Little Angel Street (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  Isaac slapped his own head. “I’m a fool,” he muttered. The town knew that Wig had waxed Quentin Kahn. People were frightened of the Purple Gang. Wig could walk into the Pierre and kill any pharaoh. The Purple Gang was now in residence at Gracie Mansion.

  Isaac went down to City Hall with Wig. The reporters, photographers, secretaries, and guards all buzzed behind Isaac’s back. “The Purples are coming, the Purples are coming.”

  Isaac canceled his appointments. But there was an unexpected guest waiting in the corridors. Rose Leviathan-Smith. He had Wig escort her into his office. She’d aged, just like the king. Her iron-colored hair was turning brittle. The tic in her cheek was more pronounced.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Smith. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Orange juice? A Milky Way?”

  “I think I’ll stand, thank you,” she said. Her eyes had stopped focusing. She’d glance at the mayor, but her mind could have been on another planet. “You have ruined my life, sir.”

  Isaac wasn’t sure what he had done, but he had the urge to apologize. That death at the Pierre couldn’t have ricocheted off Rose.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith.”

  “You compromised Oskar, stole his letters, I believe.”

  “It’s part of an investigation. I wouldn’t hurt the boy.”

  “But you already did. You understood the terms of his adoption. We didn’t hide the irregularities from you. Oskar isn’t really mine. The governor had to protect himself. He took Oskar away from me.”

  “Ah, I’ll return the letters, Rose.”

  “It’s too late.”

  She was holding a pistol in her hand. It could have been a toy, or one of those derringers that gamblers were always using in cowboy films. Isaac wouldn’t flinch. But Wig leapt in front of the king, knocked him to the ground, offered his own body as a target to Rose Leviathan-Smith.

  “Ah, Wiggy. She’s distressed. The woman won’t shoot.”

  There was a soft clap, like the cry of a hummingbird. Isaac thought the sound had come from Rose herself until his ear started to sting. Rose dropped her gun onto the mayor’s carpet.

  Isaac and Wig both climbed to their feet.

  “Rose, I promise you. I’ll get your boy back.”

  He picked up Rose’s gun in a handkerchief and locked it inside his desk. He had Wig accompany her home to Yonkers in a police car. He called Billy the Kid, but he couldn’t get through. The Gov had removed himself from the mayor of New York.

  Isaac looked up. There was a vulture at his door. LeComte.

  “Your ear is bleeding.”

  “I scratched myself.”

  But LeComte borrowed a first-aid kit from one of Isaac’s secretaries and dressed the injured ear.

  “That’ll do,” LeComte said. “But you’ll have to see a doctor. Wouldn’t want you to die of blood poisoning.”

  “It’s a masterpiece,” Isaac said, looking at his ear in the mirror. “Frederic, you told Sweets not to arrest Wig.”

  “Let’s say I discouraged him. He doesn’t have much of a case. You’ll swear that Wig was at the mansion all night.”

  “I can’t. I was out, visiting with Schyler Knott.”

  “But Sweets doesn’t know that. And I didn’t volunteer the information.”

  “Frederic, shouldn’t we go outside and sit in the park? My office has to be bugged. How many intelligence divisions are monitoring me?”

  “Five or six, including Justice. But my sweepers neutralized all the other bugs. I look after you, Isaac. I consider you my own child.”

  “I’m twenty years older than you are.”

  “You’re still my child.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it is in the secret services.”

  “Justice doesn’t have a secret service. It’s not included in our mandate. We have undercover agents. But that’s another story.”

  “I’ll bet. Talk to me about Black Michael. And no legends this time. You could have solved the case of the Knickerbocker Boys in a week. Your wizards are the best in the world.”

  “You must be mellowing. That’s the first compliment we ever got out of you.”

  “Lemme finish. They could have scratched under the fingernails and found whole histories for each Geronimo Jones.”

  “But we knew their histories beforehand.”

  “Yeah,” Isaac said. “Yokels from Roumania. Farm boys who were trained by the Securitate and moved into Ceausescu’s palace. And all they could dream of was America.”

  “Mr. Mayor, that’s a tough dream to beat.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop the carnage? What was so important about having them killed?”

  “They were sacrificial lambs. We couldn’t interfere. We might have lost Michael.”

  “So you had an informant inside the Securitate. Big deal. Your own captain or a colonel. Frederick, wake up. It’s honeymoon time. The KGB honchos can’t survive without their Cadillacs. They’re moving into General Motors and IBM.”

  “You’re the one who’s archaic. Forget about spies. Michael’s a mercenary. He does odd jobs for us. He’s a kamikaze who always comes out alive. Works for Air Force Intelligence, the DEA, whoever needs him. If there’s a Turkish arms smuggling ring we want to stop, we send in Black Michael. A traficante in Panama who’s particularly obnoxious. Michael takes him out. Doesn’t even ask for dollars.”

  “Why should he? You let him collect his plunder however he can. I’d call him a pirate. And his lucky medal is Margaret Tolstoy.”

  “But Margaret might not be so lucky for him, Mr. Mayor.”

  “They’re a brother and sister act. Playmates from the Bucharest orphan asylum.”

  “Margaret’s the only one he can trust.”

  “She’s his bodyguard,” said Isaac.

  The crown prince and cultural commissar of Justice started to laugh. He looked like a clever marionette wrapped in blue. “Michael doesn’t need a bodyguard. She’s his babysitter … and his executioner.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Michael’s a temperamental bastard. A murder artist. He might go over the edge. And if he becomes an embarrassment to us, well, Margaret has orders to terminate …”

  “Orders to terminate,” Isaac said. “Congratulations, Frederic. You don’t miss a fucking trick. And what happens if it’s Margaret who becomes an embarrassment? Is there a double bind? Does Black Michael get to terminate her?”

  “That’s not in the current curriculum.”

  “Then what is? Your commandos have a base inside the Ali Baba, and when I go through the premises with a sledgehammer, that base is already gone.”

  “Oh, we knew you were coming, Isaac. We closed shop, that’s all.”

  “But why were you there in the first place? To protect Black Michael? Help him off the Roumanians, huh?”

  “We had to control him. He was running wild. And we never cared much for Quentin Kahn. He was a bad egg. We were glad when you got rid of him.”

  “I didn’t get rid of him,” Isaac said.

  “Really? Shades of the Purple Gang.”

  “Frederic, don’t confuse me with your stinking myths.”

  “Aren’t we bashful this morning. If you’d rather not take credit, that’s all right. But Albert Wiggens is also an artist, blind as he is.”

  “He’s my bodyguard,” said the king.

  “I understand. Your bodyguard.”

  “I thought you were building a case against Quentin Kahn’s children’s market.”

  “We were, Isaac. We stopped the flow, didn’t we?”

  “What happens to Oskar Leviathan?”

  “Oskar? He’s off the screen at the moment. In transit somewhere. Don’t worry. We’ll find him. But you shouldn’t have provoked Billy the Kid … Isaac, I’ll have to relieve you of Oskar’s letters. We can’t have them floating around. They might surface one day and damage Billy.”

  “Cross my heart,” Isaac said. “I’d never smear the Gov. Return Oskar Leviathan to Rose Smith, and you can h
ave the letters. But I’ll need a favor.”

  “We’re always good at granting a mayor’s wish list.”

  “I’d like you to spring Herman Melville.”

  The cultural commissar stared at Isaac. “Will you repeat that?”

  “Hector Ramirez. Calls himself Herman Melville. He’s in the hole at MCC. Brained a narc with a baseball bat.”

  “Then how can I help him, Isaac?”

  “He was one of my Delancey Giants. Best natural hitter I ever had. Get him into witness protection. I don’t care. Work a miracle.”

  “Isaac, I have a limited repertoire when it comes to convicted felons.”

  “You’re the Justice Department. You can do whatever you want … where’s Margaret?”

  “I’ll talk to this Hector Ramirez, but I can’t promise.”

  “Where’s Margaret?”

  “Who knows? Somewhere east or west of Carcassonne.”

  “Good-bye, Frederic. Thanks for the tip.”

  He left City Hall and returned to the mansion, sat in his living room like a blind man. He didn’t even open his eyes when Larry Quinn said, “Your Honor, there’s a woman at the gate. I’ve seen her once. At your daughter’s wedding. She’s gorgeous and she’s funny-looking. You’d swear she was bald. Says she’s Anastasia.”

  “Show her in.”

  29.

  Isaac wanted to be Michael the murder artist and dispatch this woman with her helmet of short gray hair. She’d come to Gracie without her wig. He had to hold himself back from hitting her. Love had turned him into a blind man … and a pig. It was all a great big bloody game. He’d have to woo Margaret with a hatchet in his hand. But she didn’t have the look of a temptress in her eye.

  “Margaret,” he said, “did you bring your chocolate brick? I think I’ll have a bite.”

  She reached into her handbag, broke off a bit of chocolate, and fed it to Isaac. He was much less giddy with that jolt of bitter cocoa.

  “Isaac,” she said, “it’s like Little Angel Street … the mansion, I mean. I could shut my eyes and swear I was in Odessa.”

  “Odessa, Margaret? Make yourself at home.”

  “We had our own little park … and a porch. Our gatekeeper was Albanian. He deserted us when Uncle Ferdinand ran out of money.”

  “But you’ve been here before. Why the sudden revelation?”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Isaac. I looked at your mansion and it triggered something. I fell down a hole.”

  “Yeah,” Isaac said. “Like Alice in Wonderland. But Alice didn’t wear a Glock.”

  “You’re so suspicious, darling. I’ll never tire of you.”

  “LeComte sent you. You’re his little siren.”

  Margaret reached into her handbag again, pulled out a plastic envelope, and tossed it at the king. Isaac plucked the envelope out of the air and started to tremble. It was filled with baseball cards. Isaac could see the luminous colors inside that plastic pouch. He was holding a fortune in his hands. A rare DiMaggio. The best Willie Mays. Shoeless Joe Jackson from Fatima cigarettes. Lou Gehrig from Goudy gum. And then Isaac’s fucking heart stood still. Mingled with this dream team was another team: forgotten men out of the dinosaur leagues. But these cards had a crispness and a telegraphic bite. “Tobias Little, Batter. Louisville.” “Monte Ward, Pitcher. Providence.” “Jay Penny, Champion Base Ball Catcher.” Isaac’s very own Knickerbocker Boys. They all wore the old nineteenth-century style of cap with a flattened top and a hard bill. They looked like fraternity brothers who belonged to some forbidden dueling club. But none of them had scars on his face.

  Isaac was in a frozen realm. He could neither accept the cards nor relinquish them.

  “Anastasia,” he growled. “I was just with LeComte. He could have given me the cards himself.”

  “They’re not LeComte’s cards,” she said. “They’re a present from Black Michael. He took them off a drug dealer in the Hamptons,” she said.

  “Michael’s in America?”

  “As of yesterday,” she said.

  “And he finished the dealer for LeComte … or some of LeComte’s agencies. The cards were spoils of war, part of the treasure he collected for himself. Does he know how valuable they are? Why is he so generous?”

  “He wants to make peace, so he won’t have to kill you.”

  “Yeah,” Isaac said. “Black Michael’s never harmed a pupil of his … Anastasia, what do the cards mean? That if I interfere with him again, he’ll have to kill me. The cards are a kite, something to remind me how careful Michael is, how well he can choose. In that case, I can’t accept his gift. Because I will interfere with Michael until one of us dies.”

  “Darling, didn’t I tell you? You’ll have to kill me first.”

  Isaac dropped the plastic pouch onto his living room table and stared into Anastasia’s almond eyes. “Maybe I will.”

  She reached into her bag a third time. Isaac was expecting her Glock. But she moved much too swiftly for him. He blinked once and she was wearing that orange wig from Carcassonne.

  He didn’t even realize that he’d made a fist. And Isaac, who’d never been rough with a woman, hit her in the face. Margaret didn’t buckle. She absorbed the blow. It was Isaac who felt weak in the legs. He was like a king with one leprous fist.

  “Anastasia …”

  She fell without warning onto the king’s couch. He reached over and rocked her in his arms, kissed Anastasia’s eyes. She opened them for Isaac.

  “Darling, I never even noticed. Your ear’s all white.”

  “ ’S nothing,” Isaac said. “A little tattoo from Oskar Leviathan’s mom. Anastasia, I …”

  “Shhh,” she said. “You’re a wife beater. I’ll have to get used to it.”

  30.

  Isaac was sitting in the dark when Wig returned from Yonkers. That Tolstoy woman had been in the house. She always left a path of perfume. It was like sniffing wildflowers in a gigantic jar. Wig couldn’t get away from that smell. It could hypnotize a gang of monkeys … or a man. And it was deadlier in the dark.

  Wig went to the main switch and put on all the lights in the house. The mansion bloomed like its own wildflower.

  “You’re wasting electricity,” Isaac groaned from his couch.

  “And you’re wasting yourself.”

  “That’s none of your business, Mr. Wiggens.”

  “You are my business, Massa Isaac. I’m your bodyguard.”

  “Is Rose all right?” the king asked, coming out of his gloom.

  “I fixed her a cup of tea, put her to bed.”

  “Wiggy, Michael’s around. And we can’t lay a finger on him. He’s like a diplomat … or a pirate king.”

  “Fuck him. I eat pirates for lunch.”

  “But Uncle Sam is on his side.”

  “Then I’ll have to do Uncle and his pirate.”

  “Couldn’t you stay here?” he said. “On Little Angel Street?”

  “I have to get back to Michael.”

  “Ah, the immortal one. The new Captain America. Tackles terrorists, yakuza, arms dealers, traficantes for Uncle Sam. LeComte told me about it. Michael has complete immunity. Are you his accomplice?”

  “Michael works alone.”

  “How’s Nina Anghel?”

  “She can’t quite recover from that blindfold match with you. And you’re not even a champion.”

  “But she shouldn’t play pingpong in a mask. Margaret, does Michael have a code name … when he’s on his suicide missions for Uncle Sam?”

  “Black Star Galactica.”

  “Lovely. Black Star Galactica. That’s grand. He is like a galaxy of black stars. Full of bitter explosions. Billions of light-years away. I can’t read Michael. I can’t read you. It’s like an endless world of mirrors. Margaret, I’m floating in negative space, and I’ll never get out.”

  “Darling,” she said, “I better go.”

  The king couldn’t seize her wrists. He was still petrified. She stood up and wobbled out
of the room.

  “Darling, better lock your doors while Michael is in town.”

  “Ah, my bedroom is fortified … you are his accomplice, aren’t you? One of his black stars.”

  But Anastasia was gone. The king looked down and saw the plastic pouch on his table. A galaxy of baseball players.

  Wig went upstairs to his room. He had to hug the banisters, or he might have plunged into the stairwell. He’d burnt his hand on Mrs. Smith’s stove, because he couldn’t see the wisps of fire. He’d cracked two of her cups making coffee. He’d spilled sugar on his shoe. The blindness would come with its own crippling speed, catch Wig unawares. He was a bodyguard who couldn’t even guard his own body. He would fumble and fall.

  Enough niggers had died! Archie had offed Rita, so Wig offed Arch. He wasn’t proud of shooting Archie in the mouth. But he’d gone into Whitey’s mecca, the Hotel Pierre, and got Rita’s main assassin, ol’ Quentin Kahn. And now he had to find that Roumanian mother, Black Michael. Like black was mean, or black was bad.

  Wiggy must have nodded off in his street clothes. Tulip, the nigger girl, woke him with a cup of coffee, a croissant, and a pot of marmalade. She’d have crawled under the covers with him if he’d asked. But she wasn’t his fox, only a maid in the king’s house. He didn’t know what to do about Harwood. William couldn’t raise the boy. William was a buffoon.

  He was smothering that croissant in marmalade when he happened to look up. He could make out a fat man in the morning sun. With all the wisdom of his good eye. But he didn’t have a good eye. He had to guess at Brother William from his thick outline.

  “If you’re bringing me bad news, Will, you’ll regret it. Here, have some of my croissant.”

  “Can’t eat that Frenchy cake. It crumbles in my mouth … Harwood got a phone call this mornin’. Real early. And he just walked out.”

  “You didn’t think to follow him?”

  “I was busy with somethin’ else.”

  “Like climbing on one of the maids.”

  “No, Wig. I was paintin’ the porch roof, winterizing it.”

  “In January? Winter will be gone by the time you’re through … where was Harwood going?”