“You didn’t have to call ahead to see if I was available. Nothing I do here is of enough import to take precedence over you,” Superintendent Campbell said as he rose to greet her. “Actually, nothing I do here is of enough import to take precedence over anything. No offense.”
“None taken, Chief. I know how much you adore your job.” Superintendent Campbell longed for the days when he was Chief Detective Campbell. He had loved being in the field and loathed the mounds of paperwork he had to do in the superintendent’s job. But he was getting older, it was good money, and chief detective was no longer an option. That was one of the reasons Mary still called him Chief. She knew how much he liked it.
As they both sat facing each other, a quick glance was enough for her to comment, “You’re keeping off the weight, Chief. I’m impressed.” He wasn’t svelte but he also wasn’t what one would call heavy. It had been his constant battle since he took a desk job.
He grimaced. “Everything that’s good for you tastes like straw.”
Mary smiled. “Think of it as building character.”
“I see it as God’s way of depriving me of heaven on earth so I can really appreciate his place when it’s time.”
“So, God’s insecure?”
“It’s just a theory. I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet.” He put his gastronomic issues aside, and sat back in his big desk chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“What do you know about the Ameer Ben Ali case?”
“The Arab who killed Carrie Brown?”
“Allegedly.”
“Not allegedly. He was tried, convicted, and guilty as all—” Superintendent Campbell realized he was about to curse and switched gears. “Sin.”
“Please fill me in on the facts as you know them.”
“You wouldn’t be talking this way unless you’ve taken on his case, which is a huge mistake. He’s an unrepentant killer, and the man who staked his reputation on that case is—”
“Thomas Byrnes.”
“That should be enough of a deterrent.”
“Chief, this is Mary.”
“I’m well aware of your fearless nature, but this time you’ve chosen the losing side. Ameer Ben Ali rented the room across from Carrie Brown; there was a trail of blood from her room to his, including his doorknob; and contents from her stomach were found on his shirt. It defines ‘open-and-shut case.’ ”
“Didn’t she have a customer that night?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t a factor. Read the trial transcript. It has everything.”
“I fully intend to, but I had hoped you might have some information that’s not in there.”
“I don’t. Like I said, the man’s guilty as sin. Stay away from this case, Mary.”
“Thanks for the warning, Chief.” She stood and started to leave, both of them fully aware that she would not heed his monition.
“I knew her,” he said. It caused Mary to turn and look at him quizzically. “Carrie Brown…. Old Shakespeare,” he explained with an expression on his face that she could only interpret as sentimental, at least as sentimental as a man like Superintendent Campbell could get. “Years ago, I arrested her for assaulting a client. Turned out to be self-defense. She had a family, you know. Lost them because of her drinking. I was young, and I still thought I could make a difference. I gave her the speech about it not being too late to change her ways and do something positive with her life.”
“Chief, you’ve ruined my whole image of you.”
“Images are for people who care.”
“Then you should have no objection when I, at my whim, tease you mercilessly about it.”
Superintendent Campbell responded with a slight crinkle in the corner of his mouth, his version of a smile, then continued. “She burst into laughter and asked me to be her boyfriend. All the way back to the station she recited the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet—over and over. O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
“You’d make a wonderful Juliet, Chief.”
He cleared his throat. “The point is, that woman may have been a prostitute, but she was also full of life and deserved to live out her days as much as anyone. Not have it snuffed out by some animal.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. All I’m trying to determine is if we have the right animal.”
With that, Mary left.
The celebrating started early on this first federally sanctioned Labor Day weekend. In the Gut section of Coney Island on the West End, where honky-tonks papered the streets and gambling and drinking were the norm, they partied way into the night in the name of the workingman. The fact that many of these people were jobless reprobates and Labor Day was like any other day didn’t matter. It was an excuse to raise all kinds of hell, and they were experts at that.
Meg Parker had enjoyed a very profitable evening. The four johns she had entertained were the most she had corralled in one evening since a rowdy Fourth of July a decade earlier. Her usual dark disposition turned upbeat. She even allowed one of them to call her Margie, a name she hated because it was what her father used to whisper in her ear when he snuck into her room at night. Now in her midforties, Meg knew only too well that most johns wanted a younger woman. Of course, she had the extra handicap of being black. In her heyday, white men would come around looking for the experience. “A taste of the forbidden fruit,” she’d call it. Now she needed the assistance of dim lights and lots of drink. “Give me a cracker who’s been hittin’ the gin,” she used to boast, “and I’ll close the deal faster than any of those silly white girls out there.”
It was two A.M. that Friday morning and it was time to pack it in. She could go home, pay her bitch of a landlady the back rent she owed, and still have some left over. All in all a darn good haul. As she stumbled along, tipsier than she’d have admitted, a man stepped out of the shadows of a doorway, spooking her. She jumped back, staggering a step or two more than a sober person.
“Sorry,” he said, seeming genuinely concerned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the hell did ya think would happen when you jump out at a girl like that? This place is full of crazy fuckers.”
“Well, rest assured I am not.” The man stepped further into the light and Meg got a good look at him: a blond white man with a mustache, about five feet eight inches tall, with an overall genteel appearance. He was wearing a fashionable cutaway black coat with black trousers, a black vest, and a gray silk puff tie. A small leather bag was in his right hand, but far more important to Meg was that he smelled of money, lots of it. She instantly switched gears and tried to present the most proper appearance her inebriated state would allow.
“I can see now that you are a proper gentleman. Please excuse my language. It was unbefitting a lady like me.” She then stumbled backward a step before regaining her balance.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said as he edged closer. “I was hoping you weren’t a lady at all.” She stared at him for a moment, trying to process his words. “I sincerely apologize for any misunderstanding.” He started walking away.
“You lookin’ for some dark meat, sweetie?”
He turned back toward her and smiled. “I want to see the Elephant.”
“Sure, darlin’, as long as you’re payin’.”
The Elephant Hotel, originally called the Elephantine Colossus, was a thirty-one-room hotel that was literally built in the shape of a huge elephant with a trunk, large ears, and of course, tusks. It was constructed with wood and covered with tin to give it the gray elephant color. A gold crescent seat on its back added more authenticity. At first it was a tourist attraction with telescopes in its eyes for viewing the ocean and a museum in the elephant’s left lung. At this point, the neighborhood had deteriorated and it had turned into a prostitute hotel. I want to see the Elephant had become synonymous with Let’s go fuck there.
Hopin
g to get five dollars, Meg asked for twenty. He agreed. She was delighted, but she didn’t show it. She had learned long ago never to let a sucker know he was one. As they entered the Elephant Hotel and ascended the long winding staircase, Meg was thinking she could take off a night or two. Hell, a whole week.
The room was on the top floor with a sizable window that had a picturesque view of the ocean. He unlocked the door, and Meg strutted inside as he closed it.
“Well, here we are,” she said.
“Yes.” He held up a twenty-dollar bill. She snatched it, stuffed it into her pocketbook with methodic efficiency, and then grinned.
“I guess it’s time for me to get naked, or does the gentleman prefer to disrobe?”
“Neither is necessary,” he replied as he set his leather bag on the floor. “Stand by the wall next to the window. I like to look at the ocean.”
“I pegged you right off as a man who knows what he likes.” She smiled at him. “Okay, darlin’, come and get it.” She leaned back against the wall and reached down to pull up her skirt. With her hands occupied, he made his move.
In an instant, he was choking her. Meg had fought off many a male attacker before, but his technique was so efficient she could only get in a slap or two before she was unconscious and stretched out on the floor.
The man retrieved the twenty-dollar bill from her pocketbook. Then he opened his leather bag, removed a small black velvet pouch containing his tools, and went to work.
4
It was Friday morning and Captain Alexander “Clubber” Williams strode through New York police headquarters at 300 Mulberry Street like he owned it. In a way, he did. Williams was one of the most respected and feared policemen in New York. He had gone into many districts where policemen were routinely carried out on stretchers and quickly exerted his authority, acquiring the nickname “Clubber” because of the tough justice he doled out with his police club. He had almost single-handedly broken up the Gas House Gang and when he moved to Thirteenth Street Station, he dubbed their community the “Tenderloin District” in reference to the fine dining he’d enjoy after taking bribes from their gambling houses, brothels, and nightclubs. Do-gooders had brought him up on charges numerous times. Nothing ever stuck.
Williams walked into Thomas Byrnes’s office and closed the door. Byrnes looked up from his desk. “Damn it, Alex. I hate it when ya do that. The men’ll think we’re conspiring.”
“We are.”
Byrnes sighed. “What now?”
“He hit again.”
“Ya sure?”
“Same technique. It’s him all right.”
“Damn it! I thought we had scared him off…. Where?”
“Coney Island, in the Gut.”
“At least that gives us some time. It’s far away, and so much human garbage passes through there it’ll be a while ’fore it gets back ta us.”
“It already has. How do you think I know?”
“Then ya know what we have ta do.”
“The usual. You’re predictable as all hell, Tommy.”
“I don’t see it hurtin’ you.”
“I’m not complaining. Just observing.”
“Observin’, huh? You accidentally hit yerself on the head with yer club and now yer Schopenhauer?”
“Who the fuck is Schopenhauer?”
“Exactly. Next time ya think about gettin’ up on yer high horse with me, remember I know who the fuck he is and ya don’t.”
Williams’s infamous temper flared up momentarily. The two of them locked eyes, then it all dissipated and they began to laugh. “You’re a pain in the ass, Tommy.”
“The feelin’s mutual I’m sure.”
Williams started to go, then stopped. “Almost forgot. You skipped the benefit the other night. Mr. Carnegie was asking for you.”
“I wonder what he wants.”
“They always want something.”
“I’ll get back ta him.”
“And I’ll get on the Coney Island situation. One thing fell our way. She was a Negro.”
“Why’d ya even bother? No one’s gonna give a damn.”
“I like to be thorough. Lovers’ quarrel should work.”
“Brilliant.” Byrnes rolled his eyes, then went back to the paperwork on his desk. But Williams just stood there, staring at him. Finally, Byrnes noticed and looked up.
“Well, are you gonna tell me?” Williams asked.
“What?”
“Who the hell Schopenhauer is.”
“It’s way beyond yer reach. Ya wouldn’t understand.”
Williams grunted and left. Byrnes smiled. Truth was he didn’t know who Schopenhauer was either. He had heard the name mentioned at one of the society parties he was “required” to attend and liked the sound of it. But it was enough to aggravate Williams, and Byrnes enjoyed that.
Mary spent Friday morning into the afternoon reading the transcript of Ameer Ben Ali’s trial at the New York County Courthouse, which was also known as the Tweed Courthouse because of the fortune the former Tammany boss had bilked from the public during its construction. There was really nothing in the transcript that added significantly to Superintendent Campbell’s version of the case except that it was clear that Ali was a terrible witness. Sometimes he understood the English questions they were asking and sometimes he didn’t. Every so often he’d get frustrated and scream out in Algerian Arabic. Mary reasoned that these outbursts must have exacerbated any xenophobic fears the all-white American jury might have had. And Ali’s lawyer was either vastly incompetent for putting him on the stand without the proper preparation or Ali was an irrational, unpredictable human being. Of course, a third possibility did exist. Maybe Ali’s lawyer put him on the stand because he knew he had no case, knew that Ali was guilty, and was hoping for a miracle.
Mary went from the courthouse to the New York Times, where a small bribe to a clerk got her access to old issues of the newspaper with articles about the case. Going through them, she was able to glean more information, some merely a memory jog and some new to her. It all boiled down to this: the case against Ameer was circumstantial. The eyewitness reports were conflicting but Superintendent Campbell was right in that the blood evidence was particularly damning. Carrie Brown had rented room 31 at the East River Hotel and Ameer Ben Ali was across the hall in room 33. There was a blood trail from Carrie Brown’s room to Ameer’s, and there was blood on Ameer’s doorknob and also on one of his shirts. There were also contents from her stomach found in his room. Circumstantial? Yes, but hard to ignore. One of the new facts she learned was that a year ago Ameer had been transferred from Sing Sing prison to the Matteawan State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She knew she needed to speak with him. That involved a train trip up to Matteawan, and she planned to do it sometime in the next few days.
It was now Friday night, and that meant only one thing to Mary: dinner at her parents’ house. Dinner with her parents had evolved over the years from her mother, Elizabeth, picking on her about her not being married to Elizabeth picking on both her and her brother, Sean, about not being married. Mary had had two serious relationships and had even been engaged once, but she had broken it off. Sean’s situation was different: his fiancée was brutally murdered four years earlier, and he hadn’t gotten over it. He was still filled with guilt that he, a Brooklyn policeman, couldn’t protect her.
Elizabeth thought it had been more than enough time.
“One day, Sean,” Elizabeth would say, “you’re going to wake up and discover you’re forty, alone, and miserable.”
Sean never responded to his mother’s harangues, mainly because he wasn’t good at verbal jousts. Mary was. “He doesn’t have to wait until he’s forty, Mother,” she’d often quip back. “You’re already making him miserable. You have a talent for making us all miserable.”
On a particular Friday after a rough week at work, Sean finally struck back. “If being alone means I never have to suffer through another Friday night dinner, then you�
�re wrong, Mother. I’d be very happy, thoroughly ecstatic!”
Surprised at Sean’s pluck, Mary gasped and then had to quickly suppress a giggle. Being the peacemaker in the family, their father, Jeffrey, tried to get Sean to apologize, but Elizabeth called him off. She resorted to giving both Sean and Mary the silent treatment for the rest of the dinner. That was fine with them. Of course, the next Friday she was back to her old self.
Mary and Sean were convinced nothing would ever change Friday night dinner and sometimes wondered why they kept attending. However, they always reached the same conclusion. Family was a lot like poker. You had no power over the hand you were dealt, and you were stuck with it.
Surprisingly, that evening did turn out to be different. Elizabeth made an announcement. “You children should know that your father will soon be out of a job.”
Jeffrey Handley had worked at the same butcher shop for thirty-two years. He had gotten the job around the time Sean was born. His not working there was unthinkable. Almost in unison, Mary and Sean uttered a very incredulous “What?”
Jeffrey jumped in. “There’s no reason to get the children all riled up, Elizabeth. Nothing is definite yet.”
“Stop fooling yourself, Jeffrey,” Elizabeth said, then turned to Mary and Sean. “Mr. Flanagan is retiring, and he’s going to sell his business.”
Jeffrey turned to his children and explained, “He hasn’t sold it yet, and he said that he’d make a deal with whoever buys it for me to keep my job.”
“For how long?” Elizabeth chimed in. “Until Flanagan is out the door?”
“Now, Elizabeth—”
“You’re much too trusting, Jeffrey. These are businessmen. The buyer may say yes to complete the deal and then he has a son, a nephew, or a cousin and you’re out.”
Jeffrey sighed, partially because he was tired of this argument that they had been waging for days and partially because he was afraid she was right.
Mary spoke up. “There’s no need to fret about something over which you have no control. We will find out in time. I think Father’s right.”
Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 4