Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  The tool hire shop closed at six p.m. and it was now fast approaching the witching hour. That meant Jed had to use the back door to gain entrance to his office. Ordinarily it wasn’t a problem—not if you discounted the steep narrow stairs he’d to mount—and going down the poorly lit alley didn’t ordinarily concern him. If he came across anyone in the alley, it would be a homeless dude scratching through the Dumpsters for discarded food behind Subway or Krispy Kreme. He knew the local street people and they him. Occasionally he’d slip them a few dollars and stay on side with them. But this guy was no hobo.

  ‘You want to fuck with me,’ Jed challenged, as he lifted the steel baton towards the man, ‘you made a big mistake, boy.’

  He’d made more mistakes than lowering his guard. The first was showing his weapon so openly; the second was misjudging the guy who continued towards him unperturbed. This was no kid who thought he’d roll a drunk for the contents of his wallet. The guy had come prepared for a fight, and had dressed for the occasion in an all-in-one coverall, boots, gloves, ski mask and opaque goggles. He also held a weapon, and Jed’s only sense of relief was that it wasn’t a gun. But it was a knife, and every bit as deadly if it stuck him in the right spot.

  Before he lost an inch in height, Jed had been a big man. He was still big, and if he were still fit and healthy, he’d be confident of matching this guy in a fight. But now, unsteady on his feet from both booze and injury, he felt a ripple of terror pass through him. From the confidence in his approach his opponent held no such fear.

  In a choice between fight and flight Jed had only one option. He swung the truncheon in a wide arc that fell a full yard short of the man. ‘Keep the fuck away from me!’ he yelled. ‘Just take one step closer, buddy, and I’m gonna smash you in the head.’

  The masked man halted. But he didn’t back away. He simply stared at Jed, his gaze impenetrable beyond the smoked glass of his goggles. The only visible hint of the man’s identity was in the white of his skin around his mouth, and the whiteness of his teeth as he grinned maliciously at Jed’s bravado.

  ‘I’m telling you, man. You don’t know who you’re messing with.’ Jed swept the baton back again in a second vicious swipe.

  ‘I know exactly who you are,’ said the man.

  ‘Well you know more than I do, man!’ Jed glanced for an escape route. The door to his office was still a dozen paces away, and locked. No way could he make it in time before the weirdo could pounce on his back. He aimed the tip of the steel rod at the man’s face. ‘Who the fuck are you, anyway? What do you want from me?’

  ‘Everything, Boaz,’ said the man, ‘I want everything.’

  Jed slapped at his pocket. ‘Buddy, I’ve about ten bucks to my name. You want it, fucking take it. It’s more than my trouble’s worth.’

  The man shook his head, but didn’t yet approach. He folded away his knife and slipped it into a deep pocket on the coveralls. His confidence was growing exponentially to a point the baton didn’t require a counter weapon. Jed also shook his head in warning: the fucker would learn his mistake at his peril. Jed’s legs were crippled, but he could still swing a metal bar with the best of them.

  ‘I’m giving you one last chance to walk away, buddy. If you don’t, well, I’m putting a dent or two in that skull of yours.’ Despite his words, Jed began backing away. His left heel went into a puddle of filth spilling from the base of a rusting trashcan. The stench of decomposition wafted up around him, smelling much the same as the rank stink pouring out of his pores.

  The man opened his arms, holding out his hands thumbs up, as if begging a question. Or inviting Jed to take another swing. Jed didn’t. He still held the baton between them. It suddenly felt flimsy and insubstantial in his fist.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he said, and hated that he almost whined.

  ‘I told you. I want everything.’ The man inched forward. ‘Everything you took from me.’

  Realisation struck Jed as hard as a punch to the gut.

  ‘It’s you?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t act shocked,’ said the man. ‘You must have known I was coming for you next.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Jed wheezed, and he knew it was now or never. He pushed off his bad knee, jerking forward even as he whipped the baton over his shoulder, building momentum for a slash at the man’s skull. But the man was moving too. Not away, but directly at Jed. His right arm chambered as well, but it was to block Jed’s blow as he snapped down the truncheon. The extendable metal rod whacked the man’s forearm, but with little effect. The baton was designed to concentrate kinetic force into its tip, not up near where it was gripped by its wielder. The blow would leave a welt, but it wasn’t strong enough to break bone, or even deaden nerves, as Jed intended. He yanked back his arm, aiming for another more satisfying cut to the man’s ribs. But the opportunity didn’t arise to land the blow. The man’s clenched left fist struck him under his ribs, and Jed folded over it. He almost vomited, even as he staggered back, his vision threatening to abandon him in a flash of scarlet agony as his guts contracted.

  He sensed more than saw the man move towards him, and he swept the baton sideways out of instinct. A gloved hand snapping down on Jed’s wrist checked it. He attempted to roll his arm free, but as he did so, the man’s other hand grasped the baton and wrenched it away. Jed reared up, shielding his head with his free arm, expecting a blow from his own liberated weapon. Except his head wasn’t the intended target. The tip of the truncheon whipped across his reconstructed knee, putting paid to hours of surgery and years of physiotherapy in an instant. Jed hurt too much to scream. He collapsed over his shattered leg, falling in a huddle at the man’s booted feet, grimacing in torment as he tried to pull his injured knee into an embrace. He was shown no pity. The baton came down on his other leg. This time it was his ankle that exploded in agony. Jed pulled up his freshly hurt limb, huddled over both legs to protect them, but that only left open his head and shoulders to the prolonged and brutal attack that followed.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview of the third mystery in the Henry Swann series by Charles Salzberg, Swann’s Lake of Despair…

  1

  A STARR BURNS BRIGHT

  New York City/Long Beach

  “Goldblatt, you gonna tell me what the hell you wanted to see me about?” I said, as I watched him shovel another forkful of pasta into his mouth, or at least in the general vicinity thereof. Believe me, it was not a pretty sight.

  “Yeah. Sure. After we finish the meal.”

  “I don’t know if I can wait that long. Watching you eat is making me sick.”

  “You got a problem with the way I eat?” he said, as a few droplets of red sauce shot through the air and landed on a glass I’d moved in front of my plate for protection from just such an assault.

  “Exhibit number one,” I said, pointing to the glass.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I said, looking at my watch. I tapped it a couple times. “Look, I’ve got things to do. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  He sucked the last tubes of penne into his face, dragged a half-eaten piece of Italian bread across his plate, stuffed it into his mouth in one piece, wiped his entire face with the napkin that had been tucked into his collar, and leaned back. “Ahhhhh. Good meal, huh?”

  “Excellent,” I said, not even bothering to hide my sarcasm. I doubted he’d get it anyway. My plate of spaghetti or linguine or fettuccine, I couldn’t tell the difference, sat practically untouched in front of me. But I guess he didn’t notice that. Quantity was always better than quality, when it came to Goldblatt. “Now maybe we can discuss the business you said you had for me.”

  “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

  “Screw dessert. If I don’t hear the reason you got me here, I’m leaving.”

  “Okay, okay. I need you to do a solid for me.”

  “I don’t do solids. I learned a long time ago that solids always turn out
to be work and, like beer spilled on a table, it tends to get sticky and spreads out. For work, I get paid. And I doubt that’s going to happen with you. How much have you brought in since you got disbarred?”

  “That’s between me and the IRS.”

  I laughed. “When was the last time you filed your taxes?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Hey, I’m no deadbeat. You wanna get paid, I’ll see to it you get paid.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and waved it in my face.

  “What’d you do, mug an old lady for her life’s savings?”

  “Very funny. You may not believe this, Swann, but I provide valuable services to people and for those services I get paid.”

  “What kind of services?”

  “They vary. I may not be able to practice law anymore, but I know how the law works. I’m a consultant. A facilitator. I get things done.”

  “I’m sure you do. How do I fit in?”

  “I want you to pick up a package for me.”

  “Do I look like the FedEx man? I’m a skip tracer. I find people. I don’t make deliveries.”

  “FedEx don’t deliver packages where I need them to.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Long Beach.”

  “As in California?”

  “As in Long Island.”

  “I’m pretty sure FedEx services Long Beach.”

  “Not when and where I want them to. You familiar with the town?”

  “Yeah. My father grew up there. He’d take us back there to see what family he had left. It used to be a dump, now it’s a poor man’s Hamptons, overrun with weekenders, real estate speculators, Guidos, and religious Jews.”

  He slapped the table. “I knew you were the man for me.”

  “Not so fast, Goldblatt. Truth is, it turns my stomach to go out there. I’m not a man who likes change. And as for nostalgia, that ain’t my thing.”

  “Do I detect the hint of a beating heart, Swann?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a stethoscope hidden under the napkin covering that growing by the minute belly of yours. I need to know what I’m getting into and for how much.”

  “What’s the difference? You take the train out there, you pick up the package, you take the train back, and you give it to me. Simple as that.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Because didn’t you think I’d ask you why you can’t do it? A man like you, Goldblatt, four years of college, three years of law school, assuming, of course, you actually got through law school, knows how to figure out a train schedule.”

  “There are reasons.”

  “Give ’em to me,” I said, knowing that whatever he said would be a lie or at the very least a souped-up version of the truth. Goldblatt was an operator. And he knew that I knew he was an operator. But the truth is, I get a kick out of seeing him operate. It’s a cheap, harmless form of entertainment.

  “I got a bad knee. You saw me limp in here.”

  “You’re full of shit. Maybe you take a few pounds off and those knees of yours wouldn’t have to do so much work.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a little problem with some people who live out there, so if I show my face I might find myself in a little bit of trouble.”

  “That’s almost believable, so you know what, I’m not even going to ask what kind of trouble, because I don’t give a shit. What’s in the package?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Find someone else to be your errand boy,” I said, as I pushed myself away from the table and stood up.

  “Wait. What about dessert?”

  I had to smile. There was no way to deal with Goldblatt other than to treat him as a joke. But he was a friend. The kind of friend you can’t trust but you know it so you still make like he’s a friend. The kind of friend who amuses you in an inexplicably perverse way. The kind of friend you can use without feeling guilty because you know he’d do the same. I sat back down.

  “You think you can stuff dessert into that big, fat gut of yours after what you just ate?”

  “I left some room,” he said, patting his stomach, which seemed to have expanded at least a couple of inches from when we walked into the joint. “And you know, I’m kind of sensitive about my weight.”

  “Jesus, Goldblatt, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “Stick around, Swann, there’s more where that came from.”

  He couldn’t make up his mind between the apple pie and the chocolate cake, so he ordered both. Me, I had nothing. Trying to watch my weight while Goldblatt increased his.

  The deal was simple, or so he said. The next night, I’d go out to Long Beach and meet someone on the boardwalk at precisely 9 p.m., in front of one of the little huts that during the summer months was where the kids issued beach passes. The person, he didn’t know if it would be a he or she, would hand me a package. In return, I’d hand over an envelope, which he’d give me when I agreed to the job. Then, I’d hop back on the train and deliver it to him the next morning in his office, which with Goldblatt meant some cheap, anonymous diner somewhere in the city.

  “I can trust you not to open the package or the envelope, right?” he said, as he dug into the last piece of apple pie, then pushed that plate away and started in on the enormous slab of chocolate layer cake.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Goldblatt,” I said, doing my best to look away from the epicurean spectacle going on in front of me.

  “What’s not to like?”

  “You want me to go to the deserted boardwalk, in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, with no one else around, carrying God knows what, meeting God knows who, for God knows what reason.”

  “Well, if you put it that way…”

  “What the fuck other way is there to put it? And the kicker is, you’re not even paying me for this. Do I look like a moron to you?”

  “You owe me, Swann.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “How many times have you asked me to dig up information for you?”

  “Three.”

  His face fell. “What’re you, keeping count? I thought it was more.”

  “Three. And we’re not exactly talking brain surgery here.”

  “I’m asking you for one favor and then I’ll call it even.”

  I laughed. Because he was entertaining. And because he was persistent. Would it kill me to do a favor for him? No. Was I going to do one for him? Not a chance.

  “Two-fifty plus expenses.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “That’s my bargain, friends and family rate. Take it or leave it.”

  “You’re killing me, Swann.”

  “Tell you what, you explain to me what this is all about and what’s in that package and maybe I’ll knock off a few bucks.”

  He put down his fork, which was unusual for him, since there was still half a slice of cake left on his plate. Putting on his serious face, he lowered his voice and said, “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  I laughed. “And I can trust you? Maybe both of us ought to give it a try.”

  He was silent a moment, looked down at his cake, then whacked off another hunk with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “The name Starr Faithfull mean anything to you?”

  “It’s got a familiar ring, but I can’t quite place it.”

  “In June of 1931, a beachcomber found the body of this beautiful, twenty-five-year-old chick named Starr Faithfull.”

  “And this has what to do with you?”

  “I’ve got a little something going.”

  “Like what?”

  He leaned forward. “This is top secret, Swann.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure the fate of the free world rests on it. Cut the crap, Goldblatt. You know and I know it’s got everything to do with…” I rubbed my fingers together, “and in that case, we’re on the same page. You want me to get
into something I need to know what it is. And I need to get paid for it.”

  “Okay, okay. Faithfull was a slut who was involved with a bunch of important people, and some of them might have wanted her dead. Even her own sister supposedly said, ‘I’m not sorry she’s dead. She’s happier. Everybody’s happier.’ You know the kind of chick I mean. Anyway, the DA at the time admitted lots of people in high places would rest easier with her dead. They did an autopsy and found she was full of Veronal, the Ecstasy of its day. The coroner ruled it death by drowning, but the DA said it was ‘brought about by someone interested in closing her lips.’ Not long before she died she wrote a friend saying she was playing ‘a dangerous game,’ and that there was no ‘telling where I’ll land.’ She was leading this double life, see. She went to the finest finishing schools, but she was also a wild child, like that Paris Hilton chick or one of the Kardashians, Khloe, Zoe, Shmoey, whatever. Shit, I can’t keep straight one from the other. Can you? Anyway, she was heavy into drugs and sleeping around. One of her boyfriends was this guy, Andrew Peters, a former mayor, ex-congressman, and Woodrow Wilson’s assistant secretary of the treasury. His wife was Starr’s mother’s first cousin.”

  “Get to the point, Goldblatt.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Swann. I’m getting there. Starr left a couple diaries along with a bunch of letters, some of them filled with suicidal thoughts. But her father claimed they were forgeries. One of the diaries told all about her fourteen years of sexual, shall we say, adventures, with close to twenty guys, including British aristocrats and well-heeled Manhattan playboys. A lot of them gave her money. Apparently, one of them was Peters. The Daily News did this investigation and found that Starr’s stepfather was nearly broke and that a few days before Starr disappeared he’d traveled to Boston to get payoffs from Peters. The question is, for what?”

  “I still don’t know what all this has to do with you,” I said, tapping the face of my watch.