Walking the Perfect Square

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Walking the Perfect Square Page 23

by Reed Farrel Coleman


  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded. “Take your prop and get the fuck outta my office.”

  I closed my eyes so I could see. I shut my ears so I could listen.

  “When you pulled his coat out of the bag, you seemed scared and relieved, but not happy. That confused me for a second,” I explained. “I can understand the relief. What father wouldn’t feel relief? But why scared and why not happy?”

  “Get out!”

  “Patrick told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me,” he scoffed. “Told me what?”

  I ignored him. “Almost everything makes sense then: Why you refer to him as the boy. Why you used a dated picture on the poster. The son you loved, the boy you really wanted to find, didn’t exist anymore.”

  “For the last time, get—”

  “You thought he was dead, didn’t you? Or was that wishful thinking? Would have been neater that way. Better a dead son than a breathing queer, huh?”

  For a man his age, Maloney jumped over the desk with great agility. Good thing for me I expected it and slid, if somewhat clumsily, out of the way. Using my good leg, I kicked him a shot in the kidney. That took the starch out of him. He curled up, choking in pain and gasping for breath.

  “So he told you,” I shouted at Maloney. “Do you have any idea the balls it took for him to come to you first? I like your son only slightly more than I like you. But it took courage to go to you. What I wanna know is, what did you say to him? What spooked him?”

  In a surreal transformation, Francis Maloney’s gasps turned to laughter. I don’t mean giggles or cynical, sneering stage laughter. I mean belly-holding, side-splitting, choking laughter. When the laughter died down, he sat up.

  “The Internal Affairs report,” he said, rubbing his left kidney. “What horrible crime did it say I perpetrated on the good people of New York City?”

  “That you assaulted several patrons outside a night club without provocation,” I summarized.

  “I thought Jews were supposed to be smart.”

  “We’re supposed to be rich, too. That’s why I drive a Plymouth Fury.”

  “Do you suppose in the year 1964,” he wondered, “before anyone had heard of the Knapp Commission or installed a civilian review board, that roughing up a few drunks would have been enough to get a man thrown off the job?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Even now, a cop’d probably only get suspended for a while, lose some time.”

  “Okay then. Even if I were to admit, which I do, that all charges alleged in the IA report are true, do you think I’d fight so hard to not have the report leaked? What harm could it do me? Conversely, if it was the report itself that was so damning, do you suppose my detractors would have gone through the hijinks they did to have it leaked through a man like yourself? Is that not right?”

  “Good questions.”

  “And did you take notice, Mr. Rocket J. Scientist, that none of these allegedly assaulted patrons chose to press formal charges against me nor did any of them file a civil suit?”

  “I did.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I don’t know, but what’s this got to do with—”

  “Think, man. Think!”

  “Okay,” I threw up my hands. “Let’s say they were black or Puerto Ricans, back then—”

  “That’s better, but wrong. In ’64 they passed that godforsaken Civil Rights Act. Word was passed down that we had to tap-dance around the niggers and learn a word or two of Spanish for the spics. Come on, boyo, you’re on the right track.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Well,” Maloney shrugged, “it was you who mentioned fags in the first place, wasn’t it?”

  “Why didn’t the IA report say—”

  “The IA report didn’t say a lot of things. Did it not seem strange to you that all the men giving statements were referred to by number, not by name and that the location of the incident was never specified? It was 1964, Prager! A cop could bash queers all he liked. What were they gonna do, report it to the papers? In those days, a homo would lose his job if his cock-sucking became public knowledge. For the most part, they took all we could give ’em.”

  “If all that’s true, then why’d you lose your badge?”

  “I was a few years on the job and just off duty. I’m in a bar having a few to unwind when a husky-throated broad comes and takes the stool next to mine.” His icy eyes sparkled as his spoke. “She was fine-looking in her print dress and smelled like a million bucks. We get to talking about the job and she says she’s a fool for cops and would I like to go outside with her for a few minutes. Around back of the bar, she started working on me before I could count to three. When she’s had her fill, she stands up and tells me it’s my turn. But when I reach for her box, there’s a—”

  “She was a transvestite.”

  “Indeed, you do get the picture.”

  “You roughed him up, huh?”

  “Oh, I did more than rough him up. Since my little boyfriend was so fond of policemen, I introduced him to the tools of the trade.” Maloney smiled cruelly. “You should’ve heard him scream when I rammed the barrel of my .38 up his ass. A few of the patrons did. I think the fairy thought I was gonna pull the trigger. He cried with relief when I yanked it out. That was a mistake. You see, my .38 was dirty now. Someone had to clean it.”

  I felt queasy. “You didn’t . . .”

  “But I did, keeping my finger on the trigger just to make sure he did a good job. It’s not as if he wasn’t familiar with the flavor, was it?”

  “The report said there were—”

  “—others involved,” he spoke over me. “There were. Like I said, people inside the bar had heard the screaming. Poor Kitty Genovese screamed her fucking head off and they ignored her. But this little cocksucker screams and they come running. Some took objection to the gun in his mouth. Two of ’em even had the . . . what’s the word you people use? Chu . . . Chu something.”

  “Chutzpah.”

  “That’s it! Two of them had the chutzpah to try and stop me. I used to carry a leather blackjack in those days. It was a little thing, but it hurt like a son of a bitch. Just ask the two queer-lovers who got in my way. I broke the one’s cheekbone and three fingers on the other one’s hand.

  “I almost got away with it, too. I claimed I was forced to defend myself against citizens who were interfering with the arrest of a male prostitute. The citizens were understandably confused, I said, as I was out of uniform and the prostitute was made up as a woman. Had one of the patrons—the one with the smashed cheekbone, as I recall—not been the half-brother of a city councilman, the whole thing would have been swept under the rug. As it turned out, the councilman’s brother liked sausage as well. Had he not, I could have lost more than my job.”

  “I can see,” I said, “why you wouldn’t want a reporter like Conrad Beaman getting a hold of the IA report. He would have smelled coverup and started digging. He’d have buried you.”

  “I fear he would have, yes. And do you know what the shame of it is?”

  There was plenty of shame, I thought, to go around, but said: “You go ahead and tell me.”

  “It was the best damn blow job I ever had.”

  “You’re a sick bastard, Maloney.”

  “That was the boy’s sentiments exactly when I told him what his father had done. Only for him, I didn’t gloss over any of the details. I offered him my gun to see if he wanted to try it on for size.”

  “Your son comes to you in distress and you offer him your gun to . . . do what, to kill himself?” At that moment I was so filled with loathing and disgust I wanted to explode. How could Katy be this twisted man’s daughter?

  “You know, he took the gun,” Maloney said, almost proudly. “But, alas, he was a faggot through and through. He started crying like a little girl.”

  “Then this whole thing—the search parties, the posters—it was all an elaborate sham.”

  �
��No,” he protested, “I was hoping we’d find a body for his mother’s sake. So, where is he and how much do you want?”

  “You’re nuts! I wouldn’t tell you where he was for all the—”

  “Well, how much then? I’m a man of my word.”

  “You’re not any kind of man. You’re a cancer.”

  “Don’t be so naive, Prager. The only kind of man worth knocking down is one who’s sitting higher than the rest. Name your price.”

  “You want my price, okay.” I put my face right up to his. “Quit! Quit today, tonight. Walk away from your job and the party activities gracefully before it gets really ugly. You’re smart enough to know that your enemies won’t stop because they misread me. You were lucky this time. They didn’t know about Patrick being gay. They were just using his disappearance as an opening, hoping Beaman could dig up your skeletons. Next time they won’t be so clumsy and your son won’t be conveniently absent. They’ll take you down and everyone around you.”

  “See, I knew you were a clever Jew. But why would you want to protect me?”

  “Not you, asshole, your family. I don’t want Katy to know what’s happened here today, none of it! For some reason I will never understand, she loves you. I don’t think she needs the burden of knowing who and what you really are. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. As far as Patrick goes, he can speak for himself when he turns back up. He can tell who he wants what he wants. But nothing out of your mouth.”

  “And you, will you not tell my daughter what you know?”

  “I just said—”

  “I’ll meet your price,” he cut me off, the disdain heavy in his voice. “You’re a fool to sell yourself so cheaply and to believe in secrets. When more than one person knows anything, secrets can’t exist.”

  “But you’re a man of your word,” I spit his vow back at him.

  “Do Jews believe in ghosts, Prager?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’ll keep my word. Now get out!”

  He didn’t have to ask me again. I would have run if I could have.

  Not wanting to be stained by the black-hearted man in the corner office, the sun no longer lingered at the garage’s flat rooftop. In my car, I cut the brace off my throbbing knee. That done, I sat for what seemed hours watching as road trucks fat with asphalt rumbled by. The stink of hot tar was no longer just from the furnace of my imagination.

  I should have been happy, I thought, calculating the sum of the parts. I’d found Patrick in spite of the all doubts and roadblocks. I’d found his sister, a woman I could love and one who could love me. I’d rediscovered ambition and self-confidence and my right jab. I’d even begun to form friendships outside the job for the first time in a decade. By all accounts, I’d won. But my life wasn’t simple math and never did victory taste so bitter as it did just then. I was changed.

  Finally driving away, I caught a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror. They were vaguely foreign to me and I thought I could see the faint outline of a ghost. Accelerating onto the entrance ramp for the expressway, I forced myself not to look back.

  February 18th, 1978

  AS DIFFICULT AS it had been to confront Francis Maloney, I knew today had the potential to be worse. Maloney hadn’t meant anything to me. He was just an awful little man who turned out to be smaller and more cruel once you scratched the surface. And maybe I would never feel completely clean again for having made a deal with him, but Rico was something else altogether. I had loved and trusted Rico. Now I would have to undo with my head what my heart still fiercely wanted to feel.

  I’d kept the phone off the hook all night, trying to work out how to approach my old friend. So I got no calls and no sleep and failed to come up with a blessed thing. Ironically, like so many times before, Rico bailed me out. Almost the second I put the phone back in its cradle, it started ringing.

  “Hey buddy, how ya doin’?” Rico asked with a big grin in his voice.

  “Tired. Couldn’t sleep. What’s going on?”

  “You up for lunch today?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Geez, Moe, your enthusiasm’s killin’ me.”

  “Sorry. I’m beat.”

  “Well, go back to bed,” he advised. “Let’s say we meet at Villa Conte’s at one. And screw Karl Malden, leave your American Express card at home. Lunch is on me.”

  Located on 4th Avenue near the Verrazano Bridge, Villa Conte’s was atypical of Italian restaurants in Brooklyn. The menu featured recipes from the north of Italy: no meatballs, red sauce or lasagna here. Conte’s was renowned for its veal dishes and wine sauces. It was equally famous for its high prices and snooty waitstaff.

  Rico was all smiles and hugs when we met. Everything was roses in Rico Tripoli’s world today. Even when the waiter sneered condescendingly at Rico for his crude Sicilian dialect, Rico let it roll off his shoulders.

  “I ordered for us,” he said, holding onto the waiter’s arm. “First we’re gonna have a green salad with champagne vinaigrette. After that there’s grilled portobello mushrooms. Then we’re havin’ an appetizer portion of tortellini in cream sauce. The main course is a double-stuffed veal chop with asparagus in white wine and lemon. That okay with you?”

  When I nodded my approval, he let go of the waiter’s arm. The waiter looked at his forearm as if he wanted it amputated.

  “That’s a lot of food,” I commented. “What are we celebrating?”

  Just then, a man in a beautifully tailored silk suit—the owner, I assumed—arrived at the table with drinks. He bowed, placing a glass before each of us: “Due Campari.”

  “Campari tastes like Vick’s Formula 44,” I protested, “only it doesn’t help your cough.”

  “It’s good for your digestion,” Rico countered. “Just drink it. The wine’s comin’ with the food.”

  We ate the salad, mushrooms and tortellini in relative silence. As advertised, the food was incredibly good. But I was already stuffed. Having anticipated this, Rico told the waiter not to start cooking the veal until he gave the word. I asked again about what we were celebrating.

  “The word came down last night,” he said, puffing out his chest, “I’m gettin’ my gold shield.”

  I congratulated him, raised my wine glass and signaled to the waiter.

  “Champagne,” I ordered, explaining that I was to be billed for it. The waiter liked that.

  I think he liked even better that I didn’t ask how much. Rico blushed, pleading that it wasn’t necessary. I disagreed. He let me win.

  The sparkling wine poured, I toasted my old friend and clinked his glass. “So you broke this big case you’ve been working on, huh?”

  “Not exactly,” Rico squirmed a little. “We’re close there . . . anytime now.”

  I claimed not to understand. How could he make detective without making a big case? Gold shields were hard to come by in the best of times and now with the city always on the verge of fiscal meltdown, they were nearly impossible to get. He squirmed some more, giving the waiter the sign to start cooking the veal. Rico suddenly decided he’d rather not talk about his making detective.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Francis Maloney’s unexpected retirement,” I asked innocently between sips of champagne, “would it?”

  Rico didn’t spit out his wine in mock surprise. He didn’t stand, throw his napkin down and storm out in a cloud of indignation. He’d been found out and he knew it.

  “I told ’em you was too smart for your own damn good,” he said. “I warned ’em you’d catch on sooner or later. Which one was it, sooner or later?”

  “Sooner, but it wasn’t you. I didn’t connect the dots to you until late in the game. Sully, on the other hand, was about as subtle as a blind elephant. He should’ve let me stumble into things instead of serving ’em up on silver platters. My good fortune made me suspicious.”

  “I warned ’em. I warned ’em,” he repeated. “But they were worried that the kid would turn up before they co
uld get the shit on Maloney out to the public. If the kid turned up too soon, they were afraid Gotham magazine would kill the story.”

  “They, who’s they?” I wondered.

  Fidgeting with his fork, he said: “Powerful people.”

  “Powerful enough to buy you off with a shield.”

  “Powerful enough to get ya back on the job, if that’s what ya want, with a shield a your own,” he offered like a mother’s kiss to make the hurt go away. “They were impressed that ya got Maloney to quit without givin’ up . . . you know, the stuff about the fags. How’d you do that, anyways?”

  I’d like to say I wasn’t tempted by his offer of a return to the job, that a shield gotten with a nod and a wink wasn’t worth having, but I was tempted. There’s no doubt in my mind people had sold more than their self-respect for a gold shield. Having gotten a taste of detective work and realizing how much I missed the job made the offer all that more appealing. But I was weary of making deals. It had to stop somewhere. I just didn’t tell Rico. As long as he thought I was interested in the bait, he’d keep his line in the water. There was more I wanted to know.

  “Don’t you worry about what music I played to make Maloney do a jig,” I snapped. “Why’d they want to get rid of the bastard in the first place? You did say he was a big-time fund raiser, right? So why get rid of him at all and why go through all of the shenanigans to do it?”

  Looking a little shaken, Rico excused himself and made for the bathroom. That was all right. I needed some time to myself, to organize my thoughts. When he returned, Rico seemed steadier, calmer. I reminded him that he’d left some questions hanging. Unfortunately for me, they were going to have to stay that way.

  “To tell you the truth, old buddy, I’m in no position to answer much about Francis Maloney,” he regretted to say. “That’s all political crap that I got nothin’ to do with.”

  I didn’t quite believe him and guessed he must have used his time away to make a phone call to his handlers. But I couldn’t afford to antagonize him if I wanted my answers, so I tried a different line of questioning. These were questions he couldn’t sluff off on somebody else. They were questions about us.

 

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