Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  Ficco’s was crowded. A fully extended orange-and-green awning sloped down over the sidewalk café’s rows of tables, and a waiter trundled a gaily decorated cart from table to table, serving drinks. Vassos stood in front of the restaurant. It was directly across the street from Lincoln Center. He looked around carefully for his control. He spotted her sitting at a table in the last row. She waved at him. He acknowledged her by raising his briefcase. Squeezing through the cramped space, he reached her table and sat down across from her.

  Looking across Broadway at the gushing fountain, Elisabeth Syros said in throaty Greek, “How goes it with you, Andreas?”

  He shrugged and frowned at the same time, a gesture that meant “I’m not sure,” and then he proceeded to bring her up to date.

  A waiter glided over and took his order: ouzo and a plate of cheese and crackers.

  “I want you to do something,” he said.

  “What?”

  He checked out the people sitting near them. Leaning in close, he spoke softly in Greek. “I want a list of Orhan Iskur’s overseas telephone calls for the past year.”

  “Only those made to the States?” she asked, her espresso cup poised before her lips.

  Fascinated by all the rings on her hand, he managed to reply, “Every call made to anywhere outside of Greece.”

  The waiter leaned in from the row in front of them and set down his order. Pouring water into his ouzo, Vassos said, “Overseas telephone records are kept for two years so there shouldn’t be a problem.” He stirred his drink. “How long will it take you to get the information?”

  “A day, perhaps two. I’ll transmit your request to Tsimas tonight. He’ll have it on his desk in the morning.”

  He had forgotten about General Philippos Tsimas, the head of the Central Information Service, Elisabeth Syros’s boss. He wondered how Colonel Pappas was doing with his parallel investigation. Sipping the licorice-flavored drink, his eyes drifted over the tables. “Just suppose I do happen to come up with the … merchandise? What do I do about delivering it?”

  She reached behind her and lifted her pocketbook off the back of the chair. Snapping it open, she took out a pad, removed the ballpoint attached to the side, and wrote down several addresses and telephone numbers. “You can deliver it to any of these locations at any time of the day or night. And, if you should ever need any help, call any of these numbers and tell whoever answers that you’re a friend of the lady from Thessalonika.”

  Vassos arrived back at the Hotel Olympian at seven-thirty. Harry, the night desk clerk, greeted him in Greek. Harry was a small man who had had the misfortune of being born without a chin, so that his face resembled that of a fully grown rat. The thin mustache that Harry affected looked like a rat’s twitching whiskers. Harry didn’t know that his newfound friend from Greece was a cop, nor did Harry know about the gun that Vassos wore clipped to his belt.

  As Vassos approached, Harry leaned across the desk, his face shrinking into a conspiratorial grin. “I’ve made those arrangements for you. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Tonight,” Vassos said, heading for the elevator.

  Vassos tossed his briefcase on the wing chair and went over to shut off the air conditioner, amazed that a chambermaid would waste energy cooling an empty room. He pushed the tall window open; a strong current of hot air rushed in, bringing with it the clamor of Manhattan.

  He unhooked the holster and tucked it under the mattress. He undressed, showered, stepped into fresh underpants, turned off the light, and sprawled across the sagging bed, listening to the harsh sounds of the city.

  “Soula, Stephanos,” he groaned, and then fell into an easeful darkness.

  A soft knocking caused him to swallow his sorrow and call out in his own language, “Who is it?” He had lost track of time. He must have drifted off. It took him a moment to remember where he was.

  “Harry sent me,” she answered in Greek.

  He rolled off the bed and padded over to the door.

  She quickly brushed past him into the room. Early thirties, black hair, pretty face with a bit too much makeup, and a shapely body that was starting to add pounds. Crossing to the window, she said in Greek, “Harry told me that you wanted a woman who spoke our language, and that you had certain requests.”

  “Nai.” Yes, he said.

  She turned abruptly, shrewd eyes evaluating him. “No animals, no pain, and no bondage.”

  “My needs are simple.”

  “Sixty dollars for a straight lay, anything else is extra.” She moved over to him and slid her hand between his legs, rubbing him. “Okay?”

  He moved over to the briefcase and took out the perfume. He placed the bottle into her hand and told her what he wanted. The hooker softened; she kissed him on the cheek, nodded, and slipped into the bedroom.

  He sprawled back across the bed, listening to the shower’s muted roar. The sound of the water carried his thoughts back to the day he met the woman who would become his wife. Soula had been showering at Vouliagméni’s pay beach that day. He sprinted across the sand and ran under the next shower. Turning under the sprinkling water, he thrust his face up and bent down at the same time to wash sand from his feet. He lost his balance and stumbled into the next open stall, toppling both of them out onto the grass.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Soula demanded, trying to untangle their arms and legs.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like an awkward and clumsy fool. At first he did not see her face, he was too busy trying to pick himself up off the grass. At some point he found himself staring into her saffron eyes, and then he was at a loss for words. He wanted to know this woman. The next seconds were lost in a mist of embarrassment. He remembered that he reached out to stop her from getting up so that he could ask her name. She turned abruptly; he reached over, intending to tap her on the shoulder, and somehow ended up with her bikini top dangling in his hand.

  “You clown!” she screamed into his mortified face. Covering herself with her hands, she ran off into the ladies’ locker room.

  He jumped to his feet and pursued her through a gauntlet of laughter. Running into the women’s locker room just behind her, he found his path blocked by the formidable body of the matron. “Cool your buns, young man, and wait outside,” she said, grabbing the top out of his hand.

  He slunk out of the brick building and waited just outside. A fig peddler passed. A peace reparation just might turn the tide in his favour, so he called out to the old man: “One kilo of figs.” Realizing that he had no money, he ran around the other side of the building to the men’s locker room, asked the attendant for his basket, took money out of his trousers, and ran back outside in time to pay the peddler four drachmas for the bag of figs.

  A few minutes later Soula came out, her swim top repaired. When she saw him leaning up against the side of the building, she turned in a huff and hurried along the path leading down to the beach.

  He ran after her. “I’m sorry. Please, wait one second and let me explain. Please.” He stuck the bag in front of her face. “I’ve bought these figs for you.”

  Four meters away from them, some boys were playing soccer. One of them kicked the ball. It shot across the grass, passed people sunning on chaise longues, and caught Vassos between the ankles, causing him to go sprawling over the path in front of her, spewing figs all over the place.

  Realizing all was lost, he picked up a fig and handed it to her. “I guess I’m not the suave type.”

  She took the fig out of his hand, peeled back the grainy skin, and said, “I think you’re adorable.”

  The bathroom door opened. The naked woman switched off the light, made her way over to the bed, and lowered herself down next to him. She kissed his brow. “I love you, Andreas.”

  He pressed her close, intoxicated by the scent of Soula’s favorite perfume. “Soula, I miss you so very much.”

  She stroked his hair. “I’m here, Andreas. I’ll always be here for you, always, my darli
ng.”

  Eddie Burke was what cops called a “predicate criminal.” He was proud of the eighteen arrests on his yellow sheet; was proud that he had never done an honest day’s work in his life; proud that he didn’t pay taxes, or have a social security number, or a credit rating. Eddie didn’t exist, except in the criminal record files of the NYPD and the FBI.

  He was a powerfully built man with wavy chestnut hair and a deeply lined face. He talked with a soft voice that sometimes bordered on a whisper. Burke liked to think of himself as a street guy with a heart of gold. He loved playing with children and watching the sunset. Eddie’s buddies in the Purple Gang had a different opinion of him. Long ago they hung the moniker “Crazy Eyes” on Eddie because of the way his large tawny eyes popped out of his head whenever he got angry.

  Whenever any of the Purple Gang got together their conversation would frequently make its way around to the time the late Frankie Airlake made a pass at Shirley Case, Eddie’s live-in girlfriend. When Eddie heard about it, he threw an ax into a big shopping bag and went looking for Frankie Airlake. He found him in The Den, standing at the bar, talking to Louie D and Mush McCarthy. Eddie stormed over to the trio, shoved Louie D and Mush aside, buried the ax in Frankie Airlake’s head.

  As the dying man lay in a pool of blood, Eddie worked the ax free and began to chop open Airlake’s chest. Placing one foot on the other side of the bloody trench, Eddie bent down and pried open the rib cage, reached into the warm gory mess, and ripped out Airlake’s heart. Slapping the organ down on the bar, Eddie laughingly announced, “Ol’ Frankie boy’s done lost his heart to love.”

  Eddie Burke sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth Sundance watching a mounted cop slowly riding on his horse up Twelfth Avenue. He had rented the car earlier that day with some funny plastic. The motor was running; the air conditioner was on high, and the radio blared. Eddie’s loose-fitting white shirt hid his muscular frame and his drawstring pants flared down over his stolen Bruno Magli loafers. He wore no socks; his only jewelry was a stolen Piaget watch.

  Denny McKay had telephoned Eddie at his girlfriend’s around eleven that morning and told him to get a car and meet him at nine-thirty that night at the northwest corner of Forty-fifth and Twelfth Avenue. Eddie wondered what was up. Probably a fast score to be made or some asshole who needed his legs broken. His eyes drifted to the dashboard’s digital clock: 9:45. When he looked back out the windshield, he saw Denny McKay standing on the corner, fanning his open shirt against the oppressive heat, the familiar Marlboro cigarette clenched between his front teeth, his half-glasses perched on his nose, held there by a black cord stretched around his head. McKay’s furtive eyes swept the scene, making sure no unwelcome parasites had attached themselves to him. A shower of sparks rained down from a wildcat construction job, causing McKay to jump back and scream curses up at the oblivious workmen.

  Eddie Burke laughed.

  McKay’s gaze moved along the row of parked cars and locked on the Sundance. He gave a barely perceptible nod. Eddie Burke released the handbrake and let the Sundance glide to the corner, where he leaned across the seat and chucked open the door.

  McKay lowered himself into the cramped space. “Couldn’t you get a bigger fucking car?” he said, pressing his knees up against the glove compartment. He reached down and pushed the control lever back, sliding the seat to the rear. “That’s better.” He turned and looked at his friend. “How goes it with you, Eddie?”

  “No complaints. Where to?”

  “Pier Ninety,” McKay said, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray and lighting up another.

  A few minutes later the Sundance’s tires drummed over the pier’s timbered entrance. The guard wasn’t in his shack, so Eddie Burke drove out onto the wharf and parked the Sundance between two stacks of containers.

  “Whadda we waitin’ for?” Burke asked, watching two homosexuals holding hands at the end of the pier.

  McKay cracked the window at the top and tossed out his butt. “I made a new coke connection.”

  “Colombian?”

  “No. A Chink with a good source of supply. He’d tied in with the Wu cartel.”

  Eddie was impressed. “That’s heavy-duty shit. How much can he deliver?”

  “As much as we can buy.”

  “What’s the price?”

  “Thirty-five a key with a discount on anything over fifty keys.”

  “Sounds good.”

  McKay playfully punched his friend’s arm. “Where you been hidin’?”

  “I’ve been hustling a livin’. Made a good score in Jersey, a truckload of liquor.”

  “Hey, Eddie, remember how Sister Maria used to beat the shit out of us whenever she caught us fucking up?”

  Burke laughed. “She was a tough old nun. She used to bang me around with that ruler she kept hidden up her sleeve. ‘You two are no good!’ she’d scream, remember?”

  Nostalgia brightened McKay’s face. “Yeah, I remember. Guess she’s long dead, may her soul rest in peace.”

  “And remember Sister Rose?”

  A lecherous grin perked McKay’s mouth. “I always wanted to hit on her. I used to jerk off pretending I was fucking her.”

  “Me too.” Burke laughed.

  “Hey, Eddie, you remember a few years back you took off that book dealer for me?”

  “That fucking queen squealed like a pig when I shoved the piece in his face.” He looked at McKay. “I never could understand why you wanted that damn scroll.”

  “I got it for a friend of mine,” McKay said, lighting up another Marlboro.

  “Well, that favor cost Bucky McMahon eighteen months inside.”

  “You ever mention doing that job to anyone?”

  “You said forget it, so I forgot it. Besides, it wasn’t one of my more memorable scores. You only paid me two large for the job.”

  “I didn’t make a dime on it myself. Like I told you, it was a favor.”

  Burke shrugged indifference. “No big deal.”

  “Bucky McMahon did the cop with you, didn’t he?”

  “McGovern? Yeah, he done it with me. I’ll tell ya, that old cop was one tough Irishman. He went down fighting all the way. I carry his shield around with me for good luck.” He looked at McKay. “Why you asking about the old jobs for anyway?”

  “Aw, nothing. I was just – hey, here comes our man.”

  “Where?”

  “On your left,” McKay said, pointing.

  Eddie Burke turned to look. He heard the explosion and dimly felt his head toppling onto the steering wheel. Blood gushed from his eyes, nose, and mouth. He didn’t hear the second shot.

  McKay tucked the .38 S & W Chief into his belt and tossed his cigarette out the window. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the seat lever. He placed the cloth over the door handle and got out of the car. He walked away, not looking back. The sight of dead friends depressed him.

  Teddy Lucas had made his nightly report to the chief of detectives some time ago. He was still annoyed with himself for not being able to get up the courage to ask Katina to go out with him. He was going to have to shake that peasant out of his system and get on with his life. His tour had been over hours ago and here he was, hanging around the Squad drinking stale coffee and trying to decide what to do with the rest of the night. He could run over to Heidi’s and have a few with the guys, but he wasn’t in the mood to spend the rest of the night bullshitting about the Job and the way it used to be. Joan had said she would stop by his place the day after tomorrow for a quickie before her ten o’clock dentist appointment. He made a mental note to buy condoms. He hated those damn things; they made a woman taste lousy afterwards. Aw, the hell with it, he’d go home. He’d grab a bite at the new Polish joint on Eleventh Street, do his laundry, and sack out watching the late movie on the tube.

  He started to get up out of his chair when Big Jay stuck his black face into the office and barked, “We just caught a homicide on Pier Ninety. A small-timer named Eddie Burke got himse
lf blown away.”

  Lucas tensed. The name Burke rang a bell. He reached out and flipped open the case folder. Fishing through the thick file, he asked, “Who caught it?”

  “Leone. He’s making the notifications now.” Big Jay stepped into the office and leaned against the side of the file cabinet, watching the Whip go through the folder. “You going to ride on this one?”

  Lucas yanked a sheet of notes from the folder. He quickly read through it, put the pages back in the folder, and slapped the cover closed. “Yeah, I’m riding on this one.”

  Yellow CRIME SCENE signs swung from the orange tape that corralled the Sundance between the stacks of freight containers. Two RMPs, radio motor patrol cars, were parked on the edge of the pier, the strobe light on one of them hurling coloured streaks over the murky water. No boats were berthed at the pier; no crush of people intent on sating morbid curiosities pressed against the police barricades. The Forensic Unit’s blue-and-white station wagon had its back door open; black valises were stacked on the platform. Two attendants stood near the ambulance chatting quietly with the patrol sergeant. Big Jay and John Leone stood by the radio cars interviewing the first crew that had arrived on the scene.

  Lucas stood just outside the frozen zone, gathering first impressions. Technically he was off the chart and not required to be there. Both the Patrol Guide and the Detective Guide mandated an immediate notification to the Borough Command whenever a homicide occurred. If the Whip or the Second Whip wasn’t aboard, then the detective supervisor covering the borough would respond to the scene and take charge of the preliminary investigation.

  As soon as Lucas realized who had been offed, he telephoned the Borough Command and told the sergeant on the operations desk that he was present in the Squad and would respond to the scene. He had not forgotten Cormick McGovern or the casket-copy. He stepped over the tape and circled the Sundance, examining the outside of the car.

  Big Jay and Leone came over to the barrier. “Lou, we got ourselves a virgin crime scene,” Big Jay said. “The first cops to arrive on the scene roped off the area and prevented anyone from entering.”