Sinner's Ball

by Ira Berkowitz

  “That’s putting too fine a point on it.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if kids could pick their parents? Something like an online dating service where couples are forced to post their life résumés, warts and all, and kids get to interview them and try them out before they commit.”

  “Are we talking about your brother and his son?”

  “And my father. And tons of other screwed-up people walking the streets who have kids and then actively destroy their lives.”

  I didn’t want to weigh her down with the tragic tale of Wanda and Angela.

  “I find that difficult to relate to,” Allie said.

  “So you had a happy childhood?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “And you had Herbie Aronson.”

  “Old Herbie. You remembered!”

  “How could I forget your first love serenading you on the piano on warm summer nights.”

  “Yes, but his repertoire was limited to one song. ‘Big Rock Candy Mountain.’ That’s all he knew, but he played it gloriously.”

  That triggered my memory of what Sailor had said.

  “It’s funny you mention that. I ran into a panhandler down in the Bowery. He didn’t say much except that he hoped to see the deceased, a guy named Walter Cady, at the Big Rock Candy Mountain one day. Had no idea what he was talking about. As I remember, it’s a kid’s folk song.”

  “It is now. But it didn’t start out that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since Herbie played it so well, I wanted to learn the lyrics so I could sing along. I had this vision of Herbie playing it at concerts. And me, in my evening gown, leaning against the piano, belting it out.”

  “All this at ten?”

  “Told you I was precocious. So I went to the Brooklyn Public Library and found the lyrics. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “There are two sets. The original, and the sanitized version which eventually was recorded. Most people think the song is a merry little ditty about a place where your birthday’s every week and it’s Christmas every day. But it’s not.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “It’s a ballad about a child being lured with magical stories of the Big Rock Candy Mountain, and ultimately being kidnapped into a hobo camp. Want to hear an original verse?”

  “After all these years you remember?”

  “Impossible to forget. It was my first hint that the world could be an awful place. When you hear it, you’ll see why. Here goes.

  The punk rolled up his big blue eyes

  And said to the jocker, “Sandy,

  I’ve hiked and hiked and wandered too,

  But I ain’t seen any candy.

  I’ve hiked and hiked till my feet are sore

  And I’ll be damned if I hike any more

  To be buggered sore like a hobo’s whore

  In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.”

  “‘To be buggered sore like a hobo’s whore’?” I said.

  “Not pretty, is it?”

  Suddenly everything fit.

  Troy Hapner’s shiner. No infant photos of Justin. No photos of his mother. His inability to perform with DeeDee. The fag comment from Matt Gershon. The shrinking intervals between the killings. The connection to Dave’s warehouse. Spinning out of control. Working his way back to …

  I bolted from the table.

  “Allie,” I said. “Find DeeDee and stay with her until you hear from me.”

  All the lights in the Hapner’s apartment were out and the door was locked.

  I kicked it in, switched on the lights, and moved quickly past the kitchen into the living room.

  Troy Hapner was lying on the floor in a widening pool of blood. His eyes were closed. But he was breathing.

  I knelt down and smacked him awake.

  “Where’s Justin, you son of a bitch?”

  His eyes blinked open and tried to focus.

  “Help … me! Please.”

  I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up.

  “Where’s Justin, you sick bastard?”

  His hand strayed to his bloody crotch. “Don’t … know. Look … did … this … to me.”

  I got to my feet and went looking for Justin.

  I didn’t have far to go.

  He was hanging from a chinning bar he had set up in the doorway of the closet in his room.

  Another ghost to haunt my nights.

  His body was cold.

  I checked for a pulse.

  An ineffable sadness swept over me.

  I walked past Troy Hapner and into the kitchen. Snatched a bread knife from the counter, went back to the bedroom, and cut Justin down. After gathering him in my arms, I laid him on his bed, and covered him with a blanket.

  Then I sat down next to him.

  It was a deathwatch. A mourning for a kid who never had a chance.

  A long time passed before I finally got up to leave.

  In the living room, Troy Hapner lay where I had left him.

  His eyes followed me as I moved toward the door.

  “Please,” he begged. “Help … me!”

  I closed the door behind me.

  44

  A week later, Luce called. Wanted me to meet her at the precinct house. Said she had some information for me.

  We met in an interrogation room on the second floor. A pile of file folders sat in the middle of the table.

  “How’re you holding up, Jackson?”

  “Better than DeeDee. Hooked her up with a therapist.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “She said it’s going to take a while, but DeeDee should come out the other end reasonably OK.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Time’ll tell,” I said. “But I had a sit-down with her father.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Kept it pretty basic. Told him DeeDee needs a father, not a habitual recidivist. Told him I’d throw him off a roof if he ever strayed off the reservation again.”

  “Did he promise to behave?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Absolutely not. Fucking cretin! I’ve also been to the Dominican embassy trying to get a line on her mother.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “What you have been doing. Be her friend. Any word on the departmental trial?”

  “Went poof!”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Martine and Ennis’s deaths barely made the newspapers. And the word’s come down that we shouldn’t be investigating their homicide too hard. So the lid is still on. Tight. The rich clients breathe a sigh of relief and find a new escort service. Everyone gets to walk away. Including me.”

  “The way of the world. So, what have you got for me?”

  Luce pointed to the pile of file folders.

  “This represents all we know about Justin. You’re welcome to go through them. Take all the time you need. But I figured I’d give you the short version.”

  “OK.”

  “We took a sample of Justin’s DNA and sent it to the FBI, Interpol, and anywhere else they maintain a database. We got a hit in Canada. Toronto. They maintain a DNA database of missing children.”

  “God bless ’em.”

  “Justin’s real name is Dylan Salamore. He was snatched from a playground when he was three. Mother turned her back for a minute, and he was gone.”

  I was clenching my fists so hard, my nails dug into the palms of my hand.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “From what we’ve been able to piece together from Hapner’s computer—Troy Hapner is his real name—he took him to the States and began pimping him. Started with selling photos and videos of Justin—Dylan—on the Web and moved on to setting him up with a string of pedophiles all over the country.”

  “A childhood
any kid would want.”

  “This went on for years, and then Justin began to age out. At roughly the same time, Hapner wrecked his car while delivering Dylan to some freak.”

  “Justin said that his mother was killed in the accident. But I never saw any photos of her at the apartment, because there was no mom.”

  “And Justin probably believed his mom was dead. He was young enough when Hapner took him that he could’ve brainwashed the kid into believing the story. Anyway, the accident left Hapner paralyzed from the waist down. Suddenly Hapner needed Justin. So he kept him around to do the heavy lifting.”

  “But what he didn’t count on,” I said, “was the kid becoming something of a genius, and getting into Troy’s computer.”

  “Bingo. Justin apparently tracked down the men who used him. We have the list. And I’m not giving it to you. Some of them are dead. Some left the country. And some are in prison. Justin did what he could with what he had.”

  “And Nick showed him and DeeDee the warehouse, maybe even told them it wasn’t getting much use. The perfect dumping ground.”

  “It fit his needs, and he went with it. And that’s about it.”

  “And he was working his way back to Hapner.”

  “One sicko at a time. And saving the worst for last.”

  “What now?”

  “We contacted his parents. His body was shipped to them today.”

  “Wish you would have told me.”

  “You said your good-byes, Jackson.”

  Her eyes began to well up.

  “He deserved a lot better than he got,” she said.

  “Don’t they all.”

  45

  “What happens now, Dave?”

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  Dave had invited me over to his house for a take-out dinner. Said there was something special he wanted to show me. After we ate, he led me outside.

  It was just before midnight and we were on the patio. Except for the feeble light of a few stars, the sky was charcoal black. The wind blowing off the river drove the temperature down to near zero. But Dave was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

  With a star map in one hand, he fiddled with the knobs of his new telescope with the other.

  “This fucker set me back a couple of thousand dollars and I ain’t seen anything worth a shit yet,” he said.

  As usual we were talking crosswise. I wanted to talk about Anthony, and he had the solar system on his mind.

  “It’s the ambient light from the city,” I said. “Makes it hard to peer into the cosmos.”

  After some more fiddling and a couple of peeks through the eyepiece, he threw up his hands. “Fuck it! Let’s go inside. I’m freezing.”

  Once in the house, he headed for the bar and poured himself a glass of white wine.

  “I’m off the hard stuff,” he said, noting the surprised look on my face. “Decided to get back in shape. Working out every day.”

  “Any specific reason?”

  “Sound body, sound mind,” he said. “Went through a bad spell. Not gonna happen again.”

  “Can’t wait to meet the new you.”

  He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “I tell you I’m a new man and you think I’m full of shit.”

  “And your son? Is he a new man?”

  He took a sip of the wine. “Leave him out of this.”

  “Hard to do, Dave.”

  He set the glass down, walked over to the window, and looked up at the sky. I walked up next to him.

  His attention was focused on a plane banking right on its final approach to LaGuardia.

  “Newark’s closer, but I always hop a plane bound for LaGuardia when I’m coming back from Florida,” he said. “And always sit on the right side.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The city. Looks like paradise.”

  “Let’s get back to your son. You said you were going to give the police the torch.”

  “I did.”

  “You gave Anthony up?”

  “Get serious. Tommy Cisco is gonna take the fall. Worked a plea deal. Ten years, and out in five with good behavior.”

  “What?”

  “Remember when he flicked the cigarette at the homeless guy? Fucking Cisco has no heart, and it’s gonna cost him. Besides, I never liked the little prick anyway.”

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “You know me well enough to know I don’t joke about family. Cisco confessed, and Sal was the witness.”

  “How did you get Cisco to agree to this?”

  “Laid out his options.”

  “And Sal?”

  He smiled. “We go way back.”

  “So much for scruples.”

  He turned to me.

  “What do you want from me, Jake?”

  “Anthony.”

  “He’s his own man.”

  “Not while you’re around.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds and then turned and looked back out the window.

  “Y’know, I got the telescope so I could see a comet.”

  “They’re kind of rare,” I said.

  “What I hear. But there’s one coming our way. Lulin, it’s called. And the guy who sold me the telescope said I should be able to see it now. Fucked if I can find it.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  There’s an old legend that comets are harbingers of bad tidings. But I found that I didn’t have it in me to mention it.

  “Give you something to look forward to.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank Sal Loscuito—a good friend, and one of New York’s Bravest—for helping me understand the truly horrific anatomy of a fire.

  And once again, I am grateful to Julian Pavia and David Larabell for making this a better book than the one they first read.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  IRA BERKOWITZ, a native New Yorker, is the author of the Jackson Steeg mysteries, Old Flame and Family Matters, and a two-time winner of the Washington Irving Literary Award.

  Find Ira online at iraberkowitz.com

  Also by Ira Berkowitz

  Dark streets. Darker secrets.

  Jackson Steeg isn’t an NYPD homicide cop anymore, not since the bullet he took to the lung. But Steeg’s retirement is looking anything but relaxing. After months of death threats, his ex-wife’s new flame is beaten to death outside a chichi restaurant in the Meatpacking District. Meanwhile, Steeg’s Hell’s Kitchen roots prove impossible to escape when a ne’er-do-well childhood friend finds himself deep in debt to a vicious mobster. Now Steeg’s got two factions of New York’s nastiest characters aiming for his head. Worse, every thread keeps leading him exactly where he doesn’t want to go: his own family.

  Old Flame

  A Jackson Steeg Novel

  Available from Three Rivers Press wherever books are sold.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Ira Berkowitz

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown

  Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Berkowitz, Ira.

  Sinners’ ball : a Jackson Steeg novel / Ira Berkowitz.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Ex-police officers—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Family

  secrets—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.E7573S56 2009

  813′.6—dc22 2009 015453

  eISBN: 978-0-307-46192-6

  v3.0