Nardone covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “He called me at home last night. Said Frankie Odum never met Gaither. Heard about her from some john or other, and that’s it. Didn’t know she was dead, and didn’t care one way or another.”

  “Nothing.

  “Nothin’.” Nardone took his hand off the. phone’s mouthpiece, and said,

  “Marty, you always been straight with me-I always been straight with you. We don’t have the budget to be sendin’ you to Miami, no matter who’s down there. I don’t care what they’re doin’. Let the Miami cops sweat that out. It’s … it’s-I’m tryin’ to tell you it’s none of our business. And we couldn’t afford it, anyway. You get something’ on Midtown construction; you get some Internal guy looking’ the other way-that’s a different matter. I’ll be happy to talk to you.” Nardone sat listening while Ellie ate the rest of her bagel. It took five bites. “I’m-I’m always glad to talk to you,” Nardone said. “It’s a pleasure. Umm-humm … Right. Yeah.

  Now you got it. -Hell, you don’t like those assholes any better than I do. A bunch of animals. Do you owe them anything? You sure as hell don’t owe them anything.

  Umm-humm. That-that’s exactly right. Right . . .”

  Nardone rolled his eyes up at Ellie, but he stayed very patiently on the phone, listening to a voice high-pitched and harsh enough so that Ellie could almost make out its words. Nardone had a reputation of being soft with his sources—overpaying them, too.

  Ellie drank her coffee down, picked up the damp stirrer from the desktop and stuck it back in Nardone’s tea.

  Nardone told his informant to give Jennifer a hug for him, told him to tell her to treat him right, or Nardone would be coming after her.

  “She’s got a good man,” Nardone said. “-She’s got the best. She’s got a guy with some balls.” Then Nardone said, “Take it easy, Marty,” and hung up.

  “Would you believe,” he said, “-that Marty B is dead drunk before noon?

  We’re talkin’ about a guy there hasn’t got any liver left.”

  “He’s scared.”

  “And I don’t blame him,” Nardone said. “I was in his position, I’d be scared, too. I was in his shoes, I’d be terrified. -You want to go out to Queens? This Ambrosio thing?”

  Charles Ambrosio was the detective accused by his wife’s aunt of buying sports cars on a salary that shouldn’t have permitted it.

  Ellie read more of that report, down to the bottom of the second page.

  (It was getting uncomfortable to be sitting on the edge of the desk.) There didn’t seem to be much against Ambrosio but his wife’s aunt’s accusation.

  “Not much to it,” Ellie said. “The old woman probably hates him for criticizing her cooking. -I wanted to check the Gaither place again.”

  “Let’s do this shit first. We’ll do Queens first, keep Leahy off our backs.” He sipped his tea. “—Marty talked this stuff cold,” he said.

  “Poor guy. They’re going’ to smell the sweat on him someday, and shoot him right in the head. Then what the hell’s going’ to happen to Jennifer? -She’s damn near retarded-you know that?”

  “No,” Ellie said, “I didn’t. . I knew she wasn’t very bright.”

  “Who wasn’t very bright?” said Samuelson, stirring a cigar-smelling breeze as he trundled by again.

  They checked out the bronze Ford in the basement garage-Ellie trying the slap-on light, Nardone, as he always did, opening the car’s trunk to be sure of the spare and tools, and to work the action of the Remington twelve-gauge, check the loads. Neither of them had ever had to use, or even brandish the big shotgun, though they’d fired it on the range to qualify.

  Ellie thought it a good sign for the afternoon, that they’d gotten the old Ford. It was their usual ride, comfortable, and didn’t look as cop-ey as some of the cars.

  The ford had a severe dent in the right front fender someone had hit them trying to parallel-park while they were having breakfast in Brooklyn months before. The garage boss, the king of that echoing cavern-a civilian named Ramirez-had wanted them to pay for the damage, because Ellie had told him the truth about how it happened, and no way was that line-of-duty. Maybe once-not anymore. The Department,‘pinched for cash, was now trying to save in such little ways—occasionally out of the pockets of its people.

  The Ford smelled faintly of both of them, so that climbing into it was something like coming back to a small, messy home with grimy windows.

  Nardone asked Ellie if she wanted to drive, and though she did (felt like gunning the sedan around) she said no, knowing that he enjoyed it, liked sitting behind the wheel in easy competence, steering through the city’s noisy tangle. The thicker, the more brutal and impatient the traffic, the more Nardone appeared to relax in it, like a wealthy businessman in a warm and tumultuous Jacuzzi.

  They rode up and out into a warm and muffled afternoon (that smelled lightly of bus exhaust and some residue of garbage), the sunlight so diffused it was difficult to make out people’s faces at much more than half a block.

  This haze made all New Yorkers strangers at a distance, though a friend or lover might recognize a walk, or an attitude, a manner of window-shopping, a way of looking out across an intersection before crossing.

  There was a buzz in the Ford’s plastic trim, somewhere above the radio, that sounded loudest when Nardone accelerated after a stop for red; once they were cruising, the buzz faded softly away.

  Ellie properly watched the right, as Nardone, while driving, watched the left. They considered the people by their ways of moving-looking, without thinking of it, for odd breaks in rhythm—sudden jolts and starts along the sidewalks, faster movements, bursts of speed, running

  … people looking after the runner, mouths open in surprise.

  So, Ellie and Nardone, rolling by in noisy, shifting traffic, watched the people as they passed. Ellie had, when she first became a detective, greatly enjoyed observing people, guarding them without their knowledge.

  She’d thought of herself as a sheepdog (a large, pretty female, with silky white fur like a sled dog’s-powerful, sharp-toothed, and part of a greater pack of protectors trotting through the city).

  She no longer thought that sort of thing, but still felt pleased, comfortable, gazing out her side window as they drove uptown. It was a long ride out to Bayside.

  Just as they entered the tunnel, swinging swiftly into it (having barely beaten the light)-and were only a few yards onto the slight downslope in warm, close, thrumming air-the Colonel, in tan summer slacks and white polo shirt, sitting at an early lunch at his hotel-suite table, said,

  “Try the Jewish guy-more likely to accept cash payment.”

  His lieutenant, sitting across from him, having ordered a club sandwich, which the Algonquin did very well, nodded and took a toothpick out of his next section of toast, chicken, lettuce, toast, bacon, tomato and toast.

  The toothpick had a little cluster of yellow plastic threads at its tip to catch the eater’s eye, warning of the sharp sliver-a nicety no longer often seen. The Colonel was having shrimp salad.

  His commander’s instruction had come in answer to the Lieutenant’s suggestion that a second source, a source “closer to the trenches,”

  might be useful in monitoring NYPD activity in the delicate matter to hand.

  “And for heaven’s sake,” the Colonel said, reaching for his iced tea,

  “get a receipt. Give him one hundred dollars to start … a bottle of something-some of that sweet wine they like, or a bottle of Scotch with a fancy label.” The Colonel put back his head slightly, and took a deep swallow of his tea. His throat was so closely, so cleanly shaven, that the Lieutenant couldn’t see where his beard might have begun.

  “Right,” the Lieutenant said, took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it.

  When he’d swallowed, he turned in his chair to look at three sergeants in summer-weight sports coats and slacks. They were sitting on the sofa
, crowded as three big birds on a short branch. -Tall, bony Mason on the left; Budreau, stockier, on the right; Master Sergeant Tucker (the biggest bird, and black) in the middle.

  “Reminds me. -You people listen up, now,” the Lieutenant said. “Just because we’re in New York City, doesn’t mean you can go hog wild on per them. Your rooms are prorated and paid for, and each one of you has got exactly thirty-six dollars a day for food and transportation and that’s plenty. You overspend that, and it will for damn sure come out of your pockets. -Just don’t . . .

  don’t come whining to me you got robbed by some nasty hooker! You will get short shit from me if I hear anything like that…… He paused to look down and tuck a small tongue of bacon back into his sandwich, and when he looked at the sofa again, saw that the two sergeants to the left and right were nodding their understanding and obedience. Master Sergeant Tucker, in the middle, sat stiff and upright, smoothly rounded out, large, solid and black as any ebony idol. He was looking at the Lieutenant in an unpleasant way, through gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “I’m referring to these men, Sergeant, of course,” the Lieutenant said, and would have apologized further, but Sergeant Tucker stood up abruptly, flicked the men to either side of him lightly on their shoulders with his thumbs and forefingers (as if they’d had flies on their shirts, there) and when they rose, said, “With your permission, sir,” to the Colonel, then led his men to the door of the suite, and out. -Budreau, stocky, blackhaired, almost as wide as the jamb, was last through, and closed the door softly behind him.

  The Lieutenant didn’t know what to say, after that. He had talked to black people all his life, and knew how to talk to them-better than any Northerner ever would.

  The Sergeant had been rude-had been out of line, no other damn word for it. Now, the Colonel sat smiling at him from across the table, chewing on a mouthful of shrimp salad. When the Colonel had swallowed, he said,

  “It’s best, usually, to let a Field First handle his men. -If he can’t do that, of course, you have to get a new Field First.” The Colonel sprinkled more salt on his salad.

  `-You know, Bob,” he said. “Tucker was with me on Godiva. He’s familiar with the city…. And I do think we can ease up on the chicken this trip.” He pursed his lips. `-It’s just that this one, this trip is a make-orbreaker. I don’t have to tell you that. This one’s a make-or-breaker. . . .”

  “That’s for damn sure,” his lieutenant said, eyeing the Colonel’s ring with some distaste. If the Academy people had a serious fault-it was being snotty. A V.M.I. guy could count on a lot of lectures. -A lot of shit, was what he could count on. “It’s best, usually . . . “

  following which, a guy would receive bullshit on handling men if the ying-yang, just as if he hadn’t gone to a better school .

  Same damn school General George C. Marshall went to. -The Lieutenant had a vision of himself confronting Sergeant Tucker, and getting that jig squared away. -Sergeant, we all make mistakes. I made one when I braced your men on that per them thing without going through you. -Then you made one, Tucker. A real bad one. You left me with shit on my face in front of the C. O.” . . . A little pause to let that sink in.

  “-And shit, Sergeant, rolls downhill. You lay an attitude like that on me again-I will personally put the peg to you … and I mean right on through to the ground!-You read me?”

  See what Mr. Wise-ass four-eyes tar baby said to that.

  Off the boulevard, the sky unfolded over Queens, sunlight flooding freely over the long rows of one-story houses, the low redbrick buildings of small shopping districts, used-car lots, dentists’ offices, lawyers’ offices upstairs. It was not far from here to Ellie’s house, the house she’d grown up in. A mile—a couple of miles-and they’d be there.

  “Want to go look at your house?” Her partner.

  “We don’t have time,” Ellie said. “-I want to get back to New York and take another look at that apartment.”

  “Nothin’ much to find, there. -That place was turned pretty good.”

  The air smelled different now, away from the city, nearly a small town’s air. The edge of the Ford’s window, the narrow complication of panels, strips, the slit well for the glass, pressed up against Ellie’s forearm; she thought perhaps she hadn’t put the window all the way down, but wasn’t uncomfortable enough to move her arm to see.

  The warm air poured into the car as they drove, stirring loose strands of hair behind her ears. She had her hair gathered back in a French knot, out of the way.

  Ellie thought of someone she might meet someday …

  a man touching her at the back of her neck, lightly as this wind. Not a lawyer. No one on the Force. A man at a party … looking different from the others. -Not very tall. Just a little taller than she was. A businessman…

  beautifully dressed in a blue-black pin-stripe suit…

  maroon tie. Gray eyes, deep … adult. Amused. “You’re not the type, are you,” he’d say, “-for police work? I’m sure you handle the job very well-but that’s not the real point, is it? Comfort is the point, isn’t it? Whether the job really fits you … whether you fit the job. You seem to me a little too gentle for that kind of work. A little too fragile. . . .” He liked her … thought she was interesting; Ellie could tell. He stopped a waitress, took two canap6s off the tray-liver pfttd, -with pimiento across the top-handed one to Ellie and ate the other, hungry as a boy. An important businessman; the hostess would tell her that in the kitchen. -No, not in the kitchen. Ladies’ room. A maid was there, a Central American girl in a black-and-white uniform, sitting in a chair against the wall, waiting beside a small stack of folded beige towels.

  The party was in a beautiful apartment just off the park.

  No., it was in a town house-the downstairs parlors in ivory, cream, and gold. Oak paneling, textured French paper for the dining room. “Jack’s a banker with interests in Europe. -A very important man…… The hostess would smile into the mirror at Ellie as they made up the sounds of the party barely audible. “—And very attractive. In the front parlor, after dinner, he’d come to her again, tell her funny stories about banking in Brazil. -Wide-shouldered, stocky, and strong. Bronze hair, streaked gray from his hairline back. He was ten years older than she was. Older, with younger eyes. -After they’d talked for a while, he’d put his hand on her arm, on her bare arm. She was wearing a Giles

  “Bascombe dress, silver, trimmed in black lace. She’d saved and saved for it. -Now, it was just right. Ellie tried to think who the woman giving the party might be, but it was too much trouble. —Some friend of Clara’s. And after the party, he (Jack … ) wouldn’t call her or get in touch or anything. Nothing, nothing for months. She would almost foreet him, but then remember him again in the morning, or while she was sitting stake-out at some construction site, Midtown. -Then, one day, Anderson would call her upstairs, and Jack would be there, looking handsomer than Anderson-much better dressed.

  “The Commissioner gave me a hand finding you. -We’re old friends. . .

  .” Deep, soft voice, a harsh buzz to it beneath. Anderson just standing there looking like nothing at all. ‘-It’s been a long wait. I’ve been in …

  China.” Would hold out his hand to her. Tough face, tanned, a little tired from traveling. His grip even stronger than Tommy Nardone’s. -A slight scent of shaving lotion. It would smell like new-cut grass….

  At Jarnigan Street, after waiting for a Holsum bread truck to make the turn before him, Nardone took a left.

  “Connie’s making’ a big dinner,” he said. “A friend of hers from high school, Patty, is comin’ into town. Patty Daley. Lives in Chicago-a buyer for Marshall Field’s.

  Big career girl. Connie hates her … Connie loves her.”

  Ellie laughed. ‘-No, I mean it! This girl is a career girl plus. She’s got an office—she’s got a secretary, event Connie’s green, I can tell you that.”

  “She wouldn’t give up what she’s got-you and Mariefor anything.”

  “N
o … but that don’t mean she wouldn’t want for Patty to fall on her face, just a little bit.”

  “Well, I guess it’s nice if you can do both, have a wonderful family, and have some kind of career, too.”

  “Patty don’t do both. That’s strictly … she’s strictly a businesswoman, you know? That’s it for her whole life, period. -She’s gone with guys, but they come in strictly second.”

  “Well … it’s not easy to have a profession-for a woman-and have a family, too - “

  “Oh, yeah.” Nardone said, agreeing quickly, worried that he’d hurt her.

  “Oh, yeah. -Not easy.” He slowed the car almost opposite a low duplex in white aluminum siding, its two front entrances short flights of brick steps.

  There was a tricycle in the left front yard; a bronze St. Francis with a small bird on his shoulder stood in the yard on the right. The house number on the black double mailbox was 1181-83, in small brass numerals.

  Above that, in cursive brass letters, Dukakis-Ambrosio.

  “That’s our guy,” Nardone said, “-the right side. His kids are too old for that stuff.” (By which he meant the tricycle.) He turned the Ford up and onto the concrete driveway on the right. The driveway was in good shape; so were the lawns.

  “Owns the whole house,” Nardone said, setting the emergency brake and turning off the ignition. “-Looks like he keeps it good.”

  They got out of the car, and Ellie went up the steps to the door, Nardone loitering by the driveway.

  The doorbell was musical chimes.

  A child with dark hair cut fairly short-hard to tell if it was a little boy or girl-moved a curtain inside the left front window to peep out.

  Then, Ellie saw a woman’s face (dimly through the screen door) appearing at the small square lookout cut into the front door’s heavy wood. Locks clicked and cracked, and this swung open.