Old Flame

by Ira Berkowitz

  “Is Noonan in?”

  He pointed his chin at a whip-thin, prissy-looking guy with moussed hair done up in ringlets that were supposed to look natural but appeared to be pasted on. At the moment, he was addressing the waitstaff. At first, I thought it was a pep talk designed to rally the troops for the evening onslaught. I was wrong. Apparently, their recent performance wasn’t up to snuff. It wasn’t what he said that annoyed me — it was how he said it. Noonan seemed to take a special delight in strewing sarcasm like a demented Johnny Appleseed.

  “Thanks for your help, Stuart,” I said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  Stuart went back to his reservations. We went to see Noonan. From his look of contentment, the tongue-lashing apparently went well.

  I didn’t bother with my business card. I had Luce.

  “My name is Steeg. This is my partner, Luce Guidry. I was in earlier. We’re investigating the Ferris murder.”

  “Ferris? I don’t believe I know the gentleman.”

  “His body was discovered in your alley. Saturday night, a few weeks ago?”

  “Oh, that Mr. Ferris. May I see your card?”

  I handed him my card.

  His fingers were very long and thin, and his nails carefully manicured and buffed to a high shine.

  He glanced at it and handed it back. He wasn’t impressed.

  “This doesn’t tell me very much,” he sniffed.

  Luce shoved her gold badge in his face. “Maybe this will, fuckhead,” she said.

  There’s nothing like aggressive authority to effect an attitude change. Noonan took a few steps back. “I . . . see,” he stammered. “How can I help you?”

  I pulled out the photo of Ferris that Ginny had given me.

  Noonan glanced at it. “He doesn’t look familiar,” he said.

  “Look again,” I said.

  He did, and passed it back to me. “Sorry.”

  “Would you mind if I showed the photo to your employees?”

  “This is not a really good time. As you can see, we’re setting up for dinner. But, if you insist.”

  “I insist.”

  “Fine.”

  “One other thing.”

  He looked at his watch, sighed, and flashed a very unhappy look. “Yes?”

  “We’d like to see your charge receipts for that evening.”

  “You must be kidding,” Noonan said.

  “Does it look like we’re kidding?” Luce said.

  “But that’s impossible! All of the receipts are turned over to our accounting firm, and they’re in tax season right now. I don’t see how . . .”

  Luce smiled sweetly. “Really? Then how would you like to see a full-court press by every inspector known to man? We might, if we put our mind to it, come up with all sorts of things, like rat droppings, underage drinking, undocumented aliens, or — heaven forbid — drugs. There are city agencies that have nothing better to do than make your life a living hell. How does that sound, Mr. Don’t See How?”

  Noonan’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. I’ll arrange for copies of the receipts to be delivered to you. Is that all?”

  “For now,” I said.

  “Now,” Noonan said, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business to run.”

  “Ta ta,” Luce said.

  We did show Ferris’s photo around, but no one recognized him.

  Out on the street, the weather had taken a decided turn for the worse. The temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, and a biting wind blew off the river. New York weather is like living on the steppes; you never know what surprises are in the offing.

  “I thought that went well,” Luce said.

  “Like it was scripted. Once we get the receipts, we’ll have at least one question answered.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “A pretty good one.”

  “Mr. Steeg! Mr. Steeg! ”

  I turned and saw Stuart bearing down on us. We waited for him to catch up.

  He was out of breath. I knew how he felt. I get that way when I stand up too fast.

  “What’s up, Stuart?”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Noonan,” he said.

  “OK.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “And you were right on.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a bunch of stuff going on in the restaurant that the IRS should know about. Most of the kitchen and dining room staff are illegal. Noonan has them kicking back a percentage of their tips just to keep their jobs. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s skimming cash from the register.”

  This was all very interesting, but it had nothing to do with me.

  “Sounds like a charmer.”

  “Like I said, the guy’s an asshole. But there’s one thing you should know.”

  I had a feeling we were getting to the good stuff.

  “What’s that?”

  “Since the murder, the cops have been here a couple of times to talk to Noonan.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “No. But there’s another thing. Noonan fired a waiter recently, guy named Roberto Banas. Been with us since we opened. Good man. Hard worker.”

  “Why was he fired?”

  “Noonan wouldn’t discuss it. What happened was, about a week ago another guy shows up. Looked kind of like a troll. Spends a little time with Noonan, and the next thing you know, Banas is gone. It’s not right. The guy has family.”

  “Can you get me his address?”

  “Sure.”

  I gave him my card.

  “Just call me at this number,” I said. “Now, let’s get back to the troll. Does he have a name?”

  “I didn’t catch it, but Noonan seemed relieved when he left.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it. I gotta get back now. But I’ll try to be more attentive from now on.”

  “I appreciate this, Stuart.”

  “So,” I said to Luce after Stuart left, “there doesn’t appear to be much truth telling going on here.”

  “I’m shocked, Jackson. Shocked! I was really warming up to Noonan. Who do you think the troll was?”

  “Beats me. That description fits most of the men I’ve ever known. What’s equally interesting is why the waiter was fired.”

  “We both know the answer to that one. Banas could identify Ferris.”

  “Bingo! Do you get the feeling that something is rotten in the state of Denmark?”

  “Or in the city of New York. And what do you make of your old drinking buddy, the estimable Pete Toal? The son of a bitch has been holding back on you.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Allie hadn’t returned any of my phone calls. It was time to mend some fences.

  The receptionist at Bellknap & Hoskins waved me in with a smile. I was hoping for the same reaction from Allie. The door to her office was open and she was at her computer. I stood in the doorway.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She looked up and her face colored. “Hi.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “Not really. This copy is due ASAP, and I’m having problems with the headline. It’s running too long.”

  “I’m having problems too,” I said. “I screwed up, and want to apologize.”

  She turned away from the computer.

  “You sprung Ginny on me. It wasn’t fair, Steeg.”

  “I know. She was there, and so were you. Rather than skulk around like I had something to hide, it just seemed that it made sense to have you two meet and move on.”

  “The plan was fine. The execution left something to be desired.”

  “Ginny is my past. I’m hoping that you’re my future.”

  “That was very sweet. Is this the part where I’m supposed to say ‘Come here, you big lummox,’ throw my arms around you, and plant one on your mouth?”

  “It would be if I were writing it.”

  “I jus
t don’t know that I’m ready for that yet. You lead a very complicated life, Steeg, and so do I, but in a different way. I don’t know what’s going to happen when our worlds really collide.”

  “It could be a hell of an explosion. Plenty of fireworks.”

  “The trouble with explosions is, someone could get hurt.”

  In desperate need of some conviviality, I went to Feeney’s. Dave and Nick sat in a booth drinking coffee. Kenny was with them, drinking water from a bottle.

  I slid in next to Kenny.

  “Why have a fucking phone when you never answer it?” Dave said. “And how come you didn’t call me? You know I worry about you.”

  “Thanks to Kenny, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Actually,” Kenny said, “there’s everything to worry about. Barak isn’t just going to go away.”

  That was heartening.

  “Well, I’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Nick said. “He had to know you’re Dave’s brother, but not in his business. Family is separate from business, and not to be fucked with. Sending his guys after you sends the message that all bets are off.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s going to move against me,” Dave said.

  “Is this some kind of twisted Machiavellian logic?”

  “Nothing twisted about it,” Nick said. “It’s all about connections and opportunities. Barak kills you. It’s satisfying, but all he has is one dead Irishman with lint in his pockets. But you’re connected to Dave, and Dave has a thriving business. And that represents opportunity.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  Nick rubbed his forehead in disgust.

  “What’s not to get?” he said. “You’re Barak’s excuse. Listen, he already told you he’s going after anyone connected to that little scumbag Reno. You’re at the top of the list. But he knows that if he takes you out, Dave will come after him. The odds of Barak coming out on top are fifty-fifty. But if he hits Dave first, the odds go way up. And if he takes your brother out . . .”

  “Barak winds up with Dave’s business,” I said.

  “Right. And he saves you for dessert. Got it now?”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s never enough for guys like Barak,” Nick said. “See what you and your fucking buddy Reno got us into here? I told you he was bad news, ever since he was a kid plugging up water fountains at the schoolyard so he could sell lemonade. But you don’t listen to anyone. Now we’ve got Barak to deal with. I wouldn’t be surprised if that crazy heeb tries to bomb this joint.”

  A chilling but plausible thought. If he tried to kill me in broad daylight, why not bomb Feeney’s? Take care of all the birds with one stone.

  “How are you going to handle this, Dave?” I said.

  His finger stroked the pebbly surface of his cheek, the vestige of a port-wine stain that had been lasered. This wasn’t a good sign. When Dave stroked his cheek, reason was out the window and the killer was in the house.

  “I’ll handle it,” he said. “May not be pretty, but I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about a thing. How’re things going with Ferris?”

  I delivered a précis of my conversations with Noonan and Stuart.

  “Why would Toal lie? What’s his stake in this thing?”

  “That’s a really good question.”

  “The answer has got to be money,” Nick said.

  “Terrific,” I said. “But where is it coming from, and for what purpose?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that. Neither did Dave.

  “While we’re on the subject of money, Kenny, you said you wanted to talk to me about what you found in Torricelli’s files.”

  “Not exactly,” Kenny said. “The problem is, I didn’t find anything. Everything looks kosher. There is an outfit, though, S&G Construction, that had been getting a lot of work for a while and then nothing.”

  “Could it be they’re pissed off?”

  “Could be,” Kenny said.

  I recalled the conversation I had with Lisa Hernandez. These companies are financed on a shoestring, and the least little blip could put them out of business. Motivation for murder? Absolutely, and worth looking into.

  “Do you have an address?”

  He passed it to me. It was in Queens, a borough I have spent exactly no time in.

  Another item for my ever-expanding to-do list.

  CHAPTER

  24

  The next morning, I was in Queens, far and away the most bewildering of boroughs to navigate.

  S&G Construction had its offices in the shadow of Shea Stadium, on a cobblestoned street that looked like chop-shop row. Every business except for S&G was involved in midnight auto parts, where the sum of the parts was worth more than the whole.

  A couple of guys dripping with bling loitered out front. One tall and wiry with long, dirty hair pulled back in a ponytail. And the other, short and chunky with the beginnings of a beard, and tiny gold hoops lining his ear. Just your average, everyday morons.

  I walked between them and reached for the doorknob. A hand grabbed my shoulder. It was Ponytail.

  “Where you going?” he said.

  This was going to be fun. “Move your fucking hand.”

  His grip tightened.

  I grabbed his arm, spun him around, and drove his face into the door. Before the guy with the earrings took his shot, I kicked him in the balls. On his way down, I popped him on the side of the head. As I examined my handiwork, two thoughts crossed my mind. The first was that the older I got, the less patience I had. The other was, my docs were right. I needed more exercise. I felt better than I had in a long time. I opened the door and walked in.

  A morbidly obese man sat behind a dented black metal desk smoking a cigar. He wore a striped shirt that fit him like an awning, and on his pinkie was a star sapphire as big as a pigeon’s egg.

  He nodded approvingly. “Nice job,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He pointed to a video monitor. “I got it all on tape. I could run you a copy if you like.”

  I shook my head. “Nah,” I said, “it’s stored in my book of memories.”

  The two morons burst in, and the fat man said something in a language I couldn’t identify. Whatever he said did the trick. The morons did an about-face. The guy with the earrings still hadn’t straightened up. Ponytail didn’t look so hot either.

  “Those two are my nephews. Their mothers are going to be very upset.”

  “I guess they were never taught manners.”

  “They think they’re tough guys. You know how it is with the young.”

  “What language was that?”

  “Albanian. Told them they were assholes. They’ll learn.”

  “I’m looking for Arben Genti.”

  “You’ve found him.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “After that performance, I’ve got as long as you need.”

  “My name is Steeg, and I’d like to talk to you about Tony Ferris.”

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “We do business with the city, so, yeah, I know him.”

  “Ferris was murdered a few weeks ago.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

  “I didn’t know him that well. Why are you here?”

  “I’m investigating his murder.”

  He held the cigar daintily between his thumb and forefinger, took a drag, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

  “So, you’re a cop.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him.

  “What was your relationship with Ferris?”

  “We didn’t have a relationship. He was a prick.”

  “Threw you a lot of business over the years, though.”

  “Threw me shit,” Genti said. “I bid on those jobs like everyone else. Won some, lost some.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

 
; “And what’s that?”

  “Not a lot of business went your way lately. Why do you think that is?”

  “Why don’t you ask him? Oh, I forgot. He’s dead. Too bad.”

  Arben Genti was quite the charmer.

  He mashed the cigar into an ashtray. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Could be.”

  “Get the fuck out of my office,” he said.

  I parked myself on his desk. “All in good time,” I said. “Tell me about your business.”

  He lit another cigar. Blew another smoke ring. I guess he saw I was in for the long haul. “You know what it is to be a day laborer?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should try it sometime. Good for the soul. Not much else. You’re either too cold, too hot, or too wet. Even when they’re callused, your hands bleed, and your back hurts all the time. And you take shit from people you wouldn’t let in your kitchen. And one fine day when your back finally gives out and you can’t bring it anymore, your family starves.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a day at the beach.”

  “Did that for years. Until I wised up. Now I’m a contractor, and I hire guys who work in the pit like I used to.”

  “And you would do anything to keep from going back.”

  He smiled. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “You mentioned that Ferris was a prick. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not without a lawyer.”

  “Was he on your payroll?”

  “That would be against the law.”

  “And you’re a law-abiding citizen.”

  “That’s why I came to the land of the free and the home of the brave. Nation of laws, not men. I learned that at night school. You gotta know shit like that before you become a citizen.”

  “One of the huddled homeless masses yearning to breathe free.”

  “Whatever. What’s your name again?”

  It’s good to know that I still make an impression.

  “Steeg.”

  “Right. Steeg. If I’ve been greasing Ferris’s palm, why would he pull business from me?”

  “Maybe his price went up and you decided enough was enough.”

  “Or maybe,” he said, “Ferris found a higher bidder. Lots of maybes, but the question is, why kill him? He’d only be replaced by another guy with his hand out.”

  “You’re from Albania, right?”