One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  Patrolman Frank Murphy got out of his radio car with the majesty of a true motorcycle cop. His black leather puttees were spit-shined. His breeches bloomed smartly; yellow mohair braid on the outside seam was trimmed of lint. He strutted over to the car he had just pulled over. A woman was driving. Murphy knew the routine by heart. He’d tell her that she was speeding and she would play the coquette. When he asked for her license and registration she’d rummage helplessly through her pocketbook. “Officer, I’ve never received a ticket before,” she would say with feigned innocence. Then she would proceed to confide some personal problem that caused her to forget how fast she was driving. Murphy would smile understandingly, take the license and registration and walk back to his radio car where he would write out her summons. He would then slide out of the car and amble back to her car, summons in hand. It was at this point that the lady would snatch the official paper from him, call him a cock-sucker, and plunge her automobile off the shoulder into oncoming traffic.

  All part of the J-O-B, Murphy thought, walking toward her, summons in hand. It was by sheer chance that he happened to glance at the parkway traffic and spotted the taxi with the man and woman sitting in the rear. He noted the license plate number and broke into a trot, rushing up to the driver and throwing her documents and the summons onto her lap. As he was running back to his own car he heard her yell after him, “Fascist cocksucker.”

  At 4:14 P.M. a taxi glided to a stop under the porte-cochere of the International Hotel at Kennedy. The Braxtons inched their way out of the compact cab and hurried into the lobby. A radio car from Highway Two cruised past the hotel and drove onto the shoulder of the Van Wyck. Patrolman Murphy reached under the front seat and removed the portable radar device. He attached the mechanism to the doorpost and then slumped down in his seat to wait.

  Thea and Aldridge Braxton walked through the crowded lobby to the bank of elevators. When they stepped from the lift on the sixth floor they walked down a long carpeted hallway, heading for the fire door at the end. Aldridge Braxton looked over his shoulder and, seeing that there were no other guests in the hallway, pushed through the door with his sister following close behind. They hurried down the clanging staircase and exited the stairwell on the third floor.

  They stood outside Room 302 listening. Aldridge Braxton held a fist inches above the door and at the same time eyed the second hand of his watch. Exactly fifteen seconds passed and he knocked three times, paused, and then immediately followed with four additional raps.

  Ahmad Marku jerked open the door.

  They exchanged nods with Marku and entered the room. It looked like any other hotel room: twin beds were covered with a fading gray bedspread; prints of pastoral scenes bolted to the wall; night tables, their edges peppered with black caterpillar-shaped burns.

  The drapes were drawn, darkening the room. A file of four chairs had been lined up in front of the window. Iban Yaziji was sitting at the end of the file. He did not acknowledge the Braxtons. Ahmad Marku locked the door and sat next to Yaziji. Aldridge Braxton sat next to Marku, and Thea Braxton next to her brother. Lowering herself slowly into the wooden folding chair, she crossed her legs, revealing the finely shaped topography of her legs, thighs, and hips.

  The quartet faced front, watching the shadowy figure standing in front of the drapes, peering out.

  Thea Braxton twisted uncomfortably in her seat, tucking the folds of her skirt under her legs.

  “Are you all sure that you were not followed?” Police Officer Joseph Stanislaus asked, watching the entrance of the hotel. He noticed a police car parked on the west shoulder of the highway about thirty feet from the entrance. The policeman had just left his patrol car and was approaching a Con Edison truck.

  “Yes,” the quartet answered in jumbled unison. They were sure they had not been followed.

  Westy Stanislaus turned to face them, an automatic held loosely in his hand. He danced it along the file, his eyes studying each face.

  Thea Braxton could feel the moisture take hold of her palms. Her brother’s mouth was unexpectedly parched. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Ahmad Marku and Iban Yaziji sat perfectly still, their stares fixed on the finger inside the trigger guard.

  Stanislaus looked at Marku, his eyes hard and cold, his lips wearing a feigned smile. “I want to congratulate you on the way you handled Andrea St. James. It was a professional job, and a good object lesson for Anderman.”

  His attention next went to Thea Braxton. He moved close to her, glowering down. “You should have brought in someone from the outside to set up Landsford. It was a mistake using anyone from the Interlude.”

  “I realize that now,” she said.

  Stanislaus caressed her cheek with the barrel of his automatic. “Perhaps your taste for women made you call on her services?”

  She stared up at him; then, with both her hands, she took hold of his wrist and pushed it away from her face. “St. James was selected because I thought she was the best one to do the job.”

  Stanislaus stepped back. He tucked the weapon into the small of his back and smiled. He began to pace, deep in thought, and then, suddenly, he whirled to face them, an ugly look on his face, his nostrils flared in anger. “St. James should never have been used! It was a bad mistake.” He turned his wrath on the Arabs. “Because of your stupidity she got away and we had to engage in an action that might have exposed all of us.”

  The four of them waited nervously for his wrath to subside. Thea tasted her tongue.

  “No more mistakes will be tolerated. If any of you get stupid again I’ll personally see to it that you’re made into chopped liver.”

  There was a fearful silence.

  Stanislaus turned from them and moved to the window where he peered out from behind the drapes. “Does Anderman suspect anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” Thea said, running a hand through her hair, trying to appear calm. “After St. James was killed, he sent a messenger to us and told us to go immediately to a safe house in Jersey. We remained there until he sent word to resume our normal activities.”

  “Did he make any contact while you were in Jersey?” Stanislaus asked, pushing the drape farther aside.

  “No. He gave us the name and number of his law firm. We were to call them if the police tried to question us,” Thea Braxton said.

  “What are we going to do without the list of warehouses? It screws up all our plans,” Aldridge Braxton said.

  Stanislaus noticed that the highway cop had snared a gypsy cab with its radar device. “There is a new plan,” he said, edging himself onto the sill.

  The meeting lasted another hour. Business concluded, Stanislaus got up, turned, and looked out the window. A Pan Am 747 was making its final descent. It slid past the cocooned control tower and disappeared. The police car was gone and the Belt Parkway was spilling back. “Aldridge, you and your sister leave first.”

  The Braxtons were alone in the elevator. Thea was watching the blinking floor indicator. “He was his usual obnoxious self,” Aldridge said.

  She looked at her brother. Reaching out, she took hold of his hand. “I was just thinking how vulnerable Stanislaus and his friends are. I think, dear brother, that the time has come for us to renegotiate our contract with the police department.”

  11

  FRIDAY, June 26

  All the fives from Harrigan’s detectives added up to the same thing: subjects followed to International Hotel. Subjects remained thereat for ninety-six minutes. Subjects left separately. Braxtons first. They went directly back to their office. Marku and Yaziji left together and went back to Soho. They remained in the loft for two hours and then hailed a taxi and went to Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, the Arab section. They ate in the Kurdistan restaurant and engaged in conversation with several Middle Eastern types and then left.

  Malone sat back, flapping the fives against the edge of the desk and looking up at the chunks of peeling paint. Icicles of decay, he thought. He tried to run through in his
mind the reasons the Braxtons and Marku and Yaziji could have for going to the hotel. He snapped forward and moved a spiral-bound pad over to him, tossed it open, and started to list the reasons he could think of for such a meeting: To meet someone? Who? To pick something up? No. It doesn’t require four bodies to do that. To have an orgy? Why travel to Queens? To receive instructions? To plan something? He continued jotting down ideas. When he had listed his thoughts, he sat studying them.

  Heinemann broke Malone’s concentration by shoving his head into the doorway. “Ya gotta call on three.”

  “Wanna meet me for a cup of espresso?”

  Malone hung up slowly; he thought that he had detected a tinge of hostility in Tony Rao’s voice.

  Malone walked down the steps leading to the Nestor Social Club and stopped, deciding if he should knock. Screw it. He pulled open the door and entered. The bouncer was at a table playing a game of five-card stud. He was wearing the same russet shirt. He looked at Malone, scowled, and lowered his eyes.

  Tony Rao was standing behind the bar pouring Amaretto into a pony glass. When he saw Malone he put the bottle down and came out from behind the bar.

  Rao stood in front of him tapping his lips meditatively with his fingertips. He suddenly looped his arm in his and ushered the policeman outside. They walked along Mulberry Street. Rao would pause occasionally to speak a few words of greeting to some peddler or wave at a Mustache Pete sitting on a milk box, or to pat a child on the head while he cast an appraising eye at the mother. When they reached Grand Street, Rao turned in and walked to the middle of the block. He ducked into a cheese store. Malone followed. Customers turned to look, but quickly turned away when they saw who it was.

  The mafioso stood behind the row of long cheeses that hung in the window, casting constant glances up and down the street. “Catch.” He tossed a small box to Malone.

  A label in Hebrew was glued over the face. A blue cord handle stretched from the corners. Malone ripped open one end and spilled out the contents. Several 9mm bullets tumbled out; their tips were painted red. He turned to Rao. “Tracers? This is military hardware.”

  “Yeah.” Rao turned from the window and left the store.

  They crossed Grand Street, turning into Center Street.

  “Ya wanna know what’s inside them joints?” He bent his head to his cupped hands and lit a cigarette. “Military supplies. One of my boys almost got his ass taken off by some punk kid carrying a small machine gun. Those tracers come from the place in New Jersey. That’s all my guy could grab. The security was too tight.”

  Questions began to whirl through Malone’s mind. Rao was still talking … “What’s with them joints? Anything in them for us?”

  Malone glared at him. “Forget them, Tony.”

  Rao grinned.

  “I mean it. You couldn’t take the heat.”

  “Where do I send the bill?”

  Malone looked at him. “What bill?”

  “Hey? I hadda make a lot of phone calls. Ya got any idea what it costs to use the telephone these days?”

  “Take it off your taxes; we’re a charitable deduction.”

  “I want to see your boss,” Malone bawled.

  The receptionist stared at him then hurriedly swung around to the switchboard.

  Within minutes David Ancorie was leading him through the corrugated security tunnel that snaked into the interior of Eastern Shipping. Ancorie held the door open and Malone sallied into the cramped, smoky office and plopped himself down in a chair next to Anderman’s desk.

  Anderman smiled confidently. “You just won’t give up, will you, policeman?”

  “We’re a persistent bunch,” he said, placing the cassette recorder he had brought with him onto the desk. He looked his adversary in the eye and snapped down the play button. The slow-moving spindles churned out Andrea St. James’s disconsolate voice. Anderman’s face twisted with anger. He spun in his chair, showing the policeman his back; his head and shoulders sagged. Words that Malone had listened to dozens of times now filled the office.

  When the tape played out, Malone pushed the stop button. Anderman remained still for a moment then spun around and started to raise himself up, an angry finger stabbing the space in front of him. His breathing was labored and his eyes leered down at the policeman. “You! Take your tape. Recorder. And get out of this building. And don’t ever come back. I am going to sue you. The City. And the police department. You’re harassing me! Preventing me from conducting my business.” His face was inches from Malone. The breath was hot and coated with garlic and cigarettes. Suddenly he slammed his hands over the desk with such force that Malone thought he surely must have broken his wrists.

  Malone looked at him, a sarcastic grin on his face. He was savoring his moment. And now for the square knot. He reached into his pocket and removed the box of 9mms which he casually tossed onto the desk.

  Anderman stared at the box. He picked up a letter opener and fished the point into the open end. One by one the bullets tumbled out. Anderman gnawed his lower lip, his head shaking with diminishing belief.

  Anderman said, “Where did these come from?”

  “A warehouse in New Jersey.”

  “I’ve been getting reports of strange occurrences.” He slapped his knee in frustration. “I really underestimated you, policeman.” He looked at him. “Can we still do a little business?”

  “Wise men can always do a little business.” He started to gather up the bullets. “I want to know about Eisinger. The Braxtons. Marku. Yaziji. A cop called Westy. The Unit and a man by the name of Captain Madvick. You can start any place you want.”

  “How many people know about the warehouses?”

  “I know and my detectives. But only me and a friend know what’s inside of them.” He grinned. “A little life insurance.”

  “And if I tell you what you want to know, you’ll return the list to me personally?”

  “I will.”

  “Where did you find it? We searched everywhere.”

  “Hidden inside the binding of her Bible.”

  “Humph.” He lit a cigarette. “And if I don’t tell you?”

  “In that case, your military depots will be page one in the morning editions. And that, Mr. Anderman, is a promise.”

  “It’s difficult for us to trust a goy. Especially one who wears a blue uniform.”

  Malone frowned. “I recall reading about an entire country of goys who sewed the Star of David onto their clothing so as to be indistinguishable from the Jews of their country. Denmark? The last war? Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  Anderman sank into his chair. A long silence passed before he spoke.

  “We’re a small country without the vast spaces that you have. A surprise attack could deprive us of the spare parts for our machines. So, we store a portion of our spare parts in friendly countries. If we had to, we could airlift them back to Israel within hours. We use Fort Totten as a conduit for our supplies coming into the United States. Someone found out about our operation. They blackmailed Landsford and obtained a copy of the location of the warehouses. Somehow Sara found out about this and recovered the list. She was murdered for her efforts.” He leaned back, hands laced behind his head, studying Malone. “That’s it. Everything.”

  “Not quite. I’ve got a few questions.” Malone rested his elbow on the edge of the desk and placed his chin in the palm of his hand. He said, “Tell me about Sara Eisinger. She was one of your people? Right?”

  “Yes,” he answered reluctantly. “When she was in Israel she helped establish a worldwide computerized inventory of our warehouses. When she came to this country she continued to work for us.” He stopped, trying to think of what he was going to say next.

  Malone kept up the pressure.

  “Tell me what happened,” Malone said, watching him.

  “She fell in love and went crazy. She started to take days off. Would disappear for long weekends. She became a security risk, so I had to fire her. When she refused
to tell us who she was seeing it became intolerable.”

  “You mean to tell me that you have no idea who she was sleeping with.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Sara was a professional. She knew how to avoid being followed. She refused to tell me anything about her personal life. She even accused me of being jealous, of wanting her for myself.”

  “Was there anything between you?” Malone studied the face.

  “No. It was business, nothing more.”

  “When did she start seeing this person?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe about a year ago.”

  “Tell me about the Braxtons. How are they connected to this?”

  “I don’t know. After Sara left me she started to work for them.”

  “And Marku and Yaziji?”

  “They’re in the States posing as students. Somehow they’re connected with the Braxtons. When we saw that Sara was working for the Braxtons and that there was a connection between the Braxtons and the Interlude and the two Arabs we decided to plant Andrea St. James inside the Interlude.”

  “Weren’t you fearful that Sara would see her in the Interlude?”

  “There wasn’t much chance of that. Sara never went there and Andrea’s duties required her presence there at night.”

  “How did you maintain contact with St. James?”

  “We have a safe house on West Seventy-second Street.”

  “I see. How do you get to use a United States military reservation as a conduit for your spares?”

  “With the consent of your government. Some of your people in Washington don’t trust us. They think we’re erratic. They’re fearful that we might hide atomic weapons or some other horrible things within your territory. So as part of the agreement your army gets to inspect everything we bring in.”

  “And what does Uncle Sam get in return?”

  Anderman stabbed a finger upward. “In return, we act as surrogate for your intelligence service in certain”—he pinched the bridge of his nose—“unmentionable parts of the world.”