Bressio

by Richard Ben Sapir

  “It is good to see you, Alphonse,” said the portly gentleman, sitting first behind the official mourners.

  “It is good to see you too, Don Carmine,” said Bressio, bowing to brush his lips against the back of Don Carmine’s offered hand.

  It was Don Carmine Dursio, Bressio knew, who had allowed Jimmy’s death. Everyone who mattered knew that, especially Philomena Bugellerio, but since she could not seek vengeance against the man who fed her family, she had tried unsuccessfully to elicit support vengeance against the men who merely pulled the trigger.

  Jimmy, as Bressio and many others knew, had been warned twice to stop skimming from Puerto Rican numbers in East Harlem under the theory that if you took from people who had little, they might be forced to fight for more. There were legitimate complaints from East Harlem to Don Carmine, and it was ordered that Jimmy be spoken to. But to his second cousin, Bressio knew, anything less than a lead pipe across the bridge of his nose was an invitation to proceed.

  The hit man caught Jimmy from the side over a cup of bean soup in a Spanish luncheonette as he was explaining to the finger man responsible for setting him up that Don Carmine was only making noises because no one could really take spies seriously. This was how Bressio understood the incident.

  “Come sit down beside me and tell me the good things that have been happening, Alphonse,” said Don Carmine. Immediately a middle-aged man next to the don rose to offer his seat to Bressio, who ignored him.

  “Thank you, Don Carmine, but I must run. Business. I have an urgent call which I cannot delay. Any other time at your convenience I would be most honored and delighted to talk to you. But I have a previous obligation.”

  “I hear your business is picking up. I am happy to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” said Bressio.

  “I have always said that if a man is happy, what can money buy him?”

  Bressio nodded respectfully. If his estimates were correct, within five minutes of Moochie’s receiving the money the night before, it was made known to Don Carmine.

  “With all due respects, I must go,” said Bressio.

  Outside, two cameras caught Bressio full face. He recognized one of the men in a back seat as a New York City detective. The detective shrugged, rolled his eyes upwards, and caught the nasty glances of the rest of the men in the car. It made Bressio very uneasy to think men like that walked around with badges and guns.

  At the office Clarissa was frostily polite. “Are you ready to communicate, Al?”

  “I take it the medical files are on my desk.”

  “They are not.”

  “You wouldn’t mind telling me why you did it.”

  “No. We agreed you wouldn’t be a henchman for anyone any more. We agreed you were going to take the bar again. We agreed on that.”

  “I remember saying I would think about it.”

  “It was an implied promise, because you know I hate to see you do this sort of work—you could be a great—”

  Bressio went into his private office, and when he had settled down he outlined the possibilities of avoiding L. Marvin in the coming week. He could check out what was going on at 285 Pren Street through Mary Beth Cutler’s story, proving it unrealistic—which it probably was—or in the course of his investigation, find that L. Marvin sold or had sold smack.

  What bothered Bressio was a very strong feeling this would not work. L. Marvin was in this somehow and in such a way that he would entangle Bressio and probably many others, leaving them that much worse off. Which was why he was being paid so much. Case closed. Get on with it. He needed the money.

  At 11:45, Mary Beth Cutler had still not shown up. Bressio buzzed Clarissa on the intercom.

  “Any word from a Mary Beth Cutler? She’s Dawson’s client.”

  “You would have seen a light buzz on your telephone if we got any calls.”

  “I thought maybe she might be in the outer office.”

  “You would have heard the door open.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa.”

  “Are you ready to talk, Al?”

  “No.”

  “They’re giving the bar again soon.”

  “You want to starve while I prepare to flunk the bar again?”

  “Yes, and you know I would, Al.”

  “When I’m ready, I’ll take it again. Until then, we’ll eat.”

  “We could eat even better if you went to work for Carmine Dursio. I mean, if eating is what’s worrying you.”

  “Replace the medicals.”

  “They were never really out. Just the dead wood, the doctors who didn’t stand a cross-examination well and the ones who have been used too much. The ones you said to clean out a few months ago because the files were overwhelming us.”

  “So why the dramatics with the files open and the door open?”

  “To get you to take a good look at yourself.”

  “Someone could have come in through the open door and cleaned out this place. Thank you very much, Clarissa.”

  Bressio heard the outer door open.

  “A woman and a child. The woman looks a bit unwashed,” said Clarissa.

  “That’s Mary Beth, I think. Send her in.”

  “A bit unwashed” was a kind description, Bressio thought. A grayish film covered her face as though she hadn’t been near hot water in months. The tan raincoat looked fairly new but had yet to be graced by a cleaners. The hair appeared to be three shades of light brown, violent blond and black streaking out from the roots. Underneath the raincoat she wore what appeared to be a once-expensive blue print dress. She folded the raincoat and put it on her lap as she sat down before Bressio’s desk. Her hands worked against each other as though in a contest to devour.

  She did not respond when Bressio said he was glad to see her. Then he asked her to begin.

  “I wanted to go to the Biltmore, but I thought it might be better if I went someplace else. I slept at the loft last night. Pren Street.”

  “Well, you’re safe and that’s what matters,” said Bressio.

  “I don’t think the Biltmore is safe,” said Mary Beth Cutler.

  “Let’s get to what’s bothering you and who you think is trying to do you harm, Miss Cutler.”

  “Call me Mary Beth, dear. I didn’t go because the Biltmore was crawling with them. I know you’ll find this hard to believe but we’ve got a wing-ding of a case here. It’s beautiful, dear.”

  “First, who’s them?”

  “The man with the scar is one. He appeared the day before yesterday at the supermarket and then again yesterday afternoon. I got into a cab right from the phone booth in case someone was listening to your line. I wanted to throw them off, make them think I wasn’t taking the subway. Well, when I got into the cab, guess who was driving?”

  “The man with the scar?”

  “No, the red-haired guy who used to live downstairs with the woman who was murdered by the Mafia. They both came from Fire Island and moved in last December when I went to the candy store to—”

  Despite himself, Bressio’s pity rapidly succumbed to annoyance. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Let’s start with everyone who is following you. Then I want to know how much smack L. Marvin is dealing.”

  “Marve isn’t dealing smack.”

  “Why did he stop?”

  “He never started.”

  “Miss Cutler, I can’t help you unless you deal with me truthfully. I’m working for you. You pay me. If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you. I will not report Marvin to the police if you tell me the truth.”

  “Right, dear. Marve won’t touch smack. He says it’s not bad in itself, but that too many people bring too many bad vibes to it. They’ve infected an entire natural living organism by the bad vibes they’ve brought to it. Nothing wrong with smack in itself, understand, darling.”

  “You’re saying he doesn’t deal smack?”

  “Never.”

  “Then why would all these people be following you around unless it was smac
k? Grass doesn’t attract that kind of traffic,” said Bressio, feeling slightly guilty for using her fears for his benefit.

  “You’re right. Murray said you were good, but I didn’t know how good. Tremendous. You’re great. Terry Leacock, that bitch. I bet she was dealing smack. She and her boyfriend. The redhead. That’s what’s causing it. Oh, you are beautiful, Al. You’re beautiful. That’s it. The whole thing in a nutshell. Isn’t Marve wonderful. He said so too.”

  “About the dead woman?”

  “No. The vibes surrounding smack. The first natural organic plant to be destroyed by man’s ill thoughts of it. We have destroyed the goodness in the opium poppy. And we’re paying the price.”

  Bressio took a yellow legal-sized pad from his desk and went to work with a well-worn pencil stub.

  “Let’s start with who’s following you,” he said.

  Following Miss Mary Beth Cutler was the man with the scar, the red-headed man who had lived downstairs on the second floor and the New York City Police Department. On horseback, no less.

  “Miss Cutler. If the cops wanted to tail you they wouldn’t do it mounted.”

  “Al, dear, they follow me every time I’m near St. Vincent’s Hospital. I know it. I wouldn’t miss a horse. I mean, I’m not that crazy. You can’t miss a horse.”

  “Miss Cutler, the police stables are near St. Vincent’s.”

  “Then if they weren’t following me, why did they stop when Murray went to the precinct house to ask them to stop?”

  “Dawson went to a precinct house for you?” asked Bressio in amazement. This was going to have to be checked out with Dawson, and if the answer was yes, Dawson would have some very heavy explaining to do. Murray Blay Dawson didn’t go down to precinct houses.

  “Sure,” said Mary Beth and Bressio believed her.

  He tried exploring the incidents around the loft, and by the time Mary Beth was finished, he had three separate pieces of paper in front of him. One sheet was about the couple who lived downstairs in the loft. The other was their own loft. The third was incidentals like death lurking on the street.

  The couple downstairs, as Bressio gathered, were young and attractive. The girl, Terry Leacock, came from a moderately wealthy family in Pasadena. The red-headed man had made a pass at Mary Beth which she rebuffed, a fact that no jury would believe unless it was established first that he had a record of peculiar tastes. All in all, however, her story matched what Dawson had told him she had said.

  Bressio looked at the woman, at the three disjointed papers and then at his hands.

  “You’re going to have to do what I tell you to do.”

  “Anything, darling,” said Miss Cutler.

  “Do you know what your enemies are going to try to do?”

  Mary Beth’s eyes widened in excitement.

  “They’re going to try to prove you’re paranoid so they can continue to get away with what they’re getting away with,” Bressio continued.

  “Oh, my God. You know how they work.”

  “I understand what you’re going through, Miss Cutler. We’re going to cut them off at the bend. Head them off. You see, we can’t let them dictate our moves. You’ve been letting them do that. You’ve been reacting instead of acting upon.”

  “Murray said you were the best in the business but I didn’t know you were this good. You’re tremendous.”

  “What we’re going to do is prove you legally sane before they can work that against you.” Bressio’s voice lowered into a drama of conspiracy. “We use our psychiatrist first, so that one of theirs can’t get at you.”

  “Can we trust him? I mean, you know psychiatrists.”

  Bressio winked. “He’s our man.”

  “All right,” said Mary Beth but there was a note of hesitancy in her voice. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “You’re paying me very heavy money, Miss Cutler.”

  “I know. Maybe I can’t afford this man.”

  “Don’t you worry about his fee,” said Bressio, who had already made a mental note for Clarissa to bill Dawson for the first few sessions of the therapy. “He’s on our side.”

  Bressio wrote down the address and telephone number of Dr. John Patrick Finney.

  “He was once a priest. I hope you don’t mind that.”

  “Hell, no,” said Mary Beth. “We used to have all sorts of cardinals and bishops at Daddy’s.”

  Bressio courteously ushered her to the door of his office and was surprised to see a very neat, very well-scrubbed little girl of about four sitting quietly at the far end of the outer office. Apparently it was Mary Beth’s daughter. Her hands rested symmetrically on her lap and her feet were primly together. Bressio attempted to pass a little pleasantry with the child and got no response.

  “Bobbi takes her time in getting to know people,” said Mary Beth. “Brilliant child. Brilliant.”

  Clarissa was sending a signal with her eyes, but Bressio ignored her. He wanted to reach Dr. Finney before other business might delay the call and Mary Beth Cutler stormed in on Finney unannounced. Besides, it was that ten-minute-before-the-hour period when Finney would answer his own phone.

  In another generation, Finney would have worn cassock and dispensed God’s forgiveness. In this one, he wore suit and tie and tried to dispense the patient’s own forgiveness. Bressio had been at Finney’s parent’s apartment when J.P. had informed his mother he had decided against the priesthood and would not return to the seminary, but would study psychology. She acknowledged the passing of her era with a wailing that would have done honor to a Greek chorus. She assaulted the heavens with candles, but J.P. remained firm in his resolve to participate in an even newer era of another faith. He was the only psychologist Bressio trusted because he often admitted doubts about the effectiveness of his therapy. These new psychologists brought fresh reality to the dogma of St. Freud. And Finney was one of their leaders.

  “Hey, J.P., Bressio. A Mary Beth Cutler’s going to see you. Give me a rundown on her, will you?”

  “If she’s coming as a patient, Al, I’m not giving you any rundown for court evidence. I won’t do that.”

  “It’s not for court, although she may tell you that. Just see her and use your own judgment. She’s paranoid and I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything to what she’s seeing.”

  “Who are you to say someone is paranoid, Al? I thought I explained to you once it’s a very, very broad term.”

  “I’m not looking for a lecture. Just see her, okay?”

  “I’ve got a tight schedule, Al.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “All right. But don’t go bandying around ‘paranoia’ like that, okay?”

  “I will not use that phrase in vain again, Padre.”

  Bressio heard the door close outside and went to Clarissa to find out why Mary Beth hung around.

  “You know she’s Marvin Fleish’s girl friend, Al,” said Clarissa.

  “Couldn’t you tell?” said Bressio.

  “Don’t start with that code-of-the-jungle survival thing again. Marvin Fleish happens to be a very sweet person.”

  “L. Marvin stuck you for fifty bucks once, didn’t he?”

  “The deal fell through and he lost more money.”

  “L. Marvin tried to get into your pants rather forcefully one night, if I remember.”

  “He was honest and open and real about it.”

  “What did Mary Beth talk about?”

  “You’re not going to deal with your feelings about Marvin,” said Clarissa, with the triumphant glare of one who has caught another in a psychological transgression.

  “What did Mary Beth talk about?”

  “It was nothing. Her landlady was killed this morning.”

  “At 285 Pren Street?”

  “Yeah. Where she’s living with Marvin. A loft building. Al … where are you running to now?” said Clarissa, watching him quickly dash into his office, take something out of his top drawer, and rush out again.<
br />
  “Al, your safety strap is off your holster. Al, where are you going? Al?”

  Clarissa’s high-pitched wail followed him out into the hallway.

  V

  Before he reached Pren Street, Bressio snapped on the safety strap of his holster. He did not want it falling out, and although he never told anyone, he felt about it pretty much the way many women feel about their girdles. It was a reminder that his life was not exactly the way one wanted it.

  There probably was nothing to the landlady’s death, just as there was probably nothing to Mary Beth Cutler’s fears. But now he could no longer delay checking it out. He was in it.

  “Ecch,” said Bressio as the taxi sped up First Avenue.

  “Wha?” the driver asked.

  “Nothing,” said Bressio, and he reminded himself not to think of L. Marvin Fleish, for when he did so, he did not notice things with the acuity and perception that had not only kept him alive these many years, but made him financially successful.

  Pren Street was a semi-commercial area set into a cusp of Little Italy about halfway between Canal and Houston Streets, a street of storage houses and darkened gray tenements where old grime ate into brick so the original color was only a suspicion until the wreckers arrived.

  Bressio got out of the cab, his suit moistened by the hot muggy day that could make matches difficult to strike and most people give up moving around.

  Down the street a car turned on its lights, then another and another. So much for the blinking lights following Mary Beth Cutler. They were near a funeral home.

  285 Pren Street was a three-story building of graying cement with very high and very wide unwashed windows. It was the only loft building on the block, so even without a number on the door he knew he was at the right place.

  A half-century before, immigrants toiled in lofts like these, producing cheap garments, their own early deaths, and many successful and famous children.

  Now people were turning these barnlike lofts into living quarters, installing their own hot water heaters and plywood walls. Commercial rents were cheap and the lofts spacious. This combination made a well-remodeled loft very valuable. Often a key to one of them, meaning the right to rent, went for several thousand dollars. Even a cheap rent in New York City was expensive.