Night Life

by David C. Taylor

  “Ingram had five microfilm negatives. He hid them in a locker in the theater where he was dancing. The locker was up against a steam pipe. Color microfilm is unstable. Heat destroys it. Only one of the negatives was good.”

  Tolson ran all the negatives through the viewer and then banged it down on the desk. “I don’t believe you. You described the pictures to us in Washington. How did you know what was on them if the negatives were destroyed?”

  “I took a chance. I made them up. I went to the Schine apartment in the Waldorf and studied it, and I made up four different scenes that could have happened anytime during that night. I had a picture of Hoover in the dress. I said Werth or Perry was here or there with him. How would anyone know whether Ingram photographed those particular moments or not? He believed it because he knew it was possible. I took the chance, because it was the only leverage I had to get my father out.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Cassidy.”

  “No game. I told you I would give you the negatives and the photographs I got from Ingram. You have them.”

  “Is this because you think we didn’t hold up our end of the bargain? Things go wrong. You can’t hold us responsible for what happened in the detention center. We did everything we could in good faith. We expunged your father’s record. We reinstated his citizenship. He cannot be approached again on this matter, and this is what you do to us? This?” His anger rose as he spoke. He swept his hand at the desk and knocked the viewer to the floor without meaning to, and it smashed at his feet. “What do you expect to gain? Who do you think you are? Do you think you can blackmail the director? We’re the FBI.”

  “I gave you my word. I kept my part of the bargain. You got your end of the deal. You got what Ingram had. Ask around. People will tell you I keep my word.”

  “I’m marking you, Cassidy. I’m marking you. You just made a bad enemy.”

  * * *

  Orso pushed himself away from the newsstand in the lobby of the Federal Building when Cassidy came out of the elevator. “Well?”

  “He doesn’t believe me, but he’s stuck. If I’m lying to him, I still have the photographs. If he goes after me, I’ll use them.”

  They pushed out through the brass-bound doors into Foley Square. The sun was in the west and the day was still warm, and people were leaving the building early, releasing themselves to spring. A small group of protestors walked in a circle under the watchful eyes of six patrolmen and two mounted cops. They carried signs saying BAN THE BOMB, PEACE, JOE MCCARTHY IS A NAZI.

  Nobody paid attention to them except the cops.

  “He could have you killed.”

  “No. That’s not the way they think. He and Hoover deal in conspiracy and lies. They think everyone does. Think of the files Hoover keeps. If he and Tolson were in my shoes, they would keep the evidence and make sure that if they got hit, the stuff would go to the newspapers. They’re sure I’ve done the same. I’m okay for a while.”

  “What do you mean, a while?”

  “They’ll expect me to ask for things. They don’t know what, but favors of some sort. It’s how they’d use the power. It would prove to them that I have the photos. When I don’t ask for anything, they’ll begin to think I’m telling the truth. They’ll wonder if they should take me out.”

  “So ask for something. Have them pull some strings, make me a lieutenant. Make sure they think you have the photos.”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  “Oh, okay. If you’re going to hit me with philosophy, you have to buy the drinks.”

  * * *

  The family agreed to meet for dinner at Sardi’s in the booth under Tom Cassidy’s caricature, Tom and Megan, Brian and Marcy, Leah and Mark, and Cassidy.

  When Cassidy arrived, he found Brian in the lobby buying cigarettes from the coatcheck girl.

  “Harry Gould had someone he knows look at the papers. He says they’re bulletproof. They can’t come back at Dad in any way. You want to tell me how you managed that?”

  “Leverage.”

  Brian waited for more. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “All I can tell you for now.”

  “So maybe the papers aren’t so bulletproof.”

  “They’re fine.”

  “So maybe you’re not so bulletproof.” He had a newsman’s instinct for asking questions until he got the real answer.

  “I’m okay.”

  Brian studied him. He did not believe him, but he believed he would get no more. “You’ll tell me about it when you can?”

  “I will.”

  There was champagne on the table and new bottles appeared before old ones were empty. Tom Cassidy refused to talk about the time he spent in the detention center. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. It was past, unimportant, forgotten. He told of their escape from the Russian ship as if it had been an adventure, as if it was a lark to leap from a ship into the outer harbor with no understanding of how you would get ashore, of how long you could last in the cold water while the tide carried you out to sea. He did not talk about Apfel dead on the cabin floor, about Dylan left bleeding near the body. There was laughter, and relief, and an unspoken understanding that they were not to take what had happened seriously. It was over and done with. It was the past, and Tom Cassidy expected his family to look to the future.

  Megan hugged Michael as they waited for a cab. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘I knew he would come. I was never worried.’”

  Then Tom Cassidy was there to take him in a bear hug and lift him from the ground. “When will you come to rehearsal? Soon. Soon. Just listen to the eleven o’clock. It’s so close, and I know you’ll see what needs to be done.”

  Megan smiled at Cassidy and shook her head.

  “I’ll come soon.”

  Brian put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him quickly and asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “All right, but if you want to talk, call me.”

  Leah was the last to leave. She had been vivid during dinner, the first to call for more champagne, the one who laughed loudest at their father’s jokes, but now she was subdued and her face had a haunted look as she watched Mark walk down the block to find a cab.

  She held on to the lapels of Cassidy’s jacket with both hands and leaned her head against his chest, and he put one hand on her smooth black hair and felt the skull underneath. She spoke against his chest. “Franklin came by again today. I paid him. He said that next time it would have to be more.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ve done enough. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “I won’t get in trouble. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. It’s done.”

  He watched their taxi until it turned the corner and then walked east toward the Street. He could not go back to the empty apartment yet. Maybe jazz would lift him. Maybe music would loosen the stone in his heart.

  44

  “Want some?” Fraker asked and pointed to his plate.

  “No, thank you,” Crofoot said and, because he had been brought up to show polite interest, he asked, “What is it?”

  They were in a Belgian restaurant on West 28th Street that, as far as Crofoot could see, had nothing to recommend it. It was a long, dim room, and the walls were covered by badly painted murals of Spain inherited from the last restaurant that had failed in that space.

  “Horse meat. Just about the only place in the city you can find good horse meat. I like it rare, real rare, what they call blue. And they fry the potatoes in lard.”

  “Ah.” Crofoot had a flash of the roan gelding his mother rode on drag hunts near the country house in Tuxedo. It was late in the afternoon, and the restaurant was nearly empty, and they could talk without fear of being overheard. “Cassidy still has the photographs.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Fraker said as he stuffed a piece of
purple meat into his mouth.

  “The FBI ordered Thomas Cassidy’s release from immigration detention, and when that fucked up, they helped Cassidy get his father off a Soviet ship. And they pulled some strings to get Tom Cassidy’s record expunged and to recover his citizenship. Why would they do that unless Cassidy had leverage?”

  “What do you want to do? Do you want me to go get them?”

  Crofoot turned his head to avoid watching Fraker chew with his mouth open. “No. He won’t have them where he can get them easily, and he won’t give them up.”

  “So we’re done.”

  “Not yet. Cassidy knows Hoover will kill him if he doesn’t protect himself. The only way he can protect himself is by threatening to have the photographs published if he is killed.”

  “Sure. It’s what you do.”

  “So kill him. When he dies, the photos will go to the press. It’s not as good as having them ourselves, but when it happens, the president is going to have to rethink who controls the intelligence apparatus for the country. He’s not going to leave it in the hands of a degenerate. Do it soon. Make it loud. Make it obvious. I don’t want anyone to think it was an accident.”

  * * *

  Cassidy spent the day in the squad room battering reports out of a typewriter. Apfel had killed Ingram by torturing him. Apfel had killed Werth and Perry. Apfel was dead, killed aboard a Russian ship that was now well beyond the territorial waters of the United States. No one in the department was very interested in how he died as long as Cassidy could assure him that he was dead. Victor Amado, though, was still a problem.

  Lieutenant Tanner came out of his office carrying a copy of Cassidy’s report on Amado. “What do you mean, ‘assailant unknown’? You’ve got Apfel.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “He tortured Ingram. He tortured Amado. He killed Fisher and Werth. He killed Amado. What’s the problem?”

  “He used a knife on Amado. Apfel didn’t use a knife on Ingram. Apfel said he didn’t do it. He had no reason to lie. It’s not the same guy.”

  “Let’s go see the captain.”

  They went upstairs to Captain Leonard’s office. Leonard was a tall, spare gray-haired man in his late forties. He had a lantern jaw and big bony hands and a mild manner that could change in a moment to ice. There were copies of Cassidy’s reports on Leonard’s desk.

  “Good reports, Cassidy. I wish more of the men in the department could write as clearly and concisely. A pleasure to read.” He shuffled the reports together and squared their edges on the desktop. “Okay, we’re going to close these cases. The Russian’s the killer. He’s dead.”

  “I think Amado’s killer’s a different guy. I think he’s still out there.”

  “Who is he? What’ve you got?”

  “I don’t know who he is. I’ve got nothing.”

  “We’re done with this. The Russian was using four fairies for blackmail. They’re dead. He’s dead. We don’t know who their targets were, and we don’t want to know. It’s done. Am I clear?”

  “Clear.”

  * * *

  “Let’s go over to Toots and get smashed. On me,” Orso offered.

  “Not tonight, thanks.”

  “Hey, you don’t want to pass up an opportunity. You could get hit by a cab on the way home, your last thought’ll be, shit I could’ve been getting drunk on Tony’s nickel.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Let it go, Mike. Let it go.”

  * * *

  Cassidy walked home in a light evening drizzle that turned the world gray to match his mood. He stopped at the grocery store on Greenwich Avenue and bought a six-pack of beer and one of the new frozen TV dinners that came in a compartmented aluminum tray, Salisbury steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes, the single man’s salvation. Single man. The idea of the empty apartment and a frozen dinner almost made him turn back to find a well-lighted restaurant where people were having a good time. No. The hell with it. Other people having a good time was not what he wanted. Where was she? How fast was an old ship like the Bakunin? Eight knots? That would put her about five hundred miles out. Had they believed her story? Was she locked up or drinking vodka with the captain? Why did he care?

  Fraker waited for Cassidy in the deep doorway of a warehouse down the block from Greenwich Street. The doorway was masked by a row of garbage cans and piles of empty cardboard boxes that had been left for the morning trash pickup, and he could keep a watch up the block through gaps in the pile. There was a streetlight up the block that made the shadows in the doorway even darker. How should he do it? He preferred the knife. He thought about that moment in the elevator in Werth’s building when the urge to kill both cops had been strong. The knife slash across the throat of the big guy, and then turn and stab Cassidy, in and out, in and out, fast. He could do it now, but he wasn’t sure it would send the message Crofoot wanted to send. A bullet in the head, and then a double tap, heart and head, to make sure. That was more the FBI style. It would have to be the gun. Too bad. The knife would be more fun.

  He had been prepared to wait all evening for Cassidy to come home, but now he saw him stop under a streetlight on Greenwich waiting for traffic to clear. He eased the gun from the holster on his belt. Wait till Cassidy passed, then step out and put one in the back of his head. Say something? Make him turn so he knew it was coming? It was tempting. What should he eat afterward? Japanese? Raw fish. Crofoot would hate that, but he’d want a firsthand report, and Fraker loved twisting his dick.

  Crofoot sat in a car parked farther down on Bank Street. There was a pistol on the seat next to him. He had watched Fraker enter the dark doorway of the warehouse across the street, and watched him pull the boxes around until he was well hidden. It was a good place for an ambush. He had always admired Fraker’s efficiency. He just couldn’t stand the man. Well, he’d be done with that tonight. He liked his little plan. A dead cop and his dead killer, a man with no identity. That should pull the newspapers out. Headline: Mysterious Cop Killer. Whoever had the photographs wouldn’t hesitate to reveal them. He watched Cassidy cross Greenwich and start down the block toward where Fraker waited. He picked up the gun and put it in his lap. It wouldn’t be long now. And then dinner at the Palm. A martini, shrimp cocktail, a steak and baked potato, and maybe some creamed spinach. Reward for a job well done.

  * * *

  Cassidy pulled his jacket tighter and turned up the collar and buttoned the top button against the rain. Somewhere on the river a foghorn moaned. He had the nagging feeling that there was something he should know, something he should remember. What? Nothing important, right? If it were important, he would remember it. He shifted the grocery bag from the crook of his left arm to his right. It was heavy. Heavy? There was something about the heaviness of the bag in his arm, something he should remember about that. Ahead of him, the street was dark. It seemed darker than usual, familiar yet different.

  A hot wash of dread.

  What was he scared of? What was he supposed to know?

  Fraker took a deep breath and let it out. Twenty more feet and Cassidy would be here. Five seconds. A breath. Let it out. The doorway was deep and Fraker was wearing dark clothes, but the moment when Cassidy walked past him would be the time of danger. The lizard brain where the ancient animal lives in us often felt danger when the other senses were blind. He checked the safety with his thumb. He knew it was off, but he was a careful man. Another breath. Let it out. Cassidy’s footsteps were loud now. He was close.

  Cassidy slowed. The quality of the darkness. The slowness of his movements. The weight on his arm. The feeling of dread. Where had he seen this? Where?

  The dream he had in the hospital. The dream came back to him like memory. Where was Amado? In the dream he had been standing down the block telling Cassidy to go back. Cassidy kept walking. It was here that Amado disappeared, here that the dread peaked. Whatever would happen would happen right here. Turn around. Turn around.

  He turned, and as
he did, a man stepped out of the darkness of the warehouse door. He had a gun in his hand and it was pointed at Cassidy’s face. Cassidy instinctively jerked his hand up as if that would stop a bullet, and the gun cracked. The bullet punched through the six-pack of beer, slammed into the frozen TV dinner, and stopped in the ice-hard steak. Cassidy dropped the bag and drove forward into the gunman before he could shoot again.

  Fraker had watched Cassidy pass. He stepped out. Why was Cassidy turning? Why was he facing him? He fired and then Cassidy plowed into him, knocking him back against the row of garbage cans that banged and clattered as they fell among them. He shot him in the face. Why was he alive?

  Cassidy drove with his legs and smashed the man back into the garbage cans and the brick wall. He drove a fist toward the man’s face, hit something soft, and heard the man grunt. Something hard slammed his head. The gun. He grabbed for it and got a hand on it, and then the gun went off and a bullet burned across his side. He head-butted the man and wrenched at the gun and it came loose and skittered away across the cement. They crashed over the garbage cans and the force of the fall knocked them apart, and Cassidy crabbed away and got to his feet. He dug for his gun, but his jacket was buttoned to the throat, and before he could get to it the man was on his feet, and Cassidy heard a snick of metal on metal. A knife. He had heard that sound before in Ingram’s apartment just before the searcher there cut him. He tore at his jacket, but the cloth was wet, and the buttons would not give, and now the man was coming at him in a balanced shuffle with the knife out in front. Cassidy took a step back and stumbled over a garbage can and went down hard, and the man came at him fast.

  Cassidy rolled away and found the top of the can and brought it around to use as a shield as the man made his first cut, and the knife blade scraped across the metal, and Cassidy shoved himself backward along the pavement, hoping to get enough separation to stand. The attacker came after him again, the knife flickering in front. Cassidy raised the metal top, and the man kicked it out of his hand, and it clattered away on the sidewalk. Cassidy’s back was against one of the boxes, and he pulled it around and shoved it at his attacker’s feet.