The bell over the door tinkled as he went in but he was by himself. He heard a door creak out back and the youth came running out, a flustered look on his face.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Just fine,” said Bodge, sitting at a table near the window.
“What’s your pleasure?” the boy asked, handing Bodge the menu that showed just how much his pleasure would cost him. He didn’t seem to recognize Bodge from his previous visit. But, this was a different Bodge altogether.
“Oh, what do you recommend?”
“The Brazilian Gold’s really good,” the boy said pointing to it in the menu and lingering his finger beneath the cost.
“Sounds good. Give me a cup of that.”
Bodge gave the boy a few minutes to get busy behind the counter, and waited till his back was turned before making a dash for the rear of the shop. The boy saw him too late. He’d reached the back door and was halfway through it.
“Hey, mister.”
Bodge found himself in an unlit area. Ahead was a second door. He heard the boy calling out as he stepped forward, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened a few inches then hit against what felt like a chain. The door behind him was flung open and the boy came rushing through. In his hand he held a small derringer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” Bodge answered. “I’m going to your rest room. Darn thing’s locked.”
“We don’t have a rest room. Get out.”
Bodge looked down at the gun and dramatically threw his arms into the air. “Hey, steady. Don’t shoot, cowboy. I’d hate for my wife to find out I got killed for going to the bathroom.”
Bodge walked back through to the café and the boy seemed to come over embarrassed about his overreaction.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “In this neighborhood we get a lot of addicts trying to hold us up. I get a bit jumpy at times.”
“I hope I don’t look like an addict to you.”
“No. Really. I’m sorry. I’ll get your coffee.”
“What kind of café are you running that doesn’t have a bathroom? Isn’t there some City Ordinance against that kind of thing?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to the owner.”
“Look, son. You’ve really shaken me up with all this gun play. Let’s forget the coffee, shall we?”
“Sure.”
Bodge knew. He knew everything. Maybe the possibility had been in his mind all along but now he was certain. He walked back down to 42nd to the call box. He removed the ‘Out of Order sign from the phone and dialed Denholm’s number. The policeman was sleeping off his shift.
“Okay,” Bodge said. “It’s on. Let’s hope your FBI guy isn’t just talk.”
With all the heat he expected to go down in the next hour, Bodge could hardly stick around on the sidewalk. But he had to be sure the FBI got it right. He had to be sure he’d got it right. So, he went back to the car and waited. Those first thirty minutes seemed to tick over without any real urgency. He could imagine all the guilty parties leaving the scene of the crime before anyone else got there.
Then a delivery van went past and parked fifty yards ahead of him. He couldn’t imagine who’d want a Bendix tumble drier at that time of the morning. The pressure was off. He knew he was no longer playing cop all by himself. Five minutes later, a black limo came down the street and parked twenty yards after Bouncers — then another. Another five minutes and a well-dressed couple staggered together down the street, a little tipsy, and went into the café. A bum in a long trench coat slouched up to the front of Bouncers and fell into the shadows there. It was like watching a stage production of the covert. If he hadn’t been expecting these things, he wondered how much he would have noticed.
Two, maybe three more cars passed him and parked, another bum, another couple joined the first. Then, to some unheard, unseen signal, it all happened at once. All the vehicles discharged their passengers. There were simultaneous invasions of Bouncers and the café, although the groundwork had already made access to both a good deal easier. There was a small explosion and gunfire. There was yelling. Then there was silence.
For the second act, three squad cars arrived on cue with their sirens silent, and the uniformed officers took up posts in front of the two buildings. Although the police had obviously been briefed to act nonchalant, New Yorkers have an uncanny ability to sniff out a fracas. Those three cop cars didn’t just park for the hell of it. Curious onlookers started filtering down from 42nd almost immediately. Bodge pulled his hat down over his brow and joined them. For the first half hour there was nothing to see. The flustered police officers were sick and tired of questions they couldn’t answer. The crowd started entertaining itself and attracted more and more people.
“Hey,” some drunk shouted. “You got a murder in there?”
Then another, “This ain’t much of a show. I want my money back.”
And a third, “My Gladys here can sing. You want a song?” There was a cheer and Gladys proved her beau a liar. So, when the first of the FBI emerged through the broken front door of Bouncers, the crowd deserted her and surged forward to get a better look. The sight was unusual enough to silence the jokers. The agents had three teenaged boys wrapped in blankets. Their faces were painted like showgirls but their hair was short.
Bodge edged his way to the front. More agents came out with their arms hooked around those of three older men who appeared to be drunk, or high. Bodge knew they were drugged. He doubted any of them would remember this scene in the morning. All three had towels over their heads. Bodge recognized the clothes of the drunk who’d arrived at the café a little earlier. An alleyway or some kind of passage led directly from the back door of the coffee shop to the rear of the clip joint. That was now obvious. For each delivery of characters from Bouncers, there was a van to collect them and whisk them away without comment. Naturally, the press had arrived and the flashing of cameras was turning the event into the end of the Oscars reception.
Next came the villains; the boy from the coffee shop, two goons in cuffs, and an older, distinguished looking man in a dark gray flannel suit and Ivy League tie. Then, last of all, the jackpot. Young Eddie Gladstein didn’t seem in the least embarrassed. His confidence astounded Bodge. It was as if he’d been deprived for too long the adoration his amazing performances deserved. This was his curtain call. He smiled like Gary Cooper and would have posed for the cameras if the agents hadn’t wrestled him into his van and slammed the door.
The crowd had enjoyed the third act but they knew the show was over. They watched the last of the FBI people carry assorted evidence out to trucks and leave. The police chained the doors of the two establishments, and there was nothing more to see. Soon, Bodge and the cop who’d drawn sentry duty were the only two there.
“Good night, officer,” Bodge said, and went to his car. It had been a good night’s work, but there was still much to be done. He was about to drive back to Palmer’s apartment on Ninth when he heard a tap on his window and turned to see a stocky man in a dark overcoat standing there with a gun.
“Agent Leon?”
63.
It was late afternoon before all the interrogations and witness statements and official rigmarole were over, but they still had Bodge sitting in an office re-reading drug enforcement posters. He’d identified young Gladstein and the man who’d helped the drunk into the coffee shop earlier that morning. He’d given up his compromising photograph of Lou taken, as it now seemed, in a Bouncers that was set up on weekends to look like a members club. One of the teenagers in the photo had been picked up during the raid and he led the feds to the other. But despite the fact that a procession of agents brought him coffee and sandwiches through the day, none of them left him with answers to his many questions.
Although it had obviously been Denholm who’d told the FBI where Bodge was parked that morning, the detective hadn’t made an appearan
ce all day. For a guy like Bodge, it was as frustrating as hell to be kept in the dark. He’d given a statement outlining every damn thing he’d done since Gladstein came into his life and had left himself wide open. He had no idea whether he was still under suspicion, or under arrest, or just helping agents with their inquiries. Nobody seemed to know. The sun was setting behind the Chrysler Building outside the window when the door finally opened and Denholm strolled in with two open bottles of Schlitz in his hands. He gave one to Bodge. There were no emotions reflected in his face.
“You don’t drink,” Bodge said.
“Time to start.”
“Are we celebrating or commiserating?”
“Bodge, you wouldn’t believe it.” He sat on a chair opposite Bodge and took a long swig of the icy beer. Bodge shook his head.
“Okay, what is it I wouldn’t believe?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He ducked to avoid the flying pencil. “Okay, but don’t forget I was just hanging around with the FBI as a witness and technical advisor. I just picked up threads here and there. It would appear some of the gentlemen they arrested at Bouncers had very close ties to the Soviet Bloc.”
“What do you know?” Bodge laughed. “There really are Reds under the bed. That should keep the senators happy, knowing the Communist threat is alive and well. Tell me!”
“Well, most of the guys we picked up weren’t willing to speak, but there was one who was hoping to get immunity from prosecution for squealing. Naturally, he was led to believe that wouldn’t be a problem. This is the way the FBI reads it. It appears the Reds thought they could take advantage of the pervading atmosphere of queer paranoia by setting up a system for blackmailing government employees. The operation at Bouncers has been working for over a year. That’s why they didn’t grease the palms of the local cops to get a weekend license. There’s so much sleazy late night activity in that part of town nobody would give a second thought to guys off their heads being carried in and out of bars.
“They used a cocktail of drugs to keep their victims on their feet but off their heads at the same time. Most of them were so stoned by the time they got to Bouncers they had no idea where they were. Same goes for the trip home. It appears your friend Lou had a particularly high resistance to whatever it was they gave him. They’d never had anyone come back before. It spooked them. The young guy in the café saw Lou parked out front in the same cab and he got his cronies to drag him out. They funneled whisky down his throat till it killed him. I guess the drugs didn’t help either. Then they sent him back to his place and dumped him out front. That explains the conflicting witness statement at the Bowery Center.”
“So how do I fit in to this story?” Bodge asked.
“Well, they figured that if your buddy could remember where you’d gone, there was a good chance you’d remember too. They didn’t want to take that gamble. This was turning into a very lucrative operation. They’d gotten Lou out of picture and you were next.”
“And Gladstein was integral in the whole setup. Why would he pick on a couple of nice guys like me and Lou?”
“Well, one that you were single, and I guess they figured you had access to sensitive documents. But I think it was your reports about the French in Indochina that was their main goal. They wanted to get intelligence to the Vietnamese communists. I guess they planned to blackmail you into handing over reports regularly.”
“And Lou was an innocent bystander.”
“It would seem so.”
“But how did this young guy get into a secure office?”
“The same process, really. They set up one of the boys in the mail room and blackmailed him into handing over his security badge. There are new people in and out all the time so nobody questioned it. It wasn’t the first time by all accounts. When the spy got there he told everyone he was relief and went through the mail. I doubt whether there was a set plan. He’d see what opportunities presented themselves and play it by ear. That day was just bad luck for you, Bodge. It was a fluke that Palmer’s letter to you arrived on a day Gladstein was there. He was a bit of a prima donna in their clique but undoubtedly talented. He knew you’d be going to DC for training and they got one of their operatives to take you out. Luckily for you the guy wasn’t very good at his job.”
“Jesus. Did they follow me to Vietnam as well?”
“No. As far as I can see, they lost all trace of you once you were at the safe house in Delaware. That’s when they released your photo to discredit you should you try to close their operation.”
“So why didn’t they just move to another location?”
“They did shut down for two months to see whether you were going to cause any trouble. They figured if you were planning to expose them it would be sooner rather than later. When you didn’t show up they decided the coast was clear — business as usual.”
“Where does it all leave us?”
“Well, according to our guy here, your organization’s in turmoil. You wouldn’t believe the trouble this has caused up at Security. That’s probably why nobody turned up here today. Half the Security police there are under suspension — including your old pals Tuck and Jensen. They’re being accused of going at this whole matter with one eye shut. They ignored a whole lot of evidence — just saw what they wanted to see. Most of the men they accused of being homosexuals are taking out writs against the agents that interrogated them. I wouldn’t be surprised if heads roll over this.”
“Palmer?”
“I’m trying to get word to him, but something tells me he won’t be riding this wave of public sympathy. I guess he’s made a decision.”
“And you?”
“I’ll deny all the accusations against me — join the tidal wave of indignation, probably get a commendation or a cash handout to keep me off the back of the department. I’ve got family and friends I don’t want to hurt and I’m not financially independent like Anthony. I’ve got several years of salary earning ahead of me. But you know, Bodge? Something like this never really goes away. The guys might slap me on the back and take me for a beer and pretend everything’s back to normal, but they’ll never really relax around me.”
“Will you and Palmer…stay together?”
“Yeah, Bodge. Somehow or other. This isn’t a very forgiving country for perverts but he was the only one who supported me when they put me on suspension. We’ll find a way. We talked once about befriending a couple of lesbians and moving into adjacent houses in the suburbs.”
Bodge wasn’t completely convinced it was a joke. It sounded more like something he and Palmer had actually considered. But the image of it threw him into a chuckling fit that pulled Denholm in too.
“That I have to see,” Bodge laughed. “I want to be the first guest invited round for Thanksgiving,”
“You’ll be very welcome, my friend. I’ll get Bertha to do her special cranberry sauce.”
They took long swigs of the beer and waited for the laughing fit to subside.
“What about you?” Denholm asked. “Will you stay with the agency? There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that you were set up. You’re in the clear. There’d probably be other missions out there for a French speaker.”
“You know, Dermot. I really can’t say I’m too happy about the way they ditched me and Lou when they thought we were different. Those are the times you find out who your friends are. It taught me something about humility. You see, I’m not sure how Lou and I would have reacted if it had been someone else. I’d like to say we would have stood by the guy and given him our support, but I can’t swear we wouldn’t have closed ranks with all the other bigots and let him fry. At the very least it means I’ve got a lot of learning to do about life. I need to get away from this city for a while and give myself a few other dimensions.”
“Any immediate plans?”
“Think I’ll go catch a few fish.”
64.
Bodge knew Lou’s father from fishing trips. He lived out on Putnam Lake so he knew a t
hing or two about fishing. In fact he was the only one of them who did. They were so bad the standing joke was that their fishing trips were a cover for some other illicit activity. It was only when Lou’s dad turned up that any of them got fish to eat. The rest of the time they survived on canned corned beef and beer.
Lou senior lived by himself in a shack on the lake. He’d been a successful businessman in Manhattan when Lou was growing up and the apartment that Lou lived in till his death had belonged to the Vistarini family. Some years before Lou’s mother passed away, his dad gave the apartment to his son and the parents escaped from the pollution. As Bodge neared the lake, he considered the escape to have been well executed. It was a truly beautiful spot. As soon as the car pulled up, Mr. Vistarini came trotting out to meet it. He was in his seventies, but fit and sporting a crop of healthy white hair. Lou would probably have ended up just like him.
“Bodge? Bodge, is that you? Well, I’ll be…”
“Lou, good to see you.
“I hardly recognized you. You been in training for something?”
“Survival. I’ve got the finals coming up any time now.”
They walked around to the back of the shack, Lou Senior’s arm around Bodge’s shoulder. Three excited Collies skipped around their feet. The back patio reminded Bodge of the villa in Ban Methuot. The glassy lake stretched out to the skyline. He sat in a deckchair and petted the dogs while Lou Senior went inside for three cool beers. When he returned, neither man really knew how to begin. Bodge took the initiative. He grabbed one bottle from the table in front of them, got to his feet and held it up toward the lake.
“Lou, how you doing?” he said.
Mr. Vistarini took up another bottle, stood and held that toward the lake also. “I miss you, son.”
With that, the two men drank until both bottles were empty. Bodge stepped forward, picked up the third bottle from the table and took a mouthful from it. He handed the bottle to Lou Senior who did the same. The two then walked to the balcony and Bodge watched the old man pour the remains of Lou’s beer into the water.
Bleeding in Black and White Page 32