The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  Jill drew a deep breath and her pulse quickened, a reaction she was quick to note. Competition shooting demanded that you slow your pulse, that you fire between heartbeats. Here, she indulged herself, as would a hunter at the first glimpse of her prey, as would a rattlesnake detecting a few stray molecules on the tip of its tongue. Not here, not yet, but definitely out there.

  The figure moved from left to right, from monitor to monitor, in that stop motion common to surveillance videos, always at the far side of the street, never more than a shadow. Male, though, for sure, and walking fast, a man with a specific destination in mind. He disappeared at the end, into an uncovered space beside the creek, but then reappeared a moment later, retracing his steps. Still at that fast walk, he crossed Paidge Avenue before turning left, toward the front of the Alltel depot.

  ‘He knows,’ Jill said while Hanford accessed data from the six cameras on Paidge Avenue.

  ‘Knows what?’ Hanford asked.

  ‘Knows about the cameras, and how to avoid them. Anybody wanna bet that he stays in the shadows on the far side of Paidge Avenue? That we never get a look at his face?’

  Nobody covered the bet, which the next few minutes proved she would have won. The two buildings on the far side of Paidge Avenue were both for lease. Unoccupied, there was nothing to steal, and no security cameras. They were fenced, but with corrugated iron that rose above the man’s head, leaving his body, once again, in shadow.

  At Jill’s insistence, Hanford ran the tapes for both sides of the complex several more times, though all knew the videos were worthless as a means of identification. Boots watched the process, vaguely amused. The slow pace of most investigations irritated Jill, as did the many rules and regulations, but she was fully involved now.

  ‘I feel like I have a fix on him,’ Jill said.

  They were standing in the cold on Paidge Avenue just outside the fence line, Jill and Boots. Jill wanted two things. A cigarette, first. There was no smoking anywhere in the Alltel complex, for obvious reasons. She also wanted to call her boss, Captain Viktor Karkanian, with the news. The shooter could now be placed along the shore of Newtown Creek at seven forty-eight, six minutes after the gunshot was reported.

  ‘A fix?’ Boots said. ‘How so?’

  ‘The way he moved. He’s young, for sure, and strong. Graceful, too. What my old gym teacher called physically gifted. He’s also arrogant, and smart enough to spot the security cameras and avoid them. I think, when I finally come across this guy, my radar’s gonna start beeping.’

  Jill punched Karkanian’s number into her cell phone and brought the phone to her ear. ‘We think we know what he did with the gun,’ she told him a moment later.

  An explanation followed, which Boots tuned out. He’d made a lucky guess, but of what significance had yet to be determined. Meanwhile, there was more pressing work to do.

  ‘The search area would be relatively small,’ Jill said, now into her pitch. ‘How far can a man throw a gun? Fifty feet? I mean, it’s not like something people practice.’

  Jill stopped for a moment to listen, then said, ‘Right, got it,’ before hanging up. ‘Bad news, Boots. Karkanian wants to see the tapes. We’re supposed to wait for him.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘And what do I tell the Captain when he arrives an hour from now?’

  ‘Tell him you gave me permission to go.’ Boots stared at Jill for a moment, then said, ‘You think finding the gun is important, which it is, only not in the short term. In the short term, we want to find Carlo’s victim. From that point of view, the surveillance video establishes three vital facts. The shooter was alone, on foot and didn’t aid the woman we’re looking for.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell us where she went.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but here’s a more basic question. Where did Carlo find a victim on a Saturday morning at seven o’clock?’ Boots stepped a little closer when Jill lit a cigarette. ‘Greenpoint and Williamsburg have become magnets for young people over the past fifteen years. Lots of hipsters, lots of yuppies, lots of unattached women who work hard during the week and party even harder on the weekends. So it’s possible that Carlo spotted some girl returning from a night on the town, maybe even a bit inebriated, and forced her into a car.’

  ‘OK, but why didn’t she report the attack?’

  ‘Well, that’s the question. These women I’m describing, they’re daughters of the middle class. When someone does you injury, you don’t pick up a weapon and seek revenge. You go to the cops for justice and protection. Meanwhile, we haven’t heard a peep.’

  Jill walked off a few steps, head turned down, deep in thought. ‘She didn’t seek medical help at the nearest hospital, either. She went to ground.’

  ‘Which makes her what?’

  ‘A prostitute?’

  Boots nodded. ‘On Kent Avenue, where all those new condos went up? That used to be a major stroll, especially at night when the factories shut down. I mean for decades, Jill. The yuppies drove the whores off Kent Avenue, but you can still find working girls by the Navy Yard.’

  ‘This is sounding more and more like another educated guess.’

  ‘Wait, it gets worse. I’m thinking the victim went into hiding because she knew Carlo, knew who he was, knew who his father still is. Where do you turn when your attacker is a merciless killer from a family of merciless killers? And here’s another question. Where do you go on a Sunday morning when your face is covered with blood? The G train on Manhattan Avenue? The B1 bus on McGuinness Boulevard? I could check with the MTA, talk to the trainmen and bus drivers on duty around eight o’clock. I will, too, if my hunch doesn’t work out.’

  Jill smiled, even as she shook her head. ‘How do you know she didn’t call someone to pick her up?’

  ‘I don’t, Jill. But I’m not going to start with a hopeless scenario. That’s because I’m basically an optimist. Plus, I need to do something to justify my paycheck.’

  ‘God, but you’re a smug son of a bitch. You remind me of myself.’ She gave Boots a quick peck on the chin, about as high as she could reach. ‘Now, tell me about the hunch.’

  ‘There’s a shelter for battered women about three-quarters of a mile from here. Open Circle. They do outreach to prostitutes. I know this because I had a major run-in with them two years ago. They’d given refuge to a fugitive, a woman who emptied a Glock into her pimp’s skull. Tell you the truth, I was sympathetic. If it was up to me, I would’ve handed the shooter a medal and sent her off to rehab. But I had to take her out of there and Lila Payton, who runs the place, wanted to force me to get a search warrant. I told her I’d arrest her for harboring a fugitive, but she wasn’t impressed. No, she promised to have the media and a thousand protesters on the scene if I made the attempt.’

  When Boots stopped abruptly, a half-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, Jill poked him. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘The fugitive’s name was Marina Torres and her sheet went back nine years to her first adult arrest at age eighteen. Talk about misery. Marina’s whole life was a misery. But she knew the ropes and what I did was shout over Lila Payton’s shoulder.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, “You’re not helping yourself, Marina. So stop being an asshole and get out here. You know how this story ends. You’ve been walking down this road your whole life. And if Ms Payton really wants to help you, she’ll find you a decent lawyer instead of pissing off the criminal justice system.”’

  ‘Did she come out?’

  ‘Two minutes later.’

  Jill ground her cigarette into the sidewalk. ‘I’ll bet the woman … What’s her name again?’

  ‘Lila Payton.’

  ‘I’ll bet Lila Payton was really pissed.’

  ‘Jill, she was so hot I thought her hair would catch fire.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Boots pulled to the curb in front of a check-cashing store on the corner of McGuinness Boulevard and India Avenue. Open Circle was just a block awa
y, in a three-story home on India Street near Manhattan Avenue. Boots wasn’t anxious to confront Lila Payton with only a hunch to back his play. Carlo’s victim might have gone anyplace without her condition being reported. New Yorkers tended to ignore the bizarre. A battered and bleeding woman on the G train? If she asks for help, fine. If she doesn’t, also fine. Privacy first.

  Like any of the numerous check-cashing stores in New York, Casablanca Financial Services always had cash on hand. Criminals knew this, of course, but the company had never been ripped off. Inside Casablanca, the staff worked behind a thick wall of bulletproof acrylic and the proprietor, Walid Tufiq, carried a large-caliber handgun on his hip. The many surveillance cameras provided a third layer of protection, cameras in the front, in the back, on both sides and on the roof.

  Walid Tufiq was a third-generation American, his Christian grandparents having immigrated to the United States from Morocco shortly after World War II. Like Boots, Tufiq loved the New York Yankees. Like Boots, he bet almost every game. Like Boots, he commonly watched the games at a sports bar named Silky’s.

  ‘Hey, Boots,’ Walid called out when Boots made his appearance. ‘What’s up?’

  Tufiq’s words were muffled by the acrylic wall and Boots put a finger to his ear. Rather than shout, Walid motioned Boots to a door at the end of a row of teller windows. The shopkeeper waited until Boots reached the door, then buzzed him through.

  As the two men shook hands, Tufiq said, ‘Too bad, too bad.’

  Boots nodded, but had nothing to say in return. Walid was referring to the Yankees’ season. The thing, in his opinion, spoke for itself.

  ‘I need a favor,’ Boots said.

  Walid’s eyes narrowed. He was a noticeably thin man, with a receding chin and a mousy expression that belied the very large and powerful .357 revolver strapped to his hip.

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I need to review the video from your security cameras, the one on McGuinness Boulevard and the one on the India Street side. That would be for this past Sunday, from seven forty-two until … until maybe nine o’clock.’

  ‘Does this involve the store?’

  ‘Not in any way. It’s would be a pure favor, and I’d definitely owe you one.’

  ‘OK, no problem.’

  Tufiq’s office was larger and better furnished than Al Hanson’s at Alltel. Bunched photos of the man’s extended family nearly covered the wall behind his desk and his monitors rested on a maple cabinet, not an unvarnished shelf. A white vase on the window sill held a single red rose.

  ‘For my wife,’ Tufiq said when Boots’s eye fell on the rose. ‘To always remember the vows I took.’

  Boots tried to imagine having that kind of a relationship with Jill Kelly. It would be like running a marathon over a bed of quicksand.

  Walid Tufiq wasn’t as fast on the computer as Al Hanson, but he eventually produced the same result. This time the sidewalk and cameras were both in the shade, the resulting image a definite upgrade relative to the footage at Alltel. The time frame, on the other hand, had expanded significantly. How long would it take Carlo’s victim to walk the seven blocks to India Street? Better yet, when did she begin walking?

  Boots settled down to watch a whole lot of nothing. The stores on McGuinness Boulevard were closed, the sidewalks empty. A few cars and trucks whizzed by, and once a bus. Boots eagerly scanned the windows of the bus, a waste of time. The angled sunlight was focused on the glass, producing a flare that hid the interior.

  Walid maintained a respectful silence initially, content to stare at the two monitors. But after thirty minutes, he finally spoke out. ‘What do you think, Boots? About where the Yankees are going? A bunch of old, half-crippled men.’

  ‘What I think is that George Steinbrenner’s kids aren’t as smart as their old man. Steinbrenner built the team by spending money. Understand? He spent money to make money. Back in the 70s and 80s, when the team sucked, they were lucky to draw twenty-five thousand fans. As winners, they filled the stadium every night. They drew three and a half million …’

  Boots ground to an abrupt halt as a figure on the sidewalk drew closer. He raised a hand to shush Walid, then realized that the figure was a man pushing a shopping cart loaded with his possessions.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  ‘So, what do we do, give up? Do we go back to being second rate?’

  ‘Probably.’ Boots smiled, remembering his son, Joaquin. ‘I think there’s a law that requires kids to believe they know more than their parents. Steinbrenner spent like a drunken sailor. Now he’s dead and his kids are in charge. So what do we get? An austerity budget.’

  On that gloomy note, Boots settled down, his attention returning to the task at hand. The minutes ticked by slowly, despite the time lapse video that reduced two seconds to one. By eight forty-five, Tufiq had had enough. He excused himself and left the office. Boots’s eyes never strayed from the monitors.

  The proliferation of surveillance cameras had changed policing forever. Most crimes are committed by offenders working close to home, a fact long ago established by criminologists. If you found a single decent image, and it didn’t have to be perfect, you could show it around the neighborhood with the reasonable hope that a tip would follow. But that was only part of the good news. There was also the pleasure of displaying a photo to a suspect and saying, ‘Are you gonna tell me that’s not you?’

  Nine o’clock passed, then nine fifteen. A little voice in Boots’s mind began to insist that his quest was hopeless. Softly at first, than louder until, at exactly nine thirty, a figure came into view, a woman, and the little voice was drowned out by a much bigger voice that screamed, ‘Yesssssssssss’

  Boots’s eyes drew the woman forward, step by step, until he could see the blood on her face and the bloodstains on the shoulders and breast of her white coat. The left side of her face was severely swollen, the eye nearly shut, and she listed to one side as she staggered forward, a small, light-skinned woman who might have been Latino. He watched her turn the corner onto India Street, watched her make her slow, steady way toward Manhattan Avenue until she passed out of the camera’s field of view.

  Five minutes later, armed with a printed photo of the woman, Boots shook hands with Walid, again assuring him that the favor would be repaid should he ever be in need of a favor. Boots’s earnest expression, as he renewed his promise, belied a rising exhilaration. He was on a roll, two for two, and he found himself wishing the Yankees were still playing so he could bet the games. The way he felt now, he couldn’t lose.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Small trees lined both side of India Street. Planted only a few years earlier as part of the mayor’s Greening the Cityscape initiative, their branches hung low enough to obscure the small apartment houses on either side of the road. Boots knew that Open Circle was on the south side of the street, but he couldn’t see the front door until he was almost on top of it. Thus, the ongoing situation took him completely by surprise.

  Lila Payton stood before the open door. A uniformed security guard – a necessity in a shelter that included abused women fleeing violent husbands and lovers – stood behind her. Together, they faced a man in a black coat.

  Even in profile, Boots recognized the man. The hawk nose, a sharp triangle with a pronounced hook at the end, was a dead giveaway. Boots was looking at Stefano Ungaro, also known as Stevie Eagle. In his early forties, Ungaro had been a member of Pianetta’s crew for twenty years, his main function to enforce the rules.

  Maybe Boots would have been able to contain his temper if he’d had a bit more time to adjust. He’d vowed to do exactly that more times than he cared to count. The way it was, however, his resolution vanished the minute he laid eyes on Steve Ungaro. A hot flush, fierce as sunburn, rose to cover his face and neck as he pulled to the curb before a fire hydrant twenty feet beyond Open Circle, as he switched off the ignition, shoved the keys in his pocket and got out of the car. The gun in his coat went back into the holster dangling ben
eath his left arm. The coat, itself, followed by his suit jacket, went into the Nissan’s trunk. Then he clipped his gold shield to the strap on his shoulder rig, just so there’d be no misunderstanding.

  Boots closed the ground between himself and Ungaro at a fast walk. Lila Payton may have seen him coming. Boots couldn’t tell because Ungaro was leaning toward the woman, his face so close to hers that he appeared to be breathing into her mouth. But the security guard saw him clearly enough, saw his gun and his badge. She took a step back and raised her hands, gestures that didn’t escape Stevie Eagle, though he misinterpreted their implications.

  Ungaro turned to the security guard and said, ‘What, you got something to say here?’

  A second later, Boots fist crashed into his right ear. The punch was thrown with every ounce of strength in the cop’s 220-pound body, a leaping hook that reflected all his years in basement weight rooms.

  Ungaro screamed in pain as the shockwave impacted his eardrum. Then he fell, his balance gone, landing on the side of his face. Boots knelt down and yanked the mobster’s coat over his shoulders, pinning his arms. This was a wasted effort because the gangster was too dizzy to resist when Boots searched him. Boots was hoping that Ungaro had repeated Al Buffo’s mistake. No such luck. The man was unarmed.

  Boots finally rose to his feet and faced Lila Payton. ‘You don’t need to see this,’ he said. ‘Go inside.’

  Formerly a starting forward on NYU’s basketball team, Lila Payton was as tall as Boots. She now looked him directly in the eye and brought her hands to her hips. Payton had been dealing with angry men ever since she graduated from college. She didn’t allow herself to be bullied and she wasn’t intimidated by the cop’s violent attack. Payton only complied because she knew Boots was right. What happened next was between Boots and the asshole who’d ruined her morning.