by Ed McBain
“I think the house in Great Neck is where he sleeps and that’s all. None of the detectives tailing him reports anyone going in or out of that house but Andrew himself. The tailor shop is another matter.”
“It’s where again?”
Scanlon. Puffing on his pipe. Sitting behind his desk in room 671, behind the secured doors that sealed off all the unit’s offices. A diminutive man with beetling black brows and a hooked nose. The nose could have been Basil Rathbone’s when he was playing the master sleuth, but nothing else about him was even remotely Sherlockian. Michael himself had always felt the Holmes novels were badly written and not what he would call compelling in any way. Sue him.
“Broome Street,” he said.
“Broome Street,” Scanlon said, and nodded.
“Fifth Precinct,” Georgie said.
He had come back from his trip to Vail and had listened all amazed while Michael reported his belief that the playboy son of Anthony Faviola was now running the show. He listened now in further amazement as Michael told them that Andrew Faviola was running things from a shitty little tailor shop on Broome Street.
“There’s no question in my mind,” Michael said. “He’s using the back of the tailor shop as a business office. We’ve had detectives go in there at all hours of the day to take in dry cleaning or to have alterations made, and none of them have ever seen him in the front of the shop. From what we can gather, there’s a pressing machine in the back, you can catch a glimpse of it when Faviola or any of the others go back there. There’s sort of a curtain on a rod that divides the front from the back. Vaccaro—that’s the tailor’s name, Louis Vaccaro—works at a sewing machine up front. Usually there are some cronies who drop in to smoke their stogies and shoot the breeze with him while he works. But they’re neighborhood people, and we haven’t identified any of them as wiseguys. They’re just passing the time with their old goombah Louis. Who we don’t think is mob-related, either.”
“Who is?” Scanlon asked. “That you’ve seen going in there?”
“So far, we’ve been able to identify Rudy Faviola …”
“Anthony’s brother,” Georgie supplied.
“Used to be underboss,” Scanlon said, and nodded. His pipe had gone out. It would probably go out a dozen times during the meeting. The ashtray on his desk was brimming with burnt wooden matches. Looking like Vesuvius on a bad day, Scanlon filled the office with a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke, puffing violently, intent on the flame of the match and the bowl of the pipe.
“Who else?” he asked.
“Petey Bardo.”
“Consigliere,” Scanlon said.
“Favors brown suits,” Georgie said.
“Used to be consigliere, anyway,” Scanlon said, “when Anthony was still boss.”
“My guess is the hierarchy is still the same,” Michael said, “except that Andrew’s taken over for his father.”
“Who else have you seen?”
“Capos from all over the city. We’ve been able to identify Gerry Lacizzare, Felix Danielli …”
“Heavy wood,” Scanlon said.
“It gets heavier. Bobby Triani …”
“Rudy’s son-in-law.”
“Sal the Barber Bonifacio …”
“Guy who started it all,” Georgie said.
“No, the guy who started it all is dead,” Michael said.
“Dominus vobiscum,” Georgie said in mock piety, and made the sign of the cross.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” Scanlon said by rote, and both men smiled in the conspiracy only lapsed Catholics shared.
“Fat Nickie Nicoletta, Frankie Palumbo …”
“Nice company the kid’s keeping …”
“Joey Di Luca …”
“Enough already,” Scanlon said.
“The way I figure it,” Michael said, “we’ve got probable cause coming out of our ears.”
“Oh, really?” Scanlon said. “Where? How do you know anything criminal is going down in that shop? They could be using it as a social club, a place to meet, have a cup of coffee, talk about who’s cheating on his wife, what horse looks good in the fifth at Belmont, whatever, none of it criminal. Where’s your p.c., Michael?”
“We’ve got Faviola and his brother on a wire, talking about the kid taking over when …”
“So let’s say he did.”
“So all at once he shows up at this tailor shop every day of the week …”
“Maybe he likes clothes.”
“. . . and, he’s visited there, by ten thousand capos who are running operations like narcotics and loan-sharking and …”
“That doesn’t mean that’s what they talk about there.”
“I think they’re reporting to him, Charlie.”
“Gut feelings don’t add up to probable cause.”
“Let’s try it on a judge.”
“I don’t think it’ll fly.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Okay,” Scanlon said, “write your affidavit, and I’ll ask the Boss to make application for an eavesdropping warrant. We’ll pick our judge, and hope for the best. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He puffed on his pipe again, and then looked up and asked, “Who’s sitting this week?”
She was wearing a black silk robe monogrammed in red with the letters AF over the breast pocket. She had rolled up the sleeves, and she was sitting in one of the living room easy chairs, her legs tucked under her. He had mixed drinks for both of them—a Scotch and soda for her, a Beefeater martini for himself. Like a cat getting used to new surroundings, Sarah had prowled first the upstairs bedroom and then the kitchen and dining room on the second floor, and lastly— while he mixed the drinks—the office and conference room behind the living room here on the entry level. From inside the living room, you couldn’t tell there was an entrance door; the wall bearing the door merely looked like solid wood paneling. No doorknob, nothing to indicate the presence of a door. To open the door from the inside, you pushed on it, and a touch latch snapped it open to the walnut-paneled stairway leading to the street.
“Why isn’t there a door on this side?” she asked.
“Architect thought it would look better.”
“I guess it does,” she said, appraising the wall again.
“Freshen that?” he asked.
“I’d better not,” she said.
She felt comfortable in his robe. Rather like the way she’d felt wearing her father’s shirts when she was a little girl. It was still only a bit past five thirty, they had hours together yet.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.
“You told me not to.”
“I didn’t ask you to send a car, either.”
“I thought I’d make it easier for you.”
“I kept waiting for you to call, I kept visualizing one of the other teachers in the lunchroom picking up the phone and saying, ‘It’s for you, Sarah.’ I kept imagining going to the phone, and saying ‘Yes?’ and then hearing your voice. I used to tremble just wondering what I would say when I heard your voice again.”
“What’d you decide?”
“What do you, mean?”
“To say. If I’d called.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Because you told me not to.”
“And you always do what I say, hmm?”
“Always.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
This both excited her and tempted her. She felt suddenly like giving him a command, tossing the robe aside, spreading herself to him, ordering him to kiss her everywhere again. There was something thrilling about being in his robe, too. Wearing something of his, possessing it if only for a little while, was like possessing Andrew himself.
“What would you have said?” he asked.
“I think
I’d have said, ‘Who’s this, please?’”
“And when I said, ‘You know who this is. When can I see you?’”
“I’d have said, ‘Oh, yes, Dr. Cummings, I was going to call you later today. Do you have any free time on Wednesday?’”
“Is that your doctor’s name?”
“No, I just made that up.”
“Cummings, huh?”
“Yes,” she said. And then, getting it, “Oh.”
He was sitting on the sofa opposite her, wearing a robe not quite as luxuriant as the one she was wearing, a sort of cotton wrapper you might find at Bloomie’s. His comment on her inadvertent pun recalled St. Bart’s and his outrageous definition of “bimbo.” Did he know how Freudian the Cummings pun had been? Well, of course he knew. Why else would he have mentioned it?
“Do you know the one about the Freudian slip?” she asked. “This man is with his psychiatrist and he tells him he made a terrible Freudian slip with his wife this morning. The doctor asks him what it was, and he says, I can’t believe I made such a slip. The doctor says, Well, what was it? The man says, What I wanted to say was ‘Please pass the toast, darling,’ but I made this slip. Well, what did you say? the doctor asks. And the man answers, What I said was ‘You fuckin’ cunt, you ruined my life!’”
Andrew’s eyebrows went up in surprise for an instant, and then he burst out laughing. Watching the conflicting responses cross his face was amusing in itself. She began laughing as well.
“Did you ever see That Championship Season?” he asked, still laughing.
“No,” she said, and wondered what that had to do with Dr. Cummings or Dr. Freud, for that matter.
“There’s a line Paul Sorvino has. Do you know him? He’s a wonderful actor. He was also in GoodFellas, did you see that one?”
“Are these movies?”
“Yes. Well, That Championship Season was a play first, but I didn’t see it on the stage, I saw the movie. I don’t go to see plays too often, do you?”
“Hardly ever,” she said. She did not tell him that Michael felt most plays were simplistic.
“The other one was a book first. About the Mafia. But television stole the title—there was a show on television called Wiseguy—so they had to change it when they did the book as a movie. The movie was called GoodFellas. Paul Sorvino played a capo. He was very good. Very believable.”
“A what?”
“A capo. That’s some sort of lieutenant, I guess. I guess the Mafia has all that kind of military crap. Like the army, I guess.”
“Uh-huh.”
She was wondering just how much she’d really shocked him with the word “cunt.” She was also wondering if he was getting hard again. With Michael, you made love once, and that was it for the night. Or sometimes even the week. Andrew seemed to be perpetually ready. The idea that he was only twenty-eight was exciting to her. She felt as if she were bedding a seventeen-year-old. She also wondered if she’d get anything to eat tonight. Last Wednesday, she’d left here as ravenous as a bear. Dining out with the girls was fun except that you didn’t get anything to eat. She was beginning to feel really very hungry again. She suddenly thought the Scotch might be getting to her; she’d already forgotten how they’d got to this part of their conversation.
“Anyway, the other picture was about a reunion of a basketball team. Robert Mitchum was in it, too, didn’t you see it?”
“No.”
“He played the coach.”
She wondered if she could make him hard again without even touching him. Just sit here across from him and get him hard. She decided it might be worth a try.
“Anyway, Sorvino’s talking to one of the other, players about something, I forget what, and he says something like ‘You know the only woman I ever loved? My mother. Fuck Freud!’”
She burst out laughing. Nodding in appreciation, Andrew began laughing, too. Their laughter trailed at last. He nodded again and sipped at his martini. She sipped at her Scotch and then shifted her position slightly on the couch, allowing the robe to fall partially open over her breasts.
“Is it possible we could send out for something to eat later?” she asked.
“Sure, are you hungry?”
“Well, later. Let’s finish the drinks first,” she said, and gestured with her glass.
“There are lots of good restaurants in the neighborhood,” he said. “But I didn’t think you’d want to go out.”
“No, I don’t think we should.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“No,” she said, and slipped her legs out from under her and then leaned over to put her glass on the coffee table. The robe opened wider over her breasts. She could feel his eyes on her. She pulled the robe closed, crossed her legs, leaned back.
“So how’d you describe me?” she asked.
He looked at her, puzzled.
“To Billy.”
“Oh.”
“The driver.”
“I told him your name was Mrs. Welles, and I said you were a tall, beautiful blonde,”
“Do you really think I’m tall?”
“Yes.”
“How tall do you think I am?” she asked, and leaned over to retrieve her drink again, giving him a good long look at her naked breasts, and then sitting up again all oblivious and innocent.
“Five-ten,” he said.
“I’m five-eight.”
How’re we doing under that robe? she wondered. That thing getting hard for me again?
“You look taller,” he said.
“I give that impression,” she said, and uncrossed her legs. “Did you mean the part about the beautiful blonde?”
“I meant it.”
“What else did you say about me?”
“That’s all I said.”
“Did you describe my breasts to him?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t you like my breasts?” she asked.
“I love your breasts.”
“Then why didn’t you describe them to him?”
The thought of him describing her breasts to another man was making her wet again.
He said nothing.
“Did you think that might excite him?” she asked. “Describing my breasts?”
“It might have.”
“Or my nipples?” she said, and opened the robe in a wide V over her breasts. “Do you like my nipples?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see how hard they are?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like my legs?” she said, and stretched them out in front of her, pointing the toes, pulling the robe up to her knees. “Did you describe my legs to him?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t like my legs?”
“I love your legs. No, I didn’t describe them to him.”
“Did you tell him I’m a natural blonde?” she said, and pulled the robe back and spread herself to him.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he asked.
“What am I doing to you?”
“What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to excite you.”
“You’re exciting me. You’re the most exciting woman I’ve ever …”
“Get you hard again,” she whispered.
“I am hard.”
“Get you to put that big hard cock in me again.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Now,” she said. “Get you to fuck me again now!”
He rose and came to her. Her eyes flicked the hardness of him under the thin cotton robe. He unbelted the robe, let it fall open, reached out with his right hand to cup her chin. His left hand brushed her hair behind her ear. His right thumb parted her lips.
“Yes,” she said, “that, too.”
She hated shopping o
n Saturday, she hated shopping with Mollie, and she hated shopping with Heather. The weather was rotten, too. It had been rotten ever since Thursday morning, when she’d awakened with thoughts of Andrew in her mind and sounds of Michael in the bathroom. She’d thought at once that she’d overslept, but instead he’d awakened early. It was snowing outside, she wondered if they’d declare a snow day. If so, she wondered if she should call Andrew, tell him she’d be there as soon as—but no, a snow day would give her daughter the day off, too. Anyway, the snow tapered by nine and ended by noon, leaving behind a slushy residue that froze solid that night when the temperature dropped to twenty-two degrees. For the past two days now, it had hovered just above the single-digit mark, fourteen degrees yesterday, twelve this morning.
Mollie wanted the new sneakers every other kid in school was wearing. Something about a disc instead of laces, who knew, who cared? Heather was looking for something that would make her look young and exciting again. Thirty-two years old, she wanted to look young again. Sarah felt as if she were merely along for the bumpy ride. They had already hit Bloomie’s in vain, and were now trudging along a Fifth Avenue thronged with Japanese tourists and all blustery with winds that seemed raging directly from the Arctic. Sarah’s cheeks were raw and cold, and her lips were chapped, and her nose was dripping and she was thinking she’d rather be reading a book on a miserable Saturday like this one. Or actually, she realized in an instant, what she’d really rather be doing was—
“Where does Uncle Doug live now?” Mollie asked.