Once a Crooked Man

by David McCallum

  “A suitcase of money?” said Enzo.

  “Yeah. That’s what he said. Karl says he sounds pretty crazy. Kind of spaced out.”

  Enzo shook his head. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Me neither,” said Sal. “Are you sure it’s not a plant?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” replied Rocco. “But I can find out real quick.”

  “Get him,” said Max. “I want to meet him.”

  “One of us should talk to him first,” cautioned Enzo. “Let me take care of it.”

  “Do it fast,” said Max. “I can’t wait to meet this interfering son of a bitch!”

  39

  Her instructions were simple. Make the call and then use his initiative. Lizzie took a piece of paper out of her pocket. “That’s where you go to make the next call.”

  The north side of 25th Street, he read. The short block between Broadway and Fifth Avenue. He looked up. “Why do I have to go all the way down there?”

  “That’s where Agent MacAvoy will have his men in position. Trained agents will watch you wherever you go. At the slightest sign of trouble they will move in and take over.

  “Promise me one thing, Harry,” she said, coming close. “You won’t make a move if you think it will get you into danger.”

  Harry had no trouble crossing his heart and promising to be extremely careful. Thirty minutes later at the appointed spot he went through the now familiar routine with the coins.

  Nasal Condition came on the line. “Is dis Murphy?”

  Harry replied in the affirmative. The man sneezed and gave him a number to call. Harry dutifully dialed it and was connected to an officious female with a high-pitched voice.

  “Is this Mr. Murphy?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Mr. Harry Murphy?”

  “Yes,” he said a little louder.

  “I am instructed to direct you to make your way by public transportation to the South Street Seaport where you will enter the main building and go to the top floor. At the souvenir shop you will purchase a rolled-up poster…”

  “What are you talking about?” said a slightly confused Harry. “I said I wanted to talk with…”

  “Sir! I am only instructed,” she said coldly, “to read you the directions in front of me.”

  The game was changing. Did this violate Lizzie’s mandate to avoid danger? No, he decided. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Start again, will you?”

  The woman repeated the itinerary. This time Harry made notes. “Purchase a poster,” he murmured. “Then what?”

  “Outside the store are the doors that lead to the balcony. On the balcony there are several benches. You will sit on the first bench on the left and place the poster on the seat beside you. Is this information clear or would you like me to read it again?”

  “Quite clear,” he answered. “Thank you.”

  And she was gone.

  The plot thickened. With any luck it wasn’t the first act of a tragedy. The Seaport would be very crowded in the evening and the perfect place for an assassination. Someone could walk up, put a gun in his ribs; there would be a muffled thud; his body would fall to the ground; passersby would scream. Harry would hear the wail of the ambulance as he struggled to stay conscious.

  The curtain was definitely up. The late afternoon sun shone through the tops of the trees as he walked across Madison Square Park. Looking around, he tried to see if he could spot MacAvoy’s trained agents, but there were few likely candidates. Slouched on a bench was a man wearing dark glasses under a Cleveland Indians cap. A security guard in a blue uniform chatted with a woman in a green uniform who was supposed to be sweeping the pathways. A mother talked volubly on her cellphone as she pushed along an empty stroller. A group of students from NYU photographed a boy on a bicycle carrying a huge unfurled Star-Spangled Banner. An inert couple lay entwined on the grass.

  From the park Harry headed along 23rd Street to the subway entrance on Park Avenue where he pushed through the turnstile and onto the platform. When the train arrived it was packed. Harry was careful to move aboard slowly to give his invisible minders time to keep up. When the train pulled into the Brooklyn Bridge station everyone squeezed out and headed up the stairs.

  At the exit, a Middle Eastern girl with a dirty face sat cross-legged clutching a baby. An older child in soiled clothes lay fast asleep at her side. The mother reached out a hand in supplication. As a rule Harry never gave to the homeless, but right then he needed all the luck he could get, so he reached in his pocket for his money clip and peeled off a twenty.

  Once out on the streets and past J&R Music World, he turned left onto Fulton Street and began to walk as if he were upset and angry. Occasionally he slapped his right thigh in frustration. The Seaport came in sight. A row of stanchions delineated the cobbled roadway as a pedestrian mall. On either side were brand stores and open-air restaurants. The crowd thickened and forced him to move more slowly.

  As he crossed South Street he wondered about the poster. Why did they want him to buy it? What significance could it have? By now he was no doubt under observation by both the good and the bad guys.

  In the center of a group of tourists on the pier an elderly musician wailed on his saxophone. Some clapped their hands; others happily swayed to the music. Above their heads rose the masts of two massive sailing ships. Harry’s progress was slow as he weaved his way through the crowd and over to the mall entrance. Once through the two sets of swing doors he found himself in the cool interior and at the foot of an escalator. On the top floor he entered the souvenir shop and picked a poster from the rack in the corner. The exact change was handed over and he ambled outside to the bench on the balcony.

  As instructed, he sat down and laid the poster at his side. On any other occasion he would have enjoyed the view of the shores of Brooklyn bathed in the evening sunshine. Now he was more concerned about what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long. A kid carrying a skateboard adorned with bright graffiti popped up in front of him. Without a word, a slip of paper was dropped in his lap. Harry watched the boy whiz away to the escalator and then picked up the note and unfolded it.

  Go to the pay phones northwest corner of 62nd and Lexington. Keep this paper with you.

  Puzzled, he stared at it for a moment. Back uptown? It all seemed so pointless. Or were they simply being especially careful to make sure he was alone?

  Back on the ground floor he crossed the pier and took a more direct route back to the subway station. The doors were just about to close on an uptown express. Harry ran down the stairs. But halfway down alarm bells sounded in his head. The minders! Using a technique he’d been taught by a stuntman at MGM, he tripped realistically, tucked in his head and arms and rolled down the last few steps to the platform. Jumping to his feet, he cursed audibly at his bad luck at missing the train and dusted himself off.

  The next train took him to Lexington Avenue. Two blocks north on 62nd Street, Town Cars and limousines were parked everywhere, their drivers chatting and drinking coffee. A youth in an AIDS Walk T-shirt hosed down the sidewalk in front of the flower stall of the corner Korean market. Harry crossed over to the designated payphones. The right-hand one rang as he stepped up on the curb. He glanced around before taking the receiver off the hook.

  “Take a cab,” instructed Nasal Condition. “Go to the Delta Airlines Shuttle at LaGuardia. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Harry, and he hung up.

  Now what? Why the airport? Were they going to ask him to get on a plane? He doubted it. Probably they were going to use the crowds to make contact. A vacant cab cruised slowly past the curb. Harry raised his hand and the driver pulled up. Harry climbed in.

  “LaGuardia,” he said. “Delta. The shuttle.”

  The driver waited until the light was green and then cut obliquely across the traffic and headed fast down Lexington as Harry did up his seat belt. Three blocks later they made a left towards the 59th Street Bridge.

  Suddenly
he was aware that instinct had overcome caution and he was now very much alone. He hoped he hadn’t moved too precipitously. What should he do? Best thing would be to get out as soon as they were off the bridge and take a short walk. This would allow his security detail to catch up.

  On 21st Street he rapped on the plastic partition. The man ignored him and increased speed. Harry tried the doors but they were locked and unyielding. Suddenly he was thrown against the partition as the driver braked hard and made an abrupt turn into a car wash. The front wheels bumped into the track. The car wash mechanism pulled the cab forward with a jerk.

  Long strips of thick wet material swung back and forward, beating, like severed limbs, against the windows and roof. Flailing brushes spun against the side of the cab and cascading water lashed down. The door beside him was suddenly opened. The water sprayed in, soaking his clothes.

  “Now just a fucking minute!” yelled Harry as two big arms reached in and dragged him out. A strip of gray tape was slapped over his mouth by an unshaven hulk with vivid red hair. Harry’s arms were pinioned behind his back and tied with rope and he was dragged back to another cab that had pulled in behind the first. Both men lifted him up bodily and dropped him into the trunk. As he fell, the lid was slammed shut and his head hit sharp steel.

  In the darkness Harry could feel a wet trickle of blood running across his forehead. What was worse, the tape over his mouth partly covered his nostrils and cut off his breathing. Tucking his chin down against his shirt he tried to push the tape free. The nauseating smell of a new tire filled the cramped space. A small amount of air leaked into the trunk from the outside, but this was mixed with exhaust fumes.

  Trussed up like a chicken and very short of oxygen, Harry broke into a profuse sweat. His heart labored frantically to pump blood around his system. His skull felt as if it were going to explode. Harry retched a couple of times, partly from the stench and partly from fear.

  Panic had to be avoided. Survival would be impossible unless he was in full possession of his faculties. MacAvoy’s men would certainly have lost the trail by now, so if he threw up he would probably suffocate on his own vomit.

  Above him, whirring dryers blew the moisture off the paintwork. A couple more bumps followed and then a heavy jolt as the cab swung left out of the car wash. The whole exchange had taken less than three minutes. Concentrating on the sounds outside, he sensed the turns and was able to get a rough idea of which way they were going. Across the 59th Street Bridge. Down the ramp and back into Manhattan. Straight for a while. Right on Third and then a left, probably 66th Street, as this seemed to take them through the park to the West Side.

  A metal door rattled up. Muffled voices. A man laughed. The engine was switched off. The world became very quiet. The trunk opened. The glare of fluorescent lights above momentarily blinded Harry. Big Arms from the car wash lifted him out. A wiry individual wearing a Mets baseball cap closed the trunk.

  The cab was parked in a garage workshop, the floor thick with years of oil and grease. The Mets fan spun him around and pushed him over to a workbench, where he emptied the contents of all his pockets into a manila envelope held open by Big Arms. Both men tied Harry to a metal chair and secured the chair with electrical wire to the bench. Before ducking under the descending door they turned out the lights.

  Harry sat in the dark with one eye now completely closed by the congealed blood on his eyelid. They had his wallet, his keys, the pencil and both pieces of paper. His address was on his driver’s license. If they went to his apartment they would see the camera cases and the empty leather suitcase. Might they recognize it?

  What else could they find?

  40

  Rocco tore open the envelope from Big Red’s Garage and tipped the contents out on the table. The three men gazed down at them. Enzo picked up the wallet and laid out a MetroCard, Visa, MasterCard, American Express and Discover cards, a driver’s license, union cards from SAG/AFTRA and AEA, a Health Plan card, a faded photo of a young man in a police uniform holding a citation and standing beside a pretty girl, a money clip with nine twenty-dollar bills, a five and two singles, a Chase Bank card and a condom.

  “You suppose he’s a faggot?” said Rocco.

  “Who knows?” replied Max.

  Rocco picked up the bunch of keys. There were two large and two small. Max smoothed out the pieces of paper.

  “That one’s from me,” said Enzo. He pointed at the other. “What’s that one?”

  “It says,” replied Max, “‘North side of Twenty-Fifth Street … between Broadway and Fifth Avenue.’”

  “Hall and front door,” said Rocco, thumbing through the keys. “Mailbox and what looks like a lockbox. Where’s he live?”

  Max picked up the driver’s license and his eyes met Harry’s for the first time. The actor knew how to hold his head and give the right smile to take full advantage of the lighting even in the DMV.

  “The famous Mr. Harry Murphy,” Max said drily, and threw it down. He picked up the SAG/AFTRA card. “‘Screen Actors Guild,’” he read. “What the fuck is that?”

  “A union. It’s the actors’ union. Actually, it’s two unions combined,” said Enzo.

  “He’s an actor?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Actors have unions?”

  “Sure they do,” said Rocco. He flipped through the other cards. “One for theater, one for live television and commercials and one for when they work in movies. SAG has always had the best health plan of any union.”

  “How you know all this?”

  “I know a pimp in the Bronx who’s one of them. Bastard’s always boasting about his benefits.” He reached for the license and memorized the address. “What do you want to do?”

  Max handed him the keys. “Take these, but let us have them back. Go there. Take the place apart. See what you can find. Nino can take you.”

  “Got it,” said Rocco, and he hurried out.

  Nino drove fast uptown. As they turned onto 56th Street Rocco told him to park on the far corner until he came back out.

  “You got your phone with you?” he asked.

  Nino reached into a pocket and showed him his cellular. Rocco pulled out his Ruger KSP-321XL. Tucking it in his waistband, he got out and let himself into the building. Inside he read the mailboxes. Murphy was on the top floor. He inserted the small key in the lock and pulled open the box and grasped the letters that had been delivered earlier. Closing the box, he pushed through the inner door and climbed the stairs three at a time, all the while shuffling through the mail. At the apartment he rang the bell. After thirty seconds he let himself in.

  Before turning on any lights he took a cursory look in each room to make quite sure he was alone. In the bedroom closet he felt in every pocket, ran his fingers along every seam, checked each piece of clothing and then threw it on the floor. The labels showed Murphy did most of his buying at Brooks Brothers, L.L. Bean and Bloomingdale’s.

  Each pair of shoes was examined and added to the pile. On the upper shelf were boxes of sweaters, gloves and scarves. A plastic see-through bag contained packets of new socks and handkerchiefs. All of it was checked and tossed on the pile. A blue American Tourister suitcase lay empty. Rocco noted that the flight label on the handle was from British Airways and dated the day before.

  He moved over to the bedside table, picked up the answering machine and pressed “Play.” Murphy had one new and five old messages. Rocco listened to them all but learned nothing and dropped the device on the floor. He flipped through each book and magazine, emptied the bedside drawer onto the coverlet. The pictures on the wall were taken apart one by one. In the chest of drawers under the window were shirts, socks and underwear. Rocco tore out the lining paper from the drawers but only found an old airline ticket stub to Houston, Texas.

  The bedding was dragged off and the sheets and coverlet shaken out. Leaning the mattress against the wall, he felt around the box spring and propped it up against the mattress. Two furry coffee
mugs and a belt lay on the floor amidst a mass of fluff and dust.

  He strode across the living room into the kitchen, turned on the light, opened all the cabinet doors and emptied out all the jars and boxes. He tipped or dragged out everything from the drawers, icebox and freezer. Glass and crockery shattered as they hit the floor.

  Standing up on the kitchen counter, he looked above the cabinets but saw nothing but dirt. As he jumped down, his hip caught the edge of the kitchen table. The impact pushed it to one side to reveal three metal cases.

  From the first he pulled out a fancy camera and put it on the table. He bent down to examine the inside of the case. A key turned in the front door and it opened and closed. A girl’s voice said, “Harry?”

  The living room light was switched on. “Harry, is that you?”

  Rocco smoothed his hair back and walked into the living room.

  A pretty young brunette stood by the sofa with a purse over her shoulder. When she saw him she gave him a smile. “Hello,” she said pleasantly. “Are you a friend of Harry’s?”

  “You might say that,” replied Rocco. “Who are you?”

  The girl walked over and held out her hand. “Lizzie. I just came over with Harry from London.”

  Rocco shook a strong hand. The girl passed him and went towards the bedroom. She immediately saw the mess.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, spinning around. “What have you done? Just who the hell are you?”

  Rocco reached behind his back and pulled out the Ruger, causing the girl to put a hand to her mouth.

  “Lie down,” he said, “on the floor. On your face.”

  “No, please!” she whimpered. “No! Please don’t.”

  “Just shut up! And lie down! Face on the floor!”

  The girl meekly did as she was told.

  “Don’t move a muscle!” he said menacingly. Keeping the gun pointing in her direction, he retrieved a belt and tie from the bedroom floor and used them to secure her ankles and bind her arms behind her back.

  “Now get up!” he ordered, and pointed to the sofa. “Sit there!”