Nightbird

by Edward Dee

  Danny finally got the point and handed Wacky two twenties. Wacky placed the bills in a thick roll and snapped a rubber band around it.

  “Tell me now, will you, please,” Danny said.

  “Paul Klass had a nefarious dealing with Buster Scorza. It’s no secret. It was well-known on the street. Paul Klass was not ashamed of his lifestyle.”

  “What nefarious dealings?”

  “Did I say nefarious? Was that my line?”

  “Don’t do this,” Danny said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Okay, Mr. Impatient. It seems that Paul Klass had certain, shall we say, exotic habits, pleasures, whatever.”

  “Tell me, you crazy fuck!” Danny yelled.

  “Young boys. Paul Klass had a thing for young boys.”

  “Is Trey Winters going to Scorza for young boys?”

  “Absolutely not. The man has been a chippie chaser all his life. It’s his reputation, his legacy.”

  “No boys for Trey.”

  “Believe me,” Wacky said. “That I would know.”

  On the sidewalk behind them a one-legged pigeon hopped around a discarded lunch bag, pecking at a chicken leg. Danny wondered what kind of bird ate other birds.

  “Then why is Winters going to Scorza?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “I’m not a detective, I’m a reporter.”

  “Whatever,” Wacky said. “I know what I know. Scorza supplied young pretty boys to Paul Klass. And others. But I’m talking years ago. Years, years, years. Things were not so wide open in those days. The average person needed somebody like Buster Scorza. To get… you know, stuff.”

  “Like little boys?”

  “Little boys, little girls, sex, drugs, rock and roll. Maybe not rock and roll.”

  The crowd in front of the Shubert burst into applause as the guy in the tux and the mask bowed. The Phantom of the Alley nudged his top hat forward. Danny hoped he had enough money left for cab fare.

  “Maybe there was something going on between Paul Klass and Trey Winters,” Danny said. “Could he have been one of Klass’s young boys?”

  “You’re not listening to the lines. I said Paul liked young boys. Young, very young. I’m talking twelve, thirteen years old. Pretty-boy Winters was already too old when he arrived in New York.”

  “And you know that for a fact.”

  “I delivered enough Cokes and cheeseburgers to apartment eighteen-K in those days.”

  “That’s it? That’s your forty-dollar guess?” Danny said.

  “That’s a century-note gem, not a guess, sonny boy. I gave you a discount because I like your uncle.”

  Danny turned and ran for a cab dropping passengers off on Broadway. He thought about Faye getting out of the gypsy cab from Tremont Taxi, her face swollen. He wondered how she was. The rolling lights on the ITT news billboard read, “First rule of success: Subscribe to The Wall Street Journal…. Yanks lose to Brewers 6–2.”

  “We still on for Twenty-one?” Wacky yelled.

  30

  A “forthwith” in the NYPD is an order to get your butt to a specified location. It means now. Right now! “Immediately” is not a strong enough word. Death is not an excuse. At 1845 hours on Monday evening, forty-five minutes after their tour ended, Ryan and Gregory received a telephone message from the night desk man in the Chief’s office. He’d guessed correctly that they’d be in Brady’s Bar, behind headquarters. The message he relayed was a direct order from the chief of detectives to meet him at the Downtown Athletic Club. Forthwith! Both cops knew that good news never followed that word.

  The Downtown Athletic Club is a thirty-five-story brick structure that faces the Statue of Liberty, at the southernmost tip of Manhattan Island. The Retired Detectives Association of the City of New York held its monthly meetings in the club’s Heisman Trophy Room. Guest speakers were culled from the current power structure in law enforcement. That night’s honored guest was Chief of Detectives Patrick Ferguson.

  “This isn’t a social thing,” Gregory said as he pushed the elevator button marked H. “No, no, no, no, we’re not talking sentimental old times tonight.”

  “Paddy’s not a sentimental guy anyway,” Ryan said. “Remember when the PC wanted the bosses to come up with their own Christmas anticorruption program? Paddy had a huge poster put on the wall showing Santa Claus in a coffin.”

  The walls of the Heisman Trophy Room were covered with portraits of every winner since the first award in 1935. The trophy, named after the club’s first athletic director, John W Heisman, was presented in the first week of December to the athlete voted the outstanding college football player for that year. Visitors to the club often wanted their pictures taken next to the portrait of their hometown or alma mater hero. Visiting cops posed next to the portrait of O. J. Simpson, their handcuffs dangling.

  Dinner had not yet started when Ryan and Gregory arrived. The cocktail hour was more popular than the chicken breast. Most of the big, happy crowd lingered at the bar, telling war stories and plunking down plastic chips for drinks. The Chief sat at the dais, laughing with a handful of old-timers. He wasn’t worried about his speech; he had only one basic speech, but it was a work of art.

  Although many of the people around the Chief knew him from the bad old days, none would call him “Paddy Roses” tonight. Tonight he was “the Chief,” with all due honors and respect. Some were there to seek his blessing, hoping to engineer a “contract.” Hoping the Chief might, in his infinite wisdom, make the phone call that would transfer them or a loved one into a prestigious assignment on a high floor in headquarters. Most came, “hat in hand,” as Gregory always said, because memories and past loyalties were the only collateral they could bring to the table.

  As soon as the Chief spotted Gregory he waved everybody off and pointed toward the far window. The window overlooked the Hudson. Ferries and cargo ships floated gracefully around the river like sailboats in a park pond.

  “What the hell is going on with the Stone case?” the Chief said.

  As soon as he said that, they both knew the case was over. The chief of detectives didn’t issue a “forthwith” just to inquire about status.

  “We got one or two questions, Chief,” Joe Gregory said. “It’ll be closed tomorrow.”

  “It’s closed now,” the Chief said. “It’s done, stick a fork in it. I spent half the afternoon on the phone with the mayor’s office. They think you’re trying to set the records for lawsuits in a single case.”

  Scorza, right?” Gregory said.

  Ryan looked out the window at the stunning view. The city’s new Holocaust museum was in the last stages of construction. Along the river’s edge the line of new high-rises stretched north as far as the eye could see. Everything built on landfill. Twenty years ago only water bordered the West Side Highway.

  “I can understand you hassling Buster Scorza,” the Chief said. “I might even enjoy telling his lawyer to go fuck himself. But tell me why you’re still breaking Trey Winters’s balls. Following his wife into her health club.”

  Ryan could feel Joe Gregory glaring at him. He hadn’t mentioned his interview of Darcy Winters.

  “Whatever you say, Chief,” Gregory said. “We’ll go back to the office now, drop off the paperwork.”

  “Give us until the end of the week,” Ryan said.

  “Why?” the Chief said. “Everything points to suicide. Even the lab report shows she was taking depressants.”

  “The lab report isn’t back yet,” Ryan said.

  “Go get Coletti,” the Chief told his night driver. “Look for the guy in the loudest suit.”

  The tech man strutted over, wearing a red satin bow tie that appeared to be made of curtains from a Sicilian whorehouse. He was preceded by cologne and trailed by the fumes of his faux Cuban cigar.

  “Get that cigar out of my face,” the Chief said, “then fill these guys in on the lab report for the Stone case.”

  “I didn’t know the re
port was in,” Ryan said.

  “Check your box once in a while,” Coletti said. “I put a copy in there myself.”

  “I checked it,” Ryan said. “Right before I left at six.”

  “Your age, you probably just think you did.”

  Ryan grabbed Coletti by the bow tie. Gregory inserted an arm between them and said, “Not again, pally, please. Let’s not come to blows in here.”

  “That’s not a fucking clip-on,” Coletti gasped.

  Ryan released his grip and stepped away from Coletti.

  Coletti said, “I called in a favor for you, Ryan. Got preliminary results back in less than a week. Then you act like this in front of the Chief.”

  “I didn’t see a thing,” the Chief said. “Give him the results, quit jerking around.”

  “Besides alcohol,” Coletti said, “she had only one drug in her system, but she had enough to knock a linebacker on his ass. It’s a drug called Lorazepam, also known as Ativan. It’s a strong muscle relaxant, like a tranquilizer for the nervous system.”

  “I never heard of it,” Ryan said.

  “Then I’ll enlighten you,” Coletti said. “It’s four times the strength of Valium. It’s potent shit.”

  “Mark it closed pending further information,” the Chief said, and walked back to the dais.

  An old-time detective who’d been watching walked up and jabbed his finger at Ryan’s face. “Next time you got a beef in here, you take it outside like a man,” he snarled.

  The old-timer had to be pushing ninety. He was a regular, part of several tables of classy old detectives. Out for the night with their best suits on, like old times. Sipping a few martinis, sniffing a little perfume.

  “How come you didn’t find any Lorazepam when we searched?” Ryan said.

  “My guess is she swallowed her whole stash before she jumped. She was stoked.”

  “Is this a prescription drug, Armand?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah, but she didn’t have one. We checked her pharmacy, and her doctor.”

  “She bought it on the street?”

  “You can get anything on the street. But I’d bet she has some jet-set supplier.”

  “I never heard of it before, either,” Gregory said.

  “Out west, down south, places like that, you hear of it more.”

  “Could it have been given to her without her knowledge?” Ryan asked.

  “Stop it right now,” Gregory said. “I see where you’re going. Enough is enough.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Coletti said.

  Ryan shook hands with Coletti and apologized. Coletti waddled back to the bar. Ryan wrote on an index card.

  “Now Coletti’s your buddy,” Gregory said. “You think he gave you fresh ammunition.”

  “I love that guy,” Ryan said.

  “The Chief says it’s closed, pally. It’s closed. Finished. You go anywhere else with this case, you go without me. I ain’t bullshitting here. You work one more minute on this case, you do it without me. You listening? That’s the last thing I got to say on it.”

  “Drive me to the office,” Ryan said. “Then you can go wherever the hell you want. I won’t have to worry about dragging you down with me.”

  “You want to fuck up your life,” Gregory said, punching the elevator button, “that’s your business. But I’m not the one you should be worrying about.”

  31

  Danny Eumont thanked the gods of etiquette that only two forks appeared to his left. He’d feared a murderous row of silverware, a lineup formidable enough to fluster someone who gave a rat’s ass about proper forkage.

  “So you spend your life just going around eating shrimp?” Danny said.

  “Pretty much.”

  Abigail Klass was younger than he expected. The picture on her column showed only the back of a woman’s head, a woman holding a knife and fork in the air. This was too bad, because the other side of that image deserved presentation.

  “I’m glad you’re not allergic,” she said. “You’d be surprised how many people are allergic to shellfish.”

  “My teeth get a little sore crunching the shells. Otherwise, no problem.” Slow down the wiseass act, he thought. Let her discover the shallow man at her own pace.

  Pier Seattle was an in joint and had a great crowd for a Monday night. It was a takeoff on the seafood restaurants of the Pacific Northwest. “Sophisticated seafood,” the menu announced. Charlie the Tuna need not apply.

  Despite linen tablecloths, the decor was spare: hardwood floors, fish memorabilia, and racehorses on the walls. Work in the stainless-steel kitchen was observable through a huge picture window. The walls, according to the menu, were painted kayak yellow and Laramie blue.

  “How about this,” she said. “We’ll order three appetizers, and two entrées, then do a couple of desserts.”

  According to the menu, the fish were line caught and hand harvested. The meat and vegetables were organic, the game farm raised. Every entree came with a story. If Joe Gregory were here, Danny thought, he’d ask the waiter, “How much would it cost without the story?”

  “Why don’t you order for both of us,” he said.

  “I’ll pick something, but you order it. I don’t want to give them any clue as to who I am.”

  Danny never realized that food writers worked this covertly. She had made the reservations in his name and waited outside until he arrived. She insisted on a corner table, then picked the seat against the wall so she could see the entire restaurant. She’d been schooled in the art of undercover.

  “Are we allowed drinks?” he said.

  “Just don’t be a lush. They go over my expense account with a jeweler’s loupe.”

  Abigail Klass had short dark hair that curled up slightly under her left ear. She had dark brown eyes and a blockbuster smile set in a face that reminded you of the all-consuming radiance of your first high school crush.

  “When you called,” she said, “I figured you wanted to discuss leaving your Johnny-come-lately outfit and moving over to a real magazine.”

  “Why would I do that? Manhattan is the weekly of the future in this town.”

  “A future of maybe a year,” she said.

  Abigail’s columns appeared regularly in New York magazine. Her yearly “Best of the West Side, Best of the East Side” ratings were its biggest-selling issues. Restaurants framed favorable reviews and displayed them in the window. Each review was a little plotted story, with characters and overheard dialogue. Her readers came away with more than a vague idea about certain meals; they felt as if they’d been there with her.

  Their waiter was an aspiring actor with Pierce Brosnan looks but a flat midwest accent. Abigail had picked out a variety of menu items, trying to cover as many specialties as possible. Then Danny played his part suavely, acting as if he really knew what the hell fois gras was. Sophisticated fish demanded the sophisticated diner. He could play that part.

  “I see your columns all over the place,” Danny said. “And I never realized you were Paul Klass’s sister.”

  “I was wondering how long it would be before that came up. Most men just want the free meal; now I get one who’s looking for information.”

  “Oh no, I want the free meal, too,” Danny said.

  Abigail smiled and said, “The truth is I never met Gillian Stone.”

  “Actually, I was more curious about Trey Winters.”

  “I was afraid of that, too. I already told the police everything I know about that night. Not much, really. He never mentioned her during dinner. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t say a bad word about Trey Winters if I knew one.”

  Pierce Brosnan brought the wine and an assortment of oysters on the half shell: Hood, Pearl Bay, and Kumamoto. Danny wondered about sucking them down, but the vinegar dip had bite to spare. He decided to change the subject away from Trey Winters; he’d learned from his uncle to circle around to a different angle.

  “I bet you’re quite the cook,” he said.
r />   “You’ve got to be kidding. My last boyfriend used to run from the house screaming whenever I touched a pan.”

  “How did you learn about food?”

  “From books. Reading. Actually, I’m getting a little sick of it. After a while there’s only so many things you can say about risotto.”

  He sampled the roasted mussels from the wood oven. Much of the food came from a wood oven. She told him that wood ovens were the latest fad.

  “Let me ask you something,” Danny said. “I noticed that you always review high-ticket places like this. Why don’t you do some places where real people eat.”

  “You mean like Burger King?”

  “That Johnny-come-lately outfit? No. I’m talking about the fast-food pioneer who changed the way America eats. Since 1921, the one and only White Castle.”

  “I might have to pass on that one. I worry about food sold by the sack and referred to as belly bombs.”

  “That’s a shame, because you’re missing out on the best cheeseburger in town. It’s the steam grilling. Part grilling, part steaming.”

  “Sounds damp.”

  “A little mushy. But that’s part of the whole experience. Like little meat loaves. These little squares of beef, one point five ounces, perforated with five holes. Steam grilled to perfection. Covered with onions. That pungent aroma of onions.”

  “Why five holes?”

  “Actually, that’s a good question,” he said. “I’ll look into it. But the Castle cheeseburger is the pinnacle of the cheeseburger mountain. See, in most places they never get the cheese right. You know how it’s always hard, undermelted? But at the Castle it’s all steam grilled, and this tangy cheese flows down and inhabits the very soul of the burger.”

  “I feel like I should make the sign of the cross.”

  “I always do,” Danny said.

  The last appetizer was smoked salmon, with Russian osetra caviar. Abigail put a portion of everything on her plate. She stopped every few bites and made notes on a pad she had hidden on her lap.

  “What do you think of the decor?” Abigail said.