Sinner's Ball

by Ira Berkowitz

“My worst fears are crawly creatures with too many legs, and those that don’t have any. If that’s what you’ve got in mind, then I’d have to rethink things.”

  “You’re a real funny guy.”

  I looked over at Kenny. The Glock was in his hand.

  “Part of my charm.”

  “You’re asking questions of people who don’t want to be bothered. Poking around something that’s not your business. And it stops now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “That kid you hang out with. DeeDee?” he said with a shark grin. “Prime stuff. I could see—”

  The snakes went on autopilot. And I was along for the ride.

  I snatched a mug from the bar and smashed it against the bridge of Ennis’s nose. Riley was so surprised he never saw the toe of my work boot crash into his crotch.

  The steelworkers hoisted their shot glasses in appreciation.

  When my heart finally stopped beating like a jackhammer, I took a few moments to reflect on an interesting juxtaposition of events. When I’d gone to see Martine, I hadn’t pushed hard. Not hard enough that she’d have felt the need to send her apes to persuade me to back off.

  And then it hit me. Terry Sloan.

  As soon as I left his office, the slimy son of a bitch had to have filled her head with stories about my legendary stick-to-itiveness.

  “You OK?” Nick said, stepping over Riley and Ennis.

  “Never better.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “Couple of worms from the can I opened.”

  19

  Martine Toussaint was becoming a distraction. Much as I enjoyed going a round with her guys, I still couldn’t see any connection between her and the warehouse.

  It was time to stop poking my hand in that hornet’s nest and get back to my research.

  I called Luce.

  “Making any progress on the vics who bought it at Dave’s warehouse?”

  “I love the way you start a conversation,” she said. “Short on social niceties. Right to business.”

  “Let’s start over. How are you?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Is it going to take long?”

  “Probably.”

  “Terrific. Now, back to the vics.”

  “They’re back-burnered. With your brother indicted, everyone’s taking their time. Didn’t find much anyway. Basically ordinary guys leading ordinary lives.”

  “Maybe. But doesn’t the NYPD find the way they went out a tad disturbing?”

  “That’s so a couple of weeks ago,” she said. “Now we’re on to the next new thing. A Wall Street guy and his wife were bludgeoned to death in their East Side town house. Turns out he was major contributor to the DA’s reelection campaign. The mayor’s all over this one.”

  “Ain’t life grand? Even in death guys with money get their asses kissed.”

  “It’s what makes life so interesting.”

  “You mind if I kinda backtrack your former investigation?”

  “Be my guest. Got some stuff be happy to share with you.”

  “When?”

  “Not today. Up to my hips in crime.”

  “How’s about breakfast at Feeney’s tomorrow?”

  “The Board of Health certifying Nick for serving what passes for food?”

  “Beats me,” I said.

  “A rousing recommendation. By the way, I ran Wanda Klemper through the system. Couple of soliciting charges on her rap sheet. No known address.”

  “What a surprise,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

  • • •

  I Ching, on Tenth and Forty-fourth, was a cramped little joint with six tables and the best Peking Duck the city had to offer. Crispy skin. Moist slices of tender breast meat. And nestled in a wrap so light it had to be anchored to the table. Truth be told, I ate most of the duck while Allie contented herself with nibbling on a scallion tip dipped in hoisin sauce.

  She had come straight from a client meeting and was wearing her version of a power suit: jeans and a black leather vest over a shimmering white silk turtleneck.

  “How goes the great creative power-sharing experiment?” I said.

  “About as expected. My new boss needs a lot of work in the ‘works and plays well with others’ department.” With the tip of her chopsticks she snagged a stray piece of duck about the size of a postage stamp, dipped an edge in the sauce, and popped it in her mouth. “This is really good, Steeg.”

  “Be careful you don’t fill up. I figured we’d hit Ferraro’s for dessert. I was thinking tartufo.”

  She took a small bite of the scallion and laid it on her plate.

  “Then I’d better leave room,” she said.

  “Let’s get back to your new boss.”

  “Why ruin a lovely evening?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you this miserable.”

  She pushed her chair back from the table a few inches, neatly folded her napkin, and placed it in her lap.

  “He’s cutting my tires one tread at a time.”

  “How so?”

  “I have two associate creative directors. A copywriter and art director team. Very talented, and very loyal to me. I hired them when they were fresh out of school. Nurtured them. Promoted them. And the son of a bitch got the art director fired. And the writer’s job is hanging by a thread.”

  “How did he manage to pull off this bit of corporate legerdemain?”

  “He’s very good at insidious. Undermined them with management. Sniped at their work with clients.”

  “And you’re thinking you’re not far behind.”

  “Just a matter of time.”

  “And management’s going along with this?”

  “All they give a damn about is revenues. The merest frown on a client’s face is enough to send them into a tizzy.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “If you happen to run into the bastard, I pray to God you’re driving.” She snatched the napkin from her lap and threw it on the table. “Enough of my whining. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “Still trying to clear Dave. Turning out to be Sisyphean. And the boulder’s getting real heavy.”

  “No progress, huh?”

  “Not sure. But thanks to an old friend who I believe had her own agenda, I kinda stumbled into a wasp nest.”

  “Some friend.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, it’s a rehab for hookers run by an ex-hooker with a thing for tarot cards. Could be a dead end as far as Dave’s concerned, but my questions got someone real worried.”

  “And even if it’s got nothing to do with Dave, you can’t let it go.”

  “We’re back to that asymmetrical justice business again,” I said. “She’s into something, and it involves some very important people.”

  “And?”

  “Sometimes things come up that just grab on to you and don’t let go. And you’ve got to see them through.”

  “Even though you could get hurt?”

  I snatched the last of the duck from the plate and dipped it in the hoisin.

  “You about ready to go?” I said.

  “Almost. How’s DeeDee?”

  I told her about the episode at Justin’s house.

  “Puppy love’s the beginning of a lifetime of anguish. How’s she taking it?”

  “She’s a tough kid. It’ll take a while, but she’ll bounce back.”

  “We all do,” she said.

  “DeeDee’s not the one I’m worried about.”

  “Justin?”

  “Yep. He’s got a tough road ahead of him. Father’s wheelchair-bound. No friends. Hard for a kid.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did I,” I said. “And there’s something off about their relationship.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. But something’s not kosher.”

  “Not your problem anymore.”

  “I know.”

  The waiter brought the check.
I paid it, and we got our coats.

  In the street the air vibrated with cold, and the streets appeared glazed with frozen moonlight the color of mother-of-pearl.

  “Ready for the tartufo?” I said.

  “Actually, I was planning on something else for dessert.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  She took my arm and cuddled close. “You.”

  Hard to pass up.

  20

  Nick’s cook was out of the slam and back behind the griddle. I didn’t think it possible, but during his time at Rikers he had lost something off his culinary fastball. The eggs were rubbery enough to re-sole sneakers, the pancakes hard as hockey pucks, and the bacon left splinters in your gums. Attuned to the vagaries of dining at Feeney’s, Luce brought her own coffee and a bag of donuts.

  She looked at my plate with a peeled eye. “How do you eat this crap every day?” she said.

  “It’s like buying a lottery ticket. You know in your bones you’re going to lose, but there’s always the possibility that you’re going to walk off with a steamer trunk full of dough.”

  “Did you ever have a meal here that gave you that feeling?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s what keeps me coming back.”

  She reached into her handbag, came out with three file folders, and passed them to me.

  “Here’s what we have on your vics.”

  I quickly went through them. One lived in New Jersey, in a town just north of the George Washington Bridge. Worked in a youth center. An uncle was listed as next of kin. Another lived in Queens with his mother. And the third, a postal employee, hailed from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Tutor. No next of kin. All were Caucasian, single, and in their fifties. I figured I’d start in New Jersey and work my way in, saving Brooklyn for my last stop. That way I could check in on Justin.

  “Not much,” I said. “Why only three?”

  “Besides Martin Donnelly, all we’ve identified so far. The rest were pretty much carbon stains and bones. May take a little longer.”

  “And no one interviewed their friends and neighbors.”

  “I guess their dance calendars were full.”

  “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

  My cell phone rang.

  The conversation took less than thirty seconds.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Franny, Dave’s wife, is in town. Wants me to meet her.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Didn’t sound it.”

  • • •

  Franny’s hotel was small and sleek, and just off Houston Street on the Lower East Side. I found her nursing a glass of white wine at the bar. The bartender stood off to the side pretending to be busy.

  Franny had an off-kilter beauty and worked hard at looking good. But the lines around her mouth had deepened into a road map of life with my brother.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I really appreciate it. Can I get you a Diet Coke or something?”

  I shook my head.

  Her skin had a golden hue.

  “I’m good,” I said. “Nice tan.”

  “It’s what Florida’s famous for. But the sun kicks the hell out of your skin.”

  “How are the girls?”

  She took a small sip of her wine.

  “They’re fine,” she said. “But it’s a big adjustment. They miss their father. Their friends. You know the drill.”

  “I do.”

  “You still with Allie?”

  “Long as she’ll have me.”

  “I still regret that crack I made about her being Jewish. That wasn’t me, Steeg.”

  Franny and my ex-wife, Ginny, were pretty close. And Franny harbored this fantasy of us getting back together again. The problem was that Ginny was two marriages removed from ours, and I was now spoken for. But Franny, ever the optimist, always held out hope. And took her disappointment out on Allie.

  “We all say stupid things we regret,” I said. “It’s over, kiddo. And all’s right with the world.”

  “You mean it?”

  Not for a minute. But sometimes you have to give family a pass.

  “I do,” I said. “So, what brings you back to our not so fair city?”

  “Meeting with my lawyer. Got a bunch of things to workout.”

  “Dave know you’re here?”

  “No, and you’re not going to tell him. That’s why I picked a spot as far away from the Kitchen as I could.”

  If we met on the Kamchatka Peninsula, Dave would find out.

  Franny lifted the glass to her lips, drained it, tapped the bar, and ordered a Johnny, water back. The bartender immediately obliged.

  “Anthony called,” she said. “First time in months.”

  “I’m surprised. You two were very close.”

  “I know. Dave always said he was a momma’s boy.”

  “And now he’s switched over to the dark side.”

  “I know my son, Steeg. He just doesn’t sound like himself.”

  “It comes of spending too much time with his father.”

  “How did you avoid it?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I did.”

  Franny took a healthy swig of whiskey. It set off a coughing spasm that teared up her eyes.

  “Maybe you should stick to wine,” I said.

  “Maybe I should switch to arsenic, neat,” she said, settling down. “First my husband, and now my son.” She held up the glass of whiskey and toasted the bar mirror. “Mother of the Year!”

  “Not your fault, Franny.”

  “Yeah it is. I never should’ve had that man’s children.”

  “You knew what he was when you married him.”

  She nodded. “No getting around that,” she said. “Dave was like a thunderstorm. Unpredictable. Violent. But with me he was always gentle. Loving. Nothing could ever hurt me when I was with him. Romantic, huh?”

  “You were young.”

  “But not stupid. I knew. Whoever said people are stronger in the broken places didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Tell me about Anthony.”

  Franny’s eyes were beginning to glass up. She took another sip of whiskey.

  “I know my son. It’s like when he was a kid and he’d done something wrong. I always knew. Could see it in his eyes. And I always managed to get it out of him. Anthony never was able to carry a secret for long. But he’s different now. He’s carrying a heavy load, Steeg. And I can’t get it out of him with a pry bar.”

  “He’s not a kid anymore, Franny.”

  “And therein lies the problem.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to him. See if you can make any sense of it.”

  “He won’t talk to me. I tried.”

  She pushed the whiskey away.

  “What am I going to do? My son is turning into his father.”

  “So you’re really going through with the divorce.”

  She shook her head. “If I did, who would protect my son?”

  21

  The next morning I rented a car with a GPS system and headed for the leafy—at least in summer-suburb of Danners Ferry, New Jersey.

  The inventor of GPS should be honored with a national holiday. You punch in an address—and voilà!—even the most directionally challenged can find their way to any spot on the globe. I crossed the George Washington Bridge, took a scenic trip north on the Palisades Parkway, and made it in under an hour.

  Danners Ferry was pretty much what I’d expected. Tidy homes. Snow-covered lawns. Freshly plowed streets. A terrific view of the Hudson. And sidewalks completely devoid of people.

  According to the file Luce had given me, Charles Bingham, vic number one on my list, had lived alone. To get a sense of the late Mr. Bingham—put him into some kind of context—I decided to check out his house. I pulled into a spot in front of 110 Oak Street and parked behind a late-model Honda. The house wa
s your basic Cape Cod with white siding and peeling black paint on the shutters. I walked up to the door, but it swung open before I had a chance to ring the bell.

  A pretty teenaged girl with spiked hair and studs running up and down her left ear stood in the doorway. She had twin boys in tow. They were all dressed for the coming Ice Age.

  She appeared startled.

  That made two of us.

  “Is this Charles Bingham’s house?”

  “Duh! This is 110 Oak,” she said, revealing a tongue stud as big as a marble. It was a wonder she could form words. “The creepazoid lives at 109, across the street.”

  I looked across the street.

  “The white Colonial with the U-Haul truck parked in the driveway?” I said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Why’d you call him a creepazoid?”

  “Because he’s a freak!”

  “That clears it up. Define freak.”

  She shrugged as if losing patience with giving self-evident answers to my pointless questions.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He just is.”

  I took another shot.

  “Could you try being a touch more specific?”

  “He’s weird, that’s all. Got this train set that takes up the whole living room. Invites all the neighborhood kids to play with it on Christmas. On Easter he dresses up in a pink bunny suit and buries eggs all over the property. Everyone thinks it’s a hoot.”

  “Seems like a good neighbor.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t like the way he looks at the kids. Creeps me out.”

  “Anyone in the neighborhood he’s close to?”

  “Puhleeze? Look, I’ve got to get these two little rug rats to their playdates. If I’m even a minute late I’m gonna be fired.”

  She grabbed the kids by the hand and dragged them to the Honda.

  I crossed the street, climbed the stairway to the porch, and rang the bell. A white-haired woman opened the door.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Is this the home of Charles Bingham?”

  She looked at me as if waiting for another shoe to drop.

  I handed her my card. “I’m investigating his murder. And I wonder—”

  Her gaze had drifted to my card, but then came back to me.

  “You from the insurance company?”

  “No.”

  She made a face and handed my card back.