Sinner's Ball

by Ira Berkowitz

  “You’ll have to speak to my husband. Wait here.”

  She closed the door.

  A few minutes later a white-haired gent, with a scowl on his face and a stomach that slopped over his jeans, opened the door.

  “What’s this about?” he said.

  “Are you related to Charles Bingham?”

  “I’m Sam Bingham, Charlie’s uncle. And you are?”

  I skipped the card routine.

  “Name’s Steeg. And I’m sorry for your loss. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “You’re not from the insurance company? They said someone would come by.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Then what do we have to talk about?”

  “Well, maybe I can help make the insurance thing happen.”

  “Come back when you have the check,” he said, slamming the door in my face.

  Bereavement takes many forms.

  I went back to the car and punched in the address of the Danners Ferry Youth Center, Bingham’s last place of employment.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot.

  The lobby was a jumble of activity. Phone ringing off the hook. Hyperactive kids. Somewhere out of sight a pool pumped out enough noxious fumes to stun a herd of wildebeests. And the reception counter was four deep with people who had problems that needed immediate fixing. Three harried-looking women stood behind the counter doing their best to handle the load. I didn’t envy them.

  I got in line and waited my turn. It took a while, but I finally made it to the counter.

  A pretty woman with tired eyes hung up the phone and gave me what passed for her full attention. Her name tag said “Deb.”

  She flashed me a warm smile. I had the feeling she really meant it.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  “Is it always like this?”

  “Pretty much. Kind of frantic, isn’t it?”

  “Like a Chinese fire drill.”

  Her smile widened.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Who can I talk to about Charles Bingham?”

  Her smile faded.

  “It’s so sad,” she said.

  “Yeah. Good guy?”

  The telephone rang and Deb reached for it. She seemed relieved. After a few seconds of conversation she transferred the call and turned her attention back to me.

  “I think you ought to speak to our director, Ralph Patterson,” she said. “Your name?”

  I told her.

  She picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Ralph, someone is here asking about Charlie.” She paused. “Fine. I’ll bring him up.”

  She turned back to me.

  “I’ll take you to his office.”

  Deb came out from behind the counter. I followed her up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor to an open door. A very large black man stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Here we are, Mr. Steeg,” she said. “Ralph should be able to answer all your questions.”

  “Thanks, Deb,” Patterson said.

  He had a short-cropped beard, a tiny diamond in his left earlobe, and a decidedly unfriendly expression on his face.

  I held out my hand. His arms remained crossed over his chest.

  This was going well.

  “You’re here about Charlie Bingham,” Patterson said.

  “Just need a few minutes of your time,” I said, handing him my card.

  He glanced at it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  The office behind him was small and crowded with sports trophies.

  Patterson didn’t invite me in.

  “All I can tell you is that Charlie worked here up to a few months ago,” he said.

  “When did he start?”

  “Couple of years ago.”

  “And his job?”

  “A little of this, and a little of that.”

  “You’re not exactly being forthcoming here,” I said.

  “Telling you all I can tell you.”

  “Bingham quit?”

  “We had a difference of opinion.”

  “Over what?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I said so. What’s your interest in Charlie?”

  “He died in a fire along with five other men. They were stashed in packing crates in the basement of a warehouse. And sexually mutilated. Bingham was probably alive when the fire took him. For reasons known only to them, the NYPD is losing interest in the case. I’m not.”

  Patterson’s face never changed expression. Even the mutilation part failed to move him.

  He took my card out of his pocket and looked at it again.

  “You’re not a cop,” he said.

  “Was. I’m doing this on my own nickel.”

  “Hell of a way for Charlie to go. But I can’t help you.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you think of our facility?”

  “Looks like you’re doing the Lord’s work.”

  “And that’s exactly what we’re going to keep on doing. You have a good day, sir.”

  My next stop was Queens.

  • • •

  Beginning at the Queensborough Bridge and ending over seven miles later in the bowels of the borough, Queens Boulevard is a particularly daunting stretch of twelve-lane thoroughfare. And the late Augie Frena had lived smack dab in its center. Without my trusty GPS, I would have wound up in Nebraska.

  Frena’s apartment house was a looming monster of a building that probably held enough tenants to stock a reasonably sized small town. It took half an hour to find a parking spot.

  The lobby was long on mailboxes. Short on amenities.

  I hopped an elevator and rode it to the fifteenth floor. Metal doors lined the corridor. Gray floor covering. The smell of disinfectant in the air. It brought Sing Sing to mind.

  I rang the bell of apartment 15C.

  There was the sound of shoes scuffing against a hardwood floor.

  A few seconds later, a dark and watery eye appeared at the peephole.

  “What do you want?” it said.

  “Mrs. Frena? I’d like to talk to you about Augie.”

  “He was a good boy. Get lost!”

  The eye disappeared, and I heard it shuffle off.

  And that ended my second interview of the day.

  But I was in the mood to poke around a bit.

  The lobby of the building was empty, and the glacial cold dissuaded any neighbors from shooting the breeze out front. Figuring that Frena needed a carton of milk every now and then, I stopped in at a convenience store down the block. It was empty. A glum-looking Hispanic guy manned the counter. To get him in the right frame of mind, I bought a Diet Coke and a bag of chips. The perfect lunch for a man on the go.

  “Shitty weather,” I said.

  He glanced outside at a cold, flat day. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Took in just about enough cash today to buy a rope to hang myself.”

  I ripped open the bag of chips and dove in.

  “Augie Frena ever stop in here? Lives in the building up the block?”

  He looked up at the ceiling, as if the mystery of the name was somehow nestled in the light fixtures.

  “Augie Frena. Augie Frena,” he repeated.

  “Lives with his mother?” I prompted.

  “Oh, that Augie Frena,” he said, as if Queens was crawling with Augie Frenas. “The fucked-up guy who lives with the bruja, the witch.”

  “Sounds like her.”

  “That old broad is some piece of work. Don’t know how he does it. Yeah, he comes in every morning. Same routine. Checks out the Enquirer. Picks up the Post, gets two coffees, and stuffs his pockets with sugar packets. Guy has a hell of a sweet tooth. Haven’t seen him around lately, though.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you wanna know?”

  I plucked a
Milky Way off a shelf and laid it on the counter along with a twenty.

  “That about cover it?” I said.

  He pocketed the twenty.

  “He’s a fucking grown man living with his mother. What more do you need to know?”

  “Did you two ever talk?”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. His job. Girlfriends. Why the Yankees suck this year. You know. Stuff.”

  “Never mentioned a job. Smelled like a sewer. Dressed like a bag lady. Who the fuck would hire him? And girlfriends? Gimme a break!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was kind of off.”

  “Define off.”

  “Like not normal, for a guy.”

  “Can you narrow that down?”

  An elderly couple entered the store and walked up to the counter.

  The counterman shook his head in a way that said this conversation was over. “I got a business to run. Want another Milky Way? On the house.”

  I passed.

  It was getting late, and I figured I’d save Brooklyn for another time. But the day wasn’t a total loss. Bingham and Frena fit a profile: loners who by reason of preference, or glitches in their internal wiring, lived out their lives in the dark places where the secrets are stored. Cady fit the profile too. Donnelly had been married. But from what his wife had told me, it wasn’t a stretch to include him.

  I was beginning to get a pretty good idea of what those secrets were. That got me to thinking that Martine was a sidetrack, and my original theory needed a major overhaul.

  22

  I returned the car to the rental company, bid the GPS a fond and heartfelt good-bye, and walked back to my apartment.

  A black Mercedes sat out front.

  Dave, all bundled up in a black cashmere overcoat, sat in the backseat. Anthony sat next to him. Tommy Cisco was behind the wheel. Dave lowered the window and motioned for me to join him.

  A special ending to a special day.

  “Cisco, take a hike,” Dave said. “Anthony, let your uncle sit next to me. Get in the front.”

  Cisco got out, lit up a smoke, and stationed himself next to the hood. Anthony moved into Cisco’s spot, and when the musical chairs was done, I slid in beside my brother.

  An old homeless guy, a black man with skin the color of deeply tanned leather, moved slowly past our car. He walked with a pronounced limp and used a broken table leg for support. At his feet he had four bulging suitcases lashed with rope. He lifted one, limped a few feet, set it down, and returned for another, which he placed next to the first suitcase. When they were all together, he repeated the process.

  He had our attention.

  As he passed, Cisco flicked his cigarette in his direction. It exploded against the suitcase in a shower of sparks. With a smirk on his face, Cisco fist-pumped a triumphant Yes!

  Tommy Cisco and I were about to go for round two. I opened the door, but Dave pulled me back.

  “All in good time,” he said. “Right now I’ve got more important things to get out of the way.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve got this problem, Jake,” Dave said.

  “Besides the indictment?”

  “I’ve been kicking around the question of who I can trust.”

  “And where do you come out?”

  “You met with Franny.”

  “You know that, how?”

  “I know everything that happens in this city.”

  “She had a drink. I didn’t. We talked.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “She asked me not to.”

  “Not surprised. But it doesn’t wash.”

  “That I gave Franny my word?”

  Dave’s stump stroked the pebbled surface of his cheek.

  He was pissed, and I didn’t give a damn.

  “That sometimes you have a problem differentiating between blood and an outsider,” he said.

  “Anthony,” I said. “Your father and I need some privacy.”

  Anthony swung his door open. Dave stopped him.

  “Stay right where you are, kid,” Dave said. “I want you to hear this.”

  “Don’t do this, Dave.”

  “It’s gonna be OK. Consider it part of my son’s continuing education. Now, where were we?”

  “Something about Franny being an outsider. And here I am thinking she’s your wife.”

  “But not blood.”

  Anthony’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

  “She’s the mother of your children.”

  “But not my blood,” he said.

  “You really need to see a shrink.”

  “This isn’t about me, Jake. It’s about who I can and can’t trust. You’re the one in the spotlight.”

  I grabbed the door handle.

  “See ya,” I said.

  He reached over, and his hand clamped down on mine and held it.

  “What’d you two talk about?” he said.

  “Cabbages and kings.”

  His smile was cold.

  “You never change, do you?”

  “What you see is what you get. But you know that.”

  “She gonna go through with it?”

  “The divorce?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll tell you this much, Dave. You’re not number one on her People I Worry About list. Anthony occupies the top spot now.”

  Anthony’s hands began to tremble.

  “My son is my problem.”

  “No, Anthony’s your joint problem. Whatever he’s doing for you goes against who he is. And when he blows, you’re not gonna be happy with the results.”

  Dave released his grip on my hand.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic here?”

  “If you’re looking for a reason why your marriage is in the dumper, you found it.”

  “Anything else, Dr. Laura?”

  I opened the door.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  “Not quite yet. Like I said, nothing escapes my attention.”

  “You’re being cryptic again.”

  “Then let’s try direct. I hear you’ve made some people very angry.”

  “That’s what your pet councilman Terry said.”

  My brother seemed surprised.

  “You talked to him?” he said.

  “In the interests of saving your sorry ass. But your old buddy wasn’t very helpful.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’d rather throw you under the bus than the people I’ve pissed off.”

  “Fucking Terry,” he mumbled. “His time’ll come.”

  “Can you put any names to these people?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to,” I said.

  “You’re dealing with a different kind of dangerous than you’re used to, Jake.”

  “In what way?”

  “They’re public figures. Men with reputations to protect. And with you poking around in their business and threatening to expose their dirty little secrets, they’ll get desperate.”

  “Tough shit.”

  “You still don’t get it. To keep out of the newspapers they’ll come at you in ways you didn’t think possible.”

  “Then I’ll have to deal with it. Some kid in Bed-Stuy gets busted for dealing a little weed and he goes straight to the slam. These jokers are up to far worse and expect to skate. Screw’em!”

  Dave flashed me a crooked grin. “And I’m supposed to be the hardhead.”

  I left Dave and Anthony and went up to my apartment. It was as cold and dark as a cave. Figuring that a little sunlight wouldn’t hurt, I walked over to the living room window and drew open the blinds.

  23

  In less than ten minutes hordes of black-uniformed, body-armored SWAT types had arrived at my apartment, strung yards of yellow tape, and declared it a crime scene.

  Lieutenant Finbar Reagan, a hulking, but surprisingl
y agile Irishman with whom I had had a nodding acquaintance, ran the show.

  “So let me get this straight, Steeg,” he said. “You walk into your apartment, go straight to the window, and pow!”

  “Not quite. I walked over to the window, opened the blinds, and then pow! Slug crashed through the window, and I hit the deck.”

  “If I were you, I’d set up a shrine to your landlord.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Had the foresight to install a window gate. Deflected the bullet. Slug wound up in your wall. One of my guys is digging it out.”

  A uniform walked up to Reagan.

  “Check this out, Finn,” he said. “We were on our way to the roof of the building across the street when we heard some yelling coming from a fourth-floor apartment. We go in and find this elderly couple tied up in the bedroom. She’s gagged, but her husband managed to work his gag loose and is shouting to beat the band.”

  “Has to be the Gargiullos,” I said. “Vito and Amelia. He’s in his eighties. Guy was a baker. Arms as big around as my thighs. They okay?”

  “Think so. Paramedics are looking at them. Anyway, they’re bringing groceries in and two guys do a push-in. Tie the old folks up. Tell ’em they’re not gonna hurt ’em, and stash ’em in the bedroom. Hang around for three, four hours, and then split.”

  Reagan moved to the window.

  “Show me the apartment,” he said.

  “Right across the way,” I said. “On the same floor as mine.”

  “That explains the hole in your wall.”

  He walked over to the tech digging out the slug.

  I trailed right behind.

  “Got it yet?” Reagan said.

  “Just about.”

  The tech pulled a tool that looked like a forceps out of his bag, stuck it in the hole, came out with the round, and dropped it in the palm of Reagan’s outstretched hand.

  “Shit!” Reagan said. “I’ve seen this little beauty before.”

  “You can identify it?”

  “It’s deformed, but I think so. Brings me back to my youth.”

  “How so?”

  “This little guy is a NATO sniper round. State of the art. The shooter probably used a scope.”

  “I’m impressed, Finn. I really am. I can’t tell the difference between a BB and a brick. How come you know this stuff?”

  “Six years as a Marine sniper,” he said. “Any idea why anyone would go to this trouble and expense to punch your ticket?”