Suspects

by William Caunitz

  “Take the rag business, which by the way is where ninety-eight percent of my business comes from. It’s a business with a desperate need for ready cash. Manufacturers need money to buy materials for the next season. They don’t want to have to wait thirty or sixty days to get their money from a department store. So they come to me with their invoice and I buy it from them, less ten percent. They assign the invoice to me and the department store pays the money to me. This way a dress manufacturer can have cash in his hand in one day and not have to wait a month or two to get paid.”

  “Joe wanted you to lend him money?”

  “No, a friend of his who had this cockamamie company that made dildos and other dreck. His friend wanted to expand the business but didn’t have the capital.”

  “Did you lend the money?”

  “No. That wasn’t the kind of company that I could get involved with. That business was basically a mail-order house. They had some orders from retail outlets, but not enough for us to get involved. I told Joe this, and I offered some suggestions on how his friend might raise the money.”

  An anxious feeling welled up in Scanlon’s chest. “Who was Joe’s friend?”

  19

  The blinds were drawn in Tony Scanlon’s apartment. His dark hair flopped about his head as his body moved in fluid movements to the beat of aerobics music. His support hose felt tight in the crotch, and his body glistened with sweat. He had been at it now for almost one hour, and the gamy smell of his body told him it was almost time to quit.

  One, two, three, four, scissor your legs and clap your hands, one, two, three, four. Yesterday he had thought that there was a good chance he had figured the whole thing out. But his morning visit to Milton Tablin had showed him that he hadn’t. One, two, three, four, stretch your arms over your head.

  With hands on hips and head bowed slightly, he stood catching his breath, aware of the trickle under his armpits. Peeling off his support hose and casting them aside, he moved into the bathroom. He opened the shower door, picked up the slatted folding chair he kept inside, slapped it open, and set it down inside the stall. He took off his prosthesis and placed it over the toilet seat, hopped into the shower, and sat down on the chair. He adjusted the faucets, quickly turning on more cold because he had almost scalded himself with too much hot.

  He turned his face upward so that he might better enjoy the stinging spray of water. He had made a ten P.M. date to see Sally De Nesto. Her sex and therapy sessions had begun to intrigue him. In some strange way, everything she had told him about himself made sense to him. The last time they were together he had told her about his childhood, and how his drunken father used to beat up on his mother. When he saw her eyes grow wide and a knowing glimmer lit up her face, he had demanded, “What?”

  “You really don’t see it, do you, Tony?” she had said, firming herself up on pillows.

  Three fingertips touching in an Italian gesture, he shook his hand at her face. “See what?”

  “It’s so clear,” she insisted. “Your drunken father abuses your mother, and you do nothing to stop it, and then you feel lousy about yourself for doing nothing to protect your mother, for not rushing to her aid. Then years later you meet Jane Stomer, and just like your mom, she gave you her love. And then when you lost your leg and had your problem, you saw yourself as unable to return her love, to protect her, just as if you had let your mother down. So what did you do? You began to seethe inside yourself, and to punish yourself by only being able to get off with people like me.”

  “Where did you pick up on all that psychological shit?” he had ranted. “I know. I know. From your trick, the blind shrink.”

  He turned his lathered face up to rinse off. Why the hell did Sally spend so much time trying to help him solve his problems? She must have a mound of her own stashed somewhere.

  It was after seven P.M. when Scanlon walked from his apartment by the front entrance. He wasn’t much in the mood to climb down the fire escape. The flow of people had spilled over into the roadway. Traffic crept along; swarms of people dodged between cars. The sidewalk cafés and the coffeehouses were jammed with people. Greenwich Village was alive, vibrant.

  Thirty-six minutes later when Scanlon drove his car through the sleepy Greenpoint streets he saw a lone woman walking her collie.

  He plunged his car up onto the curb cut and honked his car’s horn. Rheumy eyes peered out the peephole, and in a matter of seconds the door leading into Gretta Polchinski’s garage was churning open. He saw Walter Ticornelli’s Ford parked in the first row of cars. Scanlon got out of his car, handed the attendant a two-dollar tip, and moved quickly along the cinder-block passage that led into Gretta Polchinski’s brothel.

  Men milled about the knotty-pine bar, talking to heavily made-up women in revealing clothes. The jukebox blared. Couples shuffled around the dance floor. Scanlon moved through the crowd, taking his time, checking out faces. One of the bartenders, a short man with big spaces between his teeth, spied Scanlon and mouthed, “Do ya wanna drink, Lieutenant?”

  Scanlon shook his head and mouthed back, “Where’s Gretta?”

  The bartender’s thumb jerked in the direction of the dance floor.

  She was sitting alone in a shadow, studying the dancers, a teacup in her hands and a silver tea egg on the table next to the saucer.

  Uninvited, Scanlon went over to her and sat across from her. She looked at him, lowered her cup into the circle, and asked, “You here for pleasure or for business?”

  “I saw Walter’s car in the garage,” he said, motioning away the waitress.

  “He’s upstairs comforting his lover. You want to see him?”

  “Actually, it’s you I’ve come to see.”

  Toying with her necklaces, she said, “Don’t tell me you’ve decided you want to throw a hump into me.” Overlapping rows of gold chains glistened around her withered neck.

  Scanlon grew stern. “I’m here to discuss the Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company with you, since you’re the sole stockholder.”

  “My business interests are none of your goddamn business.” She made a move to get up and leave.

  He anchored her wrist to the table. “Be advised that I’m not in the mood for any of your parlor games.”

  “Fuck you!” she yelled, attempting to tug her hand free.

  Several of the dancers turned to look in the direction of the disturbance. He continued to pin her hand to the table. “You talk, I listen. If you don’t, I not only close down this place, I also sic the IRS on your ass. Think of all those secret business interests of yours, all that undeclared cash stashed in safe deposit boxes. The IRS boys would have a field day with you.” He released her wrist.

  “Why you pissing on my parade, Scanlon? I didn’t kill anyone. You should spend your time busting murderers and dope dealers, not breaking my chops.”

  “You cause me a lot of extra work, lady. You should have told me about your connection with Gallagher.”

  “You’re making something out of nothing. I needed money for capital improvements. Joe tried to help me arrange financing with a guy. It didn’t work out. I gave Joe one large for his troubles. That’s it, end of story.”

  “Not quite. You also lent him an extra fifteen hundred so that he could get Walter Ticornelli off his back. That was your money that we found in the trunk of Gallagher’s car.”

  “And what the hell makes you so sure it was me who lent him money?”

  “Street smarts. You’re the only one around with a lot of extra cash who would lend a cop money without a vig.”

  She reached out and patted his face. “You know that I’ve always been a sucker for a cop.”

  “What connection did Gallagher have with your company?”

  “None. He’d come around every now and then to grab some dildos and things. You know how much cops love to grab things that they get for nothing.”

  “Does George Harris still work for you?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she snapped. “He used to
work for old man Stevens, the guy I bought the company from. When I took over I decided to reduce my overhead. I put in my own man as manager and got rid of all the moonlighting cops and firemen. I wanted people working for me who were dependent on me for their living, not people with a city paycheck coming in every week.”

  “Did you ever raise the money you were looking for?”

  “After Milton Tablin turned me down, I decided to forget expanding until I had the money.”

  “Why not try the banks?”

  “And use what for collateral—hookers? Banks don’t lend money to madams. Them chauvinistic bastards only launder money for drug dealers.”

  “What about Walter? His vig is probably the same as the banks’.”

  “Any businessman who borrows money from them ends up with them not only owning his kishkas, but also his soul.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Gallagher?”

  “Never met the lady. All I know about her is that she used to work as a teachers’ aide in one of the local junior high schools. That was how she met Gallagher. He went there one day to address the school assembly on the evils of narcotics.”

  “You must have known Gallagher and Harris pretty well.”

  “What civilian really knows a cop? Gallagher would drop by every now and then. Sometimes he’d take a fancy to one of the girls.” She scowled. “He didn’t pay either. Harris? He only came in with Gallagher, never by himself. He was a quiet guy, he always seemed preoccupied. Whenever they were here, Gallagher did all the talking. Once I asked Harris if he had a tongue. Gallagher chimed in that he did the talking for both of them. ‘But not the thinking,’ Harris barked back. Gallagher got real pissed off at Harris over that remark. And I’ll tell you something else—Harris was a cheap bastard. The few times he was in here with Gallagher they’d have drinks at the bar. Once Harris actually paid for their drinks and he consulted a tipping chart to see how much of a tip to leave.”

  “How come Harold Hunt is your accountant?”

  “You know about Harold?” she said, surprised. “I’ll tell ya, Joe Gallagher recommended him. Said he owed him a favor, and that he was a right guy and a good accountant. And he was right, Harold is a good accountant. I let him come by every now and then for a free screw. I’ll tell you, Scanlon, with all this goodwill I pass out, I don’t know how I’m able to make a living.”

  Scanlon heaved a weary sigh. He had wasted a lot of time and manpower on following Eddie Hamill and Luv-Joy leads. That was one of the painful realities of the Job. You can never tell where an investigative lead is going to take you. Most of them end up dead ends. And then there are those that will break a case wide open. The time had come for him to make amends with Gretta. Hookers are one of a cop’s best sources of information. No cop wants to lose that source. A warm smile, a flash of teeth. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She shook her fist at his face. “Sometimes you make me so mad that I want to ram this down that beautiful throat of yours.”

  He guffawed. “Like I told you before, I have that effect on some people.”

  “What about the money you found in Gallagher’s car? My money?”

  “I’ll see to it that you get it back.”

  “And you’re going to buy me a drink? Here and now?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “This I gotta see. A cop putting his hands into his own pockets for a change.” She motioned wildly for the black waitress. “Siobbhan, a bottle of champagne. And give the bill to my friend here.”

  Yorkville had changed. The Von Westernvogen Brau Hall no longer existed. The slinking German spies of the forties had been relegated to the pages of pulp fiction. It was a little before ten P.M. when Scanlon drove his car into East Eighty-sixth Street. Human hulks slept on cardboard mattresses along the building sides and in doorways. Pimps lurked in the shadows, watching their women prowl their curbside turfs. A drunk was urinating between parked cars. Café Geiger and Kleine Konditorei were open, well-dressed people inside, savoring German beer and other delicacies.

  Sally De Nesto lived in a building with small terraces, a condominium on Eighty-sixth between First and East End Avenue. Scanlon parked on Eighty-sixth Street, off First. He looked at the traffic sign. No Stopping No Standing No Parking 8 A.M. to 6 P.M. No Standing No Stopping 7 P.M. to Midnight. Towaway Zone.

  He spent several moments deciphering the sign and decided that it was all right to park. He switched on the car’s alarm system, bolted the steering wheel in place, clicked out the radio and tape deck and stashed them under the passenger seat.

  A junkie sat in a shoe store’s doorway smiling at his precautions. Scanlon saw him and pantomimed a pistol with his fingers and pegged three harmless shots at him. The junkie shrugged his hands slowly and nodded off. Scanlon felt like Charles Bronson. Death Wish One, Two, and Three. Whadda town!

  Sally De Nesto greeted him at the door with cheerful enthusiasm, throwing her arms around him, bending her legs up off the floor.

  “What got into you?” he exclaimed, bearing her into the apartment, kicking the door shut.

  “I’m in a wonderful, upbeat mood, and I’m glad to see you. I like a quiet Saturday night. But not too quiet.” She slid her hands from around his neck. “May I get you something to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Then in that case, let’s you and me get right down to business.” She untied the blue terry-cloth robe she was wearing.

  A yelping siren pierced the night. The soft hum of an air conditioner added a sense of permanence to the darkened room. They lay on rumpled sheets, she with her head on pillows, her ankles crossed. Both of them were naked, both spent and relaxed, both coming down from a lovemaking high.

  “Have you given any thoughts to what we discussed the last time?” she asked softly.

  “Jane Stomer and me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sally, I told you, it’s over. There is someone else in her life now.”

  “Like the man said, Tony, it’s not over until it’s over.”

  He glanced sideways at her. “And exactly what the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that sometimes scorned women say untruths that they know will hurt, that are intended to hurt.”

  He flushed. “Jane Stomer isn’t that kind of woman.”

  The darkness hid her smile.

  He twisted his torso toward her. “Now I have a question for you.”

  “What?” she said, measuring the ceiling.

  “Why the interest in my personal problems?”

  “I’m interested in all my clients,” she said defensively.

  “But why? Tell me why, Sally.”

  She turned her head away from him, lapsed into a thoughtful silence. At length, she asked, “Have you ever wondered why I never drink?”

  “I never really gave it any thought.”

  “I’m not allowed to drink because I take phenobarbital. I have epilepsy.”

  “Oh?” he said, at a loss.

  “And did you know that I was once engaged to be married?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, sensing a delicate moment.

  “I was twenty-two and in love. His name was Carlo. We were going to live in Parsippany and have four children. Two boys and two girls. It was to have been a June wedding. Carlo had his best man deliver his Dear John letter to me three days before the wedding. I still have it. I read it over every now and then. It serves to remind me what the real world is like, if I’m ever tempted to forget.”

  Scanlon pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “I had my first seizure three months later. And one year after that I found myself living in Manhattan, alone and very lonely. I knew that with my illness my prospect of finding a husband was practically nil. And having those four children, well, that was just out of the question, wasn’t it?

  “Anyhow, one night I went to a singles bar. It was there that I met my blind shrink friend. He looked so helpless and alone standing at the bar by himself,
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling around with his clothes, his head sort of lolling to one side, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. I took one look at him and my heart broke for him. To live alone and in total blackness must be the ultimate loneliness, I thought. So I went up to him and introduced myself. I took him home with me.” A wan smile came to her face. “He was the second man that I had gone to bed with. I was practically a virgin.”

  He pressed her head to his chest.

  “In the morning he gave me money and I took it. He’d always paid for it and he didn’t think there could be any other way for him. I felt strangely loved and needed. From then on I just sort of wandered into the business. He would send his handicapped patients to me and I would supply them with the therapy they so badly needed.” She broke free of his embrace and pushed herself up in the bed, covering herself with a sheet. “My clients love me, Tony. And I love them. We need each other. They’ve become my extended family, and in a crazy way they have given purpose to my life.”

  “I guess we all have to play with the hole card that life deals us.”

  “That’s my point, Tony. You don’t. You can rid yourself of your handicap. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life in the sexual underground.”

  “You make it sound so damn easy,” he said lamely.

  “It is, for you. All you have to do is to understand that we’re all the products of our upbringing and then look inside yourself and see how your parents and your childhood experiences helped mold your adult life.”

  “You still haven’t told me why the special interest in me.”

  She picked up his hand. “Because I love you enough to want to see you end your dependency on me. Don’t you know that in order to receive love you first have to learn how to give it? When you share your life with someone you share it all, the good and the bad. You can’t separate it, Tony. Your refusal to let Jane share your problem shut her out of your life. You isolated yourself from the rest of the world. And then you punished yourself by only being able to get it up with hookers. There is nothing physically wrong with you. If you can do it with me, you can do it with any woman.” She screwed a finger into her temple. “It’s all up there, kiddo. All you have to do is figure it out.”