To do her heart good Maddie gave guitar lessons twice or three times weekly to certain underprivileged children. She charged ten dollars a session and they often came pride in hand hoping she’d allow them to owe for a week or two. At one point Josie Jefferson had gotten two months in arrears. Her grandmother, who worked for a midtown janitorial service, got her caught up with six installments.
The reason Maddie charged for the lessons was to increase their importance and give them the strength of sacrifice. To more than even things out her pupils were paid (by her, though they didn’t know who) to perform on every other Sunday afternoon at hospital wards and convalescent homes around the city.
The waiter had brought more rolls and replenished the butter.
“Why don’t we order,” Maddie said a bit plaintively. “I’m starved, practically skipped lunch, had only a roast beef and cheese on rye.” She was a big eater, ate mannerly but a lot, and it was unreasonable that she was able to remain so ideally slender. Mitch imagined within her a roaring metabolic furnace, knew she wasn’t bulimic, as some suspected and rumored.
This night she started with the mille-feuille of crabmeat with spiced mint vinaigrette, went clean-plate through the grilled yellowtail, baby carrots, baby turnips and all, and ended up with a lime soufflé.
As though saving best for last, she waited until the decaf was brought and she was stirring it cool and contemplating the tray of little, fancy gratuitous cookies the waiter placed on the cleared-off table, to ask Mitch: “How did your day go, precious?”
He was certain she didn’t want to hear about his command appearance in Boston and all the routine waiting he’d had to endure. His need to bitch about that to someone had already receded and taken its place in that remote region in him where all his similar low-level needs to bitch resided.
No. Such dry stuff wasn’t what she was after. She wanted to know what new had occurred on and around 47th. For years Mitch had been bringing the street home to her and the darker side of her was definitely hooked.
To Maddie the vagaries of West 47th were more intriguing and often more extravagant than those of New York’s upper social layer.
Like the prominent diamond broker whose embittered wife knew his combinations and, while he was in London on business but really in Barbados for side kicks with a pretty, nineteen-year-old hard body, went to his office on 47th and helped herself to twelve million worth from his safe.
Like those sanctimonious 47th big dealers who kept three or four sets of books and got peeled down to the bone of evasion by the IRS.
“Allenwood’s okay. If you got a choice take Allenwood. They got a kosher line at Allenwood.”
And like the recent but already legendary misunderstanding between two partners that grew so heated one threw a whole trayful of their best goods out the fourth-story office window. (It’s hail! No, it’s diamonds from outer space maybe.) Causing, on the 47th sidewalk and gutters below, such a free-for-all that ambulances and an aggregate 152 stitches were required.
Such 47th Street tribulations appealed to Maddie. They were indeed larger than life and she, so dependent on imagination, dilated them even more.
Mitch also let her know when the more spectacular deals went down. She found them interesting and would have felt shorted had he left them untold. However, more colorful than the big deals were the raw deals and the double deals, the scams and swindles, petty and large.
So it followed that, for her, the most fascinating of all were the robberies, and the bolder the better.
Like the one last year, which had been premeditated a year before when a couple of guys bought a restaurant on the north side of 46th Street between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas. A narrow, short-order sort of place with no booths, just ten stools at a counter and a small, trap-doored cellar for storing supplies. The rear of the restaurant coincided with the rear of a major jewelry arcade on the south side of 47th. What separated the two was an air shaft one hundred and fifty feet wide where sumac grew and the raw earth surface glinted like pavé with decades of pieces of broken glass.
It took the two fellows and two others eight months to mole their way underground across the air shaft to be directly beneath the strong room of the jewelry arcade. That was where all fifty of the concessions of the arcade kept their goods each night and weekend.
With professional patience the guys waited two weeks for the advantages of a holy holiday. Took their undisturbed, own good time burning through the floor of the strong room. Emptied it of six million worth. Left behind not even a 14k bale.
Maddie knew that robbery inside out. First from what Mitch told her about it, the generally exposed scenario, then from the privileged intricacies she extracted from Mitch’s detective friend James Hurley.
Mitch hung out with Hurley quite a bit. Their affinity was West 47th. As a captain out of Midtown North Precinct, Hurley’s domain included the street. It was both a trouble spot and a centerpiece for him and he made the most of it.
So there they’d be having a whiskey and talking Knicks or something and Maddie would sideroad in with: “You’ll never catch those guys.”
“Which guys?”
“The ones who pulled off the mole robbery.” The tabloids had dubbed it that.
“We’ll get them,” Hurley said.
“Never,” Maddie contended, “those guys won’t blow it. For almost a whole year they took turns frying over-easies and tunneling. I’ll bet on them.”
Nothing from Hurley.
Maddie went on: “A greasy spoon like that, you’d think their prints would be all over the place.”
“We’ll get them,” Hurley maintained. “Won’t we Mitch?”
“I suppose,” Mitch said neutrally, “but Maddie’s intuition is usually dependable when it comes to such things.”
“We got a new lead this afternoon,” Hurley said.
“From one of your slimy snitches, no doubt.” Maddie scrinched her face. She loathed snitches, pictured them rodent-like, sneaking about furtively, keeping close to walls and living off waste.
“A really promising lead,” Hurley added.
“Tell me about it.”
Maddie pumped and Hurley imparted.
That was how it usually went.
This night at Lespinasse Mitch didn’t have anything even approaching sensational to put into Maddie’s ears. He gazed over his coffee cup at her, sensed the extent of her expectation and was tempted to fabricate a street story. He reasoned, however, if he made something up she wouldn’t let him be brief; she’d want details and he’d have to keep on inventing and the fibs would pile up and that wasn’t how he wanted to spend the better part of the night.
He wanted to go home and lie with her, remain perfectly still while she traced him with fingers and mouth, as she loved to do and as he loved her to do, drawing the precise picture of him in her mind, drawing that part of him that would occupy her so nicely.
His memory suggested the Kalali robbery and murder.
There was that, and it suited the moment perfectly, Mitch thought. It had the components but wouldn’t take up much time because he’d stick to what he knew about it.
Which, at this point, wasn’t much.
Chapter 5
The following morning there was no guitar playing while Mitch shaved.
He’d awakened at five and, although the face of his bedside clock suggested that he doze off for another couple of hours, he knew when he got up for the bathroom he was up for the day.
He’d slept fewer hours than usual but it had been a deeper sleep. Perhaps he hadn’t even once changed position; his pillow wasn’t punished, was still plump and showed only a head-size impression.
Such a good sleep no doubt because of good, long lovemaking.
Last night had been one of those like-minded times for him and Maddie, when their sexual wants not only coincided but were, as well, simultaneously above the reach of restraint, up in that lover’s stratosphere where lust also has its place.<
br />
“How does that feel?”
“Marvelous.”
“Tell me.”
“Soon as I get my breath.”
“It doesn’t hurt too much?”
“You can’t hurt me now. Nothing you can do will hurt now.”
He shaved with the bathroom door shut, ran the water from the tap only when needed and only with enough force to rinse his razor. He took a brief, gentle shower and dressed as quietly as possible. Everything not to disturb her, conscientious of how supersensitive her hearing was.
He went noiselessly to her side of the bed for a goodbye look at her. His love in the black within her black. Her usual sleeping attitude, legs knifed up to herself, chin to her chest, one hand beneath a cheek. As though she were contained within the invisible shell of an egg. His love, her system had been so swamped with the neurotransmitters of pleasure that she was still under their influence.
He watched and listened to her breathing. The shallow breaths of sleep. He wished he could leave her a note declaring his love in some unique, adequately expressive way.
He went down the thirty-four floors and through the Sherry Netherland’s breccia marble lobby. The uniformed doorman gave the brass-framed revolving door a vigorous spin. Mitch hopped into a quarter section of it and came out on Fifth Avenue.
The flag of Japan next to the flag of Germany limp over there above the entrance to the Plaza.
The gold embellishments on the building down the way, the one that had been confiscated from Imelda Marcos, celebrating the sun.
A taxi swerved in, offered itself to Mitch. He waved it on, glanced up at the Sherry’s landmark clock, saw twenty to six and headed downtown at a pace that conveyed important destination.
Twelve minutes later he was in his office.
As he usually first did, he stood at the window and sighted down 47th. He wasn’t able to see the entire street from this vantage, only about half the north side and none of the south; however that was enough for him to take in the temperament of it. It was as though each day his imagination expected the street to change, to be upheaved or thronged in a panic or roiled from end to end with visible avarice.
At times, depending upon what mood he was viewing the street through, he thought possibly his regard for it didn’t exceed by much what he felt about insurance companies.
At the moment 47th’s disposition was tranquil, nearly deserted. The precious goods, diamonds and such, that determined its nature were locked away, waiting in the incompatible dark for their keepers to come liberate them and allow them to do their daily dazzle.
It would be two to three hours yet.
The windows of the upper stories of the 580 building across the way were reflecting early sun. There was no activity or lights on in the offices and workrooms over there that Mitch could see. Except, of course, for those of Visconti.
Visconti’s private corner office was dark, but the adjacent spaces on each side that comprised his operation were lighted and possibly doing business. Visconti’s people seemed to be continually at it, Mitch thought, even nights, weekends, holidays. Especially nights, weekends and holidays. How many millions did they do a year?
He sat at his desk.
Before him lay the case file Ruder had sent late yesterday, the eight-by-ten color photographs and the corresponding loss list.
The Kalali loss.
Mitch had gone over it cursorily, intended now to thoroughly familiarize himself with the pieces that had been stolen, the swag.
Last thing yesterday, before going down to meet Maddie for dinner, he’d been studying the photograph of a ruby and diamond necklace and matching pair of ear clips. In fact, he’d been admiring those items and thinking how attractively designed they were, the way the diamonds and rubies integrated to create a flow that carried attention to the larger center stones. The loss list didn’t indicate who was the maker. They looked good enough to be Van Cleef & Arpels in Mitch’s estimation; however that was a value-increasing attribute that certainly wouldn’t have been omitted.
What occurred to Mitch now, and bothered him, was that the photo of those diamond and ruby pieces wasn’t where it should be. He’d left it on top of the other Kalali photos, was quite sure of that. Now he found it several photos down.
Had he, in his eagerness to meet Maddie, just stuck that photo in among the others? Possibly, but he couldn’t recall having done that, wasn’t really convinced he had. He pushed the bother aside.
On top now for his consideration was a photograph of two emeralds. On the Kalali loss list these were described merely as two matching, unmounted emeralds of twenty carats each.
According to the photo they deserved more than that, Mitch thought, much more inasmuch as color was foremost when it came to emeralds. These appeared to be the ideal, deep, vibrant green that Mitch always compared to the green of crème de menthe.
Another thing. Their appraised value, indicated on the loss list, was one hundred fifty thousand.
Two stones at twenty carats each.
Forty carats in all.
That put them at only thirty-seven fifty a carat.
If they were as good as they looked to be in this photo they were worth several times that.
Strange.
Upon closer examination of the photo Mitch noticed what seemed to be scratches on the faces of the emeralds. Perhaps, although unlikely, unless they were deeper and more damaging than they looked, the scratches might be the depreciating factor. But then, they weren’t scratches at all, Mitch realized. They were inscriptions, in what appeared to be Arabic.
He’d seen numerous carved emeralds, of course, but never any such as these. Usually the ones chosen to be carved were of lesser quality. These were fine. The only explanation for that would be they were old, Mitch thought.
The inscriptions.
It occurred to Mitch how they were going to cost some fence, how the buyer would contend that the emeralds, inscribed as they were and thus easily identifiable, were worth less than what the fence was asking. Mitch imagined the gist of the dialogue.
The buyer would make an offer slightly above the ridiculous level.
The fence would scoff and say the inscriptions could be polished away.
The buyer would say then go ahead and have them polished.
The fence, eager to have the incriminating swag out of his possession, would curse the inscriptions under his breath and take the buyer’s offer.
So it would go.
Mitch looked up.
There stood Detective Hurley, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in each hand.
“Thought about calling but decided to come on up,” he said, placing one of the coffees on a free spot of Mitch’s desk. The pressure of his grip caused a puff of steam to come from the hole in the cup’s lid. “You ought to keep your door locked,” he advised.
“Thought it was.”
“It wasn’t,” Hurley said. “What you working on?”
“Robbery over in Jersey, out of your jurisdiction.”
“I got a call to help out on one over in Jersey.” Hurley held his cup away from him as he snapped off its lid, so any spill would go on the carpet rather than him. He was wearing a tan summer suit fresh from the cleaners, a cotton and mostly polyester kind of suit. The jacket wasn’t buttoned because Hurley had gained weight since the previous summer. He was thickly built to begin with and on him six gained pounds looked like a dozen. The tie he had on was an obviously old wide one, not a new wide one, and he hadn’t tied it evenly. The narrow end was longer by a good four inches. He seldom got his tie even, and Mitch sometimes kidded him about that, told him: “Make a mark on the inside of your ties so you’ll know where to start the knot. They have ties for teenagers like that.”
“Who gives a fuck about a tie,” was Hurley’s attitude.
Now, as Mitch could have predicted, Hurley’s attention went to the three framed photographs of Maddie hung on the far wall. He went up close to them, took in each for a long moment, seemi
ng to draw from them, then nodded, evidently concurring with his private thoughts. “Some piece of work,” he said. Nearly every time Hurley came to Mitch’s office he paid the same homage and made such an observation. “You’re a lucky bastard, Mitch,” he said.
Mitch agreed.
Hurley grinned and took another lighthearted shot. “If Maddie could see how ugly you are she’d run.” He blew on his coffee, gulped it and recoiled from the cup. “I apologize,” he said, “not for insulting you but for bringing you this shit for coffee. To make it up to you I’m going to buy you breakfast.”
Mitch gathered up the Kalali file, slipped it into a leather folio case and brought it along.
Hurley’s city-provided Plymouth was parked at the curb with its engine idling, as though hoping to be stolen. With its black finish oxidized to gray and the numerous city scars on its body it looked like anything but a souped-up police car.
Hurley drove them up to Wolf’s Deli on 57th. They took a table by the window. From there it was easy to imagine the outside was the inside confined by glass, and that they were outsiders, spectators of everything that passed. Sort of aquarium-like.
Hurley knew what he wanted for breakfast, quickly ordered a pastrami four-egg omelet and home fries. Mitch took longer, considered several such heavy entrees, but retreated to a bowl of oatmeal.
During the waiting period Hurley inquired: “How’s your brother?”
“He’s up in the Adirondacks somewhere with Doris. She has a place up there. I think it’s near Canoga Lake. Ever been up there?”
“No.”
“Nice this time of year.”
“A real jewelry junkie that Doris.”
“Yeah.”
“She really so loaded?”
“I guess.”
“From what I hear she married well and divorced better.”
“Something like that.”
“She’s known around as the holdout’s best friend.”
“I’ve heard,” Mitch said, not wanting to hear it.
“Must be a sickness, not being able to look at a piece of pretty jewelry without wanting to own it. Think it’s a sickness?”
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