Isaac had invited him to talk with the Merliners. He looked like a bum next to the young banker.
“Why playgrounds, Porter, when you won’t help struggling businessmen?”
“It’s simple. The money for the playgrounds comes out of my own pocket. I don’t expect a return in capital. I’m investing in kids who will use the basketballs I donate.”
“But you’re not concerned about where they live, or whether their moms and dads can find a job.”
“I am concerned,” Porter said, “but I can’t blind myself, I can’t piss away capital. The Bronx is a bad risk at best.”
“Couldn’t you encourage small businessmen?”
“I do. But not with the bank’s money.”
“For Christ’s sake, Porter, give the fucking borough a chance to survive.”
Porter bit into another cookie. “You ought to watch your language, Mr. Mayor. We’re among children.”
“Ah,” Isaac said, “they know me by now … I get excited. I curse. It means nothing.”
“But it means something to me. Respect that.”
“Sorry,” Isaac said. “Merliners, I apologize.”
“Cure the problem, Mr. Mayor. You can’t even count on the Yankees anymore.”
“Should I kidnap J. Michael Storm?”
“No. Just have his daughter deny him her cookies for life.”
“I don’t bake cookies for Dad,” Marianna said. “I never did. But Uncle Isaac is right. Your bank ought to have deeper pockets.”
“I wish it could. But I’d have to see other signs of caring, other signs of life … it’s a question of supply and demand, and the Bronx has too little of each.”
“There’s lots of supply where I come from, and even more demand,” said Bernardo Dublin, who’d arrived from the Castle Motel in a red vest, a fury in his pale green eyes. “We’re plenty rich, and we have our own bankers.”
“Rich in what?” Porter asked, ready to bait a half-breed cop.
“Rocks,” Bernardo said.
“Ah, we’re studying geology now. Bronx sandstone and schist.”
“No. I’m talking crack, the real economy of El Bronx. Drugs, Mr. Endicott, which are sold in the playgrounds you build.”
“Bernardo,” Isaac said, “that isn’t fair. Cut it out.”
“Let him finish,” the banker said.
“Money flows right off the street … it circulates from fist to fist. It requires a glass pipe and a little blowtorch.”
“Ah, the underground growth of the Bronx.”
“It isn’t so underground, Mr. Endicott.”
“And I should finance factories in the middle of gang wars.”
“The gangs have their own factories,” Bernardo said. “They don’t need any of yours.”
“And what are you doing about it, Detective Dublin?”
“It’s business, just like your bank. When you have a buyer, a seller will always appear.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Porter said. “The cops are asleep … or corrupt.”
“They’re both,” Bernardo said.
Isaac shuffled between them. “That’s enough.”
Bernardo smiled. “Not everyone’s fortunate enough to have Isaac as a mentor. He took me off the street. But the cops are only chameleons. They reflect what the whole society wants them to reflect … nobody cares about El Bronx, so it cares about itself.”
“And what do you propose I do?”
“Nothing,” Bernardo said. “You couldn’t change the street with all the playgrounds in the world.”
“Bernardo,” Isaac said.
“Boss, should I dance, should I sing? Should I entertain the Merliners with lovely little lies?”
“I’m not your boss,” Isaac said. “I’m a mayor with a mansion, that’s all. And Porter is our guest.”
“Then let him act like one.”
The Merliners clustered around Porter Endicott, who’d come with gifts from his own bank, pen and pencil sets with the Endicott logo: a long silver line. But Marianna kept away from him. She wasn’t in the mood for pens and pencils. She wanted Alyosha.
Isaac ground his teeth and whispered in Bernardo’s ear. “Did you have to go and antagonize him, huh? He’s our only friend on the Financial Control Board.”
“He still sucks.”
“And you’re a sweetheart, huh? My big idealist. Do you have something to tell me, Bernardo? About Clarice?”
“I’m in love with the lady.”
“And you didn’t come into the picture wearing a mask?”
“If I did, boss, I copied from you … we’re both Fantômas freaks.”
“Go back uptown and find Alyosha. He should have been here.”
“Maybe the kid doesn’t like meetings.”
“But he likes Marianna enough to tolerate them. He’s crazy about her cookies. Alyosha’s in trouble. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Isaac, have I ever let you down? I’ll find Alyosha.”
And Bernardo skulked out of the mansion in his red vest.
The Merliners disbanded, and Isaac drove Marianna downtown with Porter Endicott. “I’m worried,” she said. “Where’s Alyosha?”
“I sent in my best scout. Bernardo.”
“I’m worried,” she said. She kissed Isaac on the cheek, shook Porter’s hand, and ran into her apartment building on Sutton Place South. Isaac continued down to Pine Street and Porter’s bank, which sat in a modest brownstone that had been put up during the Civil War, when Porter’s great-granduncles gobbled up Manhattan real estate and British cotton mills.
They had an early dinner in the executive dining room, without another banker in sight. But a fat man in a blue blazer joined them in the middle of the meal. Tim Seligman of the Democratic National Committee, a former pilot in Vietnam who was the Party’s kingmaker, financial wizard, and whip. He had a grilled steak with half a jar of mustard and a bottle of Canadian beer.
Isaac didn’t talk politics. He ate in silence until dessert: a chocolate cake drenched in vanilla sauce.
“Tim, I won’t back the Gov until you tell me what happened to Margaret Tolstoy. Did Billy the Kid ask the FBI to steal her from me?”
“Billy doesn’t have the brains to ask.”
“Then why the hell are you backing him for President?”
“Because he’s a new face, and only a new face can win.”
“Then who kidnapped Margaret?”
“I did,” Seligman said.
Isaac shoved away the vanilla sauce. “Timmy, I could crack your windpipe with one hand. That’s all I need.”
“Isaac, she would have compromised our campaign.”
“I don’t give a fart about your campaign.”
“Then you shouldn’t have decided to go and live in a glass house. Sooner or later, Margaret Tolstoy would have been noticed. That woman has too many skeletons in her closet.”
“And Billy’s pure, I suppose. He had a black prostitute murdered.”
“Isaac,” Seligman said, “did you have to use the ‘m’ word? There could be microphones in the chandelier.”
“Tim, I swear to God, he—”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Seligman said, finishing his piece of cake.
“Where is she, Tim? Where’s Margaret?”
“Out of the country. Safe … Isaac, you’re in the ball game now, and it’s a little too late to run out of the park. Besides, we wouldn’t let you.”
“Where is she?”
“In Prague. She attends dinner parties with the cultural attaché.”
“Seligman, I’ll cripple you, Billy, and that cultural attache … I’ll devour Prague until I find her. I’m getting on a plane.”
“Great idea. We’ll lend you a ticket. And Margaret Tolstoy won’t survive your phantom visit to Prague.”
“Let it rest,” Porter said. “The woman’s alive, and one day you’ll get her back … we’re giving the Bronx to you. My bank is prepared to move in. We’ll buy up housing s
tock, rebuild the area around Yankee Stadium.”
“And why are you so fucking generous all of a sudden?”
“Generous, Isaac? I always make a profit. And Billy can throw the first ball on Opening Day.”
“There might not be an Opening Day.”
“Leave that to us,” Seligman said.
“And J. Michael Storm,” Isaac said, getting up and rushing out of the room. He wanted to summon his chopper, return to the sky, sit above the rooftops of Featherbed Lane, catch Alyosha, but he had to attend a fund raiser in Queens and drink coffee with a band of firemen in Flatbush. The firemen were threatening to decapitate Republicans with their hooks, and Isaac couldn’t abandon them to their own enthusiasm. He was a prancing white parade horse, a democratic horse.
14
The Mouse was haunting him from the grave, and it didn’t matter how many murals Alyosha did. Mousy’s cousin Felipe had snitched on him, had told every gang in the Bronx that Angel Carpenteros, aka Alyosha, was Richardson’s registered rat. Scouting parties from the Malay Warriors, the San Juan Freaks, and the Jokers themselves had begun searching for Alyosha. He couldn’t even go home. Two of the Jokers’ baby hit men were patrolling Mt. Eden Avenue and Featherbed Lane. They’d already erased his signature from Rooster Ramirez’ mural. Alyosha had become the boy without a country, banished from El Bronx.
Paulito would protect him, force the baby hitters and the scouting parties to go away. But what could Paulito do from his dungeon at Rikers? And then Alyosha realized that the baby hitters wouldn’t be here without Paulito’s approval. His brother had sent them to take revenge on the rat. Alyosha started to cry. He’d shamed Paul, made him look stupid in the eyes of his own gang. The supreme general of the Latin Jokers couldn’t even count on the loyalty of his little hermano.
Where could Alyosha hide? In the elephant house at the Bronx Zoo? Elephants were as smart as people. They’d figure out that they had a spy among them, the little fink of Featherbed Lane. And then he saw Paulito in his blue handkerchief hat. His brother could fly through prison walls. Paulito was as much a magician as the Big Guy.
Paulito talked to the baby hitters, told them not to puff on their glass pipes in front of little kids. Alyosha was crouching behind a garbage barrel, pinned between the hitters and a couple of scouting parties. Paulito, he screamed inside his throat. But nothing came out, not the slightest peep.
Richardson made me do it. He got me out of Spofford. I couldn’t spend my life sucking dicks.
Alyosha wouldn’t have cared so much if Paulito glocked him, but he didn’t want to get killed by baby hitmen, and what if Paulito gave them the order to shoot? That was a Bronx rule. The supreme general wasn’t allowed to kill a rat with his own gun.
Paulito.
He’d never be able to live with Paulito again. He wanted to show off the espresso machine he’d bought with mural money while his brother was in the can. They couldn’t even share a cup of coffee together. That’s what happened when you married up with the Bronx brigade. You ended in the crapper every time.
Alyosha counted to ten, slipped away from the barrel, camouflaged himself against a broken wall, ducked into the cellar, came out behind his own building, on Hawkstone Street, where there wasn’t a single posse, and he could buy twenty minutes before he zigzagged through the back yards, crept under the Cross Bronx, and hid out with the stray dogs near the Park Avenue railroad tracks …
Paulito sniffed burning coffee while he unlocked the door. It was almost as good as smack. In the old days, before there was an anti-gang brigade at the County Building, and the Jokers ruled El Bronx from Third Avenue to the Harlem River, Paulito could get high sucking in the aroma of Cuban coffee. But there weren’t Dixie Cups on Joker soil, or hot bubble pipes that could scar your face. Paulito had never sold drugs. He’d let the shit pass through his territories, protect a couple of dealers, but it was wholesale; now there were Dixie Cups all over the place.
“Homey,” someone called, “come on in. I was expecting the little brother, hoping for him. The kid has a mean coffee machine. I like to stop here for some brew.”
Bernardo was standing in the kitchen with a contraption that Paulito hadn’t seen before. “You haven’t iced Angel, have you? It would break the Big Guy’s heart, and I’d have to blow your head off.”
“Angel?” Paulito said. “You mean Alyosha, the rat who helps destroy his own brothers and then draws their pictures on a wall.”
“They would have been destroyed with or without him. The Jokers are a relic, all the gangs are.”
“Thanks to you, Bernardo, one of our wise men. You sold us to the Dominoes and the Bronx brigade.”
“Get modern,” Bernardo said. “We couldn’t exist on our own. All we had left was a label. Latin Jokers. Don’t you watch the news? Everything is merger now and corporate raids. Paulito, the gang doesn’t have a dime … how did you buy your way out of the hole?”
“I borrowed twenty thousand from the Dominoes, bribed a couple of screws. If I’m not back in twenty-four hours, they’ll grab every Joker on the Island and feed them to the fist fuckers.”
“And you think Martin Lima runs a charity ward? He lent you the twenty so you could find your own fucking grave on the street. Without you around, he can swallow the Jokers … I’m taking you back to Rikers.”
“Not until I sentence Alyosha. He has to pay for his crimes.”
“That’s pathetic. Ask a twelve-year-old kid to face a firing squad. I’m taking you back to Rikers.”
Bernardo handed him a cup of coffee. Paulito took a sip and said, “Fuck you.”
“Can’t you listen? You don’t have a career as a general without the hole. Solitary is your last protection.”
“Come on. Blow my brains out. Isn’t that what Richardson is paying you to do?”
Bernardo felt a shiver at the back of his neck. If he hadn’t been warring with the brigade, Richardson might have sent him to finish off Paulito between cups of coffee. Generals were becoming obsolete in the Bronx.
“Paulito, I beg you, stay off the street … and forget Alyosha. The kid worships you. They locked him in Spofford, made him wear a dress. He was half crazy when I found him. If you have to punish someone, punish me.”
“Who did that to Angel?”
“I don’t know. One of Mousy’s cousins.”
“And the Mouse didn’t interfere? Then I’m glad he’s dead.”
“You won’t hurt Alyosha?”
“He has to confess. The whole fucking thing. Bring him to me, Bernardo, before my own hitters get him.”
“Can’t you call off those little lunatics?”
“No,” Paulito said. “It wouldn’t be ethical. First I have to hear Angel’s story.”
“And you won’t leave this crib?”
“I can’t promise,” Paulito said.
Bernardo finished his coffee and went into the street. He’d have to maneuver around the gangs, steer them in the wrong direction, and come up with Alyosha. He’d only gone a block when he could feel that faint imprint of the Apaches. Were they going to trample him in some quiet corner? Bernardo welcomed the chase. He’d rip through the Bronx, then double back to Boro Hall, avoid the elevators, sneak into Richardson’s rooms, set his hair on fire, watch Richardson have a heart attack. But Bernardo couldn’t afford to dream like Fantômas. His mind was playing tricks. Richardson would surround himself with Apaches, remain deep within his own perimeter, until Bernardo was out of the way.
He’d wavered too long. Fantômas never stops, Sidel had said at the Academy. “His real mask is his movement. He’s always outside the expectation of your reach.” And Bernardo hadn’t reached fast enough. Five Apaches jumped out of the gloom, dragged him into one of their mustard-colored Fords, knocked him on the head, delivered him to a storefront on College Avenue, where they liked to interrogate prisoners of war, luckless gang leaders who wouldn’t come over to their side.
“Look at Fantômas,” the Apaches said. Their
chief, Birdy Towne, had also graduated from Isaac’s classes at the Academy. He was long, lean, and blond. It was Birdy who’d glocked Rooster Ramirez, who’d battled children for the Bronx brigade. And Bernardo could see his own face in the mirror of Birdy’s eyes.
“Ah, you’re wondering about Barbarossa. He’ll be a little late. We gave him four flat tires under the El.”
“Where’s Brock?”
“Brock? He couldn’t make it, love. But he sends his best.”
And the Apaches began to sock him from five directions. They wouldn’t even let him fall. Each of them cradled Bernardo in his arms, while the others punched and kicked … and then passed Bernardo on to the next Apache. He had to swallow his own blood or stop breathing. His mouth hurt, or he might have smiled. Brock had decided to skip Bernardo’s little inauguration.
“When it’s all over, Birdy, will you do me a favor and close my eyes,” he said, between bites of blood. “I wouldn’t want to waste a whole eternity looking at these walls.”
“Don’t be grim,” Birdy said. “We aren’t cop killers, are we, boys?”
“No, Birdy,” the other four Apaches said.
“We’re going to paralyze you, that’s all. Take away your power of speech. Kick your brains in a little bit.”
And he could barely remember the punches and kicks that followed, as if he’d become a kind of feather bed, a magical quilt that could absorb any blow. He must have dropped into a very light sleep, because he could hear the five Apaches laugh, call him Fantômas. Then a door slammed and they were gone and Bernardo couldn’t move.
Somebody blinked above him. He could see Barbarossa through the blood in his eyes.
“Don’t talk,” Barbarossa said. “I failed you, kid. I fucked up. I wasn’t clever. They rocked me around in their own cradle, sent me on a wild-goose chase, when I should have stuck close to you … don’t talk. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
El Bronx (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 9