“I want you to show up once, Carl,” said Sally. “Where we ask you to, and tell somebody the truth about Arsenault. Somebody you know.”
“Why should I do that?”
“If I know you,” said Sally, “I think it’s what you want to do, because Jennifer Wilson once told me you were an honest man.”
“Jennifer Wilson?”
And they stood for a moment in silence, in the shadows beneath the trees on a dark East Side street. Then Sally told him everything.
And it was as if he were thankful for the chance to tell someone the truth. They had been right. He had been helping Arsenault to hide his losses for years. “It didn’t start as a Ponzi scheme. He’s not a Madoff, but he’s been in trouble since 2001, and in desperation since 2008. Without the bonds, he goes to jail. Me, too.”
“He’ll go to jail anyway,” said Joey. “You, too. They’ll get you for half a dozen counts like securities fraud, investment adviser fraud, obstructing tax law administration. But if you help us, we won’t tell the SEC till Kathy Flynn runs her story. We’ll give you time to disappear or make a deal. I can help you. I still know people in the bureau.”
Sally said, “Jennifer knew you as an honest man. You can be that again.”
Carl Evers agreed, but he said he would only come to a meeting under his own terms, on turf he chose. He feared that he was being watched already, and he was terrified.
THEIR PLAN WAS to use the truth from Evers to turn Delancey to their side because they believed that Delancey knew more.
So the following Monday, Sally Lawrence finally went back to Delancey’s. She doused herself in rum, even though she didn’t drink. Then she tried to open the door. Locked.
Delancey buzzed her in and said, “I thought you were dead.”
“It’s been five months. How ya been?”
“So, so.” Delancey wrinkled his nose. “You been drinkin’?”
“Sober for six months, drunk for six.” She cocked her head. “The music? Usually you got some longhairs goin’ on. That’s ‘Lady Be Good.’ Benny Goodman, right?”
“What do you have for me?” asked Delancey.
She sidled up to the counter and leaned against it, far more familiar than she had ever been before. “You’re an expert in old money, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Me, too. So, how about this, how about we team up, because I think I know where there’s a shitload.”
Just then, she heard a voice coming from the back of the store. Someone was there, talking on the phone, a woman, good looking, tall, blond, in a skirt. Sally had scoped out the place, watched it for half an hour before she made her move. And this broad had been in the back the whole time. Shit.
But Delancey was leaning across the counter. “What do you mean by ‘shitload’?”
Sally shook her head. “Not here, no way. What I have I don’t show you here. This is your turf. If we start talkin’, we do it on my turf.”
“I don’t make house calls.”
Sally pointed to the sign behind the desk. “Yes, you do.” Then she heard that voice from the back.
The blonde was saying, “Peter,” in a really cold, calm voice.
The bitch was listening, thought Sally, and telling some guy named Peter what was happening. Well, thought Sally, she could listen, but she couldn’t see.
So Sally pulled a picture out of her pocket. “You see this? You know what this is? It’s Woodward Manor on the old Bloomingdale Road.”
The woman in the back said, “Peter, screw you.”
Sally looked back there. Then she said to Delancey, “I think this is where your bonds are . . . or where they were a long time ago. But I ain’t tellin’ you more till you give something up.”
“What do I look like? Stupid?” said Delancey. “I hear stuff like this all the time. Old broads are always comin’ in, tellin’ me about rooms papered in money.”
“Well, Mr. Oscar Fuckin’ Delancey”—Sally really drunked it up now—“I know things. So we should team up. But I ain’t tellin’ nothin’ unless you come to the Bowling Green. Eleven o’clock tonight. That’s my turf. That’s where I do my talkin’.”
“Yeah, yeah. In your wet-brained dreams.”
“I’ll show you somethin’ to make your greedy old dick go stiff, and I’ll introduce you to someone, too.”
She could see that Delancey was intrigued now, but he was still playing the cynical New Yorker. She wished they could have made it easier, but the only time that they could get Carl Evers to agree to come out was late at night, in a public park, not too big, with a good view of the streets all around. He was, as Joey said, scared shitless.
“See ya tonight.” Sally staggered out and slammed the door.
AT ELEVEN FIFTEEN, on the Bowling Green, Sally was glaring down at the woman from the bookstore. The plan was falling apart. “If I hadn’t seen you in the store, I wouldn’t be talkin’ to you now. I came here to talk to Delancey. Why didn’t he come?”
“Something made him nervous,” said the blonde in the jacket and jeans.
Something was making Sally nervous, too. She couldn’t see Joey. She didn’t see Delancey. She wasn’t sure if Evers would show up under any circumstance. And the construction overhang at One Broadway could hide all kinds of trouble. But stay in character. “I make a lot of people nervous. Do I make you nervous?”
The blonde chewed her lip. “This whole thing makes me nervous.”
“Well, I do business on my turf, or I don’t do business at all.”
“I . . . I can understand that.”
“You can understand? Well, isn’t that fuckin’ sweet of you.” Sally found a Pepsi bottle in the barrel, checked for a bar code, then threw it into the cart and peered toward the south entrance, where she expected that Evers would show himself.
Then she pulled out the rum bottle and took a swallow and almost gagged. She hated rum. But it sure did smell. “We’re all nervous these days.”
The blonde—her name was Evangeline—turned down a drink.
So Sally gave a laugh, just to show the missing teeth. Then she launched into a diatribe on the economy, to fill time. Then she said, “So, are you Delancey’s assistant or something?”
“More like a new partner,” said Evangeline.
Sally guessed that was a lie. But she had brought the finial to get Delancey’s attention, so she decided to show it to this Evangeline. She pulled it out of her pocket. “I’ll bet you don’t know about this.”
Next thing she knew, she was dropping it into Evangeline’s hand. “This is just the preview.” And then she saw Carl Evers. So the game was on. No more screwing around. Evers could tell his story to this Evangeline, and she could tell Delancey. So Sally told Evangeline to look toward the south entrance.
Evers wore a gray suit and rimmed glasses. His stride was long but more frightened than confident as he flicked in and out of the pools of light cast by the street lamps.
“Slow down there, cowboy,” said Sally. “You’re supposed to be bringin’ a message to Delancey.”
“I don’t see Delancey.” The man never broke stride. “And I’ve been made.”
“Made?”
“I told you this would happen. Even on the Bowling Green late at night.” He was heading for the north entrance. “Two of them, under the canopy over by One Broadway.”
Sally looked over her shoulder. “Fuck.” Then she looked to her right, because Joey was over there someplace, she knew.
Evers began to run. And Georgie did what dogs do. He jumped out of the carriage and ran after the running man.
And now, two men were appearing from under that plywood and pipe canopy, moving toward the south entrance of the park.
Sally ran after Georgie, who was barking near the north entrance. Then she realized that Evangeline had the finial. The goddamn thing was worth ten grand. So she turned and ran after Evangeline, who had started running herself. “Come back, you silly bitch. Stop, thief!” And Christ, but w
here the hell was Joey?
Georgie was still barking madly out by the statue of the charging bull.
Sally looked again toward Evers, who was jumping into a cab. Then she looked toward that Evangeline, who was vaulting the fence.
Sally let out a scream and began to wave her hands. She didn’t know what those two coming out of the shadows had in mind. But screaming might scare them off
Evangeline was jumping into a cab and speeding away now.
And for all Sally’s screaming and waving, the cars just kept moving on either side of the Bowling Green, because she was just another crazy bag lady making a scene.
Then Sally heard the squealing of brakes. Then Georgie yelped and stopped barking.
At the same moment, Joey was jumping the fence from Whitehall.
“Sorry.” He called to her. “I was watchin’ another guy. I picked him up in Fraunces, after I lost Delancey. They call him KGB.”
Then Joey pulled a sawed-off shotgun from under his jacket and pointed it toward the two shadows who quickly retreated into the darkness.
Then Joey bent to pick something up by the fountain.
A moment later, Sally felt his shoulder against hers.
He said, “Are you all right?”
She heard the wail of a police siren. Someone had called 911.
“We have to go.” Joey took her by the arm and turned her toward the north entrance.
And she saw a little rag of fur in the middle of the street. She said, “Oh, my God,” and ran to it. When she realized the dog was dead, she let out a wail.
Somehow, Joey got her away before the police arrived. He dragged her to his black Taurus and drove off. He took several turns to make sure that no one was following him. Then he headed for his apartment.
HE MADE TWO phone calls as he drove. He used the cell phone that the blond woman had dropped to make a call and played the smart-ass with the guy who answered. Then he called Delancey and told him that there had been a problem, but that he would be on the Bowling Green the next morning if Delancey wanted a rerun.
Sally listened and said, “I won’t be there.”
“Don’t worry. Neither will Delancey. I just want to see if anyone else shows up. See whose side Delancey is really on.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I won’t be there.”
“That’s okay. You should be reading that Riley notebook again. If we can’t enlist Delancey, it’s our only chance.”
“I don’t care. I won’t be there.” She looked up at his apartment.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Sally doesn’t come into men’s apartments. That’s Erica’s thing, but just for tonight. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She was getting annoyed. He wasn’t hearing what she was saying.
“I don’t care,” she said, “I won’t be there. I don’t care. I won’t be there. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care anymore . . . so I won’t be there.”
Joey threw his arms around her. He took off her hat and wig, revealing her real hair, just a brush cut of brown and graying bristles. “Listen, baby. We started something. I’m not sure we know how to finish it, but Georgie would want us to—”
“Georgie was a fucking dog, for chrissakes. He didn’t want us to do anything but play with him, talk to him. He didn’t want anything but his life. Just his little fucking life. And now . . . I don’t care anymore. I won’t be there. I lost my best friend. My only friend and . . . shit.”
And she started to cry. And she swore. And she cried. And she held her hand to her mouth and cried into it. Then she took a breath and said, “I haven’t cried in almost ten years.” And she cried for another hour.
NINETEEN
Thursday Night and Friday Morning
JUST AFTER NINE, JOEY BERRA PUSHED BACK from Henry Baxter’s dinner table. “So Jennifer hasn’t been much help this week, and seein’ Kathy Flynn like that, after losin’ her little dog, it’s really done a job. She doesn’t know if she’s Erica or Sally or someone else right now.”
While they ate the roast chicken, Joey had told his story, from the day that the Intermetro case landed on his desk to the day he met Jennifer in the Sky Lobby to the death of Sally’s dog.
Now the mahogany box sat in the middle of the table, flanked by two chicken skeletons.
Peter looked at Evangeline. She wiped a tear. And little Sonia looked like she was sniffling, too.
Joey had explained that he found the Baxter safe house address in Kathy’s purse. And the purse had been unopened, so whoever had killed her had wanted it to look like a hit rather than a robbery.
Henry had answered with one of his favorite aphorisms, “Better packin’ heat than sorry.” Then he had placed the .44 right next to his chair, alarmed the front door, and put his dog, Ripper the rottweiler, out to patrol the rear fire escape.
“I’m sorry that I dragged you down to the Bowling Green that morning,” said Joey. “I used you as bait. I called Delancey, just to see who’d show up on the Bowling Green. And sure enough, there were players everywhere. The black guy was on Antonov’s payroll, and he was watchin’ the other two, who were workin’ for the Redhead. That was when I decided Delancey had gone over or was gettin’ pressured.”
“So we were playing hide-and-seek with a killer on the subway,” said Evangeline. She looked pasty. She had eaten very little. News of a second murder in two days had sent her to the bathroom to throw up. Now she was sipping ginger ale.
Joey said, “I don’t think they knew what to make of you. So they were just watchin’ you. I think Delancey went to your apartment and tried to warn you off. He was doin’ you a favor and gettin’ you out of the way.”
“He knew that his competition was in town,” said Antoine.
“Don’t get cocky,” said Uncle Henry.
Peter said, “I thought Delancey worked for Arsenault.”
“Worked for him,” said Joey, “and fed him business. To get into the Avid Investment Fund, you had to be an Ivy Leaguer or a scripophilist.”
“Scripophilist?” said Henry. “That sound like some kind of pervert.”
“It’s a man who collects money,” said Peter.
Henry started to ask, “How . . . ah, never mind. Explainin’ that one take all night.”
And Joey just kept talking. “Carl Evers admitted to us that Arsenault started gettin’ in trouble right around the time the high-tech bubble burst. Then he started using one client to pay another.”
“Like Madoff.”
“But Arsenault had been a real broker handling, among others, a lot of Antonov money. When he went bad, Antonov must have smelled it and started pulling money out of the Avid Fund. If Arsenault goes down like Madoff, there’ll be claw back. A trustee starts looking at how much each client put into the fund, how much he took out . . . Antonov would rather be holding one-point-four billion in bearer bonds and let Arsenault go down. Or maybe he gets the bonds, then props up the great antideficit crusader. Then he owns him. That’s even better. An oligarch owning a major player in American finance . . . one more step up the ladder.”
Evangeline said, “So, why not just call your friends at the FBI? Or the SEC, or the NYPD? We can step back and be safe.”
“Yeah,” said Sonia. “I like that idea. No more cold chicken.”
Peter said, “Then Antonov blows up my bookstore, taking with it some pretty amazing elements of world literary history.”
Joey looked at Peter. “I warned you, Boston. You stick your nose in messy New York business, expect to get it busted.”
Peter would have given him a comeback, but this was no time for joking. If not for the threat to his bookstore, he would have been with the NYPD right now, trying to help them figure out who had killed Kathy.
Besides, Joey didn’t give Peter a chance for a comeback. He just kept talking. “And this is plenty messy. Not only is it Antonov against Arsenault and Arsenault against the U.S. Treasury. It’s Antonov against one of his father’s lieutenants, Ivankov the Redhea
d. In the old days, Ivankov would have just capped Antonov in some steam room. But he’s trying to play it like Antonov, like an oligarch, a businessman. So he’s co-opted Delancey—”
“Which is why Antonov blew up his store?”
“Shit, yeah,” said Joey. “You can bet that Delancey is workin’ overtime to make sense of any clues they can get their hands on. If the Redhead gets the bonds and the court rules that they’re valid, Arsenault goes down, Antonov gets a fortune clawed out of his pocket, and the Redhead turns out to be the new big man in Brighton Beach.”
Evangeline sipped a bit more ginger ale. “So who killed the accountant and Kathy?”
Joey said, “The Redhead hasn’t gone all gray suit. He’s still an assassin. He killed the accountant in the Harvard Club to make a public statement about Arsenault. The accountant had been so scared after the Bowling Green business that he had gone to the Harvard Club to lay low and get in touch with Kathy. Then the Redhead killed Kathy because, what’s more detrimental to Arsenault? A negative article about him, or the murder of the reporter who’s writing it?”
“All’s I know,” said Henry, “is we stay on this till we get the all clear, so nobody thinkin’ about blowin’ up No-Pete’s store.”
Joey picked a last bit of meat off one of the chickens and popped it into his mouth. “Need my strength. When I get back to her flat on Grand and Clinton, I don’t know if I’ll be talkin’ to Sally or Erica. It’s hard talkin’ to both of them.”
“Good luck,” said Evangeline.
Joey said, “We’re runnin’ out of time.”
“If it’s all true about Arsenault,” said Peter, “he’ll unwind all by himself, whether they find the bonds or not.”
“I’m talking about Jennifer and me,” said Joey. “We’re running out of time. This is about something more.”
After a moment, Henry picked up his gun and said to Joey, “Y’all ready? I’ll see you out.”
“I’ll leave the box.” Joey picked it up and showed them the length of side molding that worked the false bottom. “Practice openin’ this one. Get it fixed in your mind. It might come in handy. I’ll call you in the morning.”
City of Dreams Page 49