"Yes." Watson had returned my envelope of personal belongings.
"Will you buy me a pack of cigarettes?"
I bought cigarettes and two cups of stagnant coffee from a Chinese lunch counter on the corner of Bayard and Mulberry, and the cashier wished me a nice day. I wanted time to halt while I slept for about three days, no thinking, worrying, or scheming, but first I wanted to sit on the Chinese bench beneath the lovely English plane tree and drink coffee, never mind the slack drizzle, with Sybel, the only other person in the world who shared my experience, if not my obsession. Kids played stickball on the wet cobblestones.
"I can't go back in there, Artie. Whatever happens, I can't go back in that cell."
"Maybe we can think of something," I said, but I doubted it, feeling my body sliding toward lassitude. Energy and hope waned together. What could we do? Certainly not visit Pine wearing wires.
Sybel said, "I've been thinking about—" And she pointed to the place beneath her right breast where her wire was taped. She pulled me close to her mouth and whispered the rest, her lips brushing my ear. She asked me why we should trust the on/off switches. What if they were phonies? What if Watson, even now, was listening in?
"Excuse me, Sybel. I'll get us some more coffee." Next door to the Chinese luncheonette was a Chinese electronics store, where I bought two of the cheapest and tiniest radios ever made in Taiwan. I tuned both to the all-news station—"Give us twenty-two minutes, we'll give you the world"—handed one to Sybel, and as surreptitiously as possible, we tucked them beneath our shirts next to Watson's ear. Hell, this was thinking. Maybe there was still hope.
"Can I take about six showers at your place before I go home?"
"Seven," I said.
"Do you have cab fare?"
"Can you carry me to the curb?"
We didn't need to travel any farther than that. A cab was waiting. We named our destination and headed west on Canal. Sleep gripped me by the shoulders and gently drew me back in the seat.
"Jesus!" Sybel said.
"Wha—?"
"Look who's driving!"
Cobb! He wore a Mets cap with phony black hair spilling out from behind. "We need to have a little sit-down, you and me, but you got so-called agents hanging off you like warts, so we got to take unusual steps."
"Why can't you just leave us alone!" Sybel squealed, and struck the door panel with a soft fist.
"I'm sorry, Sybel, but those are my murders, and I want 'em," said Cobb.
"Do you know they held her incommunicado for twenty-four hours?" I demanded.
"Of course I know. Things are way out of hand. That's why we need to have this sit-down. Sybel, I didn't have anything to do with the way you were treated inside. I tried to stop it."
"You failed," she said.
Cobb, playing cabbie to the hilt, laid on the horn when the bakery truck in front lagged at the light. "By the way, Artie, Sal Loccatuchi went up and walked your dog last night."
"He did?"
"Billie's killer's gonna walk, and that offends my professional pride. Cops got professional pride just like anybody else. Hey, what's that noise?" Cobb pivoted in his seat, and I showed him our broadcast system. He grinned at Sybel and me in turn. "Smart. Smart but not necessary. They don't work."
"They don't?"
"Nope. My guys set them up. They'll record about twenty seconds, then drop dead. Mysteriously. That's how far out of hand things are."
"So you and the FBI are playing a game of steal the bacon, and we're the bacon."
"Steal the bacon. Yeah, I remember that. Those fucking college boys don't care about my murders. They think they got a shot at the wiseguys, get promoted off the street, as if they ever been on the street. The street is mine. The college boys think Pine's gonna turn over as easy as Jay Kiley did. Do you folks know what went down in Moxie, Florida?"
"I do. Sybel doesn't, because she was in jail having her civil rights denied."
"The college boys get word that this asshole Jay Kiley's down in Moxie asking a lot of questions about Harry Pine, and they lean on him. It comes out Kiley's working for one Billie Burke. But then she gets killed. That's where you come stumbling in. When Sybel told them about the photos, they sent Kiley out to Shea to buy them from you, then make Kiley use them to set Harry Pine up, get it? But you told Kiley to fuck himself."
"You mean Kiley was wearing one of these wires when he met with me?"
"Sure. You dicked up their plan—until Ricky Ricardo gets whacked in front of your place. Then they got an excuse to lean on you directly, make you set up Pine. Get a stupid idea and stick with it no matter what, even if it means stepping all over my murders with their Bass fucking Weejuns."
"What happened to Jay?"
"Disappeared. Maybe we'll find his body, maybe not. Maybe he got smart and moved to Singapore, but smart doesn't seem his style. Kiley used the Moxie dirt to blackmail the doctors, while Billie used it to blackmail Harry Pine. That about the size of it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't? I think you do. The college boys think just lay a few half-assed murder charges on Pine he'll sing about his wiseguy bosses. Get Mr. Big or some shit. Here's Pine, a big war hero, he's gonna fall apart in front of some college boys with their dorks caught in their zippers? Right. Am I going too fast for you? You happen to know Pine's a big Mafia pilot?"
"Yes."
"Pretty knowledgeable guy."
"Sybel doesn't know about that, because she was being held—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
"Let me ask you something," said Sybel. "Suppose Harry Pine decides we're a problem for him. What do you think he'd do?"
"You'd probably go the way of Jay Kiley."
"Yeah, and that would be good for the college boys, wouldn't it? As a way to get to Pine. How do we know that's not their plan? And how do we know that's not your plan?"
"Come on, Sybel, I represent the NYPD, not the FBI. We don't set up our own CIs. See, Pine's got some problems I mean to exploit. There's a drug war brewing between the wiseguys and the spics. Used to be the wiseguys ran that show, but now the Colombian gentlemen are getting too big for their sombreros, and the wiseguys are getting edgy. How's that Pine's problem? Because he's got two Colombian rats in his organization. No, one Colombian rat, now Ricky Ricardo got capped."
"Jones?"
"Yeah, Jones. I want you—wearing my wire—to go tell Pine about Jones. Tell him you overheard the college boys talking about it before they released you. That's how I got it, the fuck-ups. He's going to have to get rid of Jones. Then I get rid of him." Cobb dangled two tape recorders, identical to those taped to our nipples, over the backseat. "You wear these, tell Pine about Jones the rat. That's all there is to it. My guys will be behind you every step of the way. We're not incompetent buttholes like the college boys. Except for Billie's note. You give me that and I'll get her killer."
"We want two things in return," I said.
"Yeah, what?"
"I want you to leave Leon Palomino alone. That's one."
"Why's that? Because he saved your life gunning Ricardo?"
"No."
"That might be tough. Since the college boys put a tap on your phone, they know he burned down the store and about your meeting at Shea. They set up to arrest him there, college-boy dragnet, only Palomino beat the shit out of three so-called agents and escaped." Cobb giggled almost boyishly.
"Leave Sybel out of this entirely. That's two."
"What are you, some kind of hero?" she asked.
"There's no need for you to go to Pine," I said to her. Then to Cobb I said, "Sybel's going home to her daughter or there's no deal."
"Jeez, you really got me this time."
Sure. I really had him. I leaned back in the seat. Sybel took my hand in hers. "What's a CI?" she asked.
"A CI? That's what you are. A confidential informant."
Artie Deemer, CI, RIP.
TWENTY-THREE
EVEN BEFORE I opened my apartmen
t door i knew Jellyroll was gone. A dog's consistency ingrains itself in one's consciousness like a familiar piece of music. He should have responded to the sound of my key in the lock with a single bark; then I should have heard him run headlong at the door, skid to a stop, toenails clattering on the hardwood foyer floor. When I opened the door, he should have jumped at my face, attempting to lick it in midair. I would have ruffled his ears to elicit his smile, roughhouse for a while. A dog's greeting is a gift of nature.
"What is it?" said Sybel.
"Jellyroll's gone."
"How do you—? Calabash, maybe Calabash has him out for a walk?"
"No. There's his leash, on the hook." Weariness vanished. "Someone took him," I said. I saw myself trembling, but I didn't feel it. I felt myself stepping over the edge. I tore Cobb's device from my chest and smashed it on the floor.
"Artie—" said Sybel from far in the distance.
I turned and made straight for Jerry's shotgun in the bedroom closet. I flipped dirty clothes and unused sports paraphernalia out between my legs until I got to the gun. I liked its feel, its heft and balance. It felt like a friend. What did I intend to do with it just then? Pump some shells through the mechanism, lend a little palpability to my revenge fantasy? I don't know.
"Artie, careful—" Sybel, I only sort of recognized, was cowering against the wall in the foyer. God, how I wanted to kill the man who took my dog. Did that mean I was cracking up or was that a perfectly reasonable response?
I heard a key in the door lock. I shouldered the shotgun and leveled it the peephole.
Sybel screamed, "No!"
Calabash opened the door. At the sight of me, he spun away from the doorway and out into the hall, shouting, "It's me, it's me!"
From that same far distance, I watched myself lower the gun and sag against the wall.
Calabash peeked in.
"Somebody took Jellyroll," Sybel told him. Then she came to me, took the shotgun from my hands, and hugged me. Calabash came over and enfolded us both in his arms.
"Okay, we tink dis ting out. I couldn't come back here till the cops left, so that's how they got to Jellyroll. Now you tell me what happened at the jailhouse, you tell me what's what. Den we figure out real calm what we doin'."
The phone rang. Calabash answered. He listened for a moment, then held the receiver for me. "Pine," he said.
"Hey, Arthur, doesn't do a man's business standing in the community a bit of good when his employees get themselves arrested."
"Do you have my dog?"
"You ought to get that dog out of town more often. He's having a ball. Out on the runway right now chasing sticks with Chucky."
"If you hurt that dog, I'll devote my life to killing you and everyone you know."
But Pine just chuckled. "This dog is so sweet he breaks your heart. I wouldn't think of hurting him, but I need a little employee incentive, and he's it."
"Incentive for what?"
"We need to sit down, drink a beer, and figure out where our mutual interests lie. I got a few questions; you name a price for the answers."
"Then Jellyroll and I walk away?"
"Sure, but one thing, Arthur, don't let my affable exterior mislead you. I'm in deep shit. I got feds, cops, and smarmy hoods coming at me from everywhere but up. I'm a desperate old man, Arthur, and I don't want you showing up here wearing wires and other such devices, not Cobb's, not Watson's, nobody's. That clear?"
"Yes."
"And by the way, they had a tap on your phone. My people cleaned it up."
Oh. "Where do you want me to go?"
"There's a yellow cab waiting out in front right now. You just get in, leave the driving to us. Now. By the way, Arthur, you should have told me you wanted a bodyguard. That's covered in my employee benefit program." He hung up.
"I've got to go." I related the conversation.
Sybel was leaning against the wall. "He knew about these tape recorders?"
"Both sets. And the phone tap."
"How?"
"I don't know."
Calabash left the room with a somber look on his face. Sybel was putting on her jacket.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting on my jacket."
"Why?"
"Why? Because we're all going together."
"No, you don't need to do that. Why would you do that?"
"Because I have a feeling you'll be safer in a crowd."
Calabash returned with a battered canvas gym bag full of heavy objects. "Dey ain't seen de mean side to Calabash yet. Let's go"
On instinct I retrieved the Family Snaps and Billie's note from T.S. Monk's record jacket, put them in an envelope, and hid it in the torn lining of my rain jacket. Then we left, the three of us, together.
There was indeed a cab waiting curbside. Dickie, hair slicked back and greased down, sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Sybel and I got in back. Calabash sat in front beside Dickie, who cowered. "Hey," said Dickie, "I didn't hear nothin' about all youse going. It was supposed to be just him. I got to clear it with the boss." A radio was mounted where the fare meter should have been, and Dickie reached for it. Calabash got there first. A wrench, a twist, a final yank, and Calabash had extracted the radio; he rolled down the window and dropped it in the street.
"Hey, pal, take it easy, see, I just drive, that's all. Drive."
"Den do it," said Calabash in a menacing whisper.
Dickie drove. I watched to see who would follow. I detected no one, but they had to be there somewhere.
Calabash reached into his gym bag to remove a big black gun, cocked it ostentatiously and stuck it in Dickie's ear. "You know what I do if tings feel funny when we get dere? De teeniest ting don't look just so, you know what I do?" I think Dickie knew, but Calabash elaborated. "I ask myself where's dat skinny kid wid de shiny hair? Den I shoot your brain out on your shirt."
TWENTY-FOUR
THIS TRIP HAD been planned, orchestrated, and choreographed. Tensely, Dickie drove us up the Henry Hudson and across the George Washington Bridge, then north on Route 17, surely one of the tackiest strips on the Eastern Seaboard, also one of the most congested. That was part of the choreography, use the congestion. Dickie bobbed and weaved. Suddenly I noticed we were not the only yellow cab in North Jersey. There was another in front, identical to the one behind. The three began to exchange places randomly as opportunity allowed, a kind of automotive shell game, three-car monte. Without notice or signal, Dickie swerved into the Parkway Diner; one cab followed while the other continued north.
"We change cars here," said Dickie, driving through the parking lot and behind the building, where a big blue Buick waited with driver. The second Checker parked beside us between two hulking dumpsters.
"You drive," said Calabash.
"No, this other guy drives. That's how Pine's got it set up—"
"You drive." Calabash got out of our cab and headed for the Buick, but its driver, a bullnecked fellow, alighted to meet him. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.
It was a short punch, no more than ten inches from start to finish. The bullnecked guy's head snapped back, ending further debate. His knees buckled and he dropped in a quivering heap. De mean side of Calabash, who climbed back aboard. "Now drive," he repeated, and Dickie offered no argument. Wisely, the other cab driver stayed in his car.
After some tricky jinks and turns, we picked up the Thruway at Suffern, but we didn't stay on it long. We took the scenic route to the southern Catskills, and it was somewhere near Saugerties, on an empty country road, that we turned off to the airfield.
East Coast Aviation, said the sign in faded red letters nailed to a telephone pole, flooded corn and stunted alfalfa fields on either side, the mountains up ahead. I squeezed Sybel's hand across the seat. Dickie began to prattle about his limited sphere of responsibility, a service employee not privy to the decision-making process of his betters. Then Calabash asked, "How many men dey got out here?"
"Jeez, I don't know...Pin
e and Bert. Bert's his mechanic. It's like an airport. People come. Go. Jones came last night. Chucky."
Jones? Jones was here?...What did that mean?
"Dey armed?"
"Armed? Jeez, I don't know. Everybody's armed now days. I mean, this ain't no ambush. I mean, if Pine wanted you popped, he ain't gonna drive you way the fuck and gone out to his own property to do it, right? I mean, right?"
There it was. The airstrip.
"Slow down," Calabash ordered, replacing the gun in Dickie's ear.
"Aw, jeez—"
Calabash explained the process to Dickie. When Calabash called for a halt, Dickie would get out of the car and walk beside it as Calabash drove the rest of the way. Then Dickie was to serve as a shield behind whom we would walk slowly, directly to Jellyroll. Any divergence from that plan and "You be suddenly dead."
The puddled road curved around the end of the grassy strip lined with single-engine airplanes tied down against the cold, gusty wind. There were two buildings, a low-slung cement one not much bigger than a mobile home topped by a control tower made of girders like a fire observation tower, with a glass-enclosed crow's nest; nearby there was a large metal hangar painted powder blue. Red letters along the eaves said East Coast Aviation.
As we approached the hangar, Calabash ordered Dickie out, and we covered the last hundred yards at the pace of his stiff walk. There was no one about, but then this was no weather for recreational flying.
We stopped in front of the hangar. The door was open, and inside was a huge black twin-engine airplane. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't make out its lines. Two men were up on the wing, poking at the starboard engine. They looked up when we arrived. One of them was Harry Pine.
When I stepped out of the car behind Dickie, Jellyroll sprinted from the hangar with a single bark, his tail spinning circles as he ran. He leaped at my face, and I crouched down, a lump in my throat, to ruffle his ears. I picked him up and squeezed him. He was fine; somebody had even brushed his coat. He greeted Sybel and Calabash in turn.
"Thank you, Jesus," muttered Dickie as he scurried back to the car.
Harry Pine climbed down from the wing and strode out to greet us. All smiles and glad hands. His face seemed more misaligned now than when I last saw him, his jawline particularly out of whack. "You got an airplane dog here, Arthur. I can't hardly keep him out of 'em. Sybel, always a pleasure to see you. Hope your jailhouse experience wasn't too scarring. Bunch of Nazis. You must be the bodyguard."
Lover Man: An Artie Deemer Mystery Page 18