The Good Policeman (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  21

  Somehow he couldn’t go back to his lair, or find much solace at One Police Plaza. His office was filled with spies. And so he trundled into DiAngelis’ territories for a cup of caffelatte to clear his head, but before he arrived at his favorite trattoria, he discovered Nose in the street. And something about Jerry’s brother seemed peculiar. Nose was stuck in the dream of his own thoughts. Isaac could almost feel the grindings of his brain. And Nose was a man who wasn’t paid to think. He delivered beatings for his brother and then tattled to the FBI. But Teddy Boy was mumbling to himself and walked right past the Commish, who sacrificed his caffelatte to follow Ted.

  It couldn’t have been some score, because Nose would have brought his shooters along. He didn’t like being alone. Nose couldn’t amuse himself. He had to have his compares or the company of a woman. That’s why he stuck to Eileen DiAngelis, ate her food like the infant of the house, or visited a puttana.

  Isaac watched the back of his head. Teddy’s ears were wiggling. His neck was dirty. He’d been too preoccupied to wash. He got to the northern end of Mulberry Street, stood in front of a house, rubbed his hands to keep them warm, and shouted up at a window. “Silvana, come downstairs.”

  It wasn’t a little song that was meant to die in the winter air. Nose was bellowing like Caruso. “Silvana, come down to me.”

  Isaac understood. Nose was in love. And this Silvana could only have been his innamorata. Isaac felt a sudden sympathy for FBI Informant M 76666. Nose was bats about a woman, like Don Isacco himself.

  She came downstairs, his Silvana. Isaac wouldn’t have considered her a beauty. Her hips were too wide. Her mouth was smeared with purple paint. She had a mole under one eye. But who was Isaac to judge? He’d fallen for the child mistress of a Roumanian madman, the Butcher of Bucharest. Isaac’s innamorata had slept with five hundred men.

  He almost called out to Ted—It’s me, Isaac—when a man came down after Silvana with a hammer in his hand. The guy stood freezing in his undershirt and hissed at Ted.

  But Nose wasn’t concerned about the hammer. “Get back upstairs, Al. Save your own fucking life.”

  “She’s my woman,” Al said.

  “That’s yesterdays news.”

  “She’s my woman.” Al drew close to Ted with the hammer. Ted didn’t flinch. And that’s when Isaac noticed him draw a little derringer out of his sleeve. A lady’s gun. A single-shot. Al stared at the gun and started to shiver. He was crying now. He turned away from Silvana and disappeared into the house.

  Isaac’s head was blue with hate. He could have jumped on Teddy Boy. But he left him with his innamorata on Mulberry Street.

  The melamed had been removed from intensive care. He had a private room at the top of St. Vincent’s. There were flowers and bonbons on his bedside table. Isaac had brought him one yellow rose.

  “Ah, that’s kind. A flower from a friend. And I’m fond of yellow.”

  “It’s the color of courtship,” Isaac said.

  The melamed smiled. “I’m a little too old for that.”

  “A special courtship. It goes back to the Middle Ages. When two knights would joust in a tournament, their squires would exchange a yellow rose.”

  “Where did you read that?”

  “In a book. When I was a boy.”

  “So you didn’t come here to wish me well.”

  “No, Izzy. I didn’t. I was imagining what it would be like to put a pillow over your face.”

  “Be my guest. I couldn’t stop you,” the melamed said.

  “You could ring for a nurse.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t ring. It’s not my style.”

  “It was Nose who killed Jerry’s accountant, wasn’t it? Nose was his best friend. He brought me to Crabbs, took me home, and then returned to Swan Lake with his little fucking derringer, the derringer he holds in his sleeve, like a magician. It was your idea, Iz. You wanted me to think that Margaret Tolstoy had clipped her husband.”

  “Isaac, she’s a rat for the FBI. We had to do Crabbs. He was getting nervous, and he would have started to sing. It was Margaret’s fault.”

  “But why did you take her in? You didn’t have to let her near the Family.”

  “Have a heart,” the melamed said. “You can’t learn everything in a day. But she doesn’t have much of a future, that girl. We told Sal Rubino all about her.”

  And for a moment Isaac did have the urge to suffocate the Hebrew school teacher with a pillow. “You told him? Just like that?”

  “It was a gift. A belated Hanukkah present.”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to Sal.”

  “Oh, we speak from time to time. He’s tried to kill me and my son-in-law, but we’re still part of the same Family … and Isaac, I don’t think it was much of a gift. This Margaret of yours did some sloppy work in Chicago, under another name. It would have gotten to Sal, sooner or later.”

  “Why didn’t you finish her yourself?”

  “We would have, but you stepped into the picture. She ran to Sal, thinking he could save her neck. Poor girl.”

  “And the bicycle boy,” Isaac said. “That wasn’t Sal Rubino.”

  The melamed peered out of his bedcovers. “I must have heartburn. I’m missing the point.”

  “The zip who shot you in the street. It was Teddy who strangled him and left him hanging in one of your warehouses, so I’d think it was Sal.”

  “Isaac, you butted into this mess the minute you took up with Margaret. Now don’t call yourself an innocent party. Why shouldn’t we return Sal’s favor? That boy put a hole in me.”

  “Come on. He was a kid. Twelve or thirteen at the most.”

  “Cry for him, Isaac. Run to shul. The boy was a member of Sal’s crew.”

  “It wasn’t vengeance,” Isaac said. “I know you better than that. It was a strategy to suck me into the war. You shouldn’t have hurt that kid. You could have found another way.”

  “There was no other way,” the melamed said. “Do you want your flower back?”

  “No, Iz.”

  He was the chessplayer now, the tactician, manager of his own phantom Giants. He had to get Margaret Tolstoy away from Sal Rubino. He could have gone to the candy man, LeComte. LeComte would have pulled the plug, withdrawn Margaret from circulation. But how would he have treated Margaret once she was no longer valuable to him? Isaac couldn’t afford the risk. He had his Ivanhoes. He could have mounted a kidnapping operation, but he didn’t want whole armies moving about. It would have brought too much attention to Margaret and unmasked his own men. And the Ivanhoes were busy ruining Sal. Don Isacco had to laugh at the irony of it all. Sal hadn’t strangled the bicycle boy. But he wouldn’t have a nickel by the end of the week.

  Isaac left his Ivanhoes in place. He wanted a whirlwind around Sal Rubino. It would be easier for him to grab Margaret amid all the confusion. He would move on Sal without an army, become his own rook and bishop, shortstop and second baseman.

  He arrived at Sal Rubino’s Manhattan address. He announced himself to the doorman, flashed his shield with the five gold stars. The doorman recognized Isaac. His hands were trembling as he connected the intercom. “Mr. Rubino, you have a guest. It’s the commissioner, sir. Isaac Sidel.”

  And Isaac took the elevator to the north penthouse. One of Sal’s captains, Eddie Boy, let him in. He had a bandage on his ear. He was grinning like an idiot. It was Ed who had socked Isaac with a sack of dimes, Ed who had tried to strangle him in the toilet of the steak house.

  “How are you, Commish? It’s a lovely surprise.”

  The soldier took Isaac all around the flat, from the foyer to the sunken living room to Sal’s own den. But Sal wasn’t in as kind a mood as his captain.

  “You have some fucking nerve,” he said.

  Isaac played the ignorant son. “What do you mean, Sal?”

  “You think I don’t know what’s been going down? Jerry DiAngelis wouldn’t hit my shylocks. So I got the Hebrew teacher on the pho
ne. I like Izzy Wasser. I really do. And his daughter is one handsome lady. Jerry DiAngelis doesn’t deserve Eileen.”

  “Tell it to Jerry,” Isaac said.

  “I already did. I’d marry Eileen in a minute.… Isaac, your scumbags have been hitting up my people. And somebody’s gotta pay.”

  “Why don’t you call One Police Plaza and negotiate with the Department’s chief counsel?”

  “Because the geeps you’re using aren’t regular cops. They’re like kamikaze pilots. Fuckin’ suicide squads. They don’t scare.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your shylocks,” Isaac said. “I want your comare.”

  Sal Rubino smiled. He was wearing a leather jacket with a silk scarf around his neck. He couldn’t allow the other dons to entertain the notion that DiAngelis was a better dresser than Sal. “Which comare do you mean?”

  “I’m only interested in Margaret Tolstoy. I have to question her … about a case that doesn’t concern you.”

  “Do you have a warrant, Mr. Isaac, some piece of paper from a judge?”

  “I don’t need a warrant,” Isaac said. “I could arrest her if I want.”

  “You can’t arrest Margaret. You’re not a peace officer. You’re a lousy, stinking Commish. But I’ll be fair, Isaac. I’ll let Margaret decide.” And he started to scream. “Hey, honey, come here … Margaret, I’m talking to you, you bitch. Get your ass into my room.”

  Margaret appeared in the doorway without the least bit of paint. Her almond eyes wouldn’t receive Isaac. Her mouth was pale. She had nothing for the Commish. Not one little finger. He could have been some ancient delivery boy. The worm started purring and stopped.

  “Honey,” Sal said. “The Commish wants you to go with him. It’s your choice.”

  “I’m staying with you.” And she marched out of the den.

  “The queen has spoken,” Sal said. “You lose.”

  Eddie arrived with three other soldiers. They were carrying brass knuckles and baseball bats. Eddie himself had a gorgeous Louisville Slugger. Isaac couldn’t stop admiring the bat, though his heart was pounding like an insane machine.

  “Isaac,” Sal said. “You must have lost your marbles. You don’t cripple a man and come into his house.… Ed, take him downstairs in the service car.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting a couple of details, Sal? I didn’t come unannounced. The doorman let me in.”

  “So what? He works for me. I own the building, Isaac. My tenants take a vow of silence when they sign the lease.”

  “But I have your name in my appointment book.”

  “Bullshit. Isaac, you’re all alone.”

  He got into the service car with Sal’s four soldiers. Eddie clutched a lever and the car jumped from floor to floor and descended into the bowels of the building. Isaac felt like he was in the bloody heart of a whale. They hadn’t used their knuckles yet. But one of the soldiers prodded him with a bat. They landed in the basement and Eddie opened the elevator door and that’s when they started to thump Isaac with all the brass. They pushed him along like a dirty old cow. The knuckles ate into his back. But Eddie had to satisfy himself. He twisted Isaac around and punched him in the face. “That’s for what you did to me in Sal’s restaurant.”

  But they wouldn’t let Isaac fall. They dug the bats under his arms and carried him along like a coolie, while Isaac swallowed his own blood. Ah, what would he miss the most? Memories of Marilyn as a little girl? Blue Eyes? Margaret Tolstoy? The Bomber shagging fly balls in center field? His friend from St. Louis, Kingsley McCardle? He started to cry.

  “Eddie, look, he’s pissing in his pants.”

  “I’m not pissing,” Isaac said.

  “Then what do you call boohooing in a cellar like a baby?”

  “It’s my privilege,” Isaac said. “It’s my right.”

  They brought him out through the service entrance. A car was waiting for them in the street. The back door opened. A pair of hands clutched at Isaac and tossed him into the cushions. Eddie blinked at the driver.

  “Hey, this isn’t Otto. What the fuck is going on?”

  The car shot away from the curb and Isaac looked up at the mandarin eyes of King Farouk and the Syrian secret service.

  “Ismail,” Isaac said, his teeth soaked in blood. “Give me back my baseball card.”

  22

  Goose Goslin,” Isaac spoke from the depths of Ismail’s cushions. “I want the Goose.”

  “My friend, your mouth is bleeding.”

  “You’re not my friend. You’re a phantom. A fucking spook … Ismail, did you find me in Moscow’s data bank? Is that how you learned I was a card collector?”

  “We’re not that close to Moscow at the moment. And I can assure you, Isaac, I’ve been collecting baseball cards all my life … here, wipe your mouth.”

  King Farouk gave Isaac a handkerchief that was half the size of a shawl. Isaac hawked up blood and phlegm into the handkerchief, folded it, and returned it to Farouk. “Thank you,” he muttered with a hollow head. His ears still rang from the force of Eddie’s blow. His own words were coming up from inside a well, and Isaac was swimming in some crazy water with bullfrogs all around him. Farouk himself was a frog. Isaac closed his eyes and fell into a dream.

  He woke up on a couch of many pillows. At first he couldn’t find his legs. He panicked until he realized they were under the pillows somewhere. And then he wondered if he was in Damascus, because who could tell what the Syrians were after. The show trial of a Jewish cop? He poked his head out of the pillows but he couldn’t see much of a sky beyond the window shades. Then Farouk appeared with a coffeepot and powdered candy called Turkish delight. Isaac ate like a wolf. “Where are we?”

  “In a safe house.”

  “That tells me a lot.”

  “Does the neighborhood really matter so much?”

  “It certainly does if we’re in Damascus.”

  Farouk started to laugh, but he must have thought it was impolite, because he covered his mouth. “You think too highly of me, my friend. We’re in Brooklyn. Cobble Hill.”

  “That figures,” Isaac said. “The candy comes from Atlantic Avenue. I’ve had it before.”

  “Ah, now you’re thinking like a police chief again. The paranoia is gone perhaps?”

  “How did you know I’d be coming out of Sal Rubino’s cellar? Who tipped you off?”

  “Margaret Tolstoy.”

  “Jesus,” Isaac said. “I give up. Is she also a Syrian agent?”

  “No. She does favors for us from time to time.”

  “Like sleeping with men you wanted to blackmail. She was the perfect swallow, wasn’t she? Until the FBI borrowed her from the Russians and made her into a scalp hunter. I still can’t figure how she got in touch with you so fast.”

  “On our hot line. Margaret called from the kitchen while you were with Mr. Rubino.”

  “But Sal’s soldiers were all over the place. They would have listened.”

  “We have our own private language. The soldiers wouldn’t have understood a word.”

  Isaac felt demoralized. Ismail was his Santa Claus. Should Isaac kiss him on both cheeks? “Why does LeComte call you King Farouk?”

  “Because the Americans love their precious code names. Isaac, do I look like much of a king? Farouk was a playboy and I’m almost a monk. Egyptians, Syrians, Saudis, we’re all the same to Uncle Sam.”

  “But I’m not Uncle. And I’m not Frederic LeComte. You used me, Ismail.”

  “Yes. A little. But if I had revealed who I was, would you have chatted with me, Isaac? It was better to remain an anonymous clerk. You needed bits of information, and I gave them to you. I helped you, Isaac, whenever I could.”

  “And what was the price? You registered me as an informant in your little black book.”

  “I have no such book,” Ismail said. “And you are my friend. I valued that. And I shared my love of baseball with you. How many commissioners collect cards?”

  “I wouldn’t kn
ow.”

  “I can return the Goose Goslin if you want,” Ismail said, like the sad-eyed clerk he was supposed to be.

  “Keep it. I’m not an Indian giver. The Goose is yours.”

  “And I have a surprise … if you’re not too tired.”

  “What?”

  “Margaret,” Ismail whispered, and a woman stepped out of the dark. “I’ll leave you both,” Ismail said.

  Isaac observed her from the pillows. He couldn’t see much more than Margaret’s silhouette. “You were standing there … all this time? You heard our conversation?”

  “No,” she said. “I just arrived. And I can’t stay more than a couple of minutes.”

  “You’re with the Syrians,” Isaac said, like a mean-natured boy.

  “The Syrians saved your life.”

  “Come closer, Margaret. I can’t see enough of you.”

  “I’m Anastasia,” she said. “I told you that.”

  “Yeah. You’re Anastasia in my dreams. And you’re Margaret Tolstoy when you’re in Indian country, working for LeComte.”

  “I’m still Anastasia.” And she stepped nearer to Isaac, with the boldness of the girl who’d invaded his junior high.

  “I want to know about Ferdinand Antonescu.”

  “What difference could it make?”

  “I want to know.”

  She smiled at the Commish and her ripeness seemed to shatter the darkness of the room. “It was a hundred lives ago.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Isaac, I met him in Bucharest when I was nine. He was my ballet master.”

  “Some career he had. Magician. Ballet master. And finance minister of his own country.”

  “He gave me private lessons. I was poor. I couldn’t afford a school. And he was … a balletomane.”

  “And you were his mistress right off the bat.”