“I’m painfully aware of all that, Inspector,” Scanlon said, waving at a familiar face. He took out a De Nobili and lit it. “But it’s a lead that deserves to be followed up, I think.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Harris told me that he had interviewed everyone in Gallagher’s unit. I’m going to have to speak to each of them myself, now.”
“You start talking to those cops and Harris is bound to find out.”
“I know that. But I can’t think of any other way.”
“Maybe you don’t have to speak to them all. Maybe there are one or two guys in the unit that Gallagher was close to besides Harris. Maybe …” He snapped his fingers. “His chauffeur!”
“Damn. Why didn’t I think of him? Of course. Gallagher used to go to the Santorini Diner with the same man most of the time. That was probably his driver.”
Bosses in the NYPD are assigned cops to drive them during their regular tours of duty. In practice every boss selects his own driver. There are two qualifications to be a boss’s driver: a short memory and a zippered mouth.
“Gallagher always used Bert Nocarski as his driver,” Herman the German said. “If Gallagher was into anything, Nocarski would certainly know about it.”
“What tour is Nocarski working?” Scanlon asked, admiring the backsides of passing policewomen.
“He’s working days. I’ve assigned him to drive Gallagher’s replacement until the lieutenant gets to know his people and selects his own driver.”
“I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible.”
“This is Thursday. The Queens Narcotics Squad’s social club holds its monthly meeting tonight. Nocarski is working days, so he’s sure to be there.”
“Does Harris usually attend the meeting?”
“I’ll arrange it so he’s too busy to attend.”
“Will I have any problem getting in?”
“Naw. You’ll be with me. Past and present members and their guests are welcome.” He looked at Scanlon. “You know, they usually have entertainment at these meetings.”
Scanlon drew on his cigar. “That don’t bother me.”
Lt. Jack Fable’s pelican neck was crimson with anger as he listened to Scanlon reveal his suspicions concerning Harris and Mrs. Gallagher. The Whip of the Nineteenth Detective Squad sat shaking his head from side to side. “What the fuck has happened to this Job? Even with a scorecard, you can’t tell the players.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Jack,” Scanlon said, adding, “I’ve just come from the PC. He wants it to be a joint investigation from now on.”
Fable threw up his arms, exasperated. “That’s fucking wonderful. I’ve got some goddamn necrophile using the Nineteenth as his playpen. This weirdo goes to posh hotels with his ax and makes himself dead sex partners. He did one last night in the Hotel Astor. I’ve been up most of the night.” He leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. “My problem with a joint investigation is that I don’t have any warm bodies to assign. I’ve got five men off the chart on the ax murders, and one off the chart on the Zimmermans. With days off, and court appearances, I don’t have enough people to cover the chart.”
“Why not ask the borough for some extra bodies?”
“A waste of time, you know that. Every squad in Manhattan North is knee-deep in homicides. And we can’t treat them like aided and accident cases like you guys in Brooklyn do.”
Scanlon was used to the refrain. There were never enough men and never enough time to do it all. He wondered many times if that was the way the Job always had been. Maybe that was why the first twenty flew by you. You’re too busy playing cop to notice the years melting away. He pondered his own manpower problem. “I’ll get by using my own people, Jack. If I get stuck, I’ll give a holler. And if and when a collar goes down, I’ll call you so that you can be in on it.”
“I appreciate that, Tony. I really do.”
The obligatory phone call had been made. How is your nephew, Chief? Scanlon had asked Assistant Chief Joseph McMahon, the CO of Patrol Borough Bronx. The chief told Scanlon that his nephew was still in detox in St. Vincent’s and that he should be leaving for the Farm in a few days. Scanlon was going to be in the Bronx later in the day and would like to drop in and say hello, if that would be convenient.
Driving through the endless rows of shells of buildings that formed the urban devastation that was the South Bronx, Scanlon thought about how the Job really ran; it was the favors that greased the wheels of justice and made them turn.
Scanlon parked in front of the Four-eight station house on Bath-gate Avenue. He identified himself to the two uniform cops assigned to station house security and entered the house. Assistant Chief McMahon rose up from his chair to greet Scanlon. The two men sat in the office exchanging gossip about the Job. No mention was made of the favor that Scanlon had done the Chief in not arresting his nephew for discharging his off-duty when he had his load on. That would have been … unseemly. Both men knew the drill, the protocol. During a lull in the conversation, Scanlon looked searchingly at McMahon and said, “Chief, I need a favor.…”
When Scanlon left Patrol Borough Bronx twenty-five minutes later he had the names of four Bronx anticrime cops that he had been given by the Chief on a one-week steal.
The four-to-twelve platoon was filing out of the station house when Biafra Baby and Christopher returned.
“Nothing, Lou,” Biafra Baby complained, slumping into a chair in the Whip’s office. “We checked the tax records and came up with no owner of the Luv-Joy Company. One goddamn corporation blends into another. You can’t tell who owns what. And we checked out every theatrical makeup store in Manhattan and Brooklyn and came up dry.”
“What about the other boroughs? That makeup had to have been bought somewhere,” Scanlon said.
Munching on a carrot stick, Christopher said, “We’re going to hit the other boroughs now, Lieutenant.”
“Then why are you here?” Scanlon said, looking disapprovingly at the two detectives.
“We came in for gas,” Christopher said.
It was an old detective ploy to kill a few hours in the house by coming in off the street for gas. Scanlon felt his anger rise. “The Nine-three isn’t the only gas-dispensing precinct in the city. Get your gas and get back out. I want to know where that makeup was purchased.”
“Right, Lieutenant,” Christopher said.
“Detective Jones, Mrs. Jones is on three,” Lew Brodie sang out from the squad room.
Scanlon looked at the two detectives, momentarily forgetting that Biafra Baby’s real name was Simon Jones. Biafra Baby snatched up the phone on the Whip’s desk. Listening, then nodding his head, he said, “Yes, right. I won’t. Right. A half gallon of low-fat milk and whole-grain bread, right.” Hanging up the receiver, he arched his brow and said to Scanlon, “That woman is always on my case.”
Using a department scratch pad, Scanlon began to make a list of the physical evidence that he hoped was still in the possession of Harris or Mary Ann Gallagher. No one does murder and walks away without the fear of getting caught. That raw edge of fear was what he was going to use to break the case. He fumbled around in the case folder until he found Gallagher’s Ten Card. He noted the telephone number and dialed.
The dead lieutenant’s wife came on the line. “Hello? Hello?” Silence. His hand clamped the mouthpiece. He imagined her standing by the phone straining to hear who was on the other end of the open line. He replaced the receiver and sat back. So it begins, he thought.
Twenty minutes later Higgins and a subdued Hector Colon entered the squad room and went into the Whip’s office.
“How did you make out?” Scanlon asked.
“We didn’t find any cockroaches, Lou,” Higgins said gleefully.
Colon squirmed, embarrassed. “Teniente,” he said, trying to ignore Higgins, going on to tell Scanlon that they had canvassed the area where Harris lived on Staten Island, and had discovered that the sergeant’s official residence was
a frame dwelling at the end of a rutted dirt road. Discreet inquiries by Higgins had revealed that Harris did own the house, but was seldom there. Colon went on to say that the Ocean Avenue splash pad of Harris, the one Luise Bardwell had told them about, was in an eight-story building that was in the process of going co-op.
Scanlon was about to ask Colon a question when they heard Lew Brodie’s tense, anxious voice call: “Attention!”
Chief of Detectives Alfred Goldberg bounded into the office followed close behind by a tense deputy chief, MacAdoo McKenzie.
The CofD paused just inside the office and coldly regarded Higgins. He rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth, looked at Colon, and said, “Excuse us, will ya, Hector?”
Hector Colon and Higgins left the office.
CofD Goldberg closed the door, looked at Scanlon. “The PC filled me in on the Gallagher case.”
Scanlon’s right hand brushed at his hair as his gaze shifted to MacAdoo McKenzie.
The deputy chief nodded confirmation.
“Whatsamatta, Lou? Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, Chief,” Scanlon said.
Goldberg braced his hands on the desk and leaned across. “You ain’t supposed to keep things from the chief of detectives.” His dour expression broadened into a smile. “But under the circumstances I forgive you. I happen to be a very forgiving man. Ain’t that so, Chief?” he said, looking at MacAdoo McKenzie.
“Absolutely, boss. Very forgiving,” McKenzie said, rubbing his palms down his trousers.
“We gotta see to it that the PC is protected on this one,” Goldberg said, pointing the chewed-up end of his cigar at the lieutenant’s face. “We also gotta see to it that if Harris and the widow are the perps, it’s us who make the collars and hand out the press releases—very carefully worded press releases.” Shoving the cigar back into his mouth, he asked, “How do you intend to proceed?”
Scanlon told him that his main concern was that Harris and Mrs. Gallagher not be given the opportunity to dispose of any of the evidence that he believed was still in the possession of one of them. When Goldberg asked him why he thought that, Scanlon repeated what he had told the PC. “That evidence is someplace. All we have to do is find it,” Scanlon finished.
“Maybe,” Goldberg said. An expression of doubt clouded his face. He flicked a thick chunk of ash onto the floor. “You got enough manpower to do the job?”
“Jack Fable is sending a few of his detectives over to help, and I’ve scrounged up a few anticrime cops for a week,” Scanlon said.
“Howzat? Fable is up to his ass in homicides and he’s sending you men?” There was humor in Goldberg’s questioning stare.
Scanlon shrugged off his doubtful look. “We all have to pull together on this one, boss.”
Goldberg gave Scanlon a friendly punch on the shoulder. “It really gratifies me to see two of my squad commanders exemplifying such leadership. That’s what command is all about. Right, Lou?”
“Right, Chief,” Scanlon agreed.
“You know, of course, that I know that you’re full of shit. But that’s between you and Fable. Just make sure to keep me informed this time around. Got that? The PC and I are operating on the same wavelength on this one.” He turned to McKenzie. “Let’s go.”
MacAdoo McKenzie moved ahead and opened the door for the CofD. Scanlon scuttled out from behind his desk and hurried over to McKenzie. “What brought about that change?” he whispered.
McKenzie looked at the CofD’s retreating back, whispered, “The PC told him that he was getting out in five months, and if Goldberg played ball with him on the Gallagher thing, the PC would recommend Goldberg as his successor. Goldberg figures that with Bobby Boy’s endorsement he’ll be a shoo-in for the job.”
“That’s if the PC really throws his papers in.”
“McKenzie?” Goldberg shouted over his shoulder.
“Right behind you, boss,” McKenzie shouted back.
Scanlon looked anxiously into the stern face of Herman the German. They were parked on Carroll Street, in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. The Carroll Street Bridge, a tiny span that arches over a black stream of polluted water, was down the block from where they were parked. A trucking company was on their right. It was a street of one- and two-story frame houses. Men in undershirts lounged around the sidewalk on lawn chairs. Boys sped by on skateboards. It was 1915 hours. They had been parked there for over fifteen minutes watching off-duty policemen double-park their cars and hurry into the Vito Longoni Hall of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The hall was across the street, to their left, set back off the street. It was a long one-story frame building that had two wooden steps with a blue-and-white portico.
A Seven-eight Precinct radio car cruised by, slowing to check on the policemen’s private cars, to make sure they remained unmolested. The Seven-eight roll call man had received a call earlier in the day from the club’s sergeant-at-arms informing him that a meeting was scheduled for that evening. The cops who were assigned to the sector where the hall was located, and the patrol sergeant, had been notified to give the hall “special attention.” Cops take care of their own.
Scanlon watched three laughing cops bound up the steps into the Hall. He nudged the inspector. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Herman the German said, opening the car door.
Three cops sat around a bridge table just inside the entrance checking membership cards. The recording secretary, a chunky man with a small head, stood up when the inspector walked into the Hall.
“Glad you could make it, Inspector,” he said, extending his hand across the bridge table.
Motioning at Scanlon, the inspector said, “I brought a friend along.”
“No problem, boss,” the recording secretary said, nodding to Scanlon.
Scanlon made his way into the hall. It consisted of one enormous room with a large open kitchen in the rear that was set off from the rest of the hall by a long counter. Swirling blue clouds were painted across the ceiling. Three kegs of beer were set up in front of the counter; many bottles of liquor were on top of the counter along with gallon jugs of wine. A cop was standing over the big pots on top of the gas range. An aluminum folding table had been set up across one side of the room to act as the dais, and there were five rows of metal folding chairs arranged in front of it. An American flag stood behind the aluminum table. Six card tables were scattered about the hall, each one filled with cardplayers. Each table had two pitchers of beer on it.
“Do you see Nocarski?” Scanlon asked Herman the German.
“No,” the inspector said, making his way over to the large dice game that was in progress in one corner of the hall. Scanlon moved along behind him. They watched the dice game for a few minutes, the inspector taking in the faces of the players. Herman the German shook his head. “He’s not here.” They made their way through to the staircase that led downstairs to the cloakroom.
The horseshoe basement bar was mobbed with policemen. There were round tables with flickering candles inside white lanterns. A crap game was in progress in the middle of the room. Herman the German examined each face in turn. Narcs came over to say hello to their boss. Scanlon had never noticed before just how many different kinds of faces made up today’s Job. There were oriental faces, and Latin faces, and Mediterranean faces, and black faces, and bearded faces. There were cops in shabby clothes and Italian-cut suits. Cops dressed as Hell’s Angels. There were women dressed to look like housewives and business executives. They all had a common denominator, their shields, NYPD Queens Narcotics.
Herman the German moved about greeting his men, listening to their jokes, roaring with laughter, enduring their slurred conversations. Watching the inspector maneuvering among his men, Scanlon thought, A lot of things go into being a boss in the Job. You really have got to know your people, their strengths, their weaknesses. You have got to get them to produce for you, yet, you have to remain aloof from them, not become part of the
car pool.
“Nocarski isn’t here,” Herman the German said. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
The dice game up in the hall was in full swing. A female undercover was on her knees talking to the dice. “Come a seven, come eleven. Baby, talk to your mama!” She rolled the dice.
“Eight’s her point,” a male voice said. “Twenty says she don’t six or eight in two.”
Music blared from a tape deck under the long counter.
The cook shouted, “Chow down!”
Policemen began to drift up to the counter.
“Let’s eat,” Herman the German said.
Holding a paper plate overflowing with frankfurters, sauerkraut, baked beans, salad, and white bread, Scanlon eased himself down onto one of the metal folding chairs and gingerly balanced the plate on his knees. Using a flimsy plastic knife and a fork, he began to cut into the steaming frankfurter. “It takes a certain kind of dexterity to eat at one of these meetings.”
Champing on a mouthful of food, Herman the German grunted something that Scanlon took for agreement. They finished eating. Nocarski still had not arrived. The policemen inside the hall had divided themselves into three groups. The boozers congregated around the bar, slopping down drinks; the cardplayers and the crapshooters were intent on their games; the rookies had collected around the dais, exchanging youthful war stories.
“Yoho, m’man,” came a harsh voice from the middle of the dice game. “You don’t gate in this motherfuckin’ game. This ain’t no motherfuckin’ schoolyard.”
Deep lines creased the inspector’s brow. “It might be a good time to get out of here.”
Scanlon’s stump ached. “A little while longer. I gotta speak with Gallagher’s driver.”
A bearded black man wearing cut-off jeans, sandals, and a T-shirt walked up behind the dais and began rapping a blackjack on the aluminum table, calling the meeting to order. “All stand for the Pledge,” he ordered.
Activity stopped as everyone in the hall stood and faced the flag. After the Pledge of Allegiance was over the club’s president asked for a moment of silent prayer for the deceased members of the force. All bowed their heads. Prayer over, all activities resumed in muffled tones as the president announced the calendar of coming events: a boat ride in July leaving from the Captree Boat Basin; a family picnic in August; the annual promotion and retirement dinner dance in September.
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