Once a Crooked Man

by David McCallum

Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher was closed for the day. Carter crossed the deserted lobby and took the elevator up to his floor. For a while he stood by the window and looked down at the street. Below was a world in turmoil. Everything in his life had changed in less than an hour. If only he had been able to lie to Fiona, to come up with a story to explain the visit from the IRS. But now that was all wishful thinking.

  In an odd way after so many years of deceit it had been a relief to come clean. His marriage was over as she was not one to forgive. Her sense of what was appropriate far outweighed any love or affection that she might still feel for him. Divorce was inevitable. Amanda and James would be devastated but were young enough to recover. Carter’s future relationship with them would entirely depend on what their mother told them. Charles and Katherine Walker were another matter.

  That was his private life. Professionally, he doubted anything would come from the agent’s visit. It was a fact that he had established virtual companies to hide large sums of cash. But all of these had been closed up and archived ages ago. Back in the early years when he had accepted money from Sal and Max, Carter had never been told the source. If the need arose, he could plead ignorance.

  But forewarned is forearmed. Now he had come to the office to find how the IRS had tied him to the Bruschettis. What was the link? Carter had a vague idea that Enzo owned a boat that he kept on the Hudson. Could that be how the Feds made the connection? Once more he opened the safe and took out several boxes, stacking them by his desk.

  With his jacket off he sat down and year by year, month by month, day by day, file by file he examined every page, memo and note. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, completely baffled.

  Where else could he look? Somewhere beyond his office? Each of his closest associates and their assistants had their own systems. So did Joan Hutchins. She had sat outside his door from the day he had arrived at the firm. Carter knew that his assistant kept her records in three cabinets lined up behind her desk and the keys for these were kept in a coffee mug where she dropped them every night before she left. He retrieved them and unlocked the first cabinet, pulled out the top drawer and located the B section. There was nothing there. Fingering through to the Gs, he came across a file marked “Gazelle.” This was extremely odd.

  Back in his office he laid the file on his desk and opened it up.

  Inside were two sheets of paper. A certificate of registration listing the owner of the Gazelle as the Martinson Metal Recycling Company.

  Carter turned to the second page.

  This was a handwritten note written by Joan. For some reason she had penciled in the directors of the company. Salvatore and Enzo Bruschetti. Carter stood transfixed. He remembered setting up the Martinson Metal Recycling Company but had absolutely no recollection of doing anything about any boat. There was certainly no way he had ever personally arranged for it to be registered.

  Perhaps Joan had opened the mail when it arrived and taken it upon herself to complete the forms. Or could he in a moment of idiocy have allowed her to do it?

  Joan would be the only person to have seen this second page. There was no reason for anyone other than her to look at it. The IRS must have procured the Bruschetti name from somewhere else. But where? He needed an answer. And fast. Enzo was the obvious start. A call and a meeting might give him a clue.

  If he was heading into their territory it would be a good idea to have a transcript of any conversations. From his desk he took out an Olympus voice recorder and slipped it into his shirt pocket. As he did, he noticed the little metal box in the drawer that contained his Beretta 3032 Tomcat. The little titanium pistol had been acquired soon after he made the acquaintance of Sal and Max. The questionable individual who had sold him the weapon for one thousand dollars in cash had given him a piece of advice.

  “If you draw this little baby, you had better be prepared to kill. Otherwise leave the sucker in your pants.”

  Carter took the little pistol out and held it in his hand.

  What the hell, he thought.

  Checking the safety, he slipped it into his pocket.

  61

  The basement below the dining room at Mazaras was once the scene of many wild parties. Now it was a cluttered, untidy maze. In their younger days the brothers had made part of it into a gaming room with a big octagonal poker table and a shiny mahogany bar with six high-backed stools. In the back wall they had a walk-in vault installed to store the cash earned from every nefarious job.

  Max and Enzo grew older. Sal spent more time with his family and the space was hardly used. Storage for the restaurant became a premium. First refrigeration was moved down. Metal shelves were erected to store cans and dry goods. The poker table was piled with outdated menus, phased-out flatware and bundles of faded linens. The shiny bar surface became a dump for plastic bags full of discarded kitchen paraphernalia. Boxes were stacked everywhere and New York dust descended on them like a shroud.

  Max came down the stairs and switched on the lights. Unlocking the bathroom door he found the girl seated on the toilet. One shoe lay on the floor and she was massaging her foot. She blinked and gave a sniff.

  “Have you any idea what a fucking mess your friend Harry caused before he decided to jump?” Max asked, throwing the door wide.

  Her answer was a meaningful moan.

  “Shut up!” said Max. “Where’s the money?”

  “What money?” she replied, picking up her shoe.

  “Harry Murphy called earlier and told us he had a suitcase of cash. Money that belonged to me. He said he wanted to give it back. Sounded like he was crazy.”

  She looked puzzled. “Crazy? Harry? Money? I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I told you. He was a ticket that’s all. A chance to come here for free and have a good time.” She looked up at Max and shook her head from side to side. “I don’t know nothing about Harry. I don’t know nothing about any money. I don’t know who you are or why you’ve got me locked up like this. What is it with you? Some kind of fetish keeping people in toilets? At least this one works!” To prove her point, she flushed it.

  Max turned away. There was something unusually attractive about this girl. Under the frailty was a toughness that was appealing. Taking her by the arm he pushed her over to a chair at the poker table.

  “You said you work for a travel company?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she replied, and put her shoe back on.

  As she straightened up Max took her purse from her shoulder and emptied out the contents. He glanced at her passport and then carefully examined everything else. Finally he opened a long business envelope and extracted a sheet of typewritten paper. “‘Honeybee Travel,’” he read. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, and gave another sniff.

  Glancing at his watch, he asked, “What time they open?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Honeybee,” he said, and pointed at the paper. “Are they open now?”

  “My boss lives over the shop. He answers the phone all hours. Keeps his clients happy that way.”

  Max pulled a phone out from his pocket and dialed the number on the letter heading. “Hi there,” he said. “I’m trying to locate a friend of mine. I understand she works for you.” He covered the mouthpiece. “What do they call you?” he asked.

  “Elizabeth.” She pouted. “Elizabeth Carswell.”

  His hand dropped. “Her name is Elizabeth. Yes. Oh. It’s ‘Lizzie.’ I see. That’s right. But she still works for you? I see. No, no message. I’ll call when she’s back. Yeah, sometime next week.”

  The girl called Lizzie gave him a defiant stare as he rang off.

  “Satisfied?” she said.

  “Is that your boss?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Sort of.”

  “About your friend Murphy,” he said.

  “I told you he was not my friend. I knew as much about him as I do about you.”

  “But you came over toget
her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you talk about on the flight over?”

  “I told him what I did. He told me about his work. Acting and all that.”

  “Like what?”

  “That he did a movie with Tom Cruise but they never worked together. That he did work on the stage and on the TV. And he reads them books people listen to in their cars.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. Just small talk. Look, what’s going on? What is this place and why am I here? And how come I got mixed up in your affairs? What sort of business is it may I ask?”

  Max came back over and looked straight down at her. “How come an attractive girl like you isn’t married? You got a boyfriend?”

  “No, not right now.”

  “How come?”

  “Too busy I suppose.” She folded her arms. “When you said Harry drowned did that mean you killed him?”

  “No. He jumped off my brother’s boat.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “He was scared.”

  “So scared that he jumped?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you killed him!”

  “If you like.”

  For a moment there was silence.

  “What do you do when you’re not working?” Max asked.

  “Are you coming on to me?” said Lizzie.

  Max paused. Lizzie’s frankness and candor was new to him.

  “Maybe. Answer my question.”

  “I run a lot. In cross-country races. Track meets. And I go to the cinema. Listen to music. All the usual sort of things.”

  “You have a good life.”

  “Yes.”

  Lizzie started to put her belongings back in her purse.

  “Yet you don’t have a regular boyfriend. That surprises me.”

  She held up her lipstick. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  Max shook his head and watched patiently as she painted her lips a weird shade of purple. “If all you came for was a good time, I could give you that.”

  “What?”

  “I could give you a good time,” he repeated.

  “For what in return?” she asked, and blotted her lips on a Kleenex.

  “Whatever you want,” Max said lightly. “Just take it as it comes. When did you last eat?”

  “What makes you think I’m that sort of girl?”

  Max laughed. “Every girl is that sort of girl. Just depends on the price.”

  “Yeah? You sound as if you’ve had a lot of experience.”

  “You could say that.”

  “To answer your question, it was lunch yesterday.”

  “You want something to eat?”

  “What exactly do you do, Max? When you’re not abducting and killing?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your friend called you Max. Back in that cellar. I take it what you do ain’t legal.”

  “Would it bother you if it wasn’t?”

  “No. Not really. I mean, why should it? If I was back home it might. But being here makes it all kind of unreal, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. Tell me.”

  “I’ve been to the films, Max! I watch the telly! I’ve seen what life is like in America. Especially New York and all the Mafia and all that. I mean it’s all pretty wild, isn’t it? Look what’s happened to me and I’ve only been here a couple of days!”

  “Do you watch much porn?”

  “No, not much. I had a boyfriend once that liked it, but it never did much for me. All the people was so unattractive and all pale and pimply. Why do you ask?”

  “That’s one of our businesses. Sex tapes, magazines, CDs and the like. We have some pretty hot stuff with some pretty good-looking studs and chicks.”

  “Doing what?” she said wryly.

  “You name it, we got it.”

  “Just people humpin’?”

  “Not at all. We market a quality product. You’d be surprised at the difference.”

  “Do your customers know the difference?”

  “Many of them do. They keep on ordering. At least they used to. Things are slack right now.”

  “That’s a poor choice of words, if I may say so.”

  Max looked her for a moment and then asked, “So what’s it to be? You want to come upstairs and eat or shall I put you back in there until we figure out what to do with you?”

  “Bit of a Hobson’s choice.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  She smiled broadly, finished filling her purse and threw it over her shoulder. “I can see I’m going to have to teach you a few things.”

  “Come on,” he said, heading out.

  Upstairs, Max led the way through the dining room into a brightly lit kitchen. A short, dark-haired man with a mustache was wiping down the steel counters. Max hung up his jacket on a row of hooks and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Ciao, Nando. Buona sera,” said Max. “Pochi clienti stasera?”

  “Sì,” replied the other. “Nessuno dopo le nove e un quarto. Maurizio ha mandato tutti a casa. Posso preparare qualcosa per lei e la signora?”

  “No grazie. Lo faccio io.”

  Nando took off his soiled whites and threw them with the towels into a laundry basket in the corner. Picking up his cap and coat, he wished them good night. The front door was unlocked, opened, closed and relocked.

  Max took an apron from a pile of clean linen and pulled it over his head. “I hope you still eat beef,” he said. “I’m no chef but I can do steaks.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Sounds great.”

  The gas popped when it was lit and the jets burned blue beneath a big iron grill.

  “What is this place?” she asked. “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s called Mazaras,” he replied. “It’s named after the house in Sicily where my family used to live. A little village called Mazzarone. My chef and his staff mostly come from Calabria. Right now they’re all on their way home or to their favorite bars getting drunk.”

  “Your chef? You own all this?”

  “Yes,” replied Max, opening the door to a large icebox where he selected two thick porterhouse steaks.

  “I’m impressed,” she said with a smile.

  Max brushed them with olive oil, covered them with freshly ground black pepper, gave them a shake of sea salt and dropped them with a sizzle on the grill. A small black skillet was oiled and set on the grill. Into it went thick slices of onion.

  A delicious aroma rose as Max opened an icebox and pulled out a bag of washed arugula leaves and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. From the overhead rack he took down two big white plates and loaded them with the green leaves. A razor-sharp knife made short work of slicing the tomatoes. Checking his watch, he lowered the flame slightly.

  Max watched the meat. Lizzie watched Max. Then she remembered Harry and a wave of guilt swept through her body.

  “Are you cold?” said Max.

  “No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “You were shivering. We can turn off the air-conditioning.”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Have some wine. That’ll fix you up.”

  “That’d be great,” she replied.

  Max unlocked a cupboard, took out a bottle of Sagrantino di Montefalco and swiftly pulled out the cork, using a device on the wall.

  “You eat here a lot?” asked Lizzie.

  “All of the time. Except when I’m at home.” He turned off the gas, scooped the steaks onto the plates and gave each a fresh grind of pepper. “Bring the bottle,” he said, and picked up the plates. Setting them down on a table in the dining room, he lit the candles and poured out the wine.

  “Blimey,” she said wryly as she sat down. “Soft lights, fancy wine, now all we need is the sexy music…”

  Max walked over and reached behind a curtain. Soft music came through invisible speakers. Raising his glass, he said somewha
t ironically, “Santé!”

  “Bottoms up!” she replied, and they both drank. The wine was smooth and sexy. With her steak knife she cut off a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. “If you got your own restaurant, how come you stay in such good shape?”

  “I worry a lot,” he retorted.

  “What about?”

  “You ever run a business?”

  “Only worked in one.”

  “You’d be amazed at what you gotta do every day. Decisions to make. People coming to you for advice. There’s always something and every little thing adds up and raises your blood pressure.”

  Lizzie scooped up some onions. “Who do you talk to at the end of the day? Is there a Mrs. Max waiting for you?”

  Her captor’s hands stopped moving imperceptibly. His face tensed and then relaxed. “Now there’s a question,” he replied.

  “Does it have an answer?” she persisted.

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Tried it before, have you? Or just not met the right girl?”

  “How’s the meat?” he said abruptly.

  “Fine, thanks,” she answered, and then added with a grin, “thick and juicy. Just the way I like it.” Then she asked, “Where’s home?”

  “New Jersey.” A small dimple appeared in his left cheek as he too smiled. “You’re an inquisitive little fucker, aren’t you?”

  “I’m having a hard time figuring you out. You’re not what I expect when it comes to villainy. And I’m curious about you,” she said, and took a drink. “You own the whole of this building?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s all them doors up there?”

  “What?”

  “When I come in earlier we walked past a bunch of doors with names on them, like Paris, Rome, Berlin.”

  “Which would you choose?” he asked, and poured more wine into her glass.

  “Depends what for,” she answered. “Art and all that stuff I’d pick Paris. For nightlife I suppose I’d go to Berlin. For food there would be no contest; I’d go to Rome.”

  For a moment she stared hard at him.

  “You know Max, you’re the first man I’ve met that could do more in the kitchen than boil water.”

  “Thank you. What about your old man?”

  “My dad?”

  Max nodded.