“Sara tried to warn us … she … found out … about … the Unit within a unit …”
“The song,” he repeated.
“Song of Asaph … Sara’s way …”
He could feel his heart beating faster. “Andrea. Tell me about the Unit.”
Her eyes opened wide and she struggled up, bracing herself on her elbows. “You’re not from Yachov!” she yelled with surprising energy. Then she collapsed and curled into a fetal position.
Malone reached out and shut off the recorder. As he started to get up he noticed the antique telephone next to the recorder. He picked it up, stretching it as far away from the bed as the cord permitted. Placing it on the floor, he returned for the recorder.
When he was by the door he stopped. Without turning to look at her he said, “You owe it to Sara to help us. Not to mention the fact that a couple of cops risked their lives to save your ungrateful ass.”
Andrea St. James lay alone, her eyes closed as she listened to the endless ticking of a clock off somewhere in the distance. Tick, tick, tick. It never missed; each tick falling with monotonous regularity. Her head had begun to clear. She wasn’t sure if it had been a dream; it was so real. She was being questioned by a man who had said that he came from Yachov. The pain was still there, a terrible ache throughout her body. She lifted her head and looked around the room, ensuring that she was alone. One by one she slid her legs out from under the sheets and touched the floor. The rug felt soft and cold against her feet. Light-headed, she collapsed over the bed, her legs dangling over the side.
She rested, gathering her strength; her chest heaved from shuddering painful breaths. Several minutes passed and she tried again. This time she slid her body over the edge, outstretched hands acting as her guide.
On hands and knees she looked across the room at the telephone. So far away. She crawled over to it, inching painfully over the shaggy surface. When she reached it she stared down at the white circle in the center of the telephone: Barton Hotel, Ext. 345. She knocked the receiver from its cradle and lay on the floor next to it, her face next to the mouthpiece, trying through her blurred eyes to make out the direction over each of the ten circles on the dial. Dial 6 for a local call. A finger moved haltingly toward the sixth circle. She took her time, knowing that she had to get it right the first time. There was no strength left for a second try. The phone on the other end was answered on the first ring. She spoke haltingly in Hebrew.
Andrea St. James felt secure. Friends would be coming for her.
The Golden Kitchen on First Avenue was one of Malone’s favorite eating places. He picked his way through the crowd to an unoccupied table by the window. He saw some familiar faces; couples were quietly eating their dinners and sharing a carafe of wine while the singles sat alone reading a book or newspaper and secretly prayed for someone to share their meal. He thought of Father Gavin. Had Monsignor McInerney officiated at the funeral? Was Mary, nee Harold Collins, still turning tricks? Probably.… He wondered how many other people in the restaurant were carrying on conversations with themselves. Most, he thought. And then the Eisinger caper swirled into his thoughts. How did they manage to get Andrea St. James into the Interlude without Harrigan’s men seeing them? One of the detectives was probably taking a piss someplace and the other was more than likely bullshitting with some broad. And Westy? That was obviously the name of a man. But who? And the Unit within a unit. What was it? Was it part of the Job? Anderman was the key. Who was that son-of-a-bitch anyway? And then there was Fort Surrender. Only a cop would know about that. He had played the tape a dozen times; Andrea St. James did not say it was a T-shirt. But he knew that it was. He had seen them. Did Westy and his two pals come out of Fort Surrender? His thoughts quickly returned to the present when an outrageously attractive woman strode past the restaurant. Her white gauze skirt fell between her long legs, revealing the welt of her bikini underpants. He was suddenly aware of an uncomfortable ache in his balls. His daydreams changed. He was in bed with a woman, her long legs wrapped his body, holding him as he pumped relentlessly. Her head thrashing the pillow; guttural whimpers caught in her throat. Her black hair was disarrayed and beaded with sweat. He could feel her spasms, the sliding of her body against him.
He did not wait for dessert. He got up, paid the bill, and headed for the old-fashioned telephone booth in the rear of the restaurant. He slid open the door and dialed, standing. A self-mocking smile flitted across his face as he tried to remember if he had made the obligatory “it was wonderful” telephone call after the last time.
Erica Sommers chuckled when she heard his voice. “I figured you would be calling soon.”
“If you can tear yourself away from your work I’d sure like to see you.”
“Where are you, Daniel?”
“Four blocks away.” He was aware of a sudden burning sensation in his stomach.
“Give me an hour to finish my work.”
“Ten-four,” he said, letting the phone fall onto the hook.
Erica Sommers read the page in the typewriter.
Jefferson Stranger watched the silky garment slide over his bride’s sensuous body. He moved back, casting a lustful eye.
Christina Stranger stepped out of the nightgown, her arms beckoning. This was to be a new beginning; an escape from her secret past. She prayed that Jefferson would never discover her previous life. As he took her into his arms she thought of David and how much stronger his arms were.
Tapping a pencil over her teeth, Erica Sommers reread the page. She took the pencil and struck out an adjective. Enough is enough, she told herself, glancing at the time. Shit! Malone would be here soon. She hurried into the bathroom, pulling her top off as she went.
Erica Sommers wrote Nightingale Romances—two hundred pages of escape that sold at drugstores and supermarkets.
Erica had showered and was standing naked in the bathroom with one leg on the rim of the tub, trimming her pubic hair. She thought of Malone. They had met two years ago at a performance of Dancin’. He had arrived late and was trudging down the aisle when he stepped on her foot. During the intermission he came over to her and apologized. She found herself drawn to him from the first. His body excited her and his smile possessed a warmth that caused her to glow inwardly. But during their first date she concluded it would be a mistake to permit herself to become involved with him. He was the kind of man no woman could really be sure of, she decided. A character straight out of one of her Nightingales. But then, perhaps she was wrong. Maybe they could have something together. She went to bed with him on their fourth date and it was nothing like her fantasies, but something better and totally unexpected. He was physically demanding, direct, and at the same time a gentle, considerate lover. Of all the men she had known, he was the first to excite and fully engage her sexuality. They discovered that they were both capable of multiple orgasms and spent hours in bed reveling in each other’s body. At times when she was alone she would find herself thinking of his body and would suddenly be consumed by desire for him.
In many ways she found Malone to be a strange and lonely man. A man capable of giving himself totally in bed, yet unable to share any part of himself out of bed. IT was always there, that monolithic secret society of unwritten laws and unspoken nuances that prevented some men from giving of themselves, the NYPD.
She had reached the point where something had to give in the relationship. A commitment or an ending. She had been divorced for five years and was ready to share her life. She demanded only two things of a man: honesty and sharing. To her mind they were simple things. It perplexed her that men found them so difficult.
Erica Sommers was a strikingly handsome woman with a high forehead and an aristocratic nose. Her eyebrows arched sharply and then flowed downward over her brow. Her brown hair was cut in bangs with the back cascading past her shoulders. Deeply tanned skin accentuated her large amber eyes.
Malone had arrived exactly one hour after he telephoned.
She had made the
m drinks and they were sitting on her minute terrace staring at the inky river.
Malone said, “You get more beautiful each time I see you.”
“Why thank you, Lieutenant. I hope you don’t tell that to all your lady friends.”
He wanted to tell her that there were no others. Instead he said, “I don’t.”
She was wearing a white caftan and sandals. Getting comfortable, she tucked her legs under her body and looked at him. She then proceeded to tell him everything that she had done since she last saw him. She had gone shopping for a dress and discovered this wonderful delicatessen off Second Avenue that specialized in Greek delicacies. She had cleaned the apartment and done her laundry. Her latest Nightingale was almost completed: Christina’s Fury. She was giving some thought to writing a serious novel set in the antebellum South. Finished recounting her days, she sat back and looked at him. “Tell me what’s new in your life.” She sipped at her drink, watching him. “Any interesting cases?”
There’s this Eisinger thing, he wanted to say. And these telephone calls from a Captain Madvick who does not exist; and a guy named Mannelli and another guy named Anderman. This and more he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. She wasn’t on the Job. Wasn’t a part of it. His fingers were bobbing the ends of her hair. “Naw,” said he, “there’s nothing new. The same old stuff day in and day out.”
Her face reflected her disappointment. She sipped her drink slowly, thinking. She was in love with a shadow who had built a wall of silence around him. A protective moat. He was a man with no past, no present, and no future. She wanted him on equal terms and would go out of her way to assert her independence with him. She was not a camp follower. Whenever she would ask him about his divorce or ex-wife, or the damn PD, he’d either snap at her or give her an oblique answer. They had been seeing each other for almost two months before he gave her his home telephone number. There were times when she wondered why she bothered, but, then, when she looked into his face and touched his shoulders, she knew. She always knew. “For a lieutenant of detectives you have a decidedly boring job, Daniel.”
He flipped his right hand back and forth. “It’s just a job, not a calling.”
They sat in silence for a while and then he leaned over and kissed her breast through the soft fabric. She moved her head back and pressed him to her body. His hand glided up her smooth leg. “Not here, Daniel.”
They walked into the bedroom holding hands.
It was much later. They had made love twice and were lying in bed silently listening to the not-so-muted noise of the City. She decided to try again. She turned toward him. “Tell me about your marriage, Daniel.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he snapped.
“Please don’t be hard with me. I don’t like you when you’re like that.”
“I was soft a few minutes ago,” he said, reaching over and running a hand over her thigh. She lifted his hand from her body and carried it out over the bed where she dropped it with a look of exaggerated disdain. “All men are soft then! When they’re hard they’re soft and when they’re soft they’re hard. All women know that, Lieutenant.”
He looked at her and smiled.
Holding hands, they fell into a peaceful sleep.
The sun rose at 5:12 A.M. Malone was sitting up in the bed staring down at her naked beauty, marveling at the pleasure they were able to give each other. I know what you’re trying to do, he thought. You want me to give you what I can’t. Would you believe me if I told you that one human being could kill another with a curtain rod, that a father was capable of sodomizing his daughter, that a person’s body could be turned into an unrecognizable black mass, that bands of animals roam our city robbing and killing, that the police are the only ones that stand between you and barbarism? Would you believe those things? A cop would. Shall I tell you that there are only a handful of politicians and judges in the city who give a good fuck what happens to you or the rest of the drones? Do you want to know what it’s like to work in a concrete sewer; to walk armed through the night constantly watching the shadows, listening for footsteps behind. Perhaps I should tell you of the pervasive corruption. Do you know what a judge has to pay for his black robe? I do. You want to know why policemen don’t share. I’ll tell you. It’s because they see the city being submerged in a sea of stinking shit and because they don’t want the excrement of the savages seeping into their private lives. I wish that I could share more with you.
She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. For a moment she thought she noticed his eyes glistening. She cupped his face with her hands. “Can’t you sleep?”
“I want to tell you about my marriage.”
She sat up, wide awake.
Squares of light dotted the façade of the Barton Hotel. Frustrated waiters stood grumbling, waiting for the last patrons to leave the darkened nightclub. There was an empty stillness about the near deserted lobby. A cleaning woman dusted the plants, just starting her night’s tasks. An occasional couple walked in from the night and went directly to the elevators. Every now and then a Mr. Brown or Smith exited the hotel’s piano bar and went to the desk clerk to register while his “wife” fidgeted with her drink at the bar, waiting for him to return with the key.
A man strode briskly into the lobby and hurried to the elevators.
Andrea St. James slept restlessly, waiting.
Two detectives sprawled over a couch outside her bedroom, sipping the last of a six-pack and watching the “Late Late Show.” A hard, deliberate knock made their heads jerk toward the door. They put their beers down and looked at each other, concerned. They slid their revolvers out and went to the door, positioning themselves against the wall. “Yeah?”
The reply was sure and crisp. Andrea St. James’s attorney. His card was slid under the door:
HANLEY, GREEN, DAYTON, FORBES
12 Wall Street
New York, New York
G. JUSTIN HANLEY, Attorney-at-Law
G. Justin Hanley was the senior partner in an impeccable law firm well known both for its discretion in handling delicate matters and its enormous fees. G. Justin Hanley looked like a G. Justin Hanley of Exeter, Yale, Southampton, and Park Avenue should look. Even at 2 A.M. he looked as fresh as he would at the start of any business day. His dark gray suit was sufficiently unfashionable, and his expression the right mixture of amusement at and distance from the company in which he now found himself.
Hanley was polite, firm, and more than a little condescending. He told the detectives that he was aware that his client was being held. She was not under arrest but was being protected by the police from unknown assailants. For this he and his client were grateful. However, it was incumbent upon him to see that his client received proper medical attention. He was therefore taking his client with him, now. The efforts of the NYPD were greatly appreciated. He hoped that the matter might be settled here, now. He would find it distasteful if he had to go into court and lodge a complaint against the NYPD for unlawful detention. He casually asked if the detectives were familiar with the Civil Rights Act. “Its penalties are quite severe,” he assured them.
Limping alongside the lawyer with a bed sheet covering her hospital gown, Andrea St. James left the lobby of the Barton Hotel and was guided toward a waiting limousine.
A solitary figure sat in the rear. The lawyer helped her into the back seat. She threw herself crying onto the man’s lap.
Anderman stroked her hair. “Everything will be fine now. You’re going home.”
7
WEDNESDAY, June 17 … Early morning
Yachov Anderman arrived early in order to supervise the loading of the trailer. It was a shipment that required his personal attention. Fork-lifts darted into the belly and dropped their skids; workers inside ensured that the load was secure. When the trailer was full, the doors were closed and sealed. Anderman gave a signal and a button was pressed. The loading-bay door churned upward. The scrunch of wheels jerked Anderman’s head toward the street. He saw a c
ar in front of the bay, blocking it. Malone was climbing out of the front. There were other detectives with him. Anderman handed his clipboard to the man standing next to him and jumped from the platform. A glint of victory shone in his eyes. “Still chasing windmills, policeman?”
“Andrea St. James,” Malone shot back.
Malone went up to Anderman and looped his arm through the trucker’s, turning him and walking him back toward the platform. “That was a very neat operation last night. My compliments.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
They strolled along the side of the tractor-trailer, Malone watching the monstrous wheels. When they reached the cab they turned and headed back toward the door. Stern and Heinemann waited just inside. David Ancorie peered out from the dispatcher’s cubicle.
“If they get their hands on her again I might not be around to save her,” Malone said.
“Save who?” Anderman was enjoying his moment.
“I have a few more questions that I’d like to ask the lady.”
Anderman wrenched away from the policeman. “Wait right where you are. I’ll go and telephone my lawyer. You can ask him your questions.”
Malone’s eyes narrowed. He turned abruptly and headed for the platform, motioning the detectives to follow. A short ladder led up. Malone gripped the top and climbed. When he reached the top he straightened, looking around. He moved to the three men who were loading wooden crates onto skids. He asked their names. Each replied in broken English. Malone produced his shield and demanded to see their Alien Registration Cards. The confused workers looked to Anderman and shrugged in gestures of dismay. Malone ordered the detectives to arrest the men. Stern and Heinemann started to handcuff them together.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shrieked Anderman, running for the ladder.
David Ancorie came out of the cubicle.
“Every alien is required by federal law to carry and produce on demand his green card. Failure to do so is presumptive evidence of illegal entry into this country,” Malone said.
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