Criminal Conversation

by Ed McBain

  “Well, I don’t think that’s what he is, but I can promise there won’t be any more long days like this one. Unless you choose to make them longer.”

  What the fuck does that mean? Regan wondered.

  “Okay, we’re in a development called Ocean Estates,” he said, “though there ain’t no ocean I can see, up the street from 1124 Palm, that’s the house he went in. Must be where he lives because he parked his car in the garage there. We’re on the corner of Palm and Lotus, fuckin’ names here, you’d think it was Miami Beach. Tell the relieving team we’re in a black Ford Escort. This is a busy place here, Michael, I don’t know how we’re going to sit this guy without one of the neighbors spotting us. Tell them to be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Who do you plan on calling?”

  “Harry Arnucci.”

  “Okay, we’ll look for him.”

  At seven thirty that night, Detectives/First Grade Harry Arnucci and Jerry Mandel relieved Regan and Lowndes, who were back on the job again at eight the next morning. At a little past ten a.m. that Wednesday, Andrew Faviola left the house and drove directly into Manhattan, where he parked the Acura in a space on Bowery again and then walked to a tailor shop on Broome Street, Regan and Lowndes following. He came out of the shop only once, to walk to a restaurant on Mulberry for lunch. He went back into the shop at two thirty and was still inside there when Regan and Lowndes were relieved at four. During that time at least a dozen men in heavy overcoats went in and out of the shop, some of them staying inside there for hours.

  No one was sitting the Mott Street side of the building. No one saw Sarah Welles ringing the bell set in the jamb beside the blue door at six thirty that Wednesday night. No one saw her checking the street furtively and nervously as she waited for Andrew to let her in. Certainly no one saw her throwing herself into his arms and kissing him wildly the moment the door was closed and locked behind them.

  This was the part he hated.

  When they wanted to talk later. He sometimes felt they went to bed with you only so they’d be able to get into these long conversations afterward. That was the price they paid for being allowed to talk. She was no different from any of the others. A crazy woman while you were fucking her, and then all she wanted to do was talk. Full of questions. Only the second time they’d been to bed together, she wanted to know all about him. Wanted to own him was what it really got down to.

  “Is this where you work?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It seems more like an apartment.”

  “No, there’s a nice little office on the first floor.”

  “All I saw was a living room.”

  “There’s an office behind it. And a conference room, too.”

  “Do you work here alone?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “No secretary?”

  “No. I don’t need one. Most of my business is on the phone.”

  “Don’t you write any letters?”

  “Occasionally. I get help in sometimes. But rarely.”

  “Do you like working alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you here all day?”

  “Usually.”

  “I had trouble getting through to you this morning.”

  “Yeah, it was a pretty busy morning.”

  Six hysterical phone calls from Frankie Palumbo, one after another. Frankie was worried that whacking that stupid fuck Di Nobili like Andrew had told him might cause the Colotti family to come back at him. Andrew had told him not to sweat it. The Colottis had only been doing a favor for Di Nobili and they were probably glad to have him off their backs. That was the first call. The second one, and the next three after that, were all about Jimmy Angels being a capo and this broad being his cousin, so how was Angels gonna feel now that his cousin’s dumb boyfriend ended up in a fuckin’ trunk at La Guardia? Andrew kept telling Frankie that this was a favor the Colottis hadn’t even wanted to do, and they’d been very upset when this thief stole money from the Faviola family, so don’t worry about it, okay? The last call was Frankie asking if he thought maybe they should whack the broad, too, before she went yelling and screaming to her cousin again? Andrew said he didn’t think that was such a good idea.

  “Who’s Carter-Goldsmith?” Sarah asked.

  “Men who own the business,” Andrew said. “They’re partially retired now. I sort of run things for them.”

  This was a lie.

  Two lies.

  Three, in fact.

  Nobody owned the business but Andrew, who not only “sort of” ran things but controlled them completely now that his father was no longer on the scene. Nor were “Carter” and “Goldsmith” partially retired, either. They were both very active capos in the Faviola family. Carter was Ralph Carbonaio, also known as Ralphie Carter and Ralphie the Red. Goldsmith was Carmine Orafo; the Goldsmith was a direct translation of his family name into English. Both men were listed respectively as president and secretary-treasurer of a perfectly legal investment corporation which—as Andrew had correctly informed Sarah—looked for businesses that needed an investment of time and money, and nurtured them along till they brought a good return.

  These legitimate business interests, owned and operated by the Faviola family, included such diverse operations as restaurants (a favorite lawful enterprise), bars and taverns (another favorite), food distribution, real estate, garment manufacturing, photo-finishing, coffee bars (six in Seattle alone), travel agencies, motel chains, vending machines, garbage disposal, linen supply, and a score of retail shops that sold a wide variety of items including sporting goods, shoes, books and records, ladies’ wear, and home appliances.

  All of these legal businesses generated justifiable income, and these receipts were deposited in bank accounts all over the United States. Often, as was the case with several of the retail shops, there were branches in various states, and paper transfers of money were made on the books for goods shipped from one shop to another. It was next to impossible to monitor such legal business transactions. It was equally impossible to link any illicit activity to the recurring operating expenses paid by check from the various bank accounts of these businesses. A great many of the checks paid for salaries or services, however, went to criminals exchanging ill-gotten cash for discounted but laundered money.

  Money as such is anonymous, which is why cash was the medium of exchange in most criminal transactions. But cash illegally gained was something of a curse, nice to have but essentially useless until it was converted into cash that seemed respectably earned. Money laundering was a crime that existed merely to make the fruits of other crimes usable. By funneling the proceeds of criminal activity through any number of legitimate businesses, cash obtained illicitly was magically transformed to cash that seemed earned through honest labor. Becoming unwanted partners in businesses that needed “an investment of time and money”—as Andrew had put it—often involved threatened or actual violence, yet another crime. But crime was the primary business of the Faviola family.

  Andrew’s father had been sent away forever on four murder counts, but it was open knowledge that the family was involved as well in narcotics and gambling and loan-sharking and money laundering and labor racketeering and possessing stolen goods and extortion and prostitution. Carter-Goldsmith had been created to generate a sheen of respectability for these covert criminal activities. Although Carbonaio and Orafo both lived in the Northeast—Carbonaio on Staten Island, Orafo in New Jersey—their legitimate business activities took them all over the United States, and they were gone more often than they were home. In the days when Anthony Faviola was in charge, they reported directly to him. Now they reported directly to Andrew.

  And now Sarah Welles, lying cradled and naked in Andrew’s arms as he began feeling the first faint stirrings of another erection, was asking him things like how many hours did
he work every day, and didn’t it get lonely working here all by himself …

  “Well, I get reports from the field,” he said. “People coming in all the time.”

  . . . and shouldn’t an investment company have an office in the financial …

  “Where are you supposed to be tonight?” he asked.

  Bringing the conversation back to practical matters. If they were going to keep doing this—and that was certainly his intention—he didn’t want her to get caught. All he needed was a dumb husband discovering …

  “I’m at a teachers’ meeting,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “We’re supposed to be having dinner together. Six of us. English teachers.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t …”

  “Think of a place before you go home. Think of it now, in fact.”

  “Well …”

  He waited.

  “Bice,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “On Fifty-Fourth off Fifth.”

  “Near the school,” he said, and nodded in approval. He opened the nightstand drawer on his side of the bed, pulled out the Manhattan telephone directory, found the listing for Bice, and punched in the number.

  “Hello,” he said, “are you serving tonight? How late? Thank you very much.” He put the phone back on its cradle, said, “Good choice. They serve till eleven fifteen,” and was about to take her in his arms again when she said, “What time is it, anyway?” and sat up immediately and looked at her watch. “Oh, Jesus,” she said, “it’s ten to eight!”

  “I’ll have a car run you home, don’t worry,” he said.

  “Can you do that?”

  “A phone call is all it takes.”

  “I still have to go,” she said, and sat up.

  “Half an hour,” he said. “I’ll call now, have you picked up at eight-thirty.”

  “That’s not a half hour, that’s forty minutes,” she said.

  “You’ll be home by nine.”

  “That’s late.”

  “Not if you met for dinner at six-thirty.”

  “Andrew …”

  He had already picked up the receiver again.

  “No, wait, please.”

  He waited. The dial tone hummed into the room.

  “Please put the phone down. I have to talk to you.”

  He wondered what she thought they’d been doing till now. But he put the receiver back on the cradle. She sat with the sheet draped over her middle, knees up, breasts exposed. She did not look at him when she spoke. She stared at her hands, instead, the fingers interlaced over her tented knees, the wide gold wedding band on her left hand.

  “Getting here was very difficult tonight,” she said.

  “It’s a long way, I know.”

  “I’m not talking about distance.”

  “Then … ?”

  “I didn’t like lying about where I’d been Monday, and I didn’t like lying about where I was going to be tonight. It’s difficult for me to lie, Andrew.”

  “I can understand that. I’m sorry. I’ll call for the car right this …”

  “It’s just that urging me to stay when I have to leave only makes it necessary for me to … to … Don’t you see, Andrew? If I’m late getting home … later than I should be … then I’ll have to tell another lie about why I’m …”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have …”

  “But that’s not even the point. The point … Andrew,” she said, and turned to him, “the point is I’m not sure I can … I can keep on lying this way,” she said, and shook her head, and lowered her eyes and kept shaking her head over and over again. He took her chin in his hand. Turned her face toward his again. She looked up at him. Her eyes were beginning to mist.

  “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “You’re not saying … ?”

  “I told you I don’t know what I’m …”

  “If this is just a matter of …”

  “I’m lying to my husband, I’m lying to my daughter …”

  “You’ve never told a lie before, huh?”

  “I’m not that sort of person. I don’t lie about things. I just don’t.”

  “Never, huh?”

  “Not to my husband.”

  “About anything?”

  “Never anything important.”

  “Am I important?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with …”

  “I asked you a question. Am I important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then lie about me,” he said, and picked up the receiver again. He dialed a number, waited, said, “Billy? I’ll need a car around eight thirty. Uptown to Eighty-First and Lex. Don’t be late.”

  He put the receiver down.

  “Okay?” he said.

  She was staring at her hands again, the wedding band on her hand.

  “I’ll send a car to get you next time,” he said. “Make it easier for you. Someplace away from the school. Maybe on Fifty-Seventh. That’s a busy street.”

  “Who’s Billy?” she asked.

  “Man who drives for us.”

  “Women? Does he drive other women?”

  “I do business with a lot of women. Yes, he drives other women.”

  “Because I wouldn’t want him to think …”

  “He’s used to it. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Used to it, she thought.

  “Maybe I’ll take a taxi instead,” she said.

  “Fine, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Fine,” he said, and picked up the receiver again, and dialed the same number again. “Billy?” he said. “Forget it,” and hung up.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and nodded. “I’d better get dressed.”

  “We have time yet.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she said. “I tell you I have to leave, and you …”

  “I’m sorry. When will I see you again?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, and got out of bed and went to where her clothes were draped over the chair.

  “Next Wednesday night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sarah,” he said, “don’t do this to me, okay? I love you, Sarah …”

  “That’s impossible,” she said, “you can’t, you don’t. So please don’t say it again.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  She nodded, and sighed, and turned away from him. He watched as she began dressing in silence.

  “Where can I call you?” he asked.

  “You can’t,” she said.

  “What time do you leave for work in the morning?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “What time does your husband leave?”

  “Sometime after that.”

  “When does he get home?”

  “Six or thereabouts.”

  “And you?”

  “Anytime between four thirty and six. But my daughter’s usually home by then. I’m never alone, Andrew, don’t you see? This is impossible. I can’t do this anymore. Really. I just can’t. It’s too …”

  “Where do you have lunch?”

  “The teachers’ lunchroom.”

  “Is there a phone there?”

  “A pay phone. But there are other teachers …”

  “What time do you have lunch?”

  “The fifth period.”

  “What time is that?”

  “Twelve thirty.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. What’s the phone number t
here?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, don’t call me.”

  “Then you call me. And you can read me the number off the phone. I want to be able to reach you whenever I want to.”

  She said nothing.

  “Because I love you,” he said.

  She still said nothing.

  “Do you love me?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  “I’m asking. Do you love me?”

  “I haven’t thought of anything but you since Monday,” she said. She was buttoning her blouse. Her hands stopped. “There hasn’t been anything but you on my mind since Monday. I think I’m going crazy,” she said, and shook her head and finished buttoning the blouse, and sat in the chair, and reached for her pumps.

  “I feel the same way,” he said.

  She stood up abruptly, smoothed her skirt, and walked to where she’d hung her coat in the closet.

  “You haven’t said it yet,” he said.

  “I have to leave,” she said, and put on her coat.

  “I’ll get dressed,” he said, “come find a cab for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I’m a big girl now.”

  “But not big enough to lie for me, hmm?”

  She did not answer him.

  “Even though you love me,” he said.

  They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then he nodded, and got out of bed and began dressing. They left the apartment together at a quarter past eight. Bowery was almost deserted at that hour, all the service stores closed, the street dark except for the streetlamps. It was bitterly cold. Vapor steamed up from the manhole covers. There wasn’t a cab in sight. She was beginning to think she should have let Billy, whoever he was, drive her home. She was beginning to think she shouldn’t have come here at all. She had already decided she would never see him again. If she got past lying to Michael when she got home tonight, she would never again—

  A cab was coming up the avenue.

  Andrew whistled for it.

  Time was running out. She felt suddenly empty.