West 47th

by Gerald A. Browne

  He put back the butterscotch Life Savers he was about to buy and went out to the elevator. The up one he chose made a lot of stops. By the time he got off on eleven he was disguised in an attitude of belonging where he was and knowing where he was going.

  Everyone at the nursing station of 11 East was busy. Mitch didn’t stop and wasn’t stopped. Room 1118 was at the far end of the corner. A private room with its door closed.

  Maybe, Mitch thought, Mrs. Kalali was being given a sponge bath or was using a bedpan. He prepared himself for any such encounter, would do a medically blasé face, say he was Dr. Laughton, beg pardon and retreat.

  He went in.

  Mrs. Kalali was face up, eyes closed, head bandaged like a turban. Oxygen leaders were clipped to her nostrils. The only animated thing was the registering of her vital signs on the monitor above her bed.

  She might be only sleeping, Mitch thought, might respond if he called out her name. He went close to the side of the bed, stood over her. She appeared insubstantial, still in the throes of trauma. Would it be dangerous to startle her? He’d arouse her gently with a whisper, was about to when the toilet was flushed in the room’s private bath.

  A young man came out. Preoccupied with himself, the hang of his suit jacket, buttoning it, correcting his shirtsleeves. He was fair-haired and somewhat on the pretty side. When he became aware of Mitch his composure deserted him.

  Mitch was experienced with awkward moments. “Has she come to?” he asked with impersonal interest.

  “Not yet.”

  “But anytime now, so the doctor told me.”

  The young man acted like someone being cornered. He evaded Mitch’s eyes and left without another word.

  Mitch wasn’t about to lose him, whoever he was. He followed him down the corridor and into the same elevator. They didn’t speak during the descent. Mitch allowed the young man to exit first, then tagged along behind him to the hospital cafeteria there on the ground floor. At this morning hour all but a few tables were vacant.

  The young man took a carton of chocolate milk and a plastic-wrapped egg salad sandwich to a table next to the window. Mitch got an iced tea and closed in, chose the table next over.

  Outside on practically the same level was the East River Drive. The hurrying traffic on it was distracting, a lot of taxi yellow. The river beyond contaminated-looking.

  Continuing to avoid with his eyes, the young man said: “You’re the police, aren’t you?”

  Mitch did a shrug that could have been taken for a yes.

  “I knew you’d be showing up about now.”

  “Why didn’t you run?” A good prompt, Mitch figured.

  “Why should I? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Depends.”

  “What do you mean depends?”

  “Eat your sandwich.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Tell me about you and Mrs. Kalali.”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “Why were you up there with her?”

  “Just looking in on her.”

  “A concerned visit.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Your first time here probably. You been here before?”

  “Could I see some police identification? I refuse to say anything more until you show me identification.”

  Mitch complied, went into his jacket pocket, but, as though diverted by a sudden realization, he brought nothing out. “I just now made you,” he said. “You work girls at a bust-out bar on 43rd.”

  “Not me.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “What name do you go by?”

  “Roger Addison.”

  A dubious grunt. “That’s not a real name.”

  “It most certainly is.” Roger presented his driver’s license.

  Mitch pretended to examine it suspiciously front and back. “Guess you only resemble the guy who works that bust-out,” he conceded.

  “It so happens I work at Saks.”

  Mitch let him suck up some of the chocolate milk before telling him: “You’re in deep shit Roger.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Tell me about you and Mrs. Kalali.”

  “Like I said, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “If she comes out of the coma there’ll be plenty to tell, won’t there?”

  An indifferent shrug from Roger. His flushed complexion didn’t go along with it.

  “Maybe what you’re hoping is she doesn’t come out of it,” Mitch said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then why are you hanging around here claiming you’re family so you can sit bedside at all hours?”

  An accurate assumption.

  “I’ve been keeping a sort of vigil,” Roger admitted. “I want to be the first person she sees when she comes conscious.”

  Mitch could relate to that.

  “Besides,” Roger went on, “one of the doctors told me it’s possible that things said to her may be registering.”

  “So you’ve been having one-sided conversations.”

  “It’s frustrating.”

  “I’ll bet. What is it you say to her?”

  “Mainly I want her to understand that what happened wasn’t my fault. There wasn’t supposed to be any violence.” Roger dropped his head and remained downcast for a long moment. He came up with: “I should have a lawyer, shouldn’t I?”

  “Can you afford a good one?”

  “Not really.”

  “You claim you didn’t do anything.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Tell me what you did do and I’ll tell you if it’s anything.”

  “I have to be at work at noon,” Roger stalled.

  “That gives us a couple of hours. Is your story longer than that?” Mitch threw in a smile because it was so evident Roger could use it.

  Roger began on the sandwich. Took small bites and chewed slowly. Each swallow brought him closer to disclosure. He had such a need to vent that once he opened up it came pouring out.

  He told how he’d met Mrs. Kalali at Saks. He hadn’t taken up with her for what he could get out of her. At least that wasn’t his only reason and, after a while, as they became more involved, he hardly gave a thought to what he might gain. She was dreadfully unhappy. Her husband was vilely abusing her. There was such satisfaction in being meaningful to her, Roger said. Besides, he had always been physically attracted to mature women.

  She would leave her husband. They would go somewhere, anywhere kinder, and be together. No longer would they have to sneak afternoons.

  They would. If they had the money.

  Mrs. Kalali had little of her own. A few thousand was all.

  There was, however, the jewelry.

  She proposed they sell it. It was worth far more than they’d get for it. That was the way with jewelry. Buy dear, sell cheap. The dealers on 47th, for example. They feasted on misfortune. They seemed able to smell one’s need to sell and, once they got the scent, they started grubbing.

  New music, old words, Mitch thought.

  Anyway, Roger continued, there was the jewelry. And there was the insurance on the jewelry. He wished now she’d never mentioned the insurance.

  She brought the policy to one of their afternoons at the Plaza. It was like a catechism. Questions and answers. Clearly, if the jewelry was stolen the insurance company had to pay Mrs. Kalali the appraised value within ninety days. The future contained a check for six million.

  “So, you arranged for a gimmie,” Mitch said.

  “A what?”

  “You made a deal with someone to steal it.”

  “What did you call it?”

  “A gimmie. It’s a street term.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you or Mrs. Kalali make those arrangements?”

  It was like Roger hadn’t heard the question.

  Mitch asked again.

  Still nothing from Roger. He got up. It seemed he was going to le
ave; however he went to the cafeteria counter. He returned to the table with a plastic container of bread pudding and, evidently, a decision. Between the second and third spoonfuls of the pudding he mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I took care of it,” Roger repeated.

  “The gimmie?”

  “Whatever you call it.”

  “You know those kind of people?”

  “I didn’t. I happened to know someone who knew someone of that sort.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I mean who did this acquaintance of yours hook you up with?”

  “I met the man. I met with him twice.”

  “Where?”

  “The Four Seasons.”

  “Really, the Four Seasons?”

  “He bought lunch. With a platinum American Express.”

  “What was the man’s name?” The key question.

  “He introduced himself as Frank Melton.”

  Frank Melton didn’t ring a bell with Mitch.

  “But,” Roger said, “I got a glance at the name on his platinum card. It was Crosetti. I didn’t get the first name.”

  Crosetti? That rang all kinds of bells. Sal Crosetti.

  Roger continued: “He wasn’t very receptive until I told him the jewelry was valued at six million. I gave him the layout of the Kalali house, the alarm system and everything. He told me more or less how it would go, assured me there wouldn’t be any violence. Just a nice, quiet robbery were his words. I believed him. I’m in trouble aren’t I?”

  “You’re in trouble.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  Mitch sat back and took a moment to study this Roger Addison. His hair was well-cut. His ears had an almost translucent quality to them. Mitch still hadn’t gotten a direct look at his eyes. There was a small birthmark, purplish, like a berry stain on the back of his neck just above the collar of what was probably this Monday’s version of his daily fresh shirt. In a better world this Roger would never have stepped into the stream of 47th and been carried in over his head.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he was again insisting.

  Mitch wondered if he should level with him, tell him he was an accessory to murder for one thing and would probably do ten to fifteen on that count alone, tell him he wasn’t the sort who’d do well in the joint, that he’d get fucked to death.

  No use spoiling his day, Mitch decided.

  Chapter 19

  Salvatore Crosetti had been an outside-insider of 47th for going on twelve years. At one time he’d been just a have-around guy for an underboss in Providence, which was his hometown. Back then, when he wasn’t just being around, he was out collecting from or paying off people who bet on sports. Mostly collecting from. He got paid a fixed amount weekly for doing that.

  He saved a few thousand. Chances for scores came along and he’d had the money to take advantage. Like a certain race on the Saturday card at Narragansett that he knew the winner of the Thursday before. He also handled a little side action from suckers on football and baskets. No telling to what extent his boss wouldn’t have appreciated that.

  The big break for Crosetti came when a friend of his Uncle Mario developed emphysema and was advised by the doctors to go live as long as he could someplace where the air was easier to breathe and he wouldn’t have to move around much. This friend was an established New York City fence with a crew of swifts and numerous 47th Street contacts. He sold out to Crosetti for fifty thousand. Twenty-five on the handshake, twenty-five on the come.

  Crosetti was a fence to be dealt with from his first week at it. It was as though he was spontaneously transformed, the way he assumed the image. Probably it was the way he’d had himself in mind for years. No more acrylic in his suits. No more once-a-month haircuts. He dressed tastefully conservative, bought his suits and accessories at Dunhill. His knowledge of gems and jewelry was limited, but he bluffed convincingly while he picked up on them quickly.

  He had an instinctive sense of how to handle his swifts, when to be hard or lenient on them. His crew consisted of three blacks and two whites. They all lived in Mount Vernon.

  Early on, Crosetti caught one of the whites holding back and got rid of him. Refused to take him on again. Another was apprehended in the closet of a house and was sentenced to three years. For the year and a half the swift was inside Crosetti kept true to the code, provided for the guy’s wife and kids. An envelope containing cash every month.

  Crosetti wasn’t married. He always had a juggle of women friends, both straights and hooks. He preferred hooks who looked straight and straights with a hooker semblance to them. He had a physical reputation that, according to persistent firsthand testimony, must have been deserved.

  During his first few years on 47th Crosetti did business with both Riccio and Visconti. Then he had a falling out with Riccio over a piece of swag Riccio had bought from him. A ring with a fair-sized stone in it that looked for all the world to be a good ruby. Refractive tests proved it was a spinel, and, as such, wasn’t worth a tenth of what Riccio had paid.

  Typically, Riccio old-mobbed. Didn’t merely ask for his money back but demanded and insulted, claimed for all the street to hear that Crosetti had intentionally cheated him.

  Crosetti took exception. His reputation was at stake. Out of resentment rather than deceit he counterclaimed he’d sold Riccio a ruby that was a ruby and that Riccio was trying to fuck him out of both the ruby and the money.

  The bitterness between the two men reached its apogee one noontime when Riccio was out on the street and happened to spot Crosetti across the way. “Piece of shit!” Riccio shouted.

  “Dirty prick!” Crosetti fired back.

  What ensued was a name-calling battle that continued for the length of the block. Riccio on one side of the street. Crosetti on the opposite side. A crowd followed each along as they scumbagged and cocksuckered at one another. Spit sprayed the air, fists were raised. Every so often Riccio did a meaner face and feinted a charge across. Crosetti sneered defiantly, extended his arms and beckoned Riccio to come ahead.

  How many times and ways could they shout asshole? When they’d exhausted such everyday defilements, they found fresh ammunition in calling down venereal diseases on one another.

  At various times in the past there’d been other al fresco arguments on 47th, but never one to compare with Riccio versus Crosetti. It was an event still being recalled. People who’d been nowhere near 47th that day claimed to have witnessed it.

  Mitch was one of those who missed it; however both Riccio and Crosetti told him their conflicting versions of it—what brought it about and who got the best of it.

  He preferred to believe Crosetti.

  Because he enjoyed disbelieving Riccio.

  In Mitch’s opinion, of all the fences, Crosetti was the least slippery. That was not to say Crosetti was entirely lacking in that unctuous quality. He had a reserve of it in him that he could apply to help him squeeze out of a tight spot; however, slippery wasn’t his everyday way.

  As yet, Crosetti and Mitch hadn’t needed to confront one another head-on. They’d only sideswiped a few times.

  Like five years ago when Mitch was out to recover a pair of Van Cleef & Arpels diamond bracelets that were the major pieces taken in a robbery up in Larchmont. Mitch was on the corner of 46th and Fifth having a hot dog and a Hire’s at a street vendor’s wagon. Crosetti came up. He had an unlighted seven-inch Cohiba Robusto protruding from the left corner of his mouth. An element of his cachet. Mitch had never seen him light up. He literally conducted conversations with it, held it between his first finger and thumb and wielded it like a baton.

  The color of the cigar was a perfect match for the beaded-stripe, double-breasted suit he had on that day. A blue paisley silk square puffed stylishly from his breast pocket.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Crosetti told the vendor, “except for the kraut, no kraut.”

  He removed the c
igar from his mouth so he could put in a third of the dog and roll. He hardly chewed before swallowing.

  “How’s it going, Mitch?”

  “Okay, Sal, how about you.”

  “Good and bad, you know. A little of each and not too much of either. That’s what keeps things interesting, right?” Another bite and then, as though the exchange had been going on for a while, “By the way, the two similar Van Cleef pieces you been looking for.”

  “What about them?”

  “They ain’t anymore.”

  “You know that for sure.”

  “Why should I shit you? They went three days ago. I personally saw them go. Personally.”

  Crosetti was letting Mitch know that the diamonds of the Van Cleef bracelets had been plucked from their platinum settings and the settings had been melted down. It wasn’t good news but being told was a sort of favor.

  Mitch thanked Crosetti for it.

  Now was another time. Now was the Monday when Roger Addison had revealed Crosetti’s involvement in the Kalali robbery and it looked as though a head-on between Mitch and Crosetti was inevitable.

  Mitch went directly from New York University Hospital to 47th. He worked the street, on the lookout for Crosetti, inquiring here and there in an offhand manner.

  “Crosetti.”

  “He was around.”

  “When?”

  “Last week. Tuesday I think it was. He hasn’t been around since.”

  “I understand he hasn’t been offering much lately.” A leading remark from Mitch.

  “Not to me anyway.”

  “He usually throws you a little something, doesn’t he?”

  “Very little and not usually.”

  Crosetti hung out, when he hung out, in the Monarch, a large exchange located mid-block on the north side of the street. His spot was the concession of a somewhat hooked-up guy who was seldom there. A narrow spot in the left front corner of the exchange. No display cases, no merchandise. Business was done pocket to pocket. Crosetti would sit in there at the window and watch the street, as though it was an all-day movie.

  But he wasn’t there today.

  He wasn’t around.

  Mitch pay-phoned Visconti, who immediately came on. His excuse for the call was to thank him for the binoculars.