by Zev Chafets
“I was looking for you. They told me at the precinct that you were working late, I figured you’d drop by here eventually.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotta be the only po-lice captain in New York City got him an after-hours joint for a hangout.”
“Ain’t nothin’ the matter with an after-hours establishment,” said Morgan, overhearing. “It’s not but eleven o’clock in California, and this place runs on Hollywood time.”
“More like Las Vegas,” said Flanagan, gesturing toward the crap game.
“Yaas, this is the Caesar’s Palace of Harlem,” said Morgan. “I provide drink to the thirsty, nourishment to the hungry and entertainment to the greedy. I don’t permit drugs or thugs, coke or smoke, prostitution, retribution or air pollution on my premises.”
“You also don’t have a license,” said Boatnay. “If you weren’t my father, I’d bust you.”
“If you weren’t my son, I could pay you off, ’stead of letting your big rib-eating self come in here and devour up all my profits. Be a hell of a lot cheaper,” said Morgan. He moved off to talk to some people at the other end of the bar, leaving Flanagan and Threkeld alone.
Flanagan’s parents were both dead, and his only sister lived in Denver. Morgan and Boatnay Threkeld were the closest thing he had to a real family in New York. Flanagan had known them for more than thirty-five years, ever since Boatnay transferred to St. Benedict High School in Brooklyn.
They met on the first day of school. Even at fourteen, Boatnay was massive and scary-looking, and word of him spread within an hour throughout St. Benedict. “You gotta see this new jungle bunny,” Artie Cassidy told Flanagan. “He looks like he just walked out of a King Kong movie.”
Flanagan had never met a black kid before, and he was curious. At lunch he sat down next to Boatnay Threkeld, who was eating his sandwiches in splendid isolation. “My name’s John Flanagan,” he said, introducing himself.
“That a fact?” said Boatnay, and continued eating.
“You a Catholic?”
“Chippewa Indian.”
“You got an attitude for a new kid,” Flanagan said.
“I’m not new, I’m almost fifteen,” Boatnay said, draining a cardboard container of chocolate milk in a gulp. He opened another one and took a swallow. By this time, both boys were aware that they were the center of attention in the crowded lunchroom. Boatnay picked up the milk container and handed it to Flanagan. “Have some,” he said.
Flanagan took the cardboard holder and considered. “This is a test, right?” he said. “See if I mind drinking out of the same spout.” Boatnay looked at him through dark brown eyes and said nothing. Flanagan handed him back the container. “I don’t drink people’s spit,” he said. “I don’t give a shit who they are.” Boatnay shrugged.
“That what they do where you come from, drink each other’s spit?” asked Flanagan.
“I live over on Flatbush Avenue,” said Boatnay.
“Didn’t know they had an Indian reservation in Brooklyn,” Flanagan said. He saw the black boy’s mouth twitch, but he couldn’t tell if it was with anger or amusement.
“Lot of things you don’t know,” said Boatnay.
“You mean like, the mysterious mysteries of the ghetto?” said Flanagan. “You’re a real asshole, you know? I come over here to welcome you to St. Ben’s and you act like a jerk.”
Threkeld looked at him steadily for a moment. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he finally said.
“Why should I be?” asked Flanagan. “What are you gonna do, untie my shoes?”
Boatnay Threkeld laughed, a loud bark that resounded through the quiet lunchroom. “My name’s Bernard Threkeld,” he said, smiling for the first time. “My friends call me Boatnay.”
A week or so later, Boatnay Threkeld took Flanagan to meet his father, who owned a small bar called the Shrimp Hut in Bedford-Stuyvesant. “Daddy, this is John Flanagan, the kid I was telling you about,” he said.
Morgan looked at him with warm, laughing eyes. “Nice to meet you, John Flanagan,” he said. “Did you ever eat a rabbit stew?”
“Not on purpose, no sir,” said Flanagan.
“Well, I was fixin’ to feed my boy some stew, and with your kind permission, I’ll make you a plate, too.” There was a musical quality to his voice that reminded Flanagan of the evenings when his father and uncles sat in the parlor, drinking and telling stories about the old days in Hell’s Kitchen.
Morgan Threkeld set two bowls of steaming stew in front of the boys, and then walked around the bar and put a quarter in the jukebox. The song was Muddy Waters’s “Mannish Boy” and Morgan sang along, snapping his fingers and shaking his shoulders and hollering whews of approval. He didn’t look like any father Flanagan had ever seen before. His own dad would have played Bing Crosby and banged his hand on the tabletop.
“You like your studies, John Flanagan?” Morgan asked. Flanagan nodded. Despite himself, he loved school. “That’s fine,” said Threkeld. “I’m a strong believer that the younger generation will someday rule this nation, as long as you don’t lose your, er ah, refrigeration. In other words, be cool, stay in school and use your education as your most important tool.”
Afterward, Boatnay walked Flanagan part of the way home.
“Your old man’s a really cool guy,” Flanagan said. Threkeld gave him a serious look. Suddenly he seemed a lot older than fourteen. “My dad is a man,” he said. “Around here, that’s a lot harder than being cool.”
Throughout high school, John Flanagan and Boatnay Threkeld were best friends. The balance of power between them was almost even. Flanagan was a brilliant student, who effortlessly got straight A’s and edited the school paper, but Threkeld was an A student, too, mostly through diligence. Flanagan was also a good jock, both as a fearless 160-pound tight end on the St. Ben’s football team and as an amateur boxer. Sports bored him, though, and after his junior year he quit the football and limited his fighting to an occasional scrap after school.
Boatnay Threkeld, on the other hand, was the greatest athlete in the history of the school, and one of the best the city had seen in a decade. In his senior year he averaged over two hundred yards rushing as a halfback, scored twenty-eight points a game playing center on a mediocre basketball team and, in the spring, set the New York City scholastic record for the hundred-yard dash. By the time he graduated, he was six foot four and weighed 220, and he was approached by almost every major college in the country.
Morgan Threkeld and John Flanagan took over the job of dealing with the recruiters. Assistant coaches from all over the country came to the Shrimp Hut. They found Morgan to be a slow, deferential colored guy who averted his eyes when he talked to white men and called them “sir.” “I wants my boy to stay right here,” he said to recruiters from out of town; and “I wants my boy to get far ’way from this place,” he told the representatives of local colleges.
Flanagan would appear on cue. Morgan introduced him as “Mr. John,” Boatnay’s best friend, and Flanagan would enthusiastically take the side of whatever recruiter happened to be there. Morgan’s resistance would seem to weaken in the face of Flanagan’s arguments, but never quite to the point of giving in. Afterward, Flanagan was invariably contacted by the coaches. “The old man listens to you,” they said, white guy to white guy, and winked.
“I can convince Morgan,” Flanagan told them, “but I got a problem with Boatnay. He knows his old man’s a dimwit, and he doesn’t want to leave him all alone.”
“Something can be arranged,” the recruiters said.
“Your campus sounds beautiful,” Flanagan said. “I might like to go there myself.”
“Something can be arranged,” the recruiters repeated.
In April, Morgan, Boatnay and Flanagan sat down with a list of more than ninety offers. After due deliberation they settled on an Ivy League college that was offering two full scholarships, a new Oldsmobile for Boatnay, a used Ford for Flanagan, jobs for both of them keeping seaweed out of the football stadiu
m, and carte blanche at a local clothing store. There was also a clause guaranteeing Boatnay five hundred dollars per touchdown and a flat five thousand dollars if the team made a bowl game. Finally, there would be a twenty-five-thousand-dollar nonrepayable loan to Morgan Threkeld from a school-spirited Wall Street alumnus.
Morgan poured each boy a small glass of champagne. “Mr. John,” he said in his Stepin Fetchit voice, “you certainly is one smart white boy.” He smiled broadly and sipped the champagne. “Yass indeed, you can be my jockey if you never win a race, you can be my gambler if you never pull an ace, and you can be my lawyer if you never win a case.”
“Mr. Threkeld,” said Flanagan, returning the toast, “it’s a pleasure to be of service to such a deserving Negro scholar-athlete.”
John and Boatnay lived together throughout college. Threkeld was a two-time all-American, and Flanagan editor of the college newspaper, which he used to promote Boatnay for the Heisman Trophy, sending clips each week to the wire services and putting together a brochure on Threkeld’s career that he forwarded to sportswriters around the country. When Threkeld won the award, beating out an Italian quarterback from Notre Dame, both boys took it as a lesson on the power of the press.
After college, Boatnay Threkeld was drafted by the Detroit Lions. It was in the days before big contracts, and he actually took a cut in pay to play pro ball. He stayed with the Lions for six seasons, attended the University of Michigan Law School part time, and quit football the day he passed the bar. Flanagan, using his old man’s contacts with the printers’ union, got a job as a city reporter on the Tribune. When he returned to New York from Vietnam, Boatnay was already back in the city, one of the youngest—and by far the most famous—homicide detectives on the police force.
The two men picked up their relationship where it had left off. Flanagan made sure that Boatnay Threkeld’s cases and career got maximum press coverage; in return, Threkeld provided Flanagan with scoops that left his competitors on other papers cursing. But this pragmatic cooperation did not obscure the genuine friendship they felt for one another. Flanagan was the best man at Boatnay’s wedding, to a Jewish attorney named Arlene Lichtenstein, and he was godfather to their first son, Terrence. Boatnay, although he didn’t know it, was the sole beneficiary of Flanagan’s modest estate.
Morgan Threkeld interrupted Flanagan’s train of thought by taking the empty glass out of his hand and setting a fresh Jameson’s in front of him. “Hate to see a man daydream on an empty liver,” he said, and Flanagan laughed. He touched Boatnay’s massive forearm, and the cop, who had been talking to an old man about automobiles, turned toward him.
“Boatnay,” he said, “I need a little help.”
“Parking ticket, short-term loan or kidney donation?” he asked with a smile. Flanagan rarely asked for help, and Threkeld wanted to make it easy for him.
“Nothing that specific,” Flanagan said. “It’s more in the nature of keeping your eye on a situation.” He hesitated for just a moment, not because he didn’t want to go on, but to lend a dramatic touch to the conversation. “How much do you know about Spadafore, these days?”
“Luigi Spadafore?” said Threkeld. “Not much. Some. Why, you working on an organized-crime series?”
“Why do you think it would be a series?” asked Flanagan.
Threkeld laughed. “I know you’re too smart to risk your ass for one measly little story,” he said.
“Is he really that dangerous?”
“Does a big wheel roll?” said Threkeld. “Heck hell, yeah, he’s dangerous. His line of work, you don’t get to be an old man if you’re not dangerous.”
“Max Grossman died the other day,” said Flanagan.
“Yeah, I read it in the paper.”
“He was Gordon’s uncle.”
“Read that too. So what?” Threkeld sounded casual, but Flanagan could see that he was listening hard.
“Spadafore came to us with a proposition,” said Flanagan. “A business-type thing.”
Flanagan saw the lids on Threkeld’s eyes drop halfway, not certain how much he wanted to hear. Boatnay was Flanagan’s best friend, but he was also a police captain, and a lawyer. That was the difference between Threkeld and Gordon, Flanagan thought; Boatnay was a cautious man.
“What do you mean ‘us,’ John?” he finally said.
“Well, he came to Gordon first, and I’m acting as his adviser,” said Flanagan. “Gordon’s a good guy, but he’s been abroad all his life. He doesn’t have much experience with guys like Spadafore.”
“And you do? Listen, you ain’t messin’ with football coaches, man. You let your mouth start writin’ checks, these guys gonna make your ass cash ’em.” Flanagan just grinned and Threkeld sighed. “You better tell me what this is all about.”
Flanagan shook his head. “I don’t want you involved. The deal is legal, at least in New York. But I don’t think you really want to know any details and, anyway, it’s still too early.”
Threkeld looked relieved. “What do you want, then?” he asked.
“I want you to keep that Chippewa ear of yours to the ground,” Flanagan said. “If you hear anything unusual about Spadafore or Carlo Sesti, let me know. It’s just a precaution at this point, but what the hell.”
Threkeld’s gaze fell to the Borsalino perched on the stool next to Flanagan. “That your hat?” he asked. Flanagan grinned and nodded.
The police captain shook his large head in dismay. “Man, we’re almost fifty years old,” he said. “Almost fifty, and you’re still out here playin’. When you gonna grow up, John?”
Flanagan reached over, picked up the hat and put it on his head. “It’s too late for that, Boatnay,” he said. “I’m too old to grow up.”
CHAPTER 12
On Saturday afternoon at five o’clock, the caterer arrived with two assistants. He was a slender, self-important man, who asked Gordon to show him the kitchen, regarded the small room disdainfully and said, “I’m certainly glad we arrived early.”
“It’s only dinner for four,” said Gordon.
The two helpers set boxes and cartons on the kitchen counter while the caterer, whose name was Armand, went into the living room. He stood, hand on hip, looking at the round dining table in the corner and shaking his head.
“Something the matter with the table?” Gordon asked.
“Not if you happen to be one of King Arthur’s knights,” said Armand. “Round table, round plates, round glasses. Circles, circles, circles.”
“Work it out, Armand,” said Gordon. “I’m going in the bedroom to watch the UCLA–Notre Dame game.”
Through the door, Gordon heard the officious little caterer calling out orders to his helpers. There were sounds of furniture being rearranged, and china being set in place. Gordon remained in the bedroom, showering between halves, and changing out of his jeans and sweater into a quiet dark-blue business suit, he ventured into the kitchen for a beer. Four large steaks were set out on the counter, four giant potatoes were wrapped in tinfoil, and china and silver were piled neatly on the Formica-topped kitchen table.
On the way back to the bedroom he saw Armand, hands on his cheeks, staring once again at the dining room table, which he had moved next to the sliding glass windows of the patio. A vase of yellow and red flowers stood on the table.
“It’s beginning to come together,” the caterer said. “Placing the tulips just off center softens the circular effect, don’t you agree?”
“Yeah, good job, Armand,” said Gordon.
Flanagan arrived at seven. He had obviously had a few drinks, and he immediately poured himself another from one of the bottles of Jameson’s that Armand had set out. “I love a party,” he said to Gordon. “I’m going in the kitchen to check out the food.”
Gordon went back in the bedroom to put on his shoes, and the caterer, who had already sent his helpers away, fussed with the table, moving the flowers an inch or two in either direction. He and Gordon were both startled by the sound of Fl
anagan’s voice. “Shit!” he bellowed.
Gordon raced into the kitchen and found a red-faced Flanagan already screaming at the caterer. “Smell these goddamn steaks,” he said, thrusting one at Armand. “They’re spoiled, you little fruit fly. They smell like shit!”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with these steaks,” said Armand. He bent over the meat, and suddenly wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“You see, you little homo, they smell like shit,” yelled Flanagan.
Armand flushed. “I don’t understand it,” he stammered. “These are the finest cuts available. I picked them out this morning myself. I just don’t understand—”
Enraged, Flanagan swept his arm over the table, knocking knives, forks, spoons and china cups to the floor. “Goddamn it, get this shit out of here, you moron,” he screamed. Armand started to say something, thought better of it and bent down to gather the silverware.
“Wait a minute, John,” Gordon said, looking at his watch. “They’re going to be here in half an hour, what are we going to do without food?”
“You want to serve Luigi shit steak?” said Flanagan. Gordon couldn’t remember ever seeing him so angry. “Damn, Gordon, I told you I’d take care of things and I fucked up.” He kicked a piece of broken china all the way across the kitchen floor.
“Relax, relax,” said Gordon. “There’s still time to run out and pick up some steaks someplace.” He turned to Armand. “You know a good butcher in this neighborhood?”
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to prepare your meal now,” said the little man with as much dignity as he could muster. “I don’t enjoy being called a queer.”
“I said ‘homo,’ you little homo,” Flanagan bellowed. “I don’t want you touching my food. Just take your little dishes and your little spoons and get the fuck out of here. Look, Gordon, help him clean up this stuff and I’ll run out to the gourmet store, pick up something nice. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
Flanagan scowled at the caterer one last time, and banged out of the apartment. At the corner of Seventy-ninth and Columbus Avenue he stopped and reached into his pocket, taking out a small jar which he had filled with dog manure in Gramercy Park.