"Listen for a moment, Mr. Dibbs, perhaps you're not aware of what just went on here. That's Danny Beemon. Eleanor Burke, uh, Beemon, is his wife. Why didn't you tell me he was here?"
He shoved me from behind. "Get out! You, too!" And he shoved Gordon. "You have no idea, Mr. Deemer! No idea about anything, but if you have the slightest shred of decency, you'll leave all these people alone."
"Woody—"
"Shut up, Mr. Deemer. You lied to me about the police. You didn't keep them away. You brought them!"
"What? What do you mean?" By that time he was marching us through the lobby.
"The FBI was here this morning to question Eleanor. They told her, Mr. Deemer. They just came out and told her that her daughter was murdered."
"But how did I bring—?"
"Get out!" He threw us into the rain, where we stood for a time, trying to collect ourselves.
Finally, I turned to Jainways. "If the FBI is questioning Eleanor, then they must know—"
"Excuse me, Mr. Deemer, but I don't want to hear it. In fact, I've heard quite enough from you, period. I'm going home, perhaps by ferry, perhaps by cab, but whatever my means, I want to travel without you. I don't want any further contact with you." Gordon Jainways turned and walked down the hill toward St. George Road and the ferry slip.
I put my face up to the slate clouds and let the raindrops slap my eyes.
TWENTY
I USED FIDEL'S key on the spiked gate guarding the service entrance and took the stairs from the basement to the lobby, where Blue called to me.
"Hey, Artie, Julius Hemphill, the cat is beautiful. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Blue." I waved on the way to the elevator. I didn't want to talk about the saxophone or about Julius Hemphill, beautiful as he is.
Calabash stepped into the elevator behind me. He appeared from out of nowhere. There is nothing in my lobby, an expanse of marble floor. All the furniture had been stolen. There was nothing to hide behind. Where did he come from? He clutched my upper arms as the door slid closed.
"You ever do dat again, I leave your ass in de lurch. I believed you were comin' back here after you leave de bar, but you don't. Dat's fuckin' stupid! You got a bodyguard, but you go off without tellin' him!"
I burst out crying like a child. I had had it, I could take no more reprimands.
"Hey, it ain't dat big a thing. I just tellin' you, dat's all."
But I couldn't stop. Calabash hugged me in giant arms and patted my back until we reached my floor. "I'm sorry," I managed.
"Dat's okay, no problem. What we need is a big rum swizzle like de tourists drink all day."
He made one while I called Sybel. Still no answer. I took great gulps of rum swizzle and waited for the impact. "Where did Kiley go from the bar?"
"He went up Amsterdam Avenue, he hurryin' right along, lookin' over his shoulder. I thought he spotted me, but, no, he didn't. About four blocks on, a black car come up beside him. Den he got in and dey drive away. I couldn't see anybody in de car for de black windows."
What did that mean? "He's the blackmailer. He got Billie killed."
Jellyroll walked over and sat down on that spot near the radiator where he used to pee on newspaper when he was a puppy. Jellyroll has extraordinary holding power, but when he sits on that spot and stares at me, I take him to be in distress. Dogs must go outside regardless of the operative level of insanity. Calabash and I walked only a few steps toward the park before Jellyroll peed in the gutter between two parked cars.
Before he finished, another car, a green one, pulled up beside us and stopped as if to double-park. The driver opened his door and stepped out. I recognized him. He propped the butt of his handgun on the roof and aimed at my chest. Calabash shoved me out of the line of fire as the gun went off. I flew into the rear of the parked car and bounced into the gutter. I grabbed a handful of flesh on the back of Jellyroll's neck and yanked him under me. I curled into a ball and didn't even realize I was lying in three inches of water.
Calabash dropped behind the other parked car and drew his big black automatic from his waistband, but he had no time to use it before the machine gun ended it all.
Every window in the green car disintegrated simultaneously, the side-view mirror cartwheeling in the air. I heard screams from somewhere. Neighbors in terror taking cover. The green car trembled and shuddered under the barrage, pieces flying. I never saw the effect of those bullets on the man, and for that I remain grateful, but I could extrapolate from his car.
The silence seemed ghostly after the ceasefire. Jellyroll struggled to stand, but I held him down.
"Hey, Artie," someone called.
I looked out from under a rear tire and saw Leon Palomino standing behind a red Japanese car across the street. He held his gun above his head with both hands like a guerrilla fighter posing for a publicity shot, smiling. It wasn't actually a machine gun but it was some kind of automatic weapon. Then Leon laid the gun on the hood of the red car and said, "Hey, Artie, you take care now, huh?" He put his hands in the pockets of his fatigue jacket and walked west in no hurry. I never saw him again.
Screams from my neighbors. Faces appeared in windows. An incessant whine near my head. Why? Was someone hit? Was that the sound of dying? Was I screaming? No, it was the burglar alarm inside the green car, more holes than anything solid. Calabash walked around to see the body, but he didn't linger. I stood up, careful to keep the car between the body and myself. A fat rivulet of blood flowed from beneath the car and like a tributary joined the stream of gutter water. The next thing I remember was in my living room and the strange absence of music. My eyes were blurry, but I saw that Calabash's forehead was bleeding. I clutched his cheeks in my hands to focus on the wound. It seemed to be a scratch, nothing more. Sirens wailed from all directions.
"Calabash! Are you all right!"
"Hit my head on de bumper. It ain't a worry?"
"You've got to get out of here with your guns!" I handed him the key to Jerry's apartment. I have no view of 104th Street from my apartment, but I didn't need one to know it was filling up with police. "At the end of the hall. Apartment 12F. Hurry."
"I call you in ten minutes," he said, and left.
Jellyroll's body trembled and shook. I sat on the floor and stroked his back, told him lies like "it's okay, boy." He buried his head in my armpit. I don't know how long I did that before they pounded on my door as if with battering rams.
"Police! Open up!"
I peeped out the view hole. They did have a battering ram. It was a squat cylinder of steel with pipe-like handles. I saw Cobb and Loccatuchi and a hall full of uniforms. They were all wearing bullet-proof vests like fencer's plastrons. Every man had his gun drawn; two carried shotguns and one a sledgehammer, probably used in conjunction with the battering ram. All that battle gear notwithstanding, it was the looks on their faces—determined, tense, and dangerous, that frightened me most.
Careful to keep my hands in full view, I opened the door. They poured in on me. Two uniforms wedged themselves in the doorway shoulder to shoulder in their haste, but their comrades dislodged them from behind. The flood of armed officers drove me into the living room. The jig was definitely up. Cobb grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, and shoved me against my own wall. He kicked my legs apart and frisked me with, I thought, undue roughness. He yanked my arms behind me and handcuffed them there. Only then did the troops holster their guns.
"Now it's your ass, Deemer," said Cobb as he squeezed the cuffs tightly against my wrist bones.
"Fuck me!" someone said. "That looks like the R-r-ruff Dog!"
"That is the R-r-ruff Dog," said Loccatuchi.
Then the phalanx swept me into the hall, now full of my neighbors. Mrs. Fishbein, her mouth agape. Fidel, looking grim. News crews shot blinding lights at me. A female reporter stuck a microphone in my face and asked for a statement, but Cobb knocked it out of her hands. Six cops and I crowded into the freight elevator, which Fidel drove to the lobby.
I didn't see much point just then in explaining that I was the intended victim, not the perpetrator.
Lined with blue-and-white squad cars, lights pulsing everywhere, 104th Street looked like a war zone. Two cars had been driven up onto the sidewalk, their headlights pointing into my lobby, where Blue narrated events he probably didn't witness to a clot of reporters. When they saw me in handcuffs, they bolted from Blue and charged, but a cordon of uniforms headed them off. Out on the street, stringers and freelancers stuck more cameras in my face. Cobb straight-armed them roughly aside with one big hand and dragged me along by the shirtfront with the other. I glimpsed two attendants in yellow foul-weather gear load the black rubber body bag into the rear of an EMS truck before Cobb shoved me into the backseat of a squad car. There was more blood on the pavement beside the riddled green car than I imagined a single human body could contain. The media were getting some great blood shots, film at eleven. Siren blaring, we sped east after Cobb, on the loud-hailer, bullied the curious out of our way.
"Who was that fucker, Deemer?"
"Ricardo."
"The other guy! The guy who shot Ricky?"
"Ricky?"
"Ricky Ricardo, asshole! Who shot him?"
"I don't know."
"Then you're in deep shit, pal."
TWENTY-ONE
LOCCATUCHI TOLD ME that I had the right to remain silent, but if I spoke, anything I said could and would be held against me, that I had the right to a lawyer, and if I couldn't afford one, the court would supply a freebie. I was soaking wet. Cobb ran all the lights en route to the 24th Precinct on 100th Street off Amsterdam. Uniformed police and overweight plainclothes cops scurried this way and that; squad cars and unmarked vehicles lurched to a stop in front as others squealed away. Cobb pulled me from the car by the handcuffs, and his colleagues stopped to watch. Why were they treating me like this? Up a flight of concrete stairs by the handcuffs and into the seedy squad room. Cobb sat me down on a long wooden bench, the heavy oaken kind one used to find in railroad waiting rooms, and a cop in a white shirt with sour BO used his own set of handcuffs to lock my ankle to the bench leg, then went away. Cops dressed like civilians from all walks of life gathered around to view the prisoner. One, a black man who on the street I would have taken for a fall-down wino, said, "This the shooter, Sal?"
"Could be," said Loccatuchi.
"He looks like a bad one, all right," said the wino.
"Break it up, guys," said Cobb, and the semicircle around me dispersed.
"You know I didn't do it!"
"Shut up. Whose desk is this?" Cobb wanted to know.
"Carmine's," said the wino. "Hey, Carmine, can Cobb use yer desk to write up Machine-Gun Kelly?"
Cobb sat down at Carmine's desk, pulled out papers, and working like a card sharp, inserted carbons between each one.
"Cobb! There a Cobb here?" asked a man in dirty jeans and fatigue jacket from the doorway.
"Yeah, right here."
"The college boys are on the way. Just came over."
"Thanks," said Cobb, accelerating his paperwork, and the cop in jeans left.
What was going on here? "You know I didn't shoot Ricardo!"
"Just shut up or you'll find your ass strapped to a bed in Bellevue with a hole to piss through." He was writing furiously.
"I demand to know the charges!"
"Oh, hear that, Carmine?" asked the wino, cupping his hand behind his ear. "He wants to know the charges."
"Did he call us Nazis yet?" Carmine said.
"Soon."
I lowered my voice, volume not working so well, and said, "Detective Cobb, I believe you know I did not shoot Ricky Ricardo."
"Oh? You're innocent?"
"No, I did some things. I'll be happy to tell you about them, but I didn't shoot anyone."
"I'd be happy to hear all about your exploits, but thanks to you, there ain't time."
"Why not?"
"Full name, Deemer!"
"Arthur N. Deemer."
"What's the N.?"
"Nathaniel."
"Address."
"Three Sixteen West 104th Street."
"Eyes."
"Green."
"Hair. What there is of it."
"Brown. I want a lawyer."
"It ain't lawyer time yet."
"Then I demand to know the charges," I said, this time a request, a plea.
"You want to know the charges? Sure. You ready? We got B and E, one count, no, two counts, we got obstruction of justice, conspiracy to obstruct justice, conspiracy to extortion, arson in the second degree, plus four, count 'em, four counts of homicide. Deep shit, like I told you."
"Homicide?"
"Frederick Palomino, Ricky Ricardo, Billie Burke—"
"You bastard!"
"Nazi!" said the wino.
The room fell silent. Four young men in blue pinstriped suits walked in and planted themselves at the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen—" said Carmine. "The Four Freshmen—"
They surveyed the room with unmasked distaste, which the cops returned. In striking contrast to the cops, they were neat, clean, impeccably coiffured and blown dry, also younger. No cop in that room was under forty-five; the Freshmen were in their twenties. "Is that him?" asked one, approaching my bench for a look. The other three hung back as if they worried about soiling their Brooks Brothers.
"Who?" asked Cobb.
"Him."
"Oh, him. That's him, yes, sir."
"I want him downtown. Now."
"Now?" said Cobb, suddenly a simpleton.
"You heard me."
"But sir," said Cobb, "we have certain formalities and procedures to which we must adhere."
The boy glared at Cobb and tried to look mean. "Ten minutes," he dictated, turned and walked out. The other three Freshmen made an opening for the fourth, then backed out the door after him.
"Your old man still sniffing little girls' bicycle seats?" called Carmine. The chief Freshman popped back in, jaws clenched furiously. "Who said that?" he demanded, a history teacher who'd just been spitballed from behind.
"Barney Miller," said the wino.
One Police Plaza is an architectural incongruity in Chinatown. I didn't see much of it, however. Three uniformed cops led me, still tightly handcuffed, through an obscure back door into a room empty except for an airport-style metal detector. By then my clothes had nearly dried on my back, leaving me shivering with cold fear, and my shin, apparently due to a crack from the bumper on my way to the gutter, throbbed so badly I limped. I was going to jail, limping, shivering. Who would take care of my dog? They twice ran me through the metal detector, and twice the alarm rang. They searched me again and ran me through. The alarm rang.
"Oh," said one cop, a young guy with rosy cheeks. "The handcuffs."
Was this jail? A large open room with a battleship-gray floor, three sets of cages? They re-handcuffed me in front. A black man in the blue uniform of the New York Department of Corrections, COs in jail-house parlance, led me to a lectern-like stand where he rolled my fingers and thumbs on an ink pad, then rolled each on a card. Fingerprinted. I always assumed I'd get through life without ever being fingerprinted for murder and arson. The finger printer handed me a paper towel, which did not remove the ink.
There were not three cages as I thought but one large L-shaped cage. The finger printer unlocked the door. I walked in. What choice had I? He slammed it shut behind me. The COs, I came to notice, never merely closed a door. They always slammed it. The slammer. About fifteen fellow arrestees sat on the floor or stood around, a nearly even mix of blacks, whites, and Hispanics. Everyone was handcuffed in front, and I was glad to see that. I had heard stories about jailhouse gang-bangs. Easy, I counseled myself, this was not prison. This was part of a process, a legal process, the end of which was a court appearance as stipulated by the Constitution. Besides, we were all handcuffed.
Cobb knew I didn't kill anyone; he knew I didn't torch the Antiques. This was all
to intimidate me. Wasn't it? No D.A. would dare press those charges. They had no merit at all. But it was working. I was intimidated. It wouldn't take much of this to make me tell them who did burn down the building and who riddled Ricardo. What else did I know that Cobb didn't? The photographs and the note from Billie? And who were the Four Freshmen? What did they want from me?
I glanced up at my fellow arrestees, hard-looking fuckers who seemed right at home. They had segregated themselves into three racial islands. That troubled me. I segregated myself into a gene pool of one, leaned against the grimy bars, and stared at my hands chained together in my lap. I was in the system. I have a phobia of bureaucrats. I feel like Joseph K., even going to the Motor Vehicles Department.
A lanky white guy with a roving right eye and tattoos of naked women on his twitching biceps sat down beside me. I ignored him. A black guy paced back and forth in front of us, jerking at his handcuffs. A hyperactive or a speed freak, he chanted, droned, "FuckingBobbyfuckingBobbyfuckingBobby—" Then he arrived at the white guy's outstretched legs and stopped as if before the Continental Divide. He stared at the legs, but the white guy would not move them.
"I'm walkin' here, motherfucker."
"No, you ain't."
"I'm walkin' here, motherfucker."
"No, you ain't."
The breakdown of rational discourse, another of my phobias. When that happens, violence floods in to fill the vacuum. Fifteen minutes in the joint and I get killed in a racially motivated incident over some legs. I scurried away in search of a neutral corner and settled in midway between black and Hispanic headquarters. Both eyed me with cold indifference. Great. Indifference, that's all I could ask for.
"FuckingBobbyfuckingBobbyfucking—"
Then a tall, handsome black guy with a close-cropped beard approached. "Greetings," he said.
That sounded friendly enough, and I certainly wanted to avoid discourtesy. "Greetings."
"So you're some kind of white-collar felon? You in for Xeroxing?"
"No."
"Botherin' the little white girls?"
"No."
"What, then? I mean, yer the only wet fucker in here wearin' Topsiders. You steal somebody's yacht boat and fall overboard?"
Lover Man: An Artie Deemer Mystery Page 16