Old Flame

by Ira Berkowitz

  “Kinda depressing, isn’t it,” DeeDee said, tossing her knapsack onto the seat and sliding in next to it.

  “Only if you take it seriously. You look terrific, kiddo.”

  And she did. With skin more gold than olive and cameo perfect features, even in a faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt and jeans torn at the knees you could see the beauty she would become once she made it past adolescence.

  “You don’t look so great, Steeg,” she said. “You taking care of yourself?”

  “You bet. How’s school going?”

  “Except for analytical geometry, it’s fine. I’m still waiting for someone to explain why a straight line needs an equation, and why it’s so damn important. It’s a straight line, for God’s sake!”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I’m out of my league here.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “How are things at home?”

  “Pretty good. He don’t—”

  “Doesn’t,” I corrected.

  She grinned. “You never quit, do you?”

  “What can I tell you?”

  “Right now he doesn’t bother me, and I don’t bother him. We just share the same space.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good arrangement.”

  “It’s really sad, if you ask me. Maybe, someday . . . What is it you always say, ‘Hope springs eternal’?”

  “That it does.”

  “You know, for the longest time I thought you made that line up.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “I looked it up. It’s from ‘Casey at the Bat.’ But you never told me that Casey had struck out.”

  “You were too young to know the truth.”

  “That there’s no joy in Mudville? Heck, I learned that a long time ago growing up in Hell’s Kitchen. Anyway, let’s talk about happy things. How’s Allie.”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s she up to?”

  “The usual.”

  “You’re not giving me much to work with, conversation wise. I walk in, take one look at you, and see a mope. Then I bring up Allie, and I get the same monosyllabic answers that I used to be very good at. So tell me, what’s going on? And if you say ‘nothing,’ I’m out of here.”

  “Allie is reexamining her options.”

  “Get out!”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d rather not go into it.”

  “Come on! You’re always after me to talk. Well, I’m fourteen. Not exactly a kid anymore. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. It’s your turn now.”

  She had me there. “Fair enough.”

  “She dump you?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She thinks I complicate her life.”

  “How long have you been seeing her?”

  “About six months,” I said.

  “Well, there it is. You haven’t made the move, and she’s getting antsy.”

  “The move?”

  “Sure. The problem is, Steeg, you don’t understand women. She’s wasted six months of her life on you, and she wants a commitment.”

  Mercifully, Nick arrived with the food.

  “How ya doin’, DeeDee?” he said. “Damn, if only I were forty years younger.”

  “You still wouldn’t have had a shot,” she said.

  He turned to me. “She has a mouth on her, doesn’t she?”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  DeeDee quartered her stack of pancakes, and then quartered them again. She cut the four slices of bacon in half and inserted a piece in each pancake section and doused the whole thing with maple syrup.

  She looked up at Nick and smiled sweetly.

  “I’m going to need more syrup,” she said.

  “You’re kidding,” he said. “Haven’t you heard the word cholesterol?”

  “I’m fourteen. Should I give a shit?”

  Nick left to get more syrup.

  “Now, where were we?” she said.

  “Commitment.”

  “Right. As I was saying, if you want her, you’ve got to tell her.”

  “How come it doesn’t work the other way?”

  “You mean where she tells you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because that’s not the way it works.”

  She stabbed a pancake section, mopped it in syrup, and popped it in her mouth.

  “Is there another guy in the picture?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “Does that mean you’re not sure?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “You’ve got to step up to the plate, Steeg, even if you strike out.”

  There truly was no joy in Mudville.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Things were quiet during the next few days.

  Allie and I had dinner, but nothing was resolved. Heard nothing from Banas. Ditto for Été’s accountants. Didn’t run into Toal. Dave still had Barak’s kid, but Barak had yet to retaliate. I had three murders on my plate and was no closer to getting a handle on things than I had been at the beginning.

  I figured it was time to stir the pot. Time to visit Lisa Hernandez.

  As I stood at her door, the short, round woman stepped out of her apartment.

  “You again?” she said.

  “And a good day to you.”

  “She ain’t here.”

  “You mean now?”

  “I mean, no more. She moved. One day last week the truck came, and that was it.”

  Really!

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  She folded her arms across her ample bosom. “Do I look like the landlord?”

  “Hardly.”

  “The son of a bitch should rot in hell, the prices he charges for this dump.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  “Whatever’s on the rent bill. I make the check out to Clarkson Properties. Wait here and I’ll get it.”

  Of all the possible reasons for Lisa’s decision to split, fear emerged as a leading contender. But of whom, or what, was still an open question.

  The short, round lady was back. She handed me a piece of paper.

  “Here,” she said. “You gonna talk to him?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Tell the thieving bastard he owes me a paint job.”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “I tell you,” she said, gesturing at Lisa’s apartment, “I ain’t gonna miss that one. Nothing but trouble.”

  “In what way?”

  “Her and her boyfriends. They come and go at all hours. I got kids, and they don’t have to see that kind of stuff. It’s bad enough on the street, they don’t need it here.”

  “So, Lisa was popular.”

  “I got another word.”

  “Were there any regulars?”

  “A couple. One of them showed up a couple of days before she moved.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Who knows? Besides, I’m not one to gossip. You want to know the truth, they all looked the same. Middle-aged, and grateful. You know what I’m talking about.”

  I had a pretty good idea.

  “Well, I appreciate your time, and I’ll certainly mention the paint job.”

  “You tell him if I don’t get the paint job, Rosie Alba ain’t gonna take his shit no more. And this time, she means it.”

  “You have my solemn word, Ms. Alba.” I handed her my card. “Do me a favor, if Lisa shows up or you remember anything else about her boyfriends, give me a call.”

  On the way downstairs, I checked the realty company’s address. Clarkson Properties. Park Avenue South at Thirty-eighth Street. I figured I’d stop by. It also occurred to me that this was the second time a mysterious gentleman had paid someone I planned on se
eing a visit. In Noonan’s case, it resulted in murder. I wished a better outcome for Lisa.

  Barak was waiting for me in the street. He was leaning against a black Beemer. Two men were with him. And not your basic street thugs. These two were tall and rangy, and very serious looking. Naturally, I had left my Glock at home.

  “Mr. Steeg,” he said.

  “Mr. Barak.”

  He opened the back door.

  “Would you be kind enough to join me for a chat?” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  One of his men pulled a nine from his waistband and held it against his hip.

  “I’d rather not discuss business in the street,” he said. “Please get in. I promise, I mean you no harm.”

  It was a very persuasive argument.

  I got in.

  His men waited outside.

  “It is written,” he said, “that one cannot walk upon hot coals and his feet not be burned.”

  “And your point?”

  “I have tried to shield the ones I love from the life I have chosen to live, and I have been successful. Until now.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Barak, I’ve had no hand in what happened to your son, and I am truly sorry it’s come to this.”

  “I do believe you. A child is a very precious thing, Mr. Steeg,” he said. “Ari is my only child, his mother’s delight. Do you know how old he is, Mr. Steeg?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Fourteen. A baby. Taken from his mother and forced to endure a horror I tried to spare him.”

  “I had no part in this.”

  “And this friend of yours, this Reno. Is his life worth my son’s?”

  “No.”

  “That is an honest answer, and you have my respect. Yet your friend will benefit if the trade is made.”

  “Yes, he will.”

  “Is that fair?”

  “No. It’s just a fact.”

  “You are loyal to your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your brother is loyal to you. He is also loyal to his son, Anthony, and his wife and daughters. Anthony is a fine boy, well educated.”

  A cold chill rippled through my body.

  “Is there a threat in there somewhere?”

  “You answered me honestly, so I will do the same. Of course there’s a threat. But will I act on it? Not unless I am forced to. You see, Mr. Steeg, there are rules in our business. Your brother has acted rashly and broken the rules, but I am not your brother.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I will meet with your brother, and we will resolve the differences between us. But for every tear my son has shed there will be a reckoning. Tell him that, Mr. Steeg.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  I called Dave and delivered Barak’s message. It didn’t seem to faze him. Everything was working out, he said. Under control. I wondered which voice in his head he was listening to. Next, figuring I’d save a trip to Clarkson Properties, I gave Lou Torricelli a ring.

  He answered the phone.

  “Lou, this is Steeg. Do you have a new address for Lisa Hernandez?”

  “What’s wrong with her old address, the one I gave you?”

  “She moved. Didn’t she mention that?”

  “No. She came in about a week ago and put in for a leave of absence, but didn’t say anything about moving.”

  I guess it was fair to assume she didn’t leave a forwarding address.

  “Why would she take a leave? Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. I’m sure Ferris’s death affected her. Lisa is like that. Very sensitive.”

  Maybe I missed that side of her.

  My next stop was Clarkson Properties, where I struck out twice more. Despite my vaunted powers of persuasion, they refused to provide Lisa’s forwarding address. Something about confidentiality. And, worse yet, they were completely unmoved by Rosie Alba’s request for a paint job.

  Drastic times call for drastic measures. I called Kenny Apple and asked him to meet me at Feeney’s. He was out front when I arrived.

  “I need a favor, Kenny,” I said.

  “I’m still depressed over the last one I did for you. Killing someone on the Sabbath is a really big deal.”

  “But you saved a life — mine — and he who saves a life, it’s as if he saved a whole world.”

  He thought about it for a few moments. “Not a bad point,” he said.

  “And this favor doesn’t involve bloodshed. Let’s talk about it over a cup of coffee.”

  He followed me inside, and we found a back booth. Nick brought a pot of coffee for me, and a bottled water for Kenny.

  “What do you need?” he said.

  “A young lady, named Lisa Hernandez, recently moved from her apartment to parts unknown. I need her new address.”

  A look of befuddled wonder spread across his face.

  “Last Saturday I iced a guy for you, and now I’m a locator of lost persons? Are you serious?”

  “Entirely.”

  “I can’t believe this is what I’ve come to. Thank God my mother is dead, so she doesn’t have to see this. Look, she must have left a forwarding address with someone.”

  “Afraid not. I’ve checked. The woman has purposely tried to disappear.”

  “I envy her,” Kenny said. “Do you have any idea how many moving companies there are in this city?”

  ”More than you can shake a stick at, I suspect.”

  “And that’s probably a conservative estimate. You’ll be tying me up for weeks.”

  “Days. I really need it quickly.”

  “Of course you do.” He held out his hand. “Give me the address.”

  I scribbled it on a napkin.

  “When was this?”

  “About a week ago,” I said.

  He slid out of the booth. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Happy hunting,” I said.

  Nick walked over. “Why’s Kenny so down in the mouth?” he said.

  I told him.

  “I don’t blame him,” Nick said. “You’re underutilizing his talents. You should have come to me first. If it’s a forwarding address you need, I can get it.”

  “How?”

  “Send a couple of guys over to that realty office and mention that a few of their buildings might wind up singed if they don’t hand it over.”

  “Seems a bit heavy-handed.”

  “Yeah, but it’s an attention getter.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There is another way,” Nick said. “Maybe not as dramatic, but probably as effective.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Union problems. My guys might mention that they could have some problems with oil deliveries, or their building supers might suddenly all get sick at the same time. Lots of ways to skin this cat.”

  I was warming to his approach.

  “It just might work,” I said.

  “Oh, it’ll work. I guarantee it. The tenants are inside with no hot water, while outside the garbage piles up. Sort of like a two-for-one deal.”

  “Let’s do it. And while they’re at it, have your guys remind them that Rosie Alba is due a paint job.”

  “Who in hell is Rosie Alba?”

  “A friend who needs a paint job.”

  “Does she have any color in mind?”

  “Just do it.”

  “OK,” Nick said. “I’ll call Kenny and tell him the situation is fixed. Should make him happy. But I got to tell you, I still like the more direct approach.”

  His gaze strayed to the front of the saloon. “There’s a guy standing out there,” he said. “Looks kind of familiar. Been out there for a while sneaking peeks at you. Know him?”

  I did. It was Swede.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said.

  I walked outside. Toal was nowhere in sight. Surprising.

  “What brings you here, Swede?”

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said. �
��I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

  “Where’s Pete?”

  “Back at the precinct. Paperwork.”

  We walked toward the river.

  “I hear you were born here,” he said.

  “Couple of blocks over.”

  “And your dad was a cop too.”

  “Detective.”

  “So, your basic cop family. Except for your brother.”

  I wondered where this was going.

  He looked up at the scaffolding garlanding the buildings.

  “Everything’s changing, isn’t it?” he said. “Gonna need a scorecard to keep everything straight.”

  A Department of Sanitation sweeper rolled by. Small bits of trash churned in its wake.

  “I hear this was a tough neighborhood once,” he said. “Now look at it.”

  “It still is. You’re just looking in the wrong places.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Is the park still on Twelfth, or have they built an office tower on the site?”

  “Clinton Park? Not yet.”

  “Good. Let’s sit awhile. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  For the next couple of blocks, Swede was silent. The park was empty when we arrived. Swede stopped at the first bench we came to and sat down. I joined him.

  A tug nosed a barge downriver.

  “Very peaceful spot,” he said. “Set far enough away from the traffic so you don’t hear the noise.”

  “A regular Garden of Eden.”

  “Peace and quiet. It’s nice. I wonder what this place looked like before we came along and fucked it up.”

  “It was all meadows and streams and flowering plants, as far as the eye could see. The Dutch called it Bloemendael, the Vale of Blooming Flowers.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “When you love something — a place, a woman — you make it your business to know.”

  “How did it go from Bloemendael to Hell’s Kitchen?”

  “Progress. The Industrial Revolution crossed the Atlantic. Some robber baron wanted to build a railroad along the Hudson, and the Irish and Germans poured in. It didn’t take long before you had a slum to beat all slums. There was a saloon on every block and chimneys pouring shit into the sky. What better name than Hell’s Kitchen?”

  “We do tend to screw things up, don’t we?”

  “I don’t want to cut the history lesson short, but you said you had something you wanted to talk about.”

  “I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “You’re a hothead, Steeg. A loose cannon. And you’re fucking things up. So back off, and leave well enough alone.”