“For what?”
“What do you mean, ‘for what’?”
“I mean what’s your job?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters.”
“What if I said I was a hitman?”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t believe you.”
“How about sales.”
“I’d believe that. What do you sell?”
This was a conversation I didn’t want to have. It wouldn’t end well. I could just say “None of your business,” but that would only lead to hurt feelings which would escalate to pouting and after that, who knows what. I knew what this was all about. She wanted to get to know me better. She wanted to bond with me. She wanted me to fucking share with her. She wanted us to be closer than we could ever be. I could have made shit up, but that would have taken way too much energy. What energy I had I wanted to use to get the hell out of there. But I figured I’d be nice about it. After all, she was a good kid and she wasn’t doing anything wrong, other than pissing me the hell off.
“Mel, honey, it’s a boring job and the only thing more boring than actually doing it is talking about it.”
She leaned forward. “You sell drugs, right?”
Shit! That’s all I needed. Her thinking I was a low-life drug dealer. Like if I was, knowing that would give her power over me. Something to hold over my head, if I got out of line.
“Huh?” I said, trying to stall for time, time to figure out how to get out of this conversation that had no good end.
“Like you’re in the pharmaceutical industry, right? That’s why you always have drugs with you. They’re like samples you get.”
I picked up my shirt from the chair, put it on, and started buttoning it.
“That’s right. But I really can’t talk about it, baby, because using it for my own purposes, well, that’s not only against company policy but it’s also against the law. I could get fired for it and I could go to jail. You wouldn’t want me to get fired and wind up in jail, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“So, the less you know the better. For both of us.”
She got out of bed. She was bare-ass naked. In the light of day, she didn’t look half as good as she did last night, in the dim light of her apartment. But maybe that was just me. Maybe I was so horny anyone would look better than they actually were. Not that she was a dog or anything. She was pretty, but her body was beginning to soften. Not like mine. I probably look better now than I did twenty years ago. It kinda pissed me off that she didn’t take better care of herself.
I finished buttoning my shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes. She sat down next to me and put her arm around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder.
“It’s Saturday morning. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got meetings to go to.”
“On Saturday?”
“In this business, you work seven days a week.”
“Then I don’t like this business you’re in, Francis.”
“See those earrings over there on the dresser?”
“Yes.”
“My working seven days a week pays for those suckers.”
She took her head off my shoulder and sighed.
“When am I going to see you again?”
“Soon.”
“That’s so vague.”
I turned, put one hand on her shoulder, and the other behind her neck, so she had to look me right in the eye. “Look, Mel, this is the way it is. This is the life I live. Maybe one day it’ll change, but right now this is what it is. If you can’t handle it I understand. We can just call it a day.”
Her eyes opened wide. She licked her lips. She was weighing what she was going to say, how far she could push it. Not very far.
“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Please, Francis. I won’t ask any more questions. I promise.”
“It’s the way it has to be.”
“Then it’s fine. It’s fine. Really. It’s fine. But you will call me, won’t you?”
“Of course, I will, Mel,” I said, and I probably meant it. I just didn’t know when.
Charlie Floyd
Manny and I took the train down to the city. I thought about driving but the idea of fighting New York City traffic, trying to find a place to park then dealing with the tunnel traffic to Jersey didn’t seem like a good idea. I’m much too restless to sit in traffic. I need to move around. Sitting in one place gives me too much time to think. And the things I think about are usually bad. My broken marriage. My estranged son. Worst of all, what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Fortunately, I had something else to think about now: Francis Hoyt.
The plan was to pay a visit to the fence, Tommy Pfister, then head out to Jersey to speak to Theodore Walsh, the Westfield cop.
“Pack a bag, Manny. We’ll stay overnight in Jersey and come back Thursday.”
“That sounds like a fine plan, Charlie Floyd, but I insist upon paying all expenses, including meals,” he said, as we sat at the breakfast table, finishing our coffee.
“Listen, I’m pretty much a ward of the state, what with my pension and all and you being on suspension with a family to…”
Manny shook his head vigorously.
“I have budgeted funds for this trip, Charlie Floyd, and thus far you have paid for everything as well as being so gracious to allow me to stay in your beautiful home. It is now time for Manny Perez to carry his own weight.”
I wasn’t going to get into a fight over it. Manny was a proud man and I’m sure the idea of me taking care of everything rankled him. “Okay, suit yourself. But that deal about the reward. That’s null and void. We’ll split it fifty-fifty.”
He started to object but when I held up my hand he saw it would do no good, that my decision was final. He was right.
We got an early start, leaving my place a few minutes before seven. Manny was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, me in a pair of faded blue jeans, my cowboy boots, a pale blue oxford button-shirt and a black blazer. It was a little too hot to wear the hat, but it was a crucial part of the look so I wore it anyway. Manny carried a briefcase I assumed was filled with a change of shirt, underwear and toiletries, plus his files on Hoyt. I stuffed everything I might need in an old gym bag I appropriated from my kid when he was still in high school.
I parked the car in the lot by the station and we headed to the platform. We were early but not early enough to avoid the throng of commuters headed down to the city. I led Manny to the back end of the platform where we waited for the commuter train to arrive.
“Here’s the trick, Manny. Everyone waits for the train in the middle of the platform. Some people think they’re smart and they plant themselves at the front of the platform. Bad choice. That’s the car that fills first. I wait back here because there’s a better chance of finding a seat in the last car than in the front or middle. Sometimes it pays to be last rather than first.”
“It is most certainly counter-intuitive, Charlie Floyd,” Manny said, as he turned on his phone and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket. “But I trust in your judgment which comes from your many years of experience.”
I smiled. I knew Manny was pulling my chain. I didn’t mind it at all. In fact, I kind of liked it.
We caught an express, which meant we didn’t stop at every goddamn half-assed town along the route. I removed my hat and carefully placed it on the overhead rack along with my gym bag. Manny preferred to keep his briefcase near, keeping it on his lap. I’d picked up a copy of the New York Times at the station and offered Manny a section.
“No thank you, Charlie Floyd. I prefer to listen to this.” He pulled out an iPod.
“What kind of music you like, Manny?” I asked. Me, I favor Dylan, the Band, Muddy Waters, Tom Waits, the Stones, music I guessed was not high on Manny’s list.
“It is not music. I much prefer to listen to audio books.�
��
“You don’t like to waste even a minute, do you, Manny?”
“There are so few minutes in one’s life why waste any of them?”
“Can’t argue with that. What’s the book?”
“Last year I made a vow to read every American Pulitzer Prize-winning novel since 1948 when Mr. James Michener won the prize for his wonderful novel, Tales of the South Pacific. I am up to 1967, and I shall be listening to The Fixer by Mr. Bernard Malamud. It is my small way of connecting with the American experience.”
“Jeez, you’re already more American than I am. Any good?”
“It is superb, Charlie Floyd. Did you know that Mr. Bernard Malamud also wrote a novel called The Natural, a book about baseball, the American pastime, which was made into a movie of the same name starring Mr. Robert Redford?”
“Saw the movie. Didn’t know it was based on a book. What’s this one about?”
“It is about a Jewish man in Russia who is arrested on suspicion of the murder of a small Christian boy. He is imprisoned, interrogated, and treated poorly. It is a novel of forgiveness.”
I shook my head.
“You do not believe in forgiveness, Charlie Floyd?”
“We’re in a business where the notions of forgiveness just gets in the way of the job we have to do. I’ll leave forgiveness to the theologians and writers like Malamud. What I do believe in is justice.”
“What about redemption?”
I thought a moment. Did I believe in redemption? Of course, I did. That’s what I was seeking now, wasn’t it? At one time or another don’t we all seek some kind of redemption?
“Yeah. Redemption is possible, I suppose. You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“So, I guess you believe redemption is possible.”
“Of course, I do.” He smiled. “That is the road upon we are traveling on at this very time.”
“Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what was it like getting your hands on that little pissant?”
Manny tipped his head back and closed his eyes, as if trying to recreate the scene in his head. After a moment or two his eyes opened, he leaned forward and turned to me.
“It was not at all what I expected it to be like. I thought I would be staring into the face of pure evil but instead I saw only cunning, intelligence, and determination. There was no fear or panic. Quite the contrary, in fact. As we struggled I saw he was smiling, as if he knew what the ultimate outcome of our struggle would be. He did not attempt to hurt me. He did not throw a punch. He did not pull a weapon from his pocket. Instead, he was skilled enough to slip out of my grasp, as if he were a trained wrestler, which as I learned later, is exactly what he was.”
“How do you know something like that?”
“After our encounter, I went to the trouble of learning as much about his past as I could which included retrieving his high school transcripts. I even spoke to his high school wrestling coach and one of his teachers.”
“Jesus, Manny, you’re fucking serious about this guy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Charlie Floyd, I am very serious.” He raised one hand and put the other on a section of the newspaper that sat between us. “I swear I will not rest until Francis Hoyt is behind bars, where he belongs.”
I smiled. “I’m not sure if swearing on The New York Times counts as a solemn oath, Manny. But I get your point. How long has it been now that you’re after Hoyt?”
“It has been more than a year since I was assigned to a string of high-end robberies in and around Miami. Eventually, we linked them to other robberies in Fort Lauderdale and Palm Beach. The pattern fit the work of only one man. Francis Hoyt. The more I learned about him the more I wanted to know. His criminal career fascinated me and I knew that I was the one who would put an end to it.”
“Sounds like you’re taking this very personal. That’s not always such a good thing. Believe me, I know.”
“My father used to say that nothing was personal, Charlie Floyd, and my father was a very wise man. But in this case, I believe he was both right and wrong. Nothing is personal and yet, in the end, everything is personal.”
“Well, I guess if you put it that way, I see what you mean.”
“But knowing who committed the crimes and then catching him and proving it in a court of law, well that is a very different matter.”
“That’s right.”
“Of course, I do not expect you to be as informed about the life of Francis Hoyt as I am.” He stopped and smiled again. “Perhaps one day soon it will become as personal to you as it is for me.”
“You know as well as I do the best way to nab someone is to get inside their head, to try to think like they do then hope you can anticipate their next move. It’s a game of chess.”
Manny nodded solemnly then plugged the earphones into his ears. I leaned back and began to read the Times. Not another word passed between us during the rest of the ride into the city.
I’d checked back with Porgie before we left for the city and he provided me with a little more background information on the fence, Tommy Pfister. He worked out of a small office in the Diamond District of Manhattan, one block running between Fifth and Sixth avenues and 47th Street. Pfister passed himself off as a jewelry dealer, buying and selling whatever came his way legitimately, but it was only a cover for his real business—handling hot goods. New York cops believed Pfister had ties to the mob, but he was a very careful man and they’d never been able to pin anything on him. It didn’t surprise me. You do this kind of business in a city like New York there’s no way the mob doesn’t stick its fat finger into the pot. Pfister was most likely the link between the mob and Hoyt, which ended poorly for Hoyt when he found himself involved in that shooting incident.
Manny and I walked the six or seven blocks from Grand Central to the Diamond District. We discussed our strategy and Manny asked me to take the lead in questioning Pfister, while he played the “silent partner” role.
Pfister’s office was on the fourth floor of a small building squeezed between two larger buildings. The elevator was so small that Manny and I had a tough time squeezing into it together, and if it wasn’t the slowest elevator in the world it was certainly close.
The name on the door was Global Jewelry Exchange, an attempt, no doubt, to add a touch of legitimacy to an illegitimate fencing operation. I didn’t bother to knock. I just opened the door and walked in, with Manny trailing close behind.
The office was tiny, maybe fifteen feet wide and eighteen feet deep. The room was split in half by a long glass counter filled with all kinds of cheap looking jewelry and watches. Straight ahead was a window that looked as if it hadn’t been opened or washed in years. It didn’t matter much since the view appeared to be the back of another building. There was a three-drawer steel gray filing cabinet in one corner and above it hung a monthly pinup calendar. Behind the counter, facing the entrance to the office, was a desk covered with papers, a computer screen, a gooseneck lamp, and the detritus of what could have been this morning’s breakfast or last night’s dinner. Sitting behind that desk was the man I presumed to be Tommy Pfister. He reminded me of the actor, Peter Boyle. He was fat, bald, and wore a white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, open at the neck. A pair of eyeglasses were perched atop his bald head. He was leaning back in one of those old tilting, slatted wooden chairs, reading the sports section of the Daily News.
Only after I rapped on the counter a couple times did he bother to look up and acknowledge our presence. “Yeah? Can I help youse?” he asked, lowering the paper but making no move to get out of his seat.
“I think so,” I said, as Manny stood beside me, examining the items under the glass counter. “We’re looking for a friend of yours.”
“Who’d that be?” he said, dropping the newspaper to the desk.
“Mr. Francis Hoyt,” I said.
“Never heard of him,” said Pfister.
He picked up the paper again as if
that was going to shield him from what was coming next.
“Maybe you didn’t hear the name right,” I said.
“I heard yiz okay. Nothing wrong with my hearing. It’s my eyes been giving me some trouble.”
I leaned over the counter. “I don’t care about your fucking eyes, Tommy.”
I nodded to Manny. As I moved to the left side of the counter, Manny moved to the right, so that we were blocking Pfister from getting away. We stood there a moment, until I made a move toward Pfister. Manny, picking up my lead, did the same. We kept closing in on him until we were standing on either side of Pfister’s desk.
The office was air conditioned but I could see beads of sweat on Pfister’s heavily creased forehead.
“Hey, no one’s supposed to be back here but me. Get the hell back on the other side of the counter, will ya?”
“I don’t think you heard me very well, Tommy. You don’t mind if I call you Tommy, do you?” I slowly moved my hand so that it was at my belt, then I pushed back my jacket so he could see I was carrying. Manny unbuttoned his jacket and did the same.
“Who the hell are youse guys?”
I sat on one the edge of his desk and Manny on the other.
“Manny, show him who we are.”
Manny went into his back pocket, took out his wallet, flicked it open and flashed his badge, snapping the wallet shut before Pfister could get too close a look.
“Cops, huh?”
Neither Manny nor I said anything.
Pfister looked at Manny, then back to me.
“What the hell you want from me?”
“I already told you what we want, Tommy. We want to know about Francis Hoyt.”
“I already tole ya I don’t know the guy. So, fuck off.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I said.
“Fuck you.”
Manny, tossing me a wink, got up from the side of the desk and moved toward the door, where he stood, his arms folded in front of him.
“Hey, whatchoo doing?”
“This is a private conversation, Tommy.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Pfister,” Manny said, speaking for the first time, “how much of this inventory is stolen property?”
Second Story Man Page 10