During their six years in Anticrime they had been involved in eight shootouts in which nine perps had been blown away. In each case a gun was found next to the body; a weapon which ballistics tests showed had been fired at the pursuing officers. During one of the investigations into these shootings, a witness came forth and stated that he had seen the cops shoot the perp; fire several shots from a gun that one of them had removed from his own pocket, and plant the weapon directly into the dead man’s hand. Four days later the witness changed his mind about what he had seen. “Ain’t it amazin’!” the cop guffawed, lifting his beer mug at O’Brien. He told O’Brien that the ranking officers who investigated the three men’s use of deadly force knew damn well that they were using throw-aways but could never prove it. “You ever hear of a nigger using a Walther PPK? I didn’t.”
They were being hauled before the Civilian Complaint Review Board on complaints of unnecessary use of force or abuse of authority almost monthly. But they always managed to dance their way out of it. The CCRB could never pin anything on them. Each interrogation was a carefully staged production.
One time, Stanislaus, Bramson, and Kelly wanted to take off one of Frankie the Fish’s number banks but did not know the bank’s location. They scooped up the head numbers runner and planned to sweat the address out of him. The runner proved most uncooperative. Bramson and Kelly handcuffed him to a chair in the Anticrime office and left the room. Stanislaus remained behind with the prisoner, leaning against the wall, saying nothing, fixing the frightened man with a crazy stare. Ten minutes passed and the door was thrown open. Bramson and Kelly danced naked into the room, whooping Indian war cries. They had on feathered war bonnets, and each one had a long red ribbon tied around his penis. War paint was drawn across their chests and faces and they both were waving cattle prods over their heads as if they were tomahawks.
They danced around the petrified man, whooping.
On a signal from Stanislaus they started to jolt the runner with the cattle prods. Within seconds they had the man scurrying on his back across the floor, desperately trying to escape the war party. A few more jolts and he was begging his tormenters for mercy. He blurted out the address of the numbers bank. Kelly stormed over to him, kicked the chair out of the way, and gave him a final jolt to the testicles.
They then carried him out to the detention cage and locked him in. Stanislaus stayed behind to guard the “prisoner” while Kelly and Bramson went out and held up the numbers bank. When the runner was released he was warned to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t. A week later they were given a “forthwith” to report to the CCRB. When they were informed of the charges against them they looked incredulously at each other and then burst out in uproarious laughter. “Naked? Ribbons on our shlongs? Feathers? You guys gotta be off your rockers. Your complainant sounds like an escapee from a fucking loony pen,” Stanislaus was reported to have shouted at his inquisitors.
The charges against them were unsubstantiated.
O’Brien listened, rolling his glass between palms, staring ahead at the rows of terraced bottles. O’Brien turned sideways on his stool and looked stolidly at the bearded cop in threadbare clothes. He raised his right hand, rubbing three fingers together. “They were big money men?”
The Anticrime cop from the Six-six cast a furtive glance around the noisy bar. “Very big,” he whispered. “They had everyone on: bookmakers, numbers men, dealers, even the pros. Word was that each pimp had to spring for a dime a night for each hooker that he had out. In return they saw to it that no independents worked the stroll.”
O’Brien became wary. Drunk or not the guy on the next barstool was a cop with a cop’s predatory instinct. He did not want to appear too interested in these three crazies, so he changed the subject to the latest labor contract and that got him an instant harangue. “The fucking garbage men make more money than we do and not one of them fuckers work more than three hours a day. Drive along Fourth Avenue any weekday and you’ll see six or seven garbage trucks parked outside McGill’s Bar from eleven in the morning till four in the goddamn afternoon.”
When the cop paused to call the bartender over, O’Brien said casually, “I guess their home life must have been shot to shit?”
The bearded man glanced at him, not understanding. “Who?”
“Those three cops you’ve been telling me about.”
“Oh, them.” He did not know much about their private lives. He did know that Stanislaus was divorced and the word was that he liked the ladies. But he was cool about it and never brought any of them around. Kelly had a family somewhere on the Island but lived alone in a decrepit clapboard house at the end of a dirt road on the outskirts of Great Neck. Kelly had gotten drunk one night and had to be driven home by one of the precinct cops. The cop who drove him home had confided to a friend that it was a creepy place with a couple of wrecked automobiles parked on the lawn, one of which was up on milk boxes. The word around the precinct was that Kelly had an almost sexual fascination with guns and didn’t waste time with women. Whatever went on in that lonely house was probably best left unknown.
The only thing the Anticrime cop from the Six-six knew for sure about Edwin Bramson was that he was married. He had heard rumors about the fear and hatred his family had for him. But he knew nothing of the tirades, the beatings, the awful, silent dinners, or the consuming panic that gripped family members whenever Bramson stalked into a room.
Jack Harrigan came away from the meeting with a clear and disturbing picture of three loners who were over the thin line between normality and psychosis. The three of them shared other characteristics with the rest of the forty transferred cops: all had outstanding arrest records and most of them had seen combat in the infantry.
Malone shifted in his seat, a melancholy expression on his face. His gaze took in the photograph of the flag raising on Mt. Suribachi that was taped to the side of his locker. He had put it there years ago. The edge of the tape was frayed, curled, and yellow. He thought of all the marines who had died to plant that flag. He got up slowly from his chair and reached for the keys to the department auto that were on a hook over the filing cabinet. Those three men were not his kind of cops. There were things that needed doing.
Malone loitered across the street from the Hamilton House. When he saw that the doorman was busy he quickly crossed the street, brushed past the doorman, and entered the glittering lobby. The doorman gave him a cursory glance and then returned his attention to the blonde with the capped teeth. A respectable-looking white man was nothing to get alarmed about. The mailboxes and directory were in an alcove in the rear of the lobby.
Joseph Stanislaus lived in apartment 24 J. He counted A through J. The tenth floor.
There was only one cylinder in the door, a rarity in New York City. He slid a thin black pouch from his breast pocket and checked the hallway. A line of round fluorescent lights extended over the ceiling, casting an unnatural chalklike glow over the flower-patterned carpet. The corridor was deserted, closed doors lined both sides. There was an eerie silence. He checked for trip wires and noticed that the mat was flush with the floor jamb. He cautioned himself to leave it that way. He shook out a cluster of thin metal bars and selected two. The tension bar was inserted into the cylinder at twelve o’clock. He pressed it forward until he could feel the first tumbler pin. He looked up and down the corridor, making a final check, and then inserted the raking bar. Applying just the right amount of pressure on the tension bar, he began to rake the lock clockwise. As each tumbler pin was raked open, he pressed the tension bar deeper, past the open pins. One by one the tumbler pins fell and the lock snapped open. He entered quickly and quietly, closing the door behind him, and locking it.
Rows of flowering plants were terraced in front of a casement window. The apartment was clean and neat with everything in place. The furniture was expensive and in good taste. A well-stocked bar was in the corner.
Joseph Stanislaus was a meticulous man.
He moved about, tak
ing his time, studying each piece of furniture before moving it. When he completed a search he made sure that the piece was restored to its original position. On a shelf in the bedroom he found two off-duties: a Colt Cobra and a S & W Chief. Padlocks secured the opened cylinders. Stanislaus was a cautious man.
The bathroom had sparkling gray tiles and silver wallpaper. He poked around the shower curtain. The tub was clean; a face cloth hung limp over the faucet. He flipped open the medicine cabinet, looked at the glass shelves, and then pushed the door closed. Next he bent to check the vanity. Packages of toilet paper. A shoe brush. Stacks of soap. A saucepan. A clump of rags. Standing upright, wedged behind the plumbing, was a bathroom scale. He noted its position and then reached inside, working it out. Behind it he saw a shopping bag. He reached for it but at the last moment snatched his hand back. He ripped off a few sheets of toilet paper and spread them between his thumb and forefinger. He reached inside the bag. A diaphragm. A light coat of powder covered the device. Holding it up to the light and turning, he was able to make out some fingerprints. A triumphant grin crossed his face. Eisinger’s diaphragm had never been found. He put the compact back and returned the bag. Next he wedged in the scale. He remembered seeing an electric razor in the medicine cabinet. He took the razor out, opened the top, and began shaking the shavings into the toilet paper. He then folded the paper inward on all sides and slid it into his shirt pocket. When he slipped from the apartment fifteen minutes later he made sure that the mat was flush with the jamb.
When Malone returned to the Squad after lunch he found an impatient Yachov Anderman waiting. There were many things that Malone wanted to accomplish and he certainly did not want Anderman around. He promptly reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the list of warehouses which he silently handed over. When Anderman asked him if he had made a copy he lied and said that he hadn’t. Anderman did not bother to hide his disbelief.
Malone walked into the squad room and saw O’Shaughnessy off in a corner talking on the telephone, trying, without success, to placate Foam’s wrath.
Bo Davis was on another line with Janet Fox. He was beginning to like being her eighty-five. Sergeant Harrigan alternately drank beer and cleaned his fingernails. Malone had just finished writing Anderman’s name alongside the slash that was behind the word Interlude. Bramson, Stanislaus, and Kelly, Charles, were already on the blackboard. An asterisk was next to Stanislaus and in parentheses: “diaphragm.” The blackboard was no longer kept in the squad room. Malone wanted it in his office, next to his locker and shrouded in a musty sheet. No one outside the Squad was to see it.
He moved away from the board, tapping his lips with a piece of chalk. After studying it for a few minutes he moved close and bracketed the names of the three cops with the acronym SOD. He turned to Harrigan. “Did you install those wires?”
Harrigan rubbed the side of his face. “N.G. on Eastern Shipping. Their wires don’t run in from telephone poles. They’re underground. And the terminal boxes are inside. We can’t get at them. If you want that place bugged we’re going to have to use lasers or conic beams.” He leaned back and scratched his testicles. “And we don’t have that kind of equipment.”
Malone frowned. “What about the Braxtons?”
“A piece of cake. The only problem with them is that they don’t talk on the telephone. And when they do, it’s strictly business. But there is one little thing”—he scratched his testicles again—“there is a telephone booth on the corner of Aldridge Braxton’s residence. A few times we’ve caught him running out and using it, and then running back inside. He thinks he’s being cute. I put a wire on the booth.”
Malone said, “I want you to start to concentrate on Stanislaus.”
Harrigan nodded, lips pursed. “If we do, we’re going to have to shitcan someone. Ain’t enough guys to go around.”
Malone said, “Have the tails on the Arabs been productive?”
“Zilch. Marku and Yaziji are a couple of creeps. They go to school and hang around their friends on Atlantic Avenue. They don’t get laid, that’s for sure.”
“Take the men off them and cover Stanislaus,” Malone said.
O’Shaughnessy slammed the receiver down so hard that it bounced off the hook. “Cunt!”
“Whatsa matter?” Harrigan said.
“Broad’s givin’ me a hard time.”
Harrigan spiraled a finger heavenward. “Hell hath no fury, ma man.”
The Fifth’s watering hole was Bradley’s, a singles’ bar on Lafayette Street. It was after 6:00 P.M. and a crowd was starting to pack the place. A little before five each weekday a table with hot and cold hors d’oeuvres was set up. Manhattan’s rent poor came to eat and mingle.
Malone was sitting at the end of the long bar making rings with his glass, only dimly conscious of the eddy around him. Heinemann had gone out to Queens to sit in on a card game at an Elks Lodge in Astoria. Stern, Davis, Johnson, and O’Shaughnessy were clustered at the bar nearby. It amused them to watch the maneuvering of older men with dyed hair, gold bracelets and chains, who tried to put the make on anything that moved. Novice cheaters and shy singles fumbled for the right words. Single women wanted desperately to meet a “good” man, tried much too hard.
Malone sipped his drink. He was confused. Was she really making it with Stanislaus? The movie Laura came to mind. The detective conjured up a picture of Laura in his mind and fell in love with the murder victim. He was pissed off at Eisinger for going to bed with him. She could have done much better. He glanced toward the entrance. His friend should arrive any minute.
Jake Stern tried to fill the silence. “A woman is like a bus. If you miss one all you gotta do is wait at the bus stop. Another one’ll be along in no time.”
Erica Sommers was no bus, Malone thought, holding up his glass to the bartender.
A brunette was alone at the other end of the bar. She was a big woman with broad shoulders and a pretty face. The detectives watched as a lawyer-type in a vested suit made his play. She rebuffed him. The rejected suitor slunk back, seeking the anonymity of the crowd. O’Shaughnessy sipped scotch on ice, watching with muted admiration as the brunette foiled the amorous advances of another would-be suitor.
O’Shaughnessy said, “I just might be looking at Foam’s replacement.”
Jake Stern’s face clouded. “Man. I’d love to have her sit on my face. Did you catch them tits? They’re magnificent.”
Starling Johnson slid his glass onto the bar. “Make your move, ma man. All the lady can say is no.”
Stern drank, watching her. He banged his glass on the bar. “Why not?”
She sensed the presence elbowing its way toward her. Another shmuck. Suddenly he was next to her, alternately snapping his fingers and pointing. It was a brawler’s face that was dominated by a broken nose and low-set cheekbones. The lips were thick and he was almost completely bald. But he did have a cute smile.
“That’s it,” Stern blared, with a discovering snap of his fingers.
“What is it?” she said, icily.
“Where I know you from. We were in the navy together. Submarines. Don’t you remember?”
“Navy?” Her incredulity turned to a smile that showed her straight white teeth. “That is a good opening line.”
“I gave it my best shot,” he said, careful not to move too close.
They laughed.
She sipped a bloody mary. “You married?”
“Yes. But there’s a problem.”
She smiled knowingly. “Isn’t there always. Do you like cats?”
“Oh. I just love them. They’re such adorable creatures.”
“I have three.”
Your apartment must stink of piss, he thought, motioning to the bartender.
She avoided his eyes. “My name is Helen McGlade.”
He saw the red that tinged her earlobe and moved close. “Jake Stern.”
Jack Fine was a minor celebrity with a thrice-weekly newspaper column in the Daily News and a f
ew beer commercials on television. He was a thin man with a perpetually dour face and a crew cut and always wore a bow tie. His drinking was legendary; his wild parties envied; his tough talk emulated. It was not an unusual occurrence for him to be observed in the wee morning hours pissing on a Third Avenue lamppost.
Fine stood at the entrance. Malone saw him and waved. The newspaperman nodded and started to shoulder the crush, returning the proffered greetings with perfunctory grunts and feeble handshakes. “How’r’ya. Goodtaseeya’gain.”
Malone had a very dry martini in his hand. Fine took it and gulped it down in one violent swallow. Malone had another in reserve.
“Got your message. What’s up?” Fine said.
Malone leaned close and confided, “I want you to plant something in your next column. ‘Usually reliable sources report stuff to the effect that a certain government agency and high-ranking members of the NYPD have colluded to suppress a homicide investigation.’” He sipped his drink, staring at the rows of bottles.
Fine inched close. “You got sunstroke or something. I’d never get a story like that past my editor. He’d want to know my source and I’d damn well have to tell him.”
Malone held the glass up to his eyes and looked through it at the distorted face of the newspaperman. “I’m your source.”
Fine eyed him warily. “You’d have to come out of the closet.”
“Only to you and your editor.”
The newspaperman leaned his back against the bar, arms folded tightly into his chest, thinking.
The bartender came over to them. Tony, No Butter, a KG—Known Gambler—wanted to buy them a drink. The bartender put the drinks down and nodded toward Tony, No Butter. They raised their glasses at the gambler. Tony, No Butter acknowledged with a feeble nod of the head. Malone noticed that Stern and the brunette were gone.
Fine said, “This thing has to be big for you to put your head on the chopping block. Want to tell me about it?”
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