Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  “Yeah, Broadway in the village.”

  “Excellent. Finally somewhere where I need you. You’re covering the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade tonight. It starts on West Street and runs to Washington Square. I’ll send a photog.”

  “A parade? First City Hall, now a parade?” His voice got louder as he got angrier. “How in the hell is a parade police reporting?”

  “It’s not. This is coming from the top. Garfield himself. Apparently the parade is in its second year. Some big theatrical pageant. He doesn’t want to get beat by the Voice this time.”

  “We’re chasing the Voice? MT readers don’t read the Voice. MT readers have never heard of the Voice.”

  “Don’t you worry your little head about the readers. Let the thinkers around here handle that. I’ve got no one else. City Hall, Gracie Mansion, and the governor’s New York office are all staked out full-time. I’ve had to send two extra reporters to Washington because the city’s fate is now in Ford’s hands.”

  “Ford already said he won’t help. Even I know that. What the hell—”

  “Think of it as me being nice and giving you the afternoon to chase that story of yours. You won’t get much more time than that. Then go find out what this pageant or parade is and phone something in. It starts at six. Garfield wants lots of color.”

  After Worth hung up, Taylor sat in the phone booth fuming. Mason continued to stare up at him. The parade assignment was pretty much what Taylor expected from Worthless, which didn’t make it any less galling. What really worried him was Garfield’s plan for turning around the Messenger-Telegram, if you could call it a plan. Garfield, the great-great grandson of the paper’s founder, Cyrus, oscillated between chasing hard-news political scoops the Times would prize and obscure features like this parade thing. The latter were supposed to bring back younger readers. Taylor had news for the editor-in-chief. The younger readers were gone for good. To the suburbs. To TV.

  Taylor knew from 17 years on the paper that its readers bought the Messenger-Telegram for news on the city and for crime. That, and he had to admit, for articles half the length of those in the Times. You didn’t need a day and half to read the MT, but could still believe you were reading—and your fellow commuters could see you reading—a serious newspaper. The MT wasn’t so much a poor man’s New York Times as a man’s poor New York Times.

  Wrong decisions. Bad decisions. Charging one way, then the other. The paper’s decline seemed to be caused by the same behavior that was bringing down New York City, except that Taylor understood what was happening at the paper a whole lot better. He had the paper in his bones and knew in his bones the paper could fail. He’d watched newspapers die in the mid ’60s. Die fast. New York Herald Tribune. New York Journal-American. New York Daily Mirror. Proud names, each with a great tradition, destroyed in a battle over pay and new printing technology. The MT could so easily go under and probably faster than the city ever would.

  Taylor took two hours getting Mason home, between taking a cab—the driver had required some convincing—buying food and dog dishes at the Ben Franklin Five and Dime on City Island Avenue, and talking to the old man who oversaw the small boatyard where the Bulldog Edition sat on bricks. With a squint eye and merchant marine cap, he made Taylor think of Popeye. They negotiated a buck a walk for Mason during the workday. By the way the man smiled and Mason wagged, Taylor was pretty sure Mason had at least one more friend in the world.

  Before catching the bus to the subway, he used a pay phone and found Samantha Callahan doing desk duty at the Ninth. She wasn’t pleased to hear from him.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I’ve discovered some interesting facts about Mort. Could be important. I’m not sure if it’s connected, but there may be another crime involved. A lot bigger than a mugging.”

  “So ….”

  Hint of interest in her voice? Need to know why she said the weight’s coming down on her. Why Schmidt accused her. Ask now, she hangs up.

  “I want to sit down with you—”

  “No way. Not again.”

  “Look, you can go off the record. I need to hear what you know. Not somewhere with guys like Schmidt listening. Have the detectives found Mort’s squat yet?”

  “I’ve no idea. They’re not telling me anything.”

  “Think about this. Is anyone else helping you out right now?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve got a union rep. He came in, threw his card on the desk, and left the room like it stunk. Mumbled ‘bitch’ as the door closed.”

  “I can help you.”

  “You’re not on my side. You just want a story.”

  “What I want are the facts. You don’t want to be quoted. Fine with me as long as I can confirm what you tell me. Anyone around there treating you like that? You know, facts first?”

  A long pause. “I get off this desk at five.”

  “Great. I’ll be downtown. I’m covering the Halloween parade.”

  Callahan laughed in a way that sounded profoundly tired.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Bunch of guys here are detailed to it. They’re really pissed off. One of them pointed at me. ‘Why can’t she do it? With all the layoffs, we’ve got to watch fruits and goofs in costumes? It’s the only thing she’s good for.’ ”

  “Meet me at Chumley’s. Say five thirty? Do you have Dodd’s home number?”

  Samantha gave him the number, with a promise that if he upset Kathy Dodd or the three kids, not only would she refuse to talk to him further, she’d drum his head into the floor. Taylor hung up. The bus and subway gods would have to be good for him to get to Chumley’s by one.

  Chapter 6

  Like some other bars in New York, Chumley’s had been a speakeasy during Prohibition. Unlike the others, Chumley’s enjoyed the undercover look so much that it had made no effort to reveal itself after the 21st Amendment passed. The painted wood door with metal grate for a window at 86 Bedford appeared like the doors of the buildings on either side. No sign. You just had to know this was Chumley’s. Taylor pushed the door open to the music, conversational hum, and warmth of one of his favorite bars in the city. The hint of smoke from cigars and the working fireplace offered an earthy welcome. The nondescript door swung closed behind him. The various rooms were crammed with stools and tables as well as booths lit dimly by small, shaded lamps.

  Henry Novak sat before a cocktail at a table to the right. His hair was slicked back in a ’50s look he refused to give up. Taylor admired that stand. Taylor’s own hair was caught between the decades. Too short looked stupid and too long, a mess, so he’d settled for the middle ground. Novak had an open, smiling face and wore a dark suit, having adopted the style of the business staff and the men they covered. The walls behind him were crammed with photos and paintings of literary types and the books they supposedly worked on while drinking in here. Novak was one of those patrons who claimed he had a novel in him, though Taylor wondered how he would ever get it out, given the man’s laid-back approach to everything. Still, he was one of the few staffers on the paper Taylor had somehow managed not to piss off. They didn’t compete at any level. That helped. It was also because Novak was a plain nice guy.

  “Taylor the Man.” Novak smiled and slid a photo to the middle of the table.

  Taylor sat down, turned the picture over and slid it the rest of the way. “Remember, I said we need to keep this quiet.”

  “Don’t even know what this is.” He waved at a waiter. “You getting?”

  “Not now. Work to do.”

  “That shouldn’t stop you. Since I’m the expert witness, you’re buying.” He rattled the ice in the glass at the waiter. “Another Manhattan.”

  Despite what he’d just said, Taylor heard himself order a Rolling Rock. Moments later, he held the cold bottle his brain didn’t want but his tongue had requested. One couldn’t hurt. He had to be focused when he met Samantha Callahan later.

  He studied the eight-by-ten Novak had provided. The black a
nd white looked much like the smaller color Polaroid of the certificate he took out his jacket, though it wasn’t an exact match.

  He laid the pictures next to each other. Both bonds were labeled City of New York and had the shirtless Indian. The one in Novak’s picture was denominated at $10,000 instead of $5,000. The blocks of print in tight script typeface were the tough part. You couldn’t read the type on the Polaroid to make a comparison, not even with a magnifying glass.

  Why didn’t I take a bond to get checked? Because that would be a crime. Bad enough I haven’t tipped the cops to the squat yet.

  He turned the pictures to face Novak.

  “What do you think?”

  Novak put his finger on the white frame of the Polaroid. “Looks real enough to me. I mean I’m no expert. Like I said, I’ve held stock certificates before. Never city bonds.”

  “Ever heard of anyone counterfeiting them?”

  Novak laughed jovially. “Counterfeit something that’s going to be worthless. Why bother?”

  “So it’s probably real.”

  “Good chance. Where did you get it?”

  “It was in a briefcase with forty-nine just like it.”

  Novak held the glass away from his lips and whistled. “Quarter of a million dollars worth. What are you working on?”

  “Cop shooting.” Novak’s eyes went wide. “I found the briefcase in the Alphabet City squat of the shooter. He was also killed.”

  “What the hell was a squatter doing with two hundred fifty thou in bonds?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No idea, man.”

  Novak picked up the picture and looked it over closely. “Something, something.” He put the Polaroid down. “Another story.” He slapped the table hard. “The missing bonds.”

  “What missing bonds?”

  “Don’t you remember, a summer ago? Goldin, the city comptroller, released an audit.”

  “Remind me. I can’t keep track of any of that stuff.”

  “In July of that year, this audit by outside accountants found there were five-point-four million dollars worth of bonds missing from the vaults. That is, the bonds were listed on the city’s books but not in the vaults. Mayor Beame and Goldin threw shit at each other over it for a few weeks. A special prosecutor eventually said it was slipshod record keeping. Whole thing got left there. Too much other bad financial news. The city’s accounting still sucks. What if these are some of those?”

  “Big leap to make.” Taylor put the Polaroid in his pocket.

  “Maybe. Or maybe there are others missing that particular audit didn’t uncover. Goldin really went after Beame. Remember, Beame was comptroller before he became mayor. This whole financial mess piled up on his watch. Three days later, a different audit firm found a forty-five million dollar discrepancy. I don’t think that was bonds. Might have been bank deposits, but still. Bad bookkeeping. Non-existent record keeping. Who knows what’s stuffed in desk drawers at the Municipal Building? Or walked out the door? You may have seen some that actually went missing. A briefcase full of muni bonds found in an Alphabet City stash is a big story.”

  “What would happen if word got out?”

  “Washington and the banks now distrust the city so much. That could be the fatal blow. If it turns out they’re actually missing from city vaults, it would crush any hope for the city getting bailed out.”

  “Ford already said no.”

  “That’s not over till it’s over. The governor and the mayor are still working Washington. But like I said, misplacing a bunch of bonds would be the death knell.”

  “Kinda what I thought. Which means Worthless will have the City Hall guys and his whole New York crisis team trampling over my story.” He sipped the beer. “I appreciate the help. Stay mum on this.”

  “Sure thing. Safe with me.”

  The raid on Mort’s squat went as Taylor expected. He waited down the block with Rayban, who seemed more nervous than the day before. Detective Trunk watched from the sidewalk as uniformed cops hauled garbage out of the building. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Taylor had yet to spy the briefcase. He’d been sure to emphasize the shed in the backyard when he phoned in his tip.

  “Found Moon. Found Moon.”

  Taylor turned around. Sally was on her blanket looking down the block the other way.

  “Mort’s dog, you found him?”

  “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

  Rayban stayed silent, just watching Sally as tension tightened his face. He had the look of a man who didn’t like the subject of the conversation, like his eyes were pleading with Sally to shut up. Taylor already understood Sally said what was in her head no matter what and repeated it for good measure.

  “What’s going on, Rayban?” Taylor asked.

  “Moon’s buried in Tompkins Square Park. Sally was walking John-Boy and they found the grave. Must have been Johnny buried him.”

  “Can you take me after I talk to these cops?”

  Rayban nodded with little enthusiasm.

  “There’s a sign. There’s a sign.”

  Detective Trunk remained outside the building when Taylor strolled up. A shorter muscular detective leaned against a blue Buick.

  “Found Mort’s place, I hear.”

  Trunk eyed Taylor with small green eyes set in his round heavy face. “You hear, huh? There’s always a lot of good police work going on in spite of what you read in the paper.”

  “No doubt.” He’s not even going to admit it was a tip. Not like I can call him on it.

  At that moment, one of the uniforms came out of the building with the briefcase. It was closed. The patrolman didn’t bring it to Trunk, but instead called the detective over and then walked another few steps away before whispering in the detective’s ear and opening the lid with his back turned to Taylor. Trunk’s jaw slowly lowered until his mouth was wide open. Two more cops huddled round.

  Taylor walked toward them. They were electric with nervous energy he rarely witnessed at a crime scene. Just as he joined the circle, the lid of the briefcase came down quickly as a trap door.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Everything in a murder investigation is interesting.”

  “I look forward to hearing if you’ve made a big investigative break. Or is that investigative headache?” Careful.

  Trunk gave a little nod to the muscular detective. Taylor found his face pushed into the window of the Buick, an elbow at his neck. Not careful enough.

  Trunk’s fat face lowered itself into his view. “What is it you know?”

  “I’ve just got questions. That’s classy luggage for this neighborhood, right?” Don’t go any further on the case. “This Mort’s involvement is coming up odd. He wasn’t a criminal, wasn’t into violence. Did you know he took care of stray dogs, for Christ sake? There’s something weird about the whole incident. Why’d he suddenly do a mugging?” The arm against his neck pushed harder with each question.

  “How do you know all this, scumbag?”

  Taylor closed his eyes against the pain. He didn’t want to spend five hours being interviewed by one of Trunk’s men. He wasn’t turning Rayban over to the cops either.

  “Sources. Christ, can’t talk if you break my neck. Got lots of sources. If you don’t get this ape off of me, I’ll use every source I have to make the two of you famous in a way you won’t like.”

  “I don’t like threats.” At the same time, Trunk must have signaled the other detective because he pulled Taylor off the car. Several people were now standing around to watch the cops search the building. Probably their presence—not my threat—that stopped the rough stuff. “I like even less anyone holding out on the investigation into the death of a fellow officer.”

  “I just told you what I’ve confirmed. What’s going on with Callahan?”

  “IA has her. She won’t get back on the street anytime soon. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “Why?”

  “No comment.”

&nbs
p; “What’s in the briefcase?”

  “No comment.”

  “See, now you’re not being helpful. Have you heard from the pathologist yet?”

  “Why would I talk about that with you?”

  “I don’t know. How about because the shooting doesn’t seem as straightforward as it looked? Dodd was hit in the face, so he must have fired at Mort first. Mort took one in the leg and one in the chest pretty close to the heart. So how does he get his shot off? Could have been killed instantly, or near enough. What’s the reconstruction of all that?”

  “Amateur theories.” Trunk puffed out a short laugh. “You’re not a detective. You sure as hell aren’t the ME. We’ll tell you what happened when we decide what happened.”

  Taylor walked several paces down the sidewalk, and against his better judgment—which sometimes wasn’t better than much of anything—turned back around. “I get tips too. Good luck with what’s in that case. If the hundreds of reporters covering the financial crisis get wind of it, that will loose the dogs of war on your precinct. I’ll be the very last of your worries.”

  Taylor kept going past Rayban another block to stop and lean against a light pole. Once the cops cleared out, he joined Rayban and Sally. They all headed west, the German shepherd included, crossed Avenue B and entered the tree-shaded green of Tompkins Square Park. The grass and trees were deceiving. The park might be just this side of safe late in the afternoon, but it was bad news at night.

  Sally led with long, hurried strides, John-Boy trotting beside her. Under a tree, a man and a woman lay with their heads lolling together. The man’s open hand held a syringe. Is it even safe this time of day? Taylor sensed the small revolver strapped to his ankle in its holster. He was a terrible shot, but now didn’t leave the house without the weapon. Because he saw scenes like this all the time. His late brother Billy had made him take the gun before Billy left on his final tour of Vietnam, the one he never came back from. The week before, during Billy’s leave, Taylor had been threatened by a couple of mobsters over a story.