“Let’s get a beer.”
“Smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
Bars in the Times Square area were only for true emergencies: the DTs or a death in the family. They were a collection of sordid, dirty, depressing shot-and-a-beer joints that would short you on your shot and water your beer. Taylor and Samantha rode the subway south to the Village. The air approaching something like a pleasant temperature, they walked all the way west to Hudson and the White Horse Tavern.
The White Horse, dating from 1880, was known as a writer’s hangout, like every old bar in the city. That was the deduction Taylor had made, at least—the age of a saloon and its reputation for hosting writers. He figured if a bar survived long enough, writers found it, inhabited the joint, and made its place in history, writing and drinking going so well together. Chumley’s and the Lion’s Head were in the same category. Taylor didn’t fancy himself a writer, but he figured the profession could make a little room at the bar for scribblers like him.
He knocked back two Rolling Rocks in quick succession. The vodka bottles behind the bar reminded him of his father. He used the Horse’s wooden phone booth to call the apartment. His father answered, slurring badly. Taylor hung up. There was no point in talking.
He climbed back on the barstool, shaking his head. “He’s going to drink himself to death.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I guess. But there should be.”
“I couldn’t stop my father from taking bribes.”
“That’s a whole different—”
“No it’s not. Neither of us is our father’s keeper. I couldn’t be. You can’t be either.”
By the fifth beer, his turning, churning mental effort to see where the Collucci story led was too much work—work he could put aside for a moment on a Saturday evening with Samantha next to him. The story faded into the background, like his dream of Collucci’s race with death.
Chapter 22
Taylor sat in Novak’s tiny office with the door wedged as closed as possible, begging. It was Monday, a week and a day after the Bicentennial. Some of the tall ships had stopped in Boston over the weekend. Queen Elizabeth had visited the U.S. during the previous week. All the major events commemorating the country’s 200th birthday were at an end. Everyone but Taylor thought it was time to get back to the work the City News Bureau did during any normal week. Breaking news on crimes and fires. Quick and easy human-interest stories. A bit of the weird.
Novak tapped a finger on his phone, a habit he’d developed since he’d become owner and dealmaker, the founder who signed stations and newspapers to subscribe to the City News Bureau. He was always waiting for the next call, as important to him as a scoop to Taylor.
The office, something like a closet whose walls and ceiling were covered by acoustic tiling—it had once been a small recording studio—was a hotbox, the air wet, warm, and barely moved by one plastic fan.
Novak took his hand off the phone. “We’ve got a lot going on. The Democratic Convention starts tonight.”
Add that to the Bicentennial as a story Taylor couldn’t give a shit about. Jimmy Carter was already the nominee. The only news left would be the naming of his running mate from a list of seven, something Carter was dragging out to get attention, any attention. This wasn’t Chicago 1968. New York was grim and the anger gone.
“We agreed we weren’t … can’t cover the convention.” Taylor’s frustration crept into his voice. “R.W. Apple and his massive political team at the New York Times will be all over the story. Already are. What can we do?”
“Oh nothing. I know that.” A wave of the hand. “But there’s the stories we do do. For our subscribers. A delegate from Iowa gets mugged, maybe. Protests out front. The hospital strike’s still going. Almost sixty hospitals and nursing homes affected. What is it, thirty-five thousand employees? Our kind of story. Bad news in the Bad Apple.”
“You know I’ll do those. Just give me a little more time. Dead couple. Mob involvement. Also bad news in the Bad Apple.”
“What are you going to get?” He patted the open newspapers on his desk. “Everyone’s on Carl Collucci’s murder. All over it. You’re good, but like you said, you can’t beat all of them. The Post and News have divisions covering this.”
“I’ve got a feeling.” Actually, he had a need, a different thing, but he couldn’t tell Novak.
Novak hesitated. “Your feelings have brought us good stories. We need to pump those out again. Here’s another.” He pulled a press release from underneath the mess of newspapers. “The city’s population didn’t fall last year. People have actually stopped fleeing. First time this decade. The radio stations love this stuff.”
“Muggings or happy news. Which do you want?”
“I want what the stations want. They want both. The quick-hit smile. The quick-hit chill down the spine. Nothing that takes too much thought. The papers in the burbs—they’re different. They want the fright so everyone who bought a house up there can feel good about themselves.”
The last sentence gave Taylor a chill of a different sort. Was this his future, helping newspapers sell real estate ads?
At the Messenger-Telegram, Novak had seen Taylor ignore editors and do what the hell he wanted when he was on a story. Many times. That’s why Novak’s little smile didn’t reach his eyes, which showed how much this conversation worried him.
Taylor shook his head. Not at Novak, but at his own instincts. City News was so short the people it needed. He was the one writer who could produce. He held up his index finger. “One day. Give me one more day. I swear if I can’t bring it in, I’m back on fulltime. Whatever story you need. Whatever story you want. As many as you want.”
Novak leaned back, turned his wooden desk chair, and looked at Taylor sideways. “You never made a promise like that at the MT.”
“I mean it.”
“I hope … we honestly don’t … can’t afford the day. Ah, screw it. I’m not the city editor at the MT. Take your shot. Because we’re friends. Then back here in twenty-four hours.”
“We are good friends. You won’t regret it.”
Taylor left the office. Would Novak? Had Taylor ever screwed a friend to get a story? There was a lot in that question. A career chasing police stories hard. His hatred of getting beat. His need to report what had happened to victims of some of the city’s worst crimes. In the end, though, the question wasn’t complex. Taylor could never let down Henry Novak. Taylor needed this friend to trust him. Twenty-four hours it would have to be. He stopped by Samantha’s office, but she was out on a divorce case. He left the Paramount Building and headed for the Times Square Shuttle.
He planned to catch the train to Dobbs Ferry, possibly burning precious hours on a wild goose chase. He hoped to find something that would tell him what was going on with Carl and Bridget Collucci by visiting Collucci’s office and their house. Maybe Pour had heard something from Collucci after he left the house but before he was killed. They were in a relationship, and she was somehow part of Collucci’s security detail. Maybe Lucco was still hanging around? Dove would know.
The walk up the hill from the station made him warmer with every step. By the time he was at the law office, Taylor radiated heat back into the air. He tried to use a sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face. Didn’t do any good.
He pulled at the glass door, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t, and the door came at him fast. The bell tinkled.
“We’re closed!” Pour yelled from Collucci’s office. It wasn’t a happy yell. That was the second thing Taylor noticed.
The reception area looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. File drawers yanked open. Documents, file folders, and yellow legal-pad sheets carpeted the floor.
Taylor stepped over all of it carefully. The office door was half open. Pour sat at Collucci’s desk. She flipped through a file, threw its contents on the floor, took a drag on one of those long cigarettes and lifted her head to find Ta
ylor peering.
“Aren’t you the complete busybody?”
“I’m not the one tearing apart the office.”
“There’s only a few things here that are important. God knows what system the idiot used to file.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“He wouldn’t let me.” She fumbled in her purse. “I was here for my good looks and charm.”
She pulled out a small pistol, something along the lines of a Saturday night special.
“No need for that. I’ll help you look. What’re we after?”
“Afraid this is a one-woman job. You can stand right where you are.”
Taylor tensed. He needed a next move that didn’t involve the gun going off.
“You’re turning this place over because Collucci was killed.”
“Don’t wrap me up in that business. The fool got himself killed. As far as he was concerned, we were in love. Why do you think I was fucking him? Shortest leash you can put on a man.”
“Lucco wanted him on a leash. Why?”
“I said a good girl never tells.”
Taylor glanced through the glass door to the street. A postman in blue uniform and pith helmet delivered mail to a house across the way. Taylor wasn’t going to get anything new here. Not with Pour armed and in control. If she was turning over the office, was someone else already at the house? Was there something there to find?
“It’s process of elimination. You were watching him. Doesn’t seem like the FBI’s style. Other hand, they’ve adopted some pretty fucked up tactics.”
“I do what I’m told. Since I’ve got the gun, I now get to tell. Quit the questions.” The mailman crossed the street. “What are you so busy looking at? Come all the way into the office.” The mailman approached the front door. “I’m serious, reporter man. Move, or I’ll shoot you. As it is, I gotta let them know you saw me doing this.”
Taylor would love confirmation of who them was, but not at the cost of a bullet.
The bell above the front door jingled.
“What is this, Grand Central Station? Who the fuck—”
Taylor slipped into the reception area, yanked the office door closed, and twisted his body to the left. The kid’s-cap-gun snap of the small pistol. A .22-caliber hole appeared in the door inches from where his right knee had been. Taylor snatched from Pour’s desk a gray metal hole punch—the large sort that could handle half-an-inch of paper—and brought it down hard on the doorknob.
Nope.
A second time.
The knob snapped off. Two more bullet holes flared out of the pine door.
“Let me out of here!”
Had he messed up the works enough?
She rattled the knob. The noise of it coming loose and metal dropping to the floor on the other side of the door.
“Shit!”
The postman was already making tracks on Route 9. Taylor pulled open the door to do the same. The bell jingled.
The Collucci house was dark, a grim little place in spite of the well-trimmed lawn and bright yellow blooms in red flowerboxes. The house hadn’t changed. Everything he knew about what went on inside had. The welcome mat said Our House. The lyrics of the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young song now seemed a sick joke. He didn’t stay on the sidewalk long, scooting around to the backyard and pulling open the gate to a white picket fence—a fence out of some other time as pictured on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. He checked in at several of the back windows. There was no one inside that he could see. After the encounter with Pour, he didn’t know how long he had. She’d call Lucco.
He was fully prepared to break the window in the backdoor and reach down to unlock the knob. He didn’t have time for anything else. When he checked the door, it was unlocked. Did he miss someone inside? Or had Collucci been in such a rush leaving he’d left it open? He knew he wasn’t coming back. In the end, someone had made sure of it.
Taylor entered the kitchen to the sort of quiet he’d only sensed in an empty house. No TV, no radio, no machines washing dishes or clothes, no conversation, no footsteps, no clattering utensils. None of the noises that made a house sound lived in. A whiff of Clorox hung in the air. Imagination? His mother had believed in the power of Clorox, and this kitchen was as neat and tidy as the Taylor kitchen in Queens. Neat and tidy was his mother’s answer to Professor Taylor’s drinking. How had Bridget reacted to her world crumbling in on her?
In the living room, he checked the turntable. Sinatra. A stack of ten more Sinatra albums rested against the base of the fireplace, left out of the record rack in the way you did when you planned to play them. Which was what Lucco had done, repeatedly, according to Tommy O’Malley.
He went down the hall to tour the rooms he hadn’t seen during his two visits to the small house.
The first door opened on the bathroom. Musty, with a strong stink of aftershave. Shards of a bottle formed an abstract in brown glass on the yellow tile floor. A puddle of cologne gave off the odor of a crowd of men at a summertime church service. Carl Collucci had been in a desperate hurry to leave. But that Taylor already knew.
The next door was to a small bedroom with a crib, bassinet, changing table, and highchair, all pushed into the corner. All new. An adult cot was set up next to one wall. Cold fingers traced the tracks of sweat on Taylor’s back. The Colluccis were planning to have a baby. He hoped only planning … that she hadn’t been pregnant when she died. The DA or coroner would have let it be known if she were. Or would they? Other information had been held back. Something else to check on during his remaining 21 hours. He noted the items in the room—a checklist of sadness.
The closet contained two suits—Taylor guessed Lucco’s. He checked their pockets, came up empty, and wrote down their makers and size. Fisher-Price boxes on the closet shelf contained—according to their pictures—a set of colored rings stacked on a yellow plastic post, a multicolored xylophone pulled around by a string, and an activity center with bright-colored dials, balls, and wheels a baby would turn, twist, and spin.
At the end of hall, he entered the open door to the master bedroom. He’d been here briefly when Collucci left, but hadn’t gotten a good look. The top sheet and cotton blanket on one half of the double bed were turned over and rumpled. The other half remained undisturbed, as it must have been since the night of June 29. He checked the closets. Clothes, shoes, some accessories. Linens, blankets, and towels were stacked on the shelf above. He walked around the bed to a bookshelf placed under the window facing the front yard. It held a collection of paperbacks, a portable 8-track player and a box of four 8-track tapes—the same titles Bridget had borrowed from her brother. A wire came off the back of the deck and slipped down behind the bookcase. He reeled it in. The fish at the end was a microphone.
Taylor sat on the floor next to the bookcase. The ABBA tape made a deep 8-track ca-thunk going in. He listened to one fruity ridiculous pop song after another. The music would have driven him nuts if he didn’t believe this was important. By the time the tape ended, he’d been in the house almost an hour. He considered taking the remaining tapes. But removing evidence in a murder case sounded a lot worse to his ears than walking into an unlocked house. He doubted anyone else would see it that way, not even his buddy, Detective Dove.
He selected the Eagles next. The opening chords of “Take It Easy” played, followed by the verse. Was the tape another dud? Were they all duds? What did he expect to find?
The music dropped out all at once. A woman spoke a little above a whisper. There was a slight hiss and something else, maybe crickets.
I’m making this because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got no one to talk to. Carl and I stopped. Talking, that is. We can’t say much inside the house anyway. Not about what’s going on. Lucco’s at the bar right now. Carl’s not home yet. Probably with his secretary. I’m doing this in the backyard. Where to start?
Her voice quavered, like she was scared. She sounded young, the sentences tinged by a telltale Queens acce
nt, though there was none of the toughness the accent often conferred on young boys and old ladies. Something—college, the suburbs?—had mellowed it. Taylor tried to put the voice to the pictures he’d seen in the house—at the same time struggling not to recall the swollen, gunshot face that had come out of the brown water. This was a first: listening to the voice after the victim’s death when he’d never heard her speak in life. The voice was disconnected from the woman, and he couldn’t put them together.
I need to talk. Talking to you, whoever you are, or if you’re this machine, will help. More than writing anything down. I’m not crazy. I don’t believe talking will save us in the end. This is to get me through the day. This is to make me feel a little better. I’m scared to death. Have been since the FBI came after Carl four months ago. He should never have taken the job in Yonkers. He knows it now. That much we agree on. His father promised the business would be clean. He lied. All those bastards lie. He so wanted Carl in the family business, the family business of the family.
Carl’s name got put on some papers. In Yonkers. The FBI man claims those can prove bid rigging and bribery …. Hold on. I’m jumping ahead. We didn’t know that at the time Carl worked there. Carl got fed up. He could tell he was being lied to. He quit. Set up here in Dobbs Ferry. We thought we were done with it all. His bastard father even had the good grace to die. We were done with all the dirty miserable business of our families. Crime. We said we’d stop calling it business. It’s crime. Done. He got out. My parents wanted me to stay out. I don’t like what my family does, but I love them for that.
A Black Sail Page 18