I looked at Arman.
“Bubbles?”
“Yes. He’s still at the Dilly. We own it now. But we let him operate on his own. He’s an institution. The Dilly wouldn’t be the Dilly without Bubbles Belvin. And like my father indicated, he hears things.”
“What’s this Bubbles?” Marat asked.
“A nickname, Papa. When Belvin tried to give up smoking he chewed bubble gum. He blew bubbles all over the place. Didn’t last very long, but the name stuck.”
“Two disgusting habits,” Marat said. “And I could never understand the American fascination with, what do you call them, nicknames? The damn Italians make a religion out of it. Ridiculous.”
Marat stuck out his hand. I shook it. His grip was still firm.
“Be careful, Alton. Especially if it is the Germans.”
Arman and Maks walked me out to my car.
“Enjoy your trip to Mother Russia,” I said. “Although, knowing you two, I imagine there may be some business transacted.”
“If only we could deduct the expense,” Arman said. “But I wouldn’t want to tweak the I.R.S.’s tail. I fear them more than the F.B.I. or the C.I.A.”
“Don’t we all.”
“I’ll call Bubbles and tell him to expect you.”
“There’s something else you can do for me.”
“And what is that?”
“Do you think your Veronica can contact the people who wanted her to kill me?”
“Perhaps. Why?”
“I would like her to tell them she has reconsidered.”
Arman smiled.
“You want her to accept the contract. And, of course, not follow through.”
“It may buy me the time I need.”
He looked at Kalugin.
“What do you think?”
“I like it. Have her ask for the whole fee upfront. That way, if Rhode ends this fucking thing, or gets himself killed, we can keep the $20,000.”
“Maks,” I said, “You’re such a sentimental bastard.”
“First-class airfare to Russia is expensive.”
CHAPTER 22 - BUBBLES
The Dilly Dally Club on Victory Boulevard in Castleton Corners has been around forever, or at least as long as I could remember. It was dank, dark and nondescript, everything a neighborhood gin mill should be. You got an honest drink in the Dilly, and a hell of a roast beef sandwich if you wanted.
I nodded to the bartender when I walked in and he hooked a finger toward the back. Two guys at the bar didn’t even bother to look at me.
Pete “Bubbles” Belvin was sitting in his regular booth in the rear near the small kitchen, under a sign that said “No Smoking.” The sign was yellowed by the smoke from the million or so cigarettes he’d smoked over the years sitting in the same spot. The only concession to anyone else’s sensibilities was a small exhaust fan in the wall next to the booth. He spotted me and waved me over.
“Mister witness protection,” he said in a raspy whisper when I slid opposite him in the booth. That corner of the Dilly smelled of cigarettes and sauerkraut. “Get any clients killed lately?”
Coming from anyone else, the reference to one of my most notorious cases would have been insulting. But Belvin was a master of insults. I’d heard him demolish people when he was really on a roll. His remark to me was said in good humor and was probably as close as he came to an affectionate greeting.
“It’s nice to see you so cheerful, Bubbles” I said. “Business must be good. I see you have joined the 21st Century.”
When I last saw Bubbles, he ran his book out of several marble notebooks. The notebooks were still on the table in front of him, as was his ubiquitous mug of coffee, but so was an Apple laptop and an iPhone.
“I can’t believe this place has Wi-Fi,” I said.
“If I’d had this technology 20 years ago I would be a freakin’ millionaire, Rhode.”
“You are a millionaire, you old fraud.”
“Only on paper.” He smiled. “Maybe a little real estate. House in France. Condo in Palm Springs. You know, just the basics.”
“Then you should spring for an iPad. No bookie should be without one.”
“My granddaughter is getting me one for my birthday. She insists. Says it’s the least she can do for me footing the bill at Sarah Lawrence for four years. A $250,000 iPad. You think I may be overpaying?”
I laughed.
“It’s a good school, Bubbles.”
“Yeah. I’m sure. All I know is that if I charged a vig like some of these colleges, I’d be doing 20 years in Sing Sing. But whaddya gonna do?”
He put out his cigarette in the almost full ashtray in front of him and immediately lit another. His hand was so nicotine-stained it looked jaundiced. Luckily, the exhaust fan, while noisy, was effective. The plume of smoke was sucked away quickly, over the “No Smoking” sign and out to the alley. From the outside it looked like the bar had a full head of steam and was leaving port whenever Belvin was in residence.
The bartender walked over and took the ashtray, replacing it with a big green one that said “Tavern on the Green.”
“More coffee, Bubbles?”
“Is the Pope Polish?”
“That one’s dead, Bubbles,” the bartender said. “You need new material.”
Belvin looked at me.
“Everyone’s a critic. Whaddle you have, Rhode?”
“Coffee is fine.”
“Bring us two coffees, Mickey. And a couple of shots of Jack.”
He held up his new ashtray.
“Remember this joint, the one on Hylan Boulevard.”
“Before my time, Bubbles. But I heard about it.”
“Yeah. At one time if you said Tavern on the Green nobody in Staten Island even thought about the place in Manhattan.” He twirled the thick glass ashtray affectionately. “I got engaged there. Been to a zillion weddings. Owner had a house on the property and we’d play poker there until the roosters woke up. Gals from the restaurant would bring in food around midnight. Steaks, lobsters, you name it. We’d break for an hour and eat. Top-shelf drinks. Back when this borough was civilized. There’s a fuckin’ bowling alley on the spot now, and a movie theater, a sexplex or something.”
“Times change, Bubbles. That’s why I’m here. What can you tell me about the new development in St. George?”
“I should ask you why you want to know, but you’re always in so much shit it doesn’t really matter. Besides, you’d lie. Am I right?”
“No,” I said, laughing.
“See. I was right.”
Our coffees and shots of sour mash came. We clinked glasses. Bubbles sipped half his shot and poured the rest in his coffee. It seemed like a good idea, so I followed suit.
“What do you want first? A history lesson or current events?”
“Start with the history,” I said. “I’m most interested in the politics.”
“Thought you might be,” Bubbles said, giving me a shrewd glance.
“Our esteemed soon-to-be-ex Borough President’s party has run the borough like a satrapy for more than 40 years, ever since the Rouse Corporation formulated a proposal for the planned development of much of the unoccupied land then on Staten Island.”
Bubbles was a former star basketball player at Wagner College in the 1960’s and played on a team that beat N.Y.U. when that Manhattan school was ranked No. 1 in the nation. He actually went to class and got his degree. When talking about a subject that interested him, Bubbles could sound like a college don.
“The so-called South Richmond Project,” he continued, “would have been modeled on Rouse’s world-famous planned community in Columbia, Maryland, and would have been the largest of its kind in the United States, with parks, open spaces, rational street grids, malls and entertainment centers serving a population limited by rational design. But local real estate interests, who knew unplanned development would be more lucrative, called it a socialist plot and land grab. Blovardi and some others created their
own political party and drove Rouse out of town on a rail. You know the rest. What followed turned much of the bucolic southern section of Staten Island into a hodgepodge of scatter-shot communities so ill-conceived that the Fire Department complained about hydrants in the middle of streets. But the local developers made a fortune, which they funneled into their supporters in Borough Hall. Kept them in power until Yorke came along.”
Belvin’s computer beeped.
“Scuse me,” he said, looking at the screen. “Looks like the line on the Boston game is moving.” He hit a few keys. “OK. Where was I?”
“Yorke.”
“Yeah. Even I didn’t see that coming. Kind of makes sense, though. He’s a force upstate. Probably pretty friendly with the power brokers and money people behind the St. George thing. Proven vote getter. With term limits moving Blovardi out they saw a chance to put someone they knew and could work with in Borough Hall, rather than contend with some local yokels. St. George is a big deal and, I hate to say it, probably good for Staten Island now that we’ve already been fucked over six ways since Tuesday. Can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, so we might as well get with the future.”
“What’s your take on Yorke?”
“Never met him.”
“Bubbles, please, give me a break. You’ve got more sources than the Nile.”
He sipped his coffee.
“Well, my friends tell me he’s not a bad guy, as politicians go. Has good instincts, generally means what he says. Of course, most of my friends are comparing him to Blovardi, so even Hannibal Lecter might come off looking pretty good.”
“Yorke chortles.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Is he in anyone’s pocket?”
“Ever know a politician who wasn’t?”
“Anyone in particular? Maybe someone with a lot to lose if, say, Yorke isn’t our next borough president.”
“No.”
The simplicity of Belvin’s answer stunned me. He saw the look on my face.
“Look, Rhode. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. Arman Rahm calls me and tells me to give you anything I have on Yorke and the St. George project. Be honest, he tells me, don’t hold nothing back, which I take to mean that whatever you’re after is important. The Rahms deal in dead bodies, which also happen to be your strong suit lately, from what I hear. So I extrapolate a little. I think I know what you’re asking without you actually asking. You want to know if anyone behind Yorke would do anything that might get them the needle if they got caught, assuming our fair state ever straps anyone down in a gurney again. And I’m telling you, no. The Yorkes of this world are a dime a dozen. Someone talked him into coming down here to run for borough president. Promises were made. Maybe money changed hands, but not necessarily. Could be he’s just ambitious. But whether he wins, loses or gets caught packing the poop chute of a Cub Scout, the St. George project will stand or fall on its own. He gets hit by a meteor and some local jerkwad gets in, the big boys will make do.”
“What about the Germans and the monorail?”
The waiter came over with two more shots of Jack Daniels and freshened our coffees from a decanter that had an orange ring around its mouth.
“Don’t worry,” Bubbles said. “It ain’t decaf. They just do it for effect. Now, what were you asking? The Germans? The freakin’ Rahms have a thing about the Krauts. Never met a Russian who didn’t. Jesus, I’m a Jew and I don’t have the hard-on for the Germans that they do.”
“So, no danger to the monorail if Yorke isn’t around to shepherd it through?”
“Aren’t you paying attention? You’re about to flunk the school of Bubbles. The monorail may or may not get built. The tree huggers and some civic groups along the planned route are starting to jump up and down. For all I know, some nuts will shoot down the wheel. But Yorke won’t matter one way or the other. If he’s part of your problem, don’t go looking for some international conspiracy. You’re over-thinking whatever it is you’re involved in. This ain’t Jason Bourne. Now, buy me a roast beef sandwich.”
***
Arman Rahm called me from JFK.
“These people really want you out of the picture, my friend. They already wired in the money. Our lady friend will go through the motions but she would like you to clear this thing up fairly quickly. After all, she has a reputation to uphold.”
CHAPTER 23 - A PLAN
I was sitting in my office drinking coffee contemplating my next move. It was nice not worrying about being assassinated for a change.
I was alone. I had given Abby the day off to visit her half-brother in prison. She had a couple of half-brothers, each in his own way useful to my operation. Her cable-company brother kept my services up and running. Her gang-banging brother, Leon, was the one she was visiting. He was a guest in Northern State Prison in Newark, doing a one-year jolt for loansharking. To hear Abby tell it, Leon was loving every minute of his stay in the minimum-security facility.
“He needed a break from the criminal rat race,” she said. “First time he’s ever been convicted of anything. Not bad for a guy been arrested about a million times.”
Leon’s throwaway cell phones and other tools of his trade had come in handy on several of my cases. He really wasn’t such a bad guy. He was an avid reader — we both liked Jake Scarne thrillers — so I had bought a Kindle for him to use in prison after Abby told me the one he’d stolen had broken after he threw it at one of his girlfriends.
I do my best contemplating while reading the comics. Newspapers are dying out, but the Staten Island Advance still has a comics page. My favorites are Garfield, Doonesbury and Tundra. But I still miss The Far Side. Never understood why Gary Larson retired from cartooning. Maybe the 45 million books he sold had something to do with it. When I’d been stationed overseas the first time, The Far Side desk calendar, the kind you rip off a small sheet every day, not only marked the passage of time but also provided some of the few real laughs in a grim existence.
Abby had saved me the newspapers while I was away, so I had a few comics to go through, including the Sunday section.
I heard the outer door to my office open. I put down the papers and opened the right-hand drawer of my desk and picked up my gun. I was pretty sure no one was still trying to kill me, but recent events had my caution meter sensitized.
Cormac Levine walked in holding a brown paper bag. He dropped it on my desk and went over to my coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He pulled a few packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners from a small bowl by the coffeemaker and dumped them in his cup. He was the only person I ever met who mixed sugar and artificial sweetener. I don’t think he cared which went in his coffee; he grabbed whatever was available without really looking.
“Where’s Abby?”
“Visiting Leon.”
He settled his bulk in one of my client chairs while I opened the bag and parceled out the bagels that were in it. Both were slightly warm to the touch and had a “smear” of cream cheese. I suspected something was up. Cormac ate bagels I bought for him. I couldn’t remember a time when he bought one for me.
“Leon is a piece of work,” Cormac said. “We’ve been trying to put him away since his balls were hairless. I think he’s doing his year in Jersey so he’ll have 365 days of alibis for the crime wave his crew will be committing in his absence. He copped to a beef he could have beaten with a court-appointed lawyer, let alone that team of shysters he keeps on retainer.”
“Abby says he needs a rest.”
“Yeah. His arms must be tired from counting all his money.”
We chewed our bagels, drank our coffee and looked at each other.
“Great bagels,” I said. “Where did you get them?”
“Bagels by the Bay, near the Alice Austin House. They got some good donuts, too.”
“I’ll have to try it. Why do I get the impression this isn’t purely a social visit?”
“I thought you might call me when
you got back.”
I pointed at the stack of newspapers.
“Would you believe I had to catch up on Doonesbury first?”
“Nah. I figured you were too embarrassed to fill me in on the upstate massacre you undoubtedly precipitated.”
“Oops.”
He smiled and wiped some cream cheese off his tie. He should have left it. It would have improved the color. Or at least complemented the other stains.
“I knew you had an ulterior motive,” I said, “when I saw the bag. How did you find out?”
“Funny thing, when you make some calls and hit some databases about a murder like Panetta’s, then three people in his hometown get shot to death and one of them is his cousin and another is a police chief. Next thing you know, some people remember you were asking.”
“I hope you told them it was probably a coincidence.”
“You know any cops who believe in coincidences like that? I told them thanks for the info, and I’d get back to them.”
‘Did my name come up?”
“No.”
That meant Rizzuto hadn’t told anyone what I was doing. Probably didn’t even tell the young cop he sent to roust me at the motel. Chief says go get someone, that’s enough. But my anonymity wouldn’t last long. The lady at the Chamber of Commerce and the boys at the VFW Hall knew that I’d been asking questions about Panetta.
“You’ll probably get a call about me soon.”
“You think?”
“I know I’ve put you in a pickle, Mac, but I need a little more time.”
“I’m a Jew. I like pickles almost as much as I like bagels. But I would like to know what’s going on. You saved my career once. I presume you’re not planning on ending it now.”
I told him everything. It took quite a while. I had to put on more coffee.
“You know, Alton,” he said when I finished, “for the first time in my life as a cop I can honestly say I’m sorry I asked.”
“It is a bit bizarre, I’ll give you that.”
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