The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  Goode considered.

  “Not so crazy. Not if you know the man. Like I do.”

  “I intend to find out,” Seymour said.

  “For your sake,” Goode replied, “I hope you find out the right thing.”

  “Didn’t you make that mistake once before?”

  Goode looked taken aback for a moment.

  “No, I don’t think so. I was right then, as I am now.”

  “Maybe. But a day or so ago, you were sure you had the right scum in your sights. Remember?”

  “Scum is scum, that doesn’t change.” He settled deeper into his chair, his shoulders weighed down in exhaustion, but he stirred himself.

  “I’ll say this kindly, don’t get in my way. I mean to punish the bastard. With or without your cooperation.”

  Seymour stood.

  “I’m really tired of threats. Maybe Gomez is our man. But I can tell you that Junior will turn himself in tomorrow for questioning. I do not know if the police will hold him or if he will be formally charged. Anyway, I will try to run down Gomez.”

  “And I can tell you that I know tomorrow morning’s papers are going to have Mr. Constantino’s face all over the front page.”

  “O’Riley wouldn’t do that.”

  “Wouldn’t he? I think you know better than that.”

  “We had an arrangement,” Seymour began, but then he caught himself. “We both know what that means.”

  Goode waved his hand deprecatingly.

  “Tomorrow is not so much. You’ll go in, answer a few questions. Maybe they’ll hold your man. Maybe not. The newspapers will play it big, but it’s coming on the weekend, so not too bad. Anyway I have reason to believe O’Riley might lose the front page to the stock market. But, here’s the important thing, you just leave Gomez to me. Soon enough, I’ll hand him to them.”

  “I’m not committing myself to anything,” Seymour said as he turned to go. “Tomorrow, I’ll be protecting Junior.”

  “That’s right, you do that,” Goode said. He had taken Seymour by the arm again, and they walked back through the living room. “You just worry about your friend.”

  * * * *

  Seymour folded the morning newspaper under his arm and entered the stationhouse. He scanned the large room he found himself in. Detectives sat at desks, some questioning suspects, others filling out reports. Two uniformed officers came in with a young black man, hands handcuffed behind his back, between them. As they passed Seymour, the young man stopped walking for a moment. His eyes flashed hatred and anger. One of the officers squeezed his arm hard and pushed him forward to the sergeant’s desk. The other officer dropped a packet on the desk.

  “Martin Davis. He was holding,” the officer said.

  “Like shit I was,” the young man mumbled.

  A detective strolled over and smiled at Davis. Then he turned to the sergeant. He picked up the packet, opened it, passed it under his nose, and then tasted the powder from the tip of his index finger.

  “Book him,” he said. He turned to the young man. “Where’d you get such good shit?”

  Davis struggled to twist himself free and kicked out at the detective. The detective stepped back as though avoiding being splashed by a car riding through a puddle.

  “Now, Martin, why don’t you just behave yourself. You’ve been through all this before. It always comes out the same way.”

  The detective straightened his suit jacket, and his eyes landed on Seymour.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “If you don’t mind me hanging around for a few minutes until my client shows up,” Seymour said, “I’ll have all the help I need.”

  The detective raised his eyebrows. He was a burly man with a beefy and pocked face. He chewed a toothpick. He walked over to the desk sergeant and came back with a visitor’s pass that he stuffed in Seymour’s breast pocket.

  “Mind, no, I don’t mind. Make yourself comfortable. I’m Detective Rosario.”

  “Seymour Lipp.”

  “Well, Mr. Lipp, can I ask who you are waiting for?”

  Seymour smiled.

  “You know you can ask, but until he shows up, I guess there’s not much point in my answering.”

  The detective narrowed his eyes and bit down on his toothpick.

  “No, I guess not,” he said. “Here, I got some business to take care of back there.” He motioned down the hall to the interrogation rooms. “You can wait at my desk for a while.”

  Seymour pressed the newspaper tighter against his side and walked to the cluttered desk with Rosario’s nameplate on it.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Take your time,” Rosario said. “I’ll be tied up for a while. Oh, and help yourself to a cup of coffee if you want.”

  Seymour fixed himself some coffee and sat at Rosario’s desk, the newspaper spread out before him. Goode had been half right. The headlines blared doom about the market collapsing, but Junior appeared in the lower left corner in a sketch that was a fair likeness. He wondered why O’Riley hadn’t provided a mug shot. Probably, he thought, because the prosecutor believed an artist’s rendering of a psychopath would have more kick than the subdued face of a man once in custody. He skimmed over the copy and saw that it was more innocuous than the picture, only name and occupation and the fact that Junior was wanted for questioning and might provide a break in this terrible case. Seymour saw the restraint of the copy as a lid sitting uneasily over the cauldron of O’Riley’s need to answer his opponent’s criticism of him, which was featured in an adjoining story. He also had the uneasy feeling that everyone in the stationhouse knew why he was there. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the stale air, realizing after a moment that he wanted the smoke to screen him from searching eyes.

  He knew that he shouldn’t be sitting at Rosario’s desk, expecting Junior to materialize. It was a few minutes after ten o’clock. Maybe Junior was already in the stationhouse, but how was he supposed to find him? Absentmindedly, he stared down the hallway in the direction Rosario had taken. He heard a workman humming while he replaced a bulb in the fluorescent ceiling fixture. He jumped, but Junior put his finger to his lips and motioned toward the door. Seymour turned just in time to see Detective Rosenberg push through the door ahead of two officers who had a small, sullen figure of a man between them. The man was staring at the floor as he walked, so Seymour could not be sure at first, but then the man raised his eyes to take in the room. He curled his lips in a sneering smile, his gold front tooth clearly visible. Rosenberg led him to the sergeant’s desk and said something that Seymour could not hear. He turned toward Seymour and waved, and Seymour nodded a greeting. The officers led Pedro away, and Rosenberg strolled over to Seymour.

  “Know him?” Rosenberg asked.

  Seymour thought for a moment.

  “Tell you the truth, he looks like a thousand street punks I’ve run across.”

  “Well, this one is special.”

  “Anything besides his gold tooth?”

  Rosenberg smiled.

  “Oh, yes.” He paused. “He’s the one I was telling you about in connection with the John killing, the one who somehow came into possession of your credit card.”

  “Did he do it?”

  Rosenberg shrugged.

  “I’m just the catcher, you know. Other people decide if my fish is legal size. If not, they get tossed back to swim in their slime.” Rosenberg grinned. “But I don’t have to tell you about that counselor, do I?”

  “Well,” Seymour said slowly, “I don’t think I’d have used the same language, but we both know how the system works.”

  The grin disappeared from Rosenberg’s face, replaced by his cynical and weary professional mask.

  “Or doesn’t,” he said simply. “Let me know when your man turns up. I’ll be in Room 4, down the hall. He’ll probably know the way.”

  Seymour followed Rosenberg’s back with his eyes until he passed the ladder on which Junior ha
d been standing. It was empty, and the detective stopped to glance around the hallway before continuing on his way. He disappeared into an interrogation room. Seconds later, Junior emerged from the men’s room and motioned to Seymour. He was wearing jeans and a parka.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  “Just a minute,” Seymour protested, and placed his hand on Junior’s arm. “First, I thought Halloween was a couple of weeks ago. Why the costume?”

  Junior shrugged.

  “It’s just my way, man. You should know that.”

  “Second. They’ve brought Pedro in for questioning.”

  Junior flashed a smile.

  “They’re just dancin’. They don’t have nothin’.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. But what happens if Pedro decides it would be in his interest to implicate you.”

  Junior frowned.

  “In the first case, no way. Pedro ain’t gonna turn. He’s been through this mill before, and he knows that he’ll be ground meat. And, besides, he don’t have no use for these officers of the law.” Junior paused, and then drew Seymour closer to him so that he could whisper into his ear.

  “One of them bastards did his sister when he was bringin’ her in for liftin’ a couple of pieces of shit jewelry. She was thirteen. Pedro lives to find out which one it was. When he does, there’ll be one less cop. In the meantime, he ain’t gonna tell them nothin’. You can count on it.”

  “I guess we’ll have to.” Seymour backed away so that he could look directly into Junior’s face. “Are you ready. Do you know what you’re going to say. We should have talked this out.”

  “Be cool, man. It’s your job to make sure that I don’t have to say much of anything, and what I do have to answer, well, for that I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

  “Great,” Seymour said. “Just great.”

  * * * *

  They sat around a small table, Junior next to Seymour, Rosenberg and another detective across from them. Vesta, the second detective, looked like a character from an old black-and-white gangster movie, Seymour thought, in which suspects were interrogated with a rubber hose in places that didn’t leave marks. He was short and squat, his rounded jaw resting on his chest and his belly pushing against his shirt buttons that seemed ready, at any moment, to fly off. He chewed gum and said little.

  “As I’ve said,” Seymour repeated, his eyes on Rosenberg, “my client would like to cooperate fully and expeditiously. He will do his best to answer your questions.”

  Vesta blew a large bubble and popped it. Seymour stared at him, and he smiled back.

  “That’s all well and good, Mr. Lipp,” Detective Rosenberg said, “but you can understand that Mr. Constantino’s refusal to present himself for questioning before this point has raised some questions about his sincerity in our minds. We are naturally suspicious.”

  “That’s your job,” Seymour replied. “And it is mine to be certain that those suspicions are not misplaced. Mr. Constantino agreed to come in as soon as I was able to contact him.” Seymour improvised. “He left his job suddenly, and I might add temporarily, to attend to some personal matters, and it was only recently that I had the chance to speak to him.” He paused. “When I did, and learned that you had your ‘suspicions’, he asked me to arrange this meeting so we could straighten this matter out.”

  Detective Vesta tossed a paper bag on the table and turned it over so that the gray workman’s clothes spilled out.

  “What was the idea?” he asked.

  Junior smiled and leaned across the table to straighten the clothes.

  “Careful, I only rented these for the hour, and I promised to return them in good shape.”

  Vesta brought his large fist down on the table, an inch or so from Junior’s hand.

  “Right,” he said. “But maybe you won’t have the chance to bring them back. Maybe you’ll be wearing something very much like them, only with a number on it.”

  Rosenberg frowned at Vesta, and the large man moved back from the table. Seymour took his newspaper and slapped it on the table next to the clothes.

  “I could ask,” he said, “about the meaning of this. We do not appreciate being tried in the newspapers before any formal charges have been offered.”

  “Let’s call us even on the fun and games for now,” Rosenberg said smoothly. “You know that isn’t my style, and not my idea.”

  “I’m not sure even is the right word,” Seymour answered. “But let’s get down to business.”

  “Fine,” Rosenberg said. He took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. “Mr. Constantino, did you have a relationship with Emily Levine?”

  Junior smiled.

  “Sure. She asked me if I could get her some coke, and I said I didn’t do that business anymore. I had promised Mr. O’Riley that I wouldn’t, and I’m a man of my word.”

  Rosenberg did not look up from his notebook as he continued.

  “Isn’t it true that you slept with her?”

  Junior turned to Seymour, who saw Rosenberg’s brows furrow, and he leaned across to Junior.

  “You don’t have to admit anything,” he whispered, “but let’s give them this one, straight, no jokes. They’ve got a half a dozen witnesses who’ll swear that you were making it with Emily in every corner of that building.”

  Junior drew back from Seymour and his eyes turned serious.

  “My counselor here is advising me that I haven’t been takin’ this line of questions serious enough. So here’s the straight answer. Yes. Mrs. Levine came after me. For sex. And we were together a few times, but that all stopped months ago.”

  “Why’s that?” Vesta asked from his corner in the room.

  Junior looked steadily at him.

  “One of us got bored.”

  “Which?” Vesta asked.

  “Guess,” Junior said.

  Seymour was watching Rosenberg closely, and he saw the detective’s mouth tighten.

  “My client admits having a relationship with the victim. Can we move on?”

  “Sure,” Rosenberg said. “Was she carrying your baby?” His voice remained calm, almost bored.

  Junior began to respond, but Seymour nudged him hard. “Let me earn my money,” he said, and then he turned to the detective. “We have no knowledge of Mrs. Levine’s condition before she was murdered.”

  Rosenberg moved his pencil over the page and nodded.

  “Do you carry a switchblade knife? Perhaps for protection?” Rosenberg permitted himself a half smile, but his voice was as bland as though he were reading items on a grocery list.

  “That would be a violation of our custodial order,” Seymour said.

  Rosenberg looked up at Seymour.

  “Of course, it would.” He fixed his eyes on Junior. “Could you answer the question please?”

  Junior paused, and then said, “No.”

  “Where were you on the night of the murder, November 2nd?”

  Junior did not hesitate.

  “Home, watching wrestling. With my wife. We had a bet on.”

  “Who won?” Rosenberg asked.

  “She did,” Junior replied.

  “The match?”

  “I think it was the Hulk.”

  “Can anybody else confirm your whereabouts for that evening and night.”

  “I don’t know,” Junior replied.

  “Do you know anything about a hooker named Tanya, also known, among other aliases, as Kitten?”

  “I used to know a lot of hookers.”

  “Even married one, so’s I hear.” Vesta chuckled, an ugly leer on his face. Junior leaped to his feet, but both Rosenberg and Seymour restrained him. After a moment, he relaxed, but his eyes remained intense. Rosenberg scowled at Vesta. “Just trying to lighten things up,” the large detective said.

  “That will about do it.” Rosenberg folded his notebook and turned to Vesta. “Book him,” he said. “The charges are suspicion of aggravated assault, rape, and second-degree murder.”

 
Vesta eased himself out of the room. He returned in a matter of seconds with two uniforms. They must have been waiting by the door, Seymour thought. Junior stood up, his face a mask of grinning indifference. He held out his hands to be cuffed.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Rosenberg said.

  “Be seeing you around,” Vesta said. “In about ten to twenty.”

  Junior brought his hand down over his fly.

  “That’s the only thing you’ll be seein’.”

  Each officer grabbed one of his arms and escorted him out of the room.

  Rosenberg stood up and stretched.

  “Mr. Lipp,” he said, “your client is not helping himself with this behavior, even recognizing some provocation.”

  “I’m only his lawyer,” Seymour said, and followed Junior and the officers out of the door.

  * * * *

  It was snowing lightly, the kind of early snow in the city that looks like a blizzard when magnified by the glare of streetlights but that dissipates to a thin white dust on the ground. Seymour was driving Rosalie’s little Toyota, and he kept it in second gear as he peered through the windshield looking for his turnoff. The snow softened the crunch of the tires and the slap of the windshield wipers. Even the thunderous crashing of the waves was more like the beat of a muffled drum.

  He fumbled for a cigarette and groped for the lighter. He looked down and found it next to the ashtray. When he raised his eyes, he saw somebody on a bike wobbling in the middle of the road just ahead of him. He took his foot off the gas, and the car slowed to just about the same speed as the biker. His car closed the distance gradually, and as he neared he studied the shape huddled over the handlebars.

  He saw a shock of gray hair protruding from beneath a wool cap, and a brightly colored scarf flapped behind the elderly man. Two wire baskets mounted over the rear wheel carried paper bags of groceries, and the bike seemed ready at any moment to fall to one side or the other.

  Seymour was sure that Schotelheim was the rider. He thought of beeping his horn to catch the old man’s attention, but he decided instead to follow at a safe distance. The rider turned down a block, and Seymour began to steer the car after him. He caught a glimpse of the street sign and let the car slide to a gradual stop. For a while he watched the bike recede into the snow, and then he turned back onto the main street.