by Ed Dee
"I believe you. Your partner is another matter. He sold those black binders without you knowing it; no telling what else he did behind your back."
Kevin was hustling from one table to the next. Grace was telling him to "bend a leg." Eddie figured she meant "shake a leg." He loved the way the kids today were comfortable around adults. It wasn't like that when he was growing up. But it was a trade-off. In his day, the kids from the North End learned discipline and were pushed by the nuns and priests at St. Joseph's and Sacred Heart, and all the now-closed Catholic grade schools in every parish in Yonkers. Even the street kids, like the Dunnes and Pankos, came away with a great education.
"I have no idea why Paulie's head wound up at my door, Babsie."
"I don't doubt that for a second," she said. "But you gotta understand: Nobody trusted your partner, so they're gonna assume you're the same kind of guy."
"Paulie liked living large," Eddie said. "But he wasn't a money vacuum. It was more about the thrill of the scam. He was a guy who'd drive ten miles out of his way to buy a pack of untaxed cigarettes."
Eddie told her about the first time he met Paulie Caruso. It was in the squad room in the Coney Island precinct. Paulie took him out drinking. They left the precinct in a late-model Cadillac Seville. At some point during the evening, Eddie found a green NYPD property voucher above the visor. When he read it, he realized they were cruising around in a car used in a homicide two years earlier. It was seized as evidence by Detective Paul Caruso, and he'd been examining it for 23,000 miles.
"People think money was skimmed from the Rosenfeld robbery," she said.
"I know. It was all we heard from cops for months after that. But you know how cops are. Any time someone turns in a lot of money, his brother officers say the same thing: 'I wonder how much was really there.'"
"I read the reports," she said. "I think he grabbed the money in the park that day, and someone knows."
Immediately after the shooting, Eddie drove to find a telephone to call it in. Paulie the Priest waited at the scene. Eddie found a phone near the service road. Like he told IAB, he couldn't see the Dodge Charger, and he lost sight of Paulie. They knew all this anyway; they'd checked the phone he'd used. But he was positive no one else had entered or left the lot while he was gone; he returned less than ten minutes later. He'd been able to see the entrance to the lot the whole time.
"Okay," she said. "Where do we go from here?"
Babsie meant with the case, but he hesitated, thinking she'd read his mind. He'd been thinking about her. What was the state of Babsie Panko's social life? He knew she'd been divorced for years. She hadn't mentioned boyfriends.
"To look for Sergei Zhukov," he said.
"You know where to look?"
"Richie Costa gave me some good hints."
"After he sucker punched you, he helps you out. He must have had some change of heart. I wonder what happened to make him suddenly see the light."
"I don't remember you being this sarcastic," Eddie said.
"It's become my best quality," she replied. "When are you going to follow up on Richie's good hints?"
'Tonight."
"I'll get someone to watch Grace and go with you."
"You can't, Babsie. What I'm doing isn't exactly legal."
Grace played "Earth Angel" and was dancing around, hugging an imaginary partner, assaulting him with a very theatrical smooch. Eddie imitated her, so she exaggerated even more.
"Roughly, how illegal?"
"I've answered questions all day, Babsie. Can we change the subject?"
"Okay, how about this: Is Kevin making money with this place? The neighborhood isn't what it used to be, to put it mildly."
"He's doing good now-especially since B.J. came here. Bartenders make or break your place."
For whatever reason, people were drifting back to the North End Tavern. Nights were solid and afternoons, especially Saturday, were drawing more guys, some stopping in after golf somewhere. Old faces were showing up after a spin through the old neighborhood. Most of them hadn't been on the block in twenty years.
"B.J.'s a legend," Eddie said. "He brought a following."
"And what about your following?" Babsie said. "All those fifty-year-old ex-prom queens who show up nights you're behind the stick. I hear they're cashing their alimony checks at the bar."
"Yeah, but they fall asleep by eleven."
"Granpop," Grace yelled. She stood on a wobbly chair next to a posed picture of Eddie in boxing trunks. He struck the pose for her from his seat. She put up her fists and made a valiant attempt at a game face.
"She's a great kid, Eddie. She really loves you."
"I know. She thinks I can do anything. What happens when I can't find her mother?"
"We're going to find her. If you ever let anybody help you."
"Not tonight," he said, looking up at the clock. "Tonight, I can't."
Eddie wondered why he'd never really looked closely at Babsie Panko before. Since his last drink, he'd come to think of himself as a man who'd had amnesia. The beauty of it was that the life he discovered had always been his.
"How do you think they got Paulie's head over here?" Babsie said.
"I'm thinking it either came by ship or was mailed to one of the private boxes in Brighton Beach."
"I can't get my mailman to walk up five steps," she said. "But heads they deliver."
Chapter 23
Friday
9:45 p.m.
Sergei Zhukov's Cadillac sat at a meter in the parking lot on Brighton Eighth. The cars around it ran the high-roller gamut from world-class rides to death traps. Almost every car contained a Racing Form, a newspaper turned to the sports page, or some new casino rag with an article on the latest foolproof system. The high rollers always find the action, Eddie thought. Sitting under a streetlight with the motor running was a black Mercedes. The driver wore a Yankees hat that fit his oversized skull like a blue stocking. He flipped the pages of a magazine and looked up every now and then to check for newly arrived players. He was Eddie's backup plan. If what Richie Costa had said about the luggers was true, plan A needed to work.
Thirty minutes prior to closing, Eddie entered M & I International Foods. He asked for the catering manager, then walked the aisles while they hunted her down. Display cases loomed on both sides of him, food piled shoulder-high. Blinis, dumplings, cheeses, and stuffed cabbage stretched to the back of the store, where you turned into a larger room with counters for the cooked foods. Russian émigrés who remembered long breadlines and meatless months under seven decades of Soviet rule had to be overwhelmed in the M & I. Right there, on Brighton Beach Avenue, were two floors of meats, sausages, chickens, prepared foods, caviar, chocolate, and breads. It must have seemed like a dream.
During his years working for Lukin, Eddie often accompanied him on tops to M & I. The old man loved to force-feed him samples of dozens of different smoked fish, endless shish kebabs, specialties like Georgian eggplant caviar, and brined cabbage turned a ruby red with beets. "Look at this bounty, Russian bounty," Lukin would say. He once told Eddie that one thing the Russian mafiya had in common with American cops was that they both hated the Communists. The bastards deprived the Russian people of the right to enjoy their own food. Then he'd hand Eddie a spoonful of smetana, a thick Russian sour cream ladled out of vats, or some lethal Russian mustard or horseradish.
The women who worked the counters and cash registers all wore starched white uniforms and lace caps. So when Eddie saw a hatchet-faced woman in a tweed business suit marching toward him, he knew she was management.
"Hi, I'm Desmond Shanahan," Eddie said. He apologized for not having brought his business cards, then explained he was a business rep for an international artichoke dealer. His company was trying to break into the Russian market and had invited a group of Russian businessmen to discuss the possibilities. They wanted to impress a maximum of thirty guests with a feast of M &
I's best, delivered to the hotel conference
room. Money was no object.
She walked Eddie through the aisles, suggesting various options. He told her the exact menu could be worked out later. He had a budget of ten thousand dollars but could go higher. Only one problem: The delivery would have to be late. What would be the latest they could deliver? She said special arrangements could be made for an order that substantial. "Select the best," he said, encouraging her; "do not cut corners."
He asked if they often did late deliveries. "In fact," she said, "we have one going out later tonight."
"I know I'm accused of being too thorough," Eddie said, "but could I see the vehicle you use for these deliveries?"
She looked puzzled, but she took him out behind the store and pointed to a fairly late-model white Dodge van with the company logo on the side. It was the only delivery vehicle, and it was cleaned on a daily basis. Then Eddie gave her his usual Desmond Shanahan Manhattan phone number, which he knew would ring endlessly on some desk in the office of the New York City Employee Benefits Programs on Church Street. He took her card and assured her he'd be in contact on Monday.
Patience, Eddie knew, was the keystone of the surveillance arts. He sat in his Olds until almost midnight, at which point the back door of the M & I opened and a white-coated man loaded five covered trays into the back of the van. Someone locked the door behind him.
The tail was easy. Eddie stayed a block behind the Dodge van, but he could have been on the guy's bumper. No one expects you to follow the food, he thought. They went down Coney Island Avenue to Fort
Hamilton Parkway, where the van stopped at a small frame house that faced the BMT yards and backed up on Greenwood Cemetery. A broad-backed man helped the driver carry the trays into the house. From the way the guy checked out the street, Eddie knew he had the right place.
When the van pulled away, Eddie got out and approached the house. He came at a side angle, trying to see if he could get near a window. The blinds were shut. He didn't know what room or even what floor the game was on. Getting closer wasn't worth the risk. "Trust your instincts," the Priest had always said.
Only one car was parked in the driveway, but five trays of Russian food had just gone in. No doubt this was the game. If Sergei was as sick as Richie Costa had said, he'd be at some game. Gamblers are the worst junkies; they will not rest until they find action. And they can't get their fix on just any corner.
Eddie took a quick drive around the neighborhood. He knew the players would be on their own as far as transportation back to their cars. Most would call for a cab and have it meet them a block or two away, probably New Utrecht Avenue. Chances were good that Sergei would make an early exit on a Friday night. He had to keep tabs on the Eurobar. If he didn't protect his own interests, some snot-nosed bastard would jump right in his shoes.
Eddie sat back, settling in for the long haul. He dismantled the car's interior light, then checked his equipment: rope, tape, and stolen handcuffs. He wore a carpenter's pouch tied around his waist. The Smith & Wesson.38 rested in the small of his back, sitting in a stiff leather holster he'd bought behind police headquarters on Centre Street when Wagner was mayor. He took a sip of the soda bought from the M & I. It had a picture of a tiger on the can, but he had no idea what the flavor was. Maybe cream, but he wouldn't swear to it.
His old partner had hated the waiting. Paulie had always tried to spook the quarry by any means possible. If the Priest were here now, he'd be sending a bouquet of flowers to the door, then an ambulance, or an undertaker. All would be asking for the subject by name. His idea was to make it too uncomfortable for the suspect to stay inside for long. Bad guys were always antsy. Sooner or later, the suspect would bolt, and then he'd be theirs.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. when the first player walked out the door. Eddie focused the binoculars on the doorway, hoping to use the available light. Too tall for Sergei, but light was going to be a problem. The cops today probably had night-vision goggles. They had a lot of advantages today. The cell phone being the biggest, in his opinion.
Technology, however, was no match for luck, and this was Eddie's lucky day. Twenty minutes later, a pissed-off Sergei Zhukov slammed the door behind him. No doubt it was Sergei. The height, the weight, the hairstyle, the waddling walk. A little drunk, but it was him. Eddie let him walk to the corner before he started the Olds.
With his headlights off, Eddie moved to the intersection. He watched Sergei waddle to the next block, going toward New Utrecht. Eddie opened the car door a crack and held it with his left hand. He waited a few beats more, until Sergei was in the middle of the dark stretch opposite the subway yards; then he turned his bright lights on and drove right at him. Sergei glanced over his shoulder, but too late. At thirty miles an hour, Eddie held the door as a battering ram and slammed into the Russian. Briefly airborne, Sergei slammed to the ground, tumbling over. Eddie jumped out, holding the rope in his teeth. Sergei was on his hands and knees. Eddie grabbed his legs and dragged him back until they were both hidden by the Olds; then he rode him until he was flat, facedown. He pulled the stunned Russian's arms behind him and handcuffed him quickly. Eddie took the rope from his teeth and began tying Zhukov's legs, like a rodeo cowboy working against the clock. A car's lights swept over them. Sergei started yelling. Eddie pushed his face to the ground. All he needed was a patrol car; no way his timing could be worse. But it wasn't a cop; it was a taxi, probably looking for Sergei. Eddie yelled, "He's fine, just a little drunk." The taxi pulled away. The lettering on the door said bay ridge limos, not good samaritans, inc.
Eddie took a roll of duct tape from his pocket and ran it one time around Sergei's face, but he held his mouth wide-open and the tape went inside. Eddie kept rolling tape, winding it five or six times around Sergei's head, as if his skull were a maypole. The hard object Eddie thought was a gun in Sergei's pocket turned out to be a pint of vodka. He yanked the Russian to his knees, then to his feet. He wrapped his arms around him and carried him to the back of the Olds, bent him over his open trunk, then stuffed him inside and slammed it shut.
Sergei kicked for the length of time it took Bruce Springsteen to sing "Born in the USA." The more he kicked, the louder the music. Finally, he stopped. Eddie drove to the parking lot in Marine Park, the same park where he and the Priest had killed the crazy bastards who murdered Marvin Rosenfeld and his beautiful wife, Svetlana. He parked at the far end and turned the Olds around to face the entrance. He walked around back and opened the trunk. He didn't need to take out the bulb; Sergei had broken it with his feet.
"Fuck you" was the first thing Sergei said when Eddie took the tape off his mouth. Some skin and a fair amount of black hair came with it. Eddie shoved the old tape in the carpenter's pouch.
"You want my money, take my money," Sergei said. "Stupid fucking American slob. Go ahead, look in my pockets. Ten thousand dollars, more money than you'll make in your stupid fuckin' life. Go ahead, take it."
"Look at me," Eddie said. He waited until he saw the slow recognition cross Sergei's face.
"The cop," he said.
"Not a cop anymore, so it doesn't matter what the hell I do to you."
"Oh, Mr. Tough Cop, look, I'm shaking at your scari-ness. You think you can fucking scare me, American pussy? You don't know shit about me. I'll rip your heart out of your chest and eat it like Big Mac. Untie me, go ahead. If you are a man, go ahead."
"I'll untie you," Eddie said. 'Tell me where my daughter is and I'll untie you."
"Your daughter?" he said. "Your daughter is in Brooklyn."
"How do you know that?"
"I saw her when I fucked her. I fucked her in the ass."
Eddie hit him so hard, the back of Sergei's head dented the metal wheel well. He closed the trunk and walked away, pacing back and forth in the darkened parking lot.
When he opened it again, the Russian was breathing hard, as if he'd run a distance. But he had enough wind to laugh. Eddie hit him again, then pulled back, regretting it. He needed him conscious.
"You ca
n hit no harder than that?" Sergei said. "My mother hits harder than that."
"Where in Brooklyn is my daughter?"
"In my bed. I left her in my bed."
"You're a lying piece of shit," Eddie said as he pulled Sergei's legs out of the trunk. "Tell me where she is."
"Check my dick," he said. "See if your daughter is there."
Eddie took Sergei's wallet, keys, vodka, and cell phone. He stuffed them in the carpenter's pouch. The roll of bills was thicker than Eddie's wrist. Ten grand might be close. He held Sergei's leg away from the car and put the barrel against the Russian's left foot. Once again, he asked him about Kate.
"On the bed, I told you, waiting for me to fuck her again."
Eddie fired; the muzzle illuminated the dark corner of the parking lot. Sergei grunted, blew air out through his nose. The bullet had ripped through the upper leather and exited the sole, a jagged, nearly round hole. At least one toe was gone. Sergei growled in Russian, his face shining now with sweat.
"Where did you last see her?"
"On my Russian dick," he said, his voice gravelly, coming from deep inside him.
Eddie fired again. Son of a bitch, he thought, this isn't helping anything. But the scumbag in his trunk deserved everything coming to him. Next, I'll shoot his Russian dick off, see how tough he is. Why these bastards play this game, I'll never know. It must be something in the way they live-something horrible-that makes them care so little about life. Live or die, it's all the same to them as long as they're big men. "Russian ego," Lukin had said, "is their downfall."
"So this is what makes a Russian a man," Eddie said. "Raping a little girl like my daughter, only twelve years old."
"Old enough to bleed, old enough for butcher," he said. "I like young ones, virgins like your daughter."
"I bet you loved her straight black hair," Eddie said.
"I wipe my ass with her black hair," Sergei said.
Sergei knew nothing about Kate, beyond the fact she'd been kidnapped. Stupid son of a bitch, why didn't he just admit he didn't know where she was? It was more important to him to play the Russian tough guy. Screw him. Eddie put the gun back in the holster. He had to get out before someone called the cops. He'd wasted hours tracking Sergei Zhukov, and it had taken only five minutes to discover he'd abducted an idiot. Psycho bastard. They were all psychos. He rewrapped Sergei's mouth, not sparing the duct tape. He poured the bottle of vodka over Sergei's wounded toes, then hit him one more time before slamming the trunk down.