But none of that crap is really any good. The proper way (and the way I fixed up my computer-junkie friend) is simply to find someone who died soon after birth with an age and race similar to the person you want to fix up. Then you apply for a duplicate birth certificate in that person’s name, which becomes your name when it’s issued. This perfectly legitimate piece of paper opens the door to all the rest—driver’s license, social security card, you name it. And that paper is perfectly good. To get a passport, for example, all they want is a birth certificate, which you can get certified at the Health Department for a couple of bucks, and a driver’s license or something similar.
The finishing touch is to hire some local lawyer and tell him you want to change your name for professional reasons, like you want to be an actor or something equally useful. Then you put an ad in the paper announcing to the world, including your creditors, that you want to change your name. Most dead people don’t have too many creditors, especially those who have been in such a state for a couple of decades or so. When nobody comes forward to object to the change of name, the court will give you a certified order so you can change your name legally on all the other documents. This adds another layer of smog to what was phony to begin with, and it’s more than enough to keep a step ahead. The whole package costs less than $500 from start to finish. It’s a bargain—you’d pay more than twice that just for a phony passport.
The next thing you do is run up some credit accounts. It doesn’t take much—most of the charge card companies will issue one of their pieces of magic plastic to someone on welfare. Then you pay the bills, not exactly on time but close enough. When a cop stops you, there’s nothing like the American Express Gold to make him think you’re a solid citizen, especially if you’re outside New York.
People used to use post office boxes as a mail drop, but that’s out of fashion now. Any process server can get the Post Office to disclose the home address of anyone who took out a box if he says he has no other way to serve legal papers. Anyway, all anyone has to do is watch who comes to the box and follow them home. I work mine a bit differently. The return address I put on any correspondence is a box, all right, but no mail ever goes there. As soon as I opened it (using another name and an address that would be somewhere in the East River if it existed), I put in a change-of-address card that got my mail forwarded to a place in Jersey City. The guy there sends it on to a warehouse that Mama Wong owns, although her name doesn’t appear on the incorporation papers. They put all my mail in this old battered desk in the back, and Max the Silent picks it up once every couple of weeks or so. Then he gives it to me or to Mama. The delivery isn’t fast, but I don’t get any personal mail anyway. If anyone came around the warehouse asking questions, they’d be told that mail comes there for me regularly and they just as regularly throw it in the garbage. If the investigator asked why they didn’t notify the post office that I don’t live there, he’d get either a lot of broken English laced with Cantonese or an unbroken stream of hostility, depending on his attitude. But no information. The guys who work there would never rat on Mama Wong—it wouldn’t be worth it to them. Anyway, Mama doesn’t have my address.
So Wilson could be using a post office box to pick up VA checks, if he was getting any. That would be the easiest way. You’d think the government wouldn’t allow you to get checks at a post office box, but you’d be wrong. First of all, in New York a lot of folks on welfare and social security get their checks at the post office because their own apartment mailboxes are considered withdrawal windows by the local junkies. Secondly, the VA doesn’t want to know who’s getting the checks—it would just depress them. Remember that Son of Sam freako who killed all those women a while back before the cops stumbled onto him? Well, there’s a contract out on him in prison, I heard. Not because the cons hate a sex offender—that doesn’t happen anymore—but because some reporter found out he was getting a VA disability check every month while doing about seven life sentences. That snapped out the public, and a later investigation revealed there were literally thousands of prisoners getting checks while they did time. Some of the cons noted the media explosion about this, and figured Son of Sam was to blame, so there’s a lot of hostility. (They should save their energies for scamming the parole board—no politician is going to vote to take away a government benefit merely because the recipient is locked up. It would hit too close to home.)
If Wilson was using a box anywhere between lower Manhattan and the Village, I could find him sooner or later if I knew what the hell he looked like. Flood wouldn’t be much help there either. I halfheartedly checked through my resume file (from applicants for mercenary work), but none of them had a picture attached and none of them sounded or smelled sufficiently like my man to make me think we’d get lucky there.
Pansy trotted downstairs while I was still going through the files, and I put together some breakfast for her. Then I went to the phone, checked to be sure the hippies hadn’t become early risers in my absence, and dialed the number Flood gave me.
“Yoga School.”
“Is that you, Flood?”
“Yes, what’s happening?”
“Some things—I can’t talk long on this phone. You know where the Public Library is, on Forty-second Street?”
“Yes.”
“Meet you inside the doors, all the way to the right, at about ten o’clock, tomorrow morning, okay? The doors off Fifth Avenue, with the lions?”
“I know where it is.”
“Okay, listen, you have a pair of white vinyl boots, like go-go dancers wear?”
“Burke! Are you crazy? What would I want with things like that?”
“For the disguise.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain when I see you, Flood. At ten, right?”
I could almost hear the exasperation in her voice but she kept it under control and just said, “Right.”
12
AFTER I FINISHED talking to Flood, I spent some time just sitting by the open back door looking out toward the river with Pansy next to me, explaining the whole mess to her. Part of me just wanted to stay where I was, where it was safe. But I had already thrown too many pebbles into the pool for that. If I just wouldn’t get involved with any other people—if I could just live like the Mole. But it’s not too good to start thinking like that. It makes you crazy. Scared is okay—crazy is dangerous.
Some people get so scared of being scared that they go crazy from the fear—I saw a lot of that in prison. When I was only about ten years old there was this dog the Boss Man kept in the dormitory—a fox terrier named Pepper. He kept Pepper for the rats in the place. Pepper was a lot better than some miserable cat—he really liked rumbling with a juicy rat about half his own size—and he knew his work. Pepper would just kill the rats—he didn’t play around with them. It was his job.
I never would have had the guts to run away from that joint except that Pepper went with me. I ended up by the same docks I use now. Sitting there, scared of everything in the whole world, but not of the waterfront rats—I had Pepper with me for that. I stayed out for almost six months until some cop picked me up because he thought I should have been in school. I could have gotten away but I didn’t want to leave Pepper.
I thought they would put us both back in the same joint, but they didn’t. They put me in some place upstate—the judge said I was incorrigible, and I didn’t have any family. She was a nice judge, I guess. She asked me if I wanted to say anything and I asked her if I could have Pepper with me and she looked sort of sad for a minute—then she told me that there would be another dog where they were sending me. She was a liar, and I haven’t trusted a judge or a social worker since then. I hoped they put Pepper someplace where there were rats, so he could do his work. There were plenty of them where they sent me.
I went into the side room, found a good dark conservative suit, a dark blue shirt, and a black knit tie. I set Pansy up for the day and went off to the docks to find Michell
e. For once it didn’t take long—she was in the back booth at the Hungry Heart, sipping some evil-looking potion and eating a rare steak with some cottage cheese. I walked right on through to the back, feeling the looks and giving off businessman vibes like I was Michelle’s date. No problems—I sat down and a waiter appeared, looking at Michelle to see if I was trouble for her. She extended her hand like a bloody countess, smiled, and the waiter withdrew. Nobody came there for the food.
“Michelle, can you do a phone job for me?”
“Starting today?”
“In a few hours.”
“Honey, it’s a known fact that I give the best phone in all New York. But I suspect this has nothing to do with someone’s love life, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re going to tell me more?”
“When we get there,” I said.
“So mysterious, Burke. Is this a paying customer?”
“How much do you want?”
“Now don’t be like that, baby. I’m not like that. If you’re on a budget, just say so. If this is a money-maker for you, I should get something for the time my money-maker’s out of action, yes?”
“Yes. But I can’t pay you what you’re worth.”
“They never do, sweetie, they never do.”
“It’s a bit downtown from here, Michelle. We’re setting up a temporary office—you know what I mean?”
“Not in that damn warehouse.”
“In the warehouse.”
“And this involves . . . ?”
“I’m still looking for that freak I told you about.”
She thought about it for a moment or so, then reached over and tapped my arm. “We have to stop at my hotel, Burke.”
“For how long?”
“Just long enough for me to get my makeup case and some clothes.”
“Michelle, this is strictly a phone job, you know? Nobody’s going to see you.”
“Honey, I’ll see me. If I want to sound right, I have to feel right. And to feel right, I have to look right. That’s the way it is.”
I grunted my annoyance at this delay, all the time knowing she was right.
Michelle wasn’t intimidated. She just widened her eyes, looked at me, and said, “Baby, you came to me for this work—if you don’t like my peaches, don’t shake my tree.”
I just looked at her—I’d said more or less the same thing to Flood, but not as well.
“It’s important,” said Michelle, in a serious, no-nonsense voice. And there was nothing I could say to that. We all know what we need to do our work.
She was as good as her word. Less that fifteen minutes after I dropped her off she came tripping down the front steps of the hotel carrying one of those giant makeup cases like models use. I had been sitting in the car with a newspaper over my face—a newspaper into which I had punched a clean hole with the icepick I always keep in the car. It gave me a clear view of the street ahead and the mirror did the same behind. I never turned off the engine, but the Plymouth idled as quiet as an electric typewriter. I kept it in gear, with my foot on the brake, but the brake lights didn’t go on. As soon as Michelle opened the door, I lifted my foot from the brake and we moved off like smoke into fog.
13
MAX WASN’T AROUND at the warehouse. I pulled the car all the way in, and Michelle and I went into the back where I keep the desk and phone boxes.
While she was changing into her outfit, I tested the equipment the Mole had set up for me. It was perfect—the Mole’s work made Ma Bell look like the crooked old bitch she is.
Michelle came back inside, straightened out the desk to suit herself, and began to page through the loose-leaf book I gave her. The damn book costs about five hundred bucks a year just for the updates—it’s cheaper to buy military secrets than direct-line numbers for government employees. She found the number she was looking for and punched it into the Mole’s contraption. I could hear it ring through the speaker box—both ends of the conversation came through loud and clear.
“Veteran’s Administration,” answered the bored voice at the other end.
“Extension Three-six-six-four, please,” came Michelle’s executive secretary voice. It buzzed four times before it was picked up.
“Mr. Leary’s office,” answered a flat female voice.
“Mr. Leary, please—Assistant United States Attorney Wayne calling,” said Michelle, now with a clipped, upper-class tone. If Leary was around, it was clearly expected he was to get his ass over to the telephone—pronto.
A pause, then a voice: “This is Mr. Leary. How can I help you?”
“Hold for Mr. Wayne, please,” said Michelle, hitting the toggle switch and handing the phone to me with a smile. I took the instrument, smoothed out my voice (all those Strike Force guys went to Ivy League schools), and opened the dialogue. “Mr. Leary? Good of you to speak with me, sir. My name is Patrick Wayne, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. We’ve had a situation come up here that I hope you can help us with.”
“Well . . . I will if I can. Are you sure it’s me you want to talk to?”
“Yes, sir—allow me to explain. We are interested in an individual who is currently receiving VA benefits—and our interest frankly concerns traffic in narcotics. We are in the process of preparing an informational subpoena for your payment records so we can determine the extent of this individual’s ability to support himself.”
“A subpoena . . .”
“Yes, sir. It would be delivered to you personally, and would encompass the full range of your activities pursuant to . . . but, let me explain. That’s why I’m calling you. The subpoena—and the Grand Jury testimony, of course—may not be necessary if we can secure your cooperation.”
“Cooperation? But I haven’t done—”
“Of course you haven’t, Mr. Leary. All we really need is the opportunity to speak with this particular individual. You see, we have learned that he has no permanent address—that he comes directly to the VA for his check every month. All we want you to do is put a temporary stall on that check the next time he comes, and give our office a call. Even a day’s delay is more than sufficient. Then, when he returns the following day, we will be able to pick him up and speak with him.”
“And then there’d be no subpoena?”
“No, sir—there’d be no need for one.” First the pressure—then the grease. “Of course, I realize you probably have no interest in such things, but it is the policy of our office to award governmental commendations to those who assist us as you will be doing. If you are shy about the media we could avoid all publicity, but our office does feel you should have official recognition in some way.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” chanted the bureaucrat, “I just do my job.”
“And we appreciate it, Mr. Leary—rest assured that we do. Our man’s name is Martin Howard Wilson.”
“What’s his service number?”
“Sir, I’ll be frank with you. We only have an old number, and we’re fairly certain he’s been collecting under a new one. We assumed your computer network—”
“Well, we are fully computerized. But searching for just a name takes longer.”
“Would his last known address help you?”
“Certainly,” he snapped back, now officially on the job.
“We have Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, but we understand he’s long since departed that location.”
A sly note crept into Leary’s civil servant’s voice as he said, “This will take just a few minutes to check—can I call you back?”
“Certainly, sir, please take down our number,” and I gave it to him.
We said good-bye on that note. I smoked another couple of cigarettes and Michelle went back to her Gothic romance novel, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. In about fifteen minutes, the phone box buzzed.
Michelle threw the switch, bit down on the wad of gum. “United States Attorney’s Office,” she said in a pleasant
, bouncy receptionist’s voice.
“Could I speak with Mr. Patrick Wayne, please?” asked Leary.
“I’ll connect you.” Michelle flipped a switch, silently counted to twenty on her fingers, flipped the switch open again, and said, “Mr. Wayne’s office” in the earlier voice.
“Could I speak with Mr. Wayne?” asked Leary again.
“Who is calling, please?”
“Mr. Leary, from the Veteran’s Administration.”
“He’ll be right with you, sir, he’s been expecting your call.” She flipped the switch and handed the phone to me.
“Patrick Wayne here.”
“Oh, Mr. Wayne. This is Leary. From the VA?” he said, like I might have forgotten him already.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for getting back to me so promptly.”
“Mr. Wayne, we have a problem here.”
“A problem?” I asked, my voice taking on an edge.
“Well, not a problem exactly. But you said that this Wilson picks up his check here every month. But our records show that it’s being mailed to his home address.”
“His home address . . . ?” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “Perhaps it’s a different Wilson.”
“No, sir.” assured the bureaucrat, now on familiar ground. “It’s the exact same name you gave me, and the address is the same too.”
“You mean . . .”
“Absolutely. Martin Howard Wilson’s checks are mailed to him at Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, Apartment Number Four, New York City, New York One-oh-oh-one-eight. He’s on three-quarters disability, as you know. That address has been used for . . . let me see . . . the past nine checks. He would have received the last one only last week or so.”
“I see.” And I was beginning to—and cursing myself for a fool as I did. “Well, sir, our information leads us to believe he has abandoned that address. Let me ask you this, Mr. Leary—will you agree to hold his check one extra day if he should appear in person? You don’t forward those checks to new addresses, do you?”
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