Red Rag Blues

by Derek Robinson

  Fisk hesitated. No crime had been committed. If he tried to search for evidence, there might be violence. But he hated to lose a possible witness. Then a cream-and-brown convertible came out of the garage and nosed through the crowd on the sidewalk. Fisk saw Cabrillo driving, saw him find a gap in the traffic, drift away. Fisk forgot the bum and looked for a taxi. This was the curse of surveillance in Manhattan: you couldn’t use a car, too many oneway streets, a subject on foot could lose you without even trying. Taxis hustled past, none empty. Defeat made his shoulders slump like a milk bottle. A taxi halted beside him, the door swung open, nobody got out. “Hop in, old chap,” an English accent said. Fisk hopped. He saw a stocky, youngish man with a fighter pilot’s mustache. “If you’re not Fisk, I’ve blundered,” the man said.

  “I’m Fisk. I’m following—”

  “Of course you are. And so am I. Frobisher. The Studebaker’s up ahead, waiting for the lights to change. Don’t worry, I shan’t lose it.”

  *

  Luis felt better now that he was driving somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter as long as he was in command.

  The hour in the Harvard Club had flattened him. Philby had destroyed Traitors Abound, casually, without raising his voice. Luis had sweated blood creating the codenames, making character sketches for so many traitors, developing KGB operations in Europe and America, keeping the whole shebang balanced and full of pace and surprise. Massive betrayal on that scale was exhausting. It hadn’t bothered Philby. He’d sidestepped it. No publisher, no book. Simple. Made Luis looked childish and foolish.

  Now he was on the rebound. He gunned the motor and hit the horn, heading west, into the sun, that’s what they always did in the movies. He saw a hole in the traffic and swung the wheel but a battered Chevy jumped faster and stole it. Luis stamped on the brakes. The tires gripped like glue. The car lunged. Ironmongery shot forward from under his seat.

  By the time he found a space to park, he’d remembered what it was. A Colt revolver, fully loaded. Beside it, a roadmap of Connecticut and a piece of cardboard bearing directions to West 10th Street. Stevie’s stuff. Hidden under the seat while they ate in Chinatown. Forgotten.

  Luis sat, fingering the gun. Marriage was no joke. Suppose he married Julie and she gave some stranger five hundred dollars to kill him. No. Not socially acceptable. People married for better or worse, not for a bullet in the head.

  The least he could do was warn Vinnie Biaggi. Show him the evidence. Give him a break.

  He drove south on Seventh Avenue. A taxi followed.

  6

  Four men sitting at a table, playing cards, was not what Luis expected to see. West 10th was a friendly street of small cinemas and coffee shops and stores selling fake Indian moccasins. Parking was impossible. Luis drove around, found a garage, dumped the Studebaker, and walked back to Vinnie Biaggi’s address. There was no doorway on the street; instead, a wide iron gate opened onto a courtyard. This was lined with four houses. Warm brick walls, dove-gray shutters, big pots of geraniums. Vinnie’s house was on the right. A large china bullfrog propped the door wide open.

  Now that looked wrong. Luis had been trained in survival techniques by Madrid Abwehr. When something feels odd, they said, don’t hesitate, keep moving, get out. And here was a man at risk of being shot who leaves his front door open. Beat it. Ausgang! Schnell, schnell!

  On the other hand, who won the war? Not the Abwehr. Luis was here on a mission. If he turned around now and walked away, how would he explain that to Julie? He stepped into the house.

  Somebody was big on photography. Pictures covered the walls: people, animals, mountains, ships. A cat sleeping on the carpet woke up, saw nothing to get excited about, yawned, closed its eyes. Luis smelled coffee. His nose led him to a back room. Four middle-aged men were playing canasta. He knew canasta when he saw it. In Caracas he’d been king of canasta.

  “Be with you in a moment,” a hefty, balding man said. All the players had removed their coats. Their sleeves had French cuffs with small, tasteful cuff links. Button-down collars. Club ties. They were serious about their canasta. “Permit me a moment to complete this act of demolition.” Two moments was all it took. “Many thanks,” he murmured. “I’m so brilliant I frighten myself.” He left the table and steered Luis back into the hallway. “You have my full attention, sir.”

  “Would you be Mr. Vincent Biaggi?” Luis asked.

  “That’s what The New York Times says.” He saw that Luis didn’t understand. “For my sins, I am music critic of the Times.”

  “Ah.” Luis was thoroughly wrongfooted. “Oh.”

  “I assumed you were here on matters musical.”

  “Um … no. Perhaps it’s your son I should be talking to.”

  “Alas, I have not been blessed with progeny.” He smiled affably. “A blessing for the unborn, my friends would suggest.” He gestured at the card game. “But they too are music critics, and so their judgment is deeply suspect.” His eyes twinkled.

  Luis relaxed. “Someone’s played a joke on me, Mr. Biaggi. God knows why. I came here to warn you that a woman tried to bribe me to murder you. She gave me a gun. Said you’re her third husband. Her name is Stephanie.”

  “Third husband …” His eyes bulged a little at the wonder of it all. He was gently leading Luis toward the front door. “I would gladly die for say, Maria Callas, but the prospect of marriage …” He gave a tiny shudder. That was when a little old lady carrying a bag of groceries appeared at the doorway.

  “Mr. Biaggi, there’s a Fed in the street an’ he’s lookin’ this way,” she said. “I know you hate them lousy bastards, so I thought … Hey.” She leaned forward, and squinted. “You ain’t Biaggi.”

  “Dear lady, you have been standing in the sun too long. And without a hat too.” He advanced, waving his arms to shoo her away. “Remember, I warned you about such reckless exposure.”

  “You ain’t Biaggi.” She tried to look past him.

  “Go and lie down before you have another of your nasty turns.” He gently revolved her and sent her on her way. “A sweet creature,” he told Luis, “who lives in a world of her own. Well, the canasta calls. So kind of you to take the trouble.”

  “Think nothing of it.” They were smiling and shaking hands. “By the way,” Luis said, and he knew that it was asking for trouble but he was tired of losing, it was time he won something. “That’s a good photograph of Stephanie Biaggi on the wall behind you.”

  The handshake tightened. The music critic of The New York Times sighed softly and did not turn to look at the picture. “Nobody likes a smart-ass,” he said, sadly, and with his other hand he gripped Luis by the throat and hoisted him until he was on tiptoe. “You have talked yourself into the grave …” The thumb and fingers were squeezing arteries, and the words began to sound faint, distant, cracked, weary. “The saddest part is that there is no profit in this solution for anyone …” Somewhere, it might have been in Iowa, a car engine roared and died and a door slammed. “Hey, uncle!” someone called. Luis’s sight was blurring, everything was turning gray. He heard the newcomer say, “Lay off the guy, uncle. He’s kosher.” The words were frail. “What’s he doin’ here, anyway?” The Times music critic released Luis, who didn’t even feel his legs begin to fold. Sammy Fantoni grabbed an arm and lowered him until he sat on the carpet. The rest of the canasta school were crowding into the hallway, carrying handguns and shotguns. “You know this bum?” one asked.

  “Sure,” Sammy said. “He’s Luis Cabrillo, visiting from Caracas.”

  “Well, he brought the Feds with him,” the uncle said. “Old Mrs. Prodnose from next door saw them in the street.”

  Vision returned slowly to Luis. Through a haze of wandering sparks he saw a thicket of trouserlegs. He tried to stand, collapsed to his hands and knees, and was carried upstairs to a bedroom that overlooked the street. They sat him on the bed, and moved to the window. They quickly spotted Fisk. “Feds are getting younger every year,” the uncle grumbled. “T
hey have no style. See that suit? Those shoulders are a crime.”

  “Who’s he with?” Sammy asked. “Can’t be a Fed. Hoover don’t allow face-hair.”

  “Undercover agent, maybe.” Someone objected. A guy seen yacking to a Fed on 10th Street couldn’t be working undercover. An argument began. Luis felt left out. He got up to see for himself. “The mustache is Frobisher,” he said, croaking a little. “British Intelligence. The other man is FBI. He followed me.” By now everyone was looking at him. “I had tea in the Harvard Club,” he explained. “I shook him off.”

  “Then he shook himself back on,” the uncle said.

  “You got the Feds and the spooks chasin’ you, both,” Sammy said. “Waddya do, screw Mamie Eisenhower?”

  “Hey, hey!” the uncle said. “Where are your manners? This gentleman is a guest in our country.” Sammy mumbled an apology. Someone said the Fed and his pal were crossing the street. Everyone moved to a different window. They saw Fisk enter the courtyard and look at the red Pontiac convertible. “Sammy,” the uncle said, “take our visitor and leave.”

  Sammy hurried Luis downstairs, through the kitchen, into a storeroom. A Maytag washing machine was bolted to the floor. Sammy pulled on it, and the machine hinged toward him. A piece of the floor came up with it. The hole it exposed was lit. Luis went down a slanting ladder. Sammy followed, reached up and pulled the Maytag upright, using only one hand. There was a soft clunk as the piece of floor locked into place. “Hydraulics,” he said. “Same as the undercarriage of a B-52.”

  They were in a large concrete cellar. An air conditioner throbbed softly.

  “I never flew in a B-52,” Sammy added. “Infantry, me. In Germany.” He was switching on more lights. “Went to fight for freedom against the Commy hordes.”

  “Goodness.” Luis’s throat felt like pounded steak. “Who won?”

  “Goddam Reds never came at us. Too bad. I won medals for sharpshootin’, could of dropped them Ivans easy as pickin’ cherries.”

  Luis was looking about him. “Mr. Biaggi keeps his larder well stocked.”

  “This here is a nucular shelter,” Sammy told him.

  It was about the size of a small tennis court. Boxes of tinned food were piled around the sides. There were crates of Pepsi and stacks of toilet paper. Luis saw a folding bed, deckchairs, a table-tennis table, cinema projector, camping stove, a laundry basket containing a variety of automatic weapons, and much more. “Nucular,” he said.

  “Yeah. In case the Reds start anything. The city got nucular shelters all over.”

  Luis’s head hurt. He sat on the nearest object, a chemical toilet. “Your friend upstairs,” he said. “He’s not a music critic, is he?”

  “That’s my uncle. He was the smart kid in the family. Went to Princeton, played tight end, nearly killed a guy in the Army game. You were lucky I came along. He tears phone books in half. I’m not talkin’ Residential, I’m talkin’ Yellow Pages. Another coupla minutes, your head would have been a bowling ball.”

  Luis looked away, grunted with shock, shut his eyes, and when he opened them he could still see the toes of a pair of tan loafers poking up. The rest of their owner was hidden behind a year’s supply of Ritz crackers. He pointed. “Please tell me that’s not Vinnie Biaggi,” he said.

  “Hell, no,” Sammy said. “Come see.” Reluctantly, Luis got off the toilet and followed him. This must be the worst part, he thought. After this, today must get better. And when he looked behind the cases of crackers, it wasn’t so bad. The man lay on his back with his mouth open, just an average guy of about forty with a shirtful of congealed blood. Completely relaxed, eyes almost shut, he might have been taking a nap. “That ain’t Vinnie,” Sammy said, “That’s Sonny Deakin, a much-loved soldier in the Profaci family, greatly missed by all, only they don’t know it yet. Vinnie Biaggi’s over here.” He pushed a filing cabinet aside, and now this was the worst part. Most of the clothing was missing, and a knife had been used on large areas of the exposed body. It was a chubby body, and it had been hacked about clumsily, like a pig-roast at a drunken barbecue. Bulletholes were evident, too. Luis walked away and was sick into the chemical toilet.

  Sammy opened a case of toilet rolls and gave him a few yards of tissue to mop his face with.

  “See, the trouble with Sonny Deakin, he never knew where to stop,” he said. “It wasn’t enough he plugged Vinnie, he had to leave a message too. And we caught him doin’ it and terminated his employment.”

  “I came here to warn Vinnie.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Sammy said. “We all warned Vinnie, but he was the type guy can’t be warned. He kept on doin’ it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, whackin’ the wrong fella.” Sammy was starting to sound depressed. “See, Vinnie had this goofy wandering eye. He kept hittin’ innocent bystanders, and the Profaci family got blamed. It was vanity, he wouldn’t wear eyeglasses, they spoiled his looks. But he wouldn’t stop whackin’, it was embarrassing, everyone was laughin’ at him. Not the Profacis, they weren’t laughin’. And his wife, she’s got Profaci cousins, they were pissed-off. So she left him.”

  “Would she be Stephanie Biaggi?”

  “Yeah. Stevie. Cute broad.”

  “She told me she was a virgin. Blamed Vinnie.”

  Sammy thought about it. “Jeez, I dunno. The guy was a lousy shot, but missin’ a target like that … I never heard of it before. Still, Stevie should know. You ready to go home?”

  He opened a massive steel door. Luis got a whiff of air that smelt of stale electricity. “I gotta stay. I got body-bags in the Pontiac,” Sammy said. “Genuine government issue. They come in all sizes.” He led Luis down a narrow passage, unlocked a steel-mesh door, and they were at the gloomy end of a subway platform. “Take the IRT uptown,” he said. “You want the west side, change to the BMT at 14th Street. Put a token in the turnstile on your way out. You got one?” Luis shook his head. Sammy gave him a token. “We gotta finance the subway system,” he said, “or one day it ain’t gonna be there when we need it.”

  *

  The music critic of The New York Times was impressed when Fisk identified himself. “A G-man!” he said. “What a thrill. How may I help?”

  Fisk asked permission to search the house, and was given a guided tour. Frobisher went along too. They ended up where they began, in the card room, where the other three men were playing gin rummy. “Not for money, I assure you,” the host said genially. “I’m sorry to have to hurry you, but I must review a Bartok recital at Carnegie.”

  They all shook hands. He showed them out. “Aren’t you going to take your car?” he called. They stopped. “Oh dear. I assumed the Pontiac must be yours,” he said. “None of us here can drive. Well, cheerio once more. Mind the traffic. It’s quite ruthless around here.”

  Fisk and Frobisher stood in the shade in 10th Street and wondered what to do next. “Sammy drove that Pontiac into that courtyard,” Fisk said. “He’s a crook. We saw Cabrillo go in there. Now that’s a hell of a coincidence unless Cabrillo’s in the same line of business.”

  “I honestly can’t see Cabrillo robbing banks,” Frobisher said. “He was one of our chaps during the war.”

  “If he’s such a regular guy, why chase him?”

  “He’s bloody elusive,” Frobisher said. “Let’s face it, he went in there and he didn’t come out, and he’s not there now. That’s what we call bloody elusive in British Intelligence. What do you call it?”

  “I’m going to stick around,” Fisk said. Frobisher was beginning to irritate him.

  “Wasting your time, old boy. Both those blighters left by the back door. By now they’re having a beer in the Men’s Bar at the Biltmore, and that’s where I’m heading. Goodbye.”

  Fisk stuck around and nothing happened. He worried about Cabrillo’s car, parked in a garage. If he went looking for it, he might miss out on developments here. Maybe the car was hot, maybe Cabrillo had dumped it. On the other hand …

&nbs
p; The problem was resolved, abruptly, as—for the second time in a day—the cream-and-brown Studebaker drove past and Fisk was running, searching for a taxi. Again.

  *

  Luis was lost, but it didn’t matter.

  He’d got out of the subway station fast. Its grime and gloom depressed him; he wanted the open air and freedom. He found the garage more or less by accident, and when they brought his car and took his money he realized he didn’t know whether he was pointing east or west, uptown or downtown. So he just drove, followed the cars in front, tried to relax and enjoy being in control of his life once more. He was so relaxed that he didn’t even recognize 10th Street when he went along it.

  Fisk found a taxi. Well, something had to go right eventually.

  Luis went with the flow of traffic, crossed Broadway, which didn’t look exciting. Crossed Fourth Avenue, also nothing special. Part of his mind was still down in the cellar, discovering bodies. A truck pulled out in front, so he followed it, across Third Avenue. Up ahead the lights changed to red and he stopped. Now at last he began to get his situation straight. He was heading east. That was no good. East went nowhere except into the frightful urban desert where Max had lived. To get back to Central Park West he must first drive north. The lights changed. The truck moved on. Luis turned left, north, uptown, into Second Avenue.

  Fisk’s driver saw the Studebaker turn and he laughed. “Ain’t goin’ there,” he said. “You ain’t got nuff money to pay me to go there.” Horns blared behind them. He crossed Second.

  Luis stopped, halfway up the block. He faced a tidal wave of traffic. Second Avenue was one-way, downtown. Five lines of traffic came at him, all meeting green lights in a relentless surge. He spun the wheel, pulled hard over, stopped, shut his eyes, let everything roar past, blasting him for his idiocy. Than he made a screaming U-turn and fled, soaked in sweat.