Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  Cassidy had seen him before. When? Where? He held out his badge. “May I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Of course, Detective…?”

  “Cassidy. Michael Cassidy.”

  A stocky captain in gold-rimmed glasses, an aide to the general, hovered nearby. A corporal unloaded baggage from the open trunk of the Cadillac and piled it on a luggage cart held by the doorman.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Cassidy?” No joking, no banter, none of the nervous reactions most people had to a cop. General Caldwell was used to command.

  “I want to talk to you about Alex Ingram.”

  “I don’t believe I know Alex Ingram. Excuse me for a moment.” He gestured to the captain. “Bradley, would you go with Sergeant Hennessey and show him where things go in the apartment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Caldwell took a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered Cassidy a cigarette.

  “No, thanks.”

  By the time he lit his cigarette, the two soldiers and his baggage had disappeared into the building, and the doorman had taken up station out of earshot. It had been deftly done, but Cassidy recognized that the general had stalled until there was no one to hear the conversation.

  “Alex Ingram? No. I don’t recognize the name.”

  Cassidy handed him one of the photographs he had taken from Ingram’s locker. “Do you recognize him?”

  Caldwell made a thing of studying the photograph. He handed it back. “No. I’m sorry,” he said, with just the right note of regret. “What is this about?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “That’s too bad. A robbery?”

  “No. We don’t think so. He was tortured. We think he had something someone wanted.”

  “Well. I’m sorry, but why did you come to me?”

  “We had some information that you might have known him.”

  “No. Maybe he was in one of my units, but I can’t remember everyone. Alex Ingram, you say. I could have my aide check the records.”

  “No. He was never in the army.”

  “Well, then, I have no idea.” He dropped his cigarette and carefully ground it out under his shoe. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.” He turned toward the building. Cassidy let him get a few steps away.

  “How about Victor Amado? Do you know him?”

  Caldwell stopped and turned. “Amado? Victor Amado? No. I’m sorry.”

  Cassidy held up a photograph of Amado, and Caldwell took a step closer. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “You were both at a party at Carlos Ribera’s a couple of weeks ago.”

  Caldwell shrugged. “That may be. I’ve been to a number of Ribera’s parties. They are always interesting evenings, in part because there are usually more than a hundred people there I would not otherwise meet. The social circles in the army tend to be rather tightly constricted. I find I need wider horizons sometimes.”

  “Did you meet Amado?”

  “Not that I remember. Has he been killed too?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Now, Detective, if there is nothing else I can do for you … I’m running behind schedule.”

  “General Caldwell, are you married?”

  Caldwell flushed. “What the hell business is that of yours?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I’m divorced.” Now his face had gone pale, and his jaw muscles jumped, the first sign of real tension, an overreaction to a simple question, simple, not innocent.

  “Thank you. I know where to find you if I need you again.”

  Caldwell jerked around and marched into the building.

  26

  “Stanley Fisher has divine taste,” Orso said. “Four ball in the corner.”

  The cue ball cut fine and kissed the four so it drove sideways, rattled against the pocket cushions, and then dropped. The cue ball spun back off the bottom rail and Orso sank the five in the side, and then the six in the far corner off a tricky bank.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Cassidy used the tip of his cue to slide the counters on the wire hanging overhead. They were playing straight pool to a hundred fifty points for time and five bucks a game in Ames pool hall on the second floor of a nondescript building on 44th Street just east of Broadway. It was afternoon, and only four of the tables were in use. The big room was dim except where the hanging globes with the metal shades brightened the green surfaces of the tables. Dust motes and ancient cigarette smoke swirled through the light.

  Orso’s jacket hung on the back of a chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to protect the cuffs from chalk dust, and he had tucked his tie into his shirtfront to keep it from dragging on the table. His pistol, a .38 Detective Special with the three-inch barrel, showed on his belt, but he was known at Ames, and no one took notice. “Freed sent a check every month for Stanley’s apartment on East Fifty-first Street just off Third. Ninety-eight bucks a month. Like clockwork.” He missed the nine and stepped aside as Cassidy chalked his cue and studied the balls that were left on the table.

  “What else did you learn about Stanley?” Cassidy asked.

  Orso went to sit in one of the wooden chairs by the window with his cue upright between his thighs and read from a small notebook he took from his shirt pocket. “Stanley works decorating windows for Lord & Taylor, and according to Stanley’s boss, Freddie, Stanley does marvelous work, absolutely marvelous. Freddie thinks he has divine taste, absolutely divine, and his color sense is fabulous, absolutely fabulous. But when you talk to him a bit more, and lean on him just a little, Freddie admits that Stanley is something of a hustler, and that there are suspicions that Stanley is not always completely honest in his dealings and may, just may, have taken a kickback or two from suppliers.”

  Cassidy sank the twelve long and pulled the cue ball back for an easy eight in the side pocket. He slid the counters while he surveyed the table. “Where are Stanley and his divine taste now?”

  “Stanley took his divine taste and his fabulous color sense to a convention in Chicago and he will be back in time for work on Monday. I called the hotel and left a message for him to call me at the squad.”

  “Marvelous.” Cassidy sank the ten.

  At the next table a tall, thin Negro called Jersey Red was hustling a white uniformed navy bosun who’d probably been hot at his local hall in some southern state and thought that might carry him in the big city. Red had won the first game close and lost the second on an unlikely scratch, won the third close, and now they were on their fourth and the stakes had climbed each game as the bosun gained confidence.

  “How’d you do with the other guy?” Orso asked.

  “Perry Werth. A place over on West Eighty-fourth. The neighbor hasn’t seen them for a couple of days, and from what I gather, she keeps her eye out.”

  “Them?”

  “He’s married. One kid.”

  “Married? No shit? How does that work, a fairy married and having a kid?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s the guy pulling the strings, the one who’s running the others.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “His neighbor says he’s a salesman but doesn’t know the company. He’s on the road a lot. She’s going to call me when Werth shows up again.” Cassidy ran the last three balls and slid the counters over. “Game. Another?”

  “Nah, I’ve got to go.” Orso rolled down his sleeves and slipped into his jacket. “I guess we’re waiting till Stanley and Perry show up.” He took out his wallet and put ten dollars on the felt. “Are you going to go back and ask the general if he knows them too?”

  “Sure, when I get pictures of them. I admire a man who can lie with a perfectly straight face. I like to watch an expert work.” Cassidy collected his shoulder rig from under his jacket on one of the chairs by the window. As he put on the harness, the bosun’s voice rose in anger at the next table.

  “I’m not paying you, man. You hustled me. I’m not pa
ying.”

  “A bet’s a bet,” Red said. “You’d have taken my money if you won.”

  “Yeah, as if I could win. I ain’t paying no nigger hustler.” The man’s raised voice stilled the games at other tables, and men turned to watch.

  “Fifty dollars.” Red unscrewed his split cue. He laid the more delicate tip end on the table and held the heavier butt casually by his side.

  “Fuck you, fifty dollars. I’ll pay the time. That’s it.” The bosun was a big man. He had a couple of inches and thirty pounds on Red.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Okay.” Red brought the heavy butt of the cue up and over and hit the bosun on the top of the head. The man bounced off the table and dropped facedown on the floor without a move to break his fall. A trickle of blood showed on the crown of his crew-cut head. Red bent over and took the man’s wallet from his back pocket. He removed some bills and held them up for Cassidy and Orso. “Fifty dollars. What he owes.” He put the money in his pocket, dropped the wallet by the unconscious man, picked up the other piece of his cue, nodded at Cassidy and Orso, and left.

  “You ever play him?” Orso asked.

  “Red? No. He’s too good for me.”

  The man on the floor groaned. They stepped around him and went downstairs and out into the beginning of rush hour.

  “Buy you a drink,” Orso offered.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a couple of things to do and then I’m going to go meet Dylan.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Jesus, Tony, I think I’m sunk.”

  “Run while you can.”

  “Too late.”

  “You give her keys to the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give a broad the keys, the next thing you know you’re standing up in front of some monsignor doing the death-till-you-part thing. I could shoot you now and save you some trouble.” Orso slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He raised a hand, and a taxi darted across a couple of lanes and pulled to the curb to pick him up.

  * * *

  Cassidy spotted the man with ginger hair waiting in a doorway down the block when he and Orso left Ames. He stepped out to follow as Cassidy turned toward Times Square and the subway station. He picked him up again when he stopped to buy cigarettes at the superette on Broadway, and the man was up the block showing a strong interest in the new records in the window of Sam Goody’s. Cassidy studied him while he tore the cellophane from the pack of Luckies. The man wore a light blue seersucker suit, a yellow button-down shirt, and a paisley tie, not the costume Cassidy would have chosen for a shadow job. He looked up and saw Cassidy watching him and seemed unperturbed that he had been discovered. When Cassidy started south again, the man followed.

  The man rode the far end of the rush-hour-packed subway car. He looked around with bright curiosity at his fellow riders, the polyglot, multihued population of New York, and Cassidy wondered if he had ever been on the subway before. He followed Cassidy up out of the 12th Street exit and down Hudson Street. Cassidy went into the White Horse and ordered a beer and took it to a table by the window. The man came in a minute later. He ordered a gin and tonic and carried it over to Cassidy’s table. He sat down and took a sip of the drink and sighed. “Ah, that’s good.” He offered his hand across the table. “My name’s Crofoot.”

  Cassidy ignored the hand.

  Crofoot pulled it back without embarrassment. “To me, the gin and tonic is the true sign of spring. It’s not something you drink in the cold months, but when those first warm days come and you have that first gin and tonic. Ah. The lime, the quinine, the cold, clear bite of the gin. It’s a promise of summer and wonderful things to come.” He raised his glass to Cassidy and took another sip with evident pleasure. “So, Detective Cassidy, how was your trip to New Jersey? Interesting, huh? Dead men walking. Resurrected toddlers. What do you make of all that?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Why does someone appropriate a dead child’s name?”

  “To build a new identity.”

  “Right.” He saluted Cassidy with his glass. “And who does that? Better, who needs to do that and knows how?”

  Cassidy recognized the easy arrogance of someone whose position in the world allowed him to not give a damn what other people thought. “You’re not FBI. Your clothes are too good, and you don’t have an agent’s nervy thing of always wondering if Hoover’s watching him, and you don’t have their earnest look of true believers. Not a cop. A spook.”

  Crofoot smiled.

  “CIA.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who was Alex Ingram?”

  “Alex Ingram was a KGB sleeper agent. Do you know what a sleeper agent is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s someone the KBG infiltrated to this country undercover who then does nothing but establish a strong identity and history here, a legend that makes him look like any other citizen, and then he sleeps until he’s awakened for whatever job his control has for him. Alex Ingram came in as a child probably before the war when there were waves of refugees from all over Europe. We think he was nine or ten when he got here. He grew up as American as apple pie, except for the fact that whoever brought him up made sure he stayed a good Commie so that when the time came he could do his all for Mother Russia.”

  “And the time is now? What was his mission? What was he doing before someone killed him?”

  “We thought you might be able to enlighten us.”

  “No. You already know what he was doing. You just want to see how much I know.”

  Crofoot smiled. “The NYPD seems to be hiring a brighter brand of cop these days. So what do you know?”

  “It’s blackmail. Ingram gets men in bed with other men and takes pictures. The targets are important—politicians, military, maybe successful businessmen with families, social position, people with major influence. If it comes out that they’re fairies, they’re going to lose everything.”

  “Do you know who the targets are?” Crofoot asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.” Crofoot leaned back a little and touched his nose. It was the tell of a lie. “What did you find in Ingram’s locker at the theater?”

  “Nothing.”

  Crofoot studied Cassidy to see if he was lying. “I don’t mean to insult you, Detective Cassidy, but there are matters here that are beyond your scope. I need to know if you found anything.”

  “Nothing. What do you know about a guy named Victor Amado?” Cassidy asked.

  “You mean the late Victor Amado.” Crofoot was showing that his lines into the police department were current.

  “Was he a Commie too?”

  “No. We had people checking his background the moment we learned he was someone Ingram knew. They were both rehearsing your father’s play, but it went back farther than that. Ingram and Amado shared an apartment for a couple of months two years ago. But his background checks out. His parents are still alive. They’ve been living in the same place for thirty years, a little town in Connecticut up near Bridgeport. The father makes false teeth. There are plenty of people who knew him since he was a kid. You want the file on him, I’ll have it sent over.”

  “The FBI probably wants the photos for Hoover’s famous files. Why do you want them?” Cassidy asked.

  “It’s a KGB operation. Our brief is intelligence and counterintelligence.”

  “Not in this country. You guys are limited to overseas.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if the world was that simple and neat. The FBI is good at what they do, bank robbers, car thieves, public enemy number six, but this is a little out of their field of expertise. We’ve been asked to step in and help.”

  “By J. Edgar?”

  “No, by someone higher up the chain than Mr. Hoover. Until we know who the targets are, we cannot evaluate the threat.”

  “Uh-huh. Where am I in this?”

  “We think you can help. Yo
u’re a smart cop. Everybody I’ve talked to says so.”

  “What can I do that the CIA can’t do?”

  “Don’t be coy. Murder is police business. You’re better equipped for it than we are. Find Ingram’s killer. We’ll take it from there.”

  “I’m off the case. You want to talk to Detectives Bonner and Newly.”

  “We have some influence. We could get you back on the case.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You’re working it anyway. Why not do it for us?”

  Cassidy drank some of his beer and waited for the offer he knew was coming.

  “Your father’s sitting in an immigration holding cell waiting for his hearing. And you know how that hearing’s going to end? They’re going to ship him back to Russia. We can help with that.”

  “Put him on the street and we’ll talk.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it can work that way. One hand has to wash the other.”

  “You came to me, because you’re getting nowhere and you think I’ve got something. You’re right. I do. Get my father out and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.”

  “We’ll eventually roll this up with or without your help. It may take longer, by which time your father will be knocking the rust off his Russian grammar.”

  Cassidy finished his beer and stood up. “See you around.”

  Crofoot remained unruffled. “Detective Cassidy, you think you know what’s going on. It’s much more complicated than you imagine.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve been confused most of my life. I’m used to it.” He started for the door. There was something Crofoot had said in passing that was important. He needed to get someplace where he could think to see if he could reconstruct the conversation and spot it.

  “Interesting woman, Dylan McCue.” Cassidy kept going. “A wonderful coincidence that she ended up in an apartment in your building a couple of days after you began investigating Ingram’s murder.” Cassidy came back to the table and gripped the back of a chair and stared at Crofoot. Cassidy said nothing. His chest ached.