Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  “That I truly believe.” Samantha smiled at him. “You either talk about it or write about it or both.”

  “Funny.”

  “I kinda like. The stoic, silent types bore me. But think about it. If the shooting was set up to get the bonds, you’d never have found them. Right? They’d have been taken. It wasn’t about Mortelli and his bonds.”

  “So Dodd was definitely the target. You believe that?”

  “He said no to bribes. Dirty cops don’t trust you, then usually they shoot you.” Samantha stood and pulled the hood back onto her head. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “Got to keep on moving. That was too close.”

  “Stay. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Can’t. Already got The Sergeant in trouble. That I swore I wouldn’t do.”

  Taylor took out a business card and added his home number to it. “Be careful and be in touch. Let me know if you need anything. We’ll need to talk again before I write this story.”

  She walked out of the Lighthouse. The loose bulky clothing did a depressingly good job of camouflaging her curves. More of a downer was that she left so quickly. He enjoyed talking with Samantha, in spite of the trouble chasing her. He’d like to keep doing it. Learn more about her than the details of the story he was after.

  From the phone at the back of the Lighthouse, he dialed Directory Assistance and got the home number for Jim Nichols. The lead might be out of left field, but Taylor wanted to know right away if it fit in the story or was a dead end. He had time now before heading down to the Ninth.

  Jim Nichols got angry fast.

  “I don’t fucking believe it. We just buried her last week.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Nichols, I didn’t know—”

  “That’s the problem. Nobody knows. Nobody knows anything. She was already dead two days when I filed the missing person’s report, but the cops didn’t fucking know. She’d been dead three weeks before they figured it out. They had her in the morgue and my report and it took three goddamn weeks. The whole city’s going down the shitter.”

  “You have my deepest condolences. I didn’t mean to upset you. Her name came up in connection with a different crime. The shooting of a cop in your neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, read about it. Why should I give a shit? The cops didn’t give a shit about Kristy.”

  “Was there foul play?”

  “Foul play?” His voice cracked. “Are you kidding? They pulled my Kristy out of the East River. She’d been strangled. They’re not doing a goddamn thing about it. They won’t. She won’t get justice because they think she doesn’t deserve it. That’s the worst part. Someone she was working for did it to her.”

  “Where’d she work?”

  “She acted in adult films. So do I. Ready to hang up?”

  “Not all. You’re saying she was killed by someone in the film company?”

  “For a film—a snuff film. They were getting rougher and rougher. We knew of someone else who’d disappeared. I was more worried than she was. That was Kristy. Nothing worried her. One day she didn’t come home. And no one’s doing anything about it. Neither will you. I’ve got to go. Her parents are in from upstate. There’s too much to deal with right now.”

  “Last question. When was her body taken out of the river?”

  “October eighth.”

  What in hell was Dodd doing researching a missing person’s report on a porn actress? One who might have died in a snuff film?

  Samantha didn’t know any more. She’d said that. He didn’t remember a report of a strangled floater in the East River in early October. Not that it would necessarily be a story for him, but he tried to take notice of all the murders that hit the blotter. Some days there were just too many.

  Taylor worked the front of the Ninth for an hour and a half. None of the cops would talk about the chase that ended with Dodd’s murder. Eventually, he made such a pain-in-the-ass of himself that he was roughly escorted off the block. That was fine. If he wasn’t going to get interviews, he might as well get some theater for the story.

  By seven thirty, he was back on City Island Avenue walking Mason. To his surprise, Samantha approached from the direction of the mainland bridge.

  “I hope you meant what you said.” Her face was serious, and there was a quaver in her voice. “I called your home number a couple of times. No answer. Knew City Island isn’t that big.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Seems I’ve run out of friends. Word got round the housewife network that I was trouble. Tried to meet my dad in Pelham Bay Park. He’d picked up a tail. This time I think it was the guys who want to shut me down. Weren’t dressed for IA work. Just barely got away.”

  She bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. Her face softened. Mason was a natural tranquilizer.

  “Mortelli was taking care of Mason here.”

  “Cops reporter Taylor is really a soft-hearted guy who takes in strays. Does your paper know?”

  “Oh, they think even worse. I get lectures for writing about the homeless too much.”

  “For shame.”

  They walked Mason to the houseboat and went to have their second meal of the day together, this time at the Sea Shore Restaurant, on the island since 1920 according to the red neon. Samantha had swordfish, while Taylor had a plate of oysters and the Captain’s Platter. They both drank a lot of cheap white wine.

  On the stroll back, Samantha checked out the restaurants. “Dad brought us here Sundays in nice weather. If you listened to him, you’d have thought we were driving five hundred miles, not ten minutes in the Falcon. Place doesn’t change.” They reached the boat. Mason bark-whined from inside. “A boat not on water. How romantic.” Her eyes dropped to the gravel. “What do you really want from me?”

  “You’re not being treated fairly. I want to help.”

  “That’s it, huh? What about your story?”

  “There’s a story in the shooting on Avenue B whatever happens. I’ll admit, a better story with what you’ve told me.” He climbed up the ladder first “You can sleep in the main cabin. There’s a couch amidships I’ll use.”

  “Listen. I may be desperate. I may be out of friends. But don’t get any ideas.”

  “It’s been a long day. I’m too tired to have ideas. Believe me.”

  He handed her a pair of pajamas, took four Rolling Rocks out of the half-sized fridge and pulled the cabin door shut. He went up on the roof deck, which had the only real view of the water, and sat down on a beach chair he’d picked up at the Ben Franklin. Mason, who couldn’t climb the steep stairway, whined at the bottom. He was going to keep Samantha awake.

  “Damn.” He carried the dog up, despite his sore ribs, almost losing his balance. “I’m going to have to rig a hoist for you.” Mason circled and lay down.

  A bottle of beer later, Samantha climbed the stairway. She’d put the sweatshirt back on. The pajama bottoms showed off the lovely shape of her rear better than the baggy jeans. The air was still oddly warm, more of the late Indian summer fluke. Taylor figured that meant that any day, winter would descend and not let go until March. He opened the other beach chair, which gave a loud, complaining squeal. He went downstairs and found a bottle of white wine he’d bought for Laura. The last one he’d bought. His selection of glasses was poor. He filled a plastic tumbler and returned.

  They drank in silence. Taylor considered putting on music, but thought of Samantha’s warning about getting ideas. Music would probably give him an idea. For that matter, so would her rear end. He wondered about her legs, the legs of a former track star. His head was suddenly full of ideas.

  Taylor watched the water. Samantha leaned back and stared at the sky. They had talked themselves out. His head was pretty fuzzy from the wine at dinner plus the beers now. He was too tired to think about who or what he needed to follow up on. Bonds. Lying cops. Christian Slive in Internal Affairs. The phantom radio call. He couldn’t put them in
an order that made sense. He closed his eyes.

  Taylor started, awake again. Samantha was standing above him, her glass empty. Mason looked up. She patted the dog’s head.

  “Taylor, the reporter who takes in strays.” She bent down and he thought she was going to pat him on the head too. Instead, she kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the help. Not sure what it’s going to get you.”

  “We’ll figure out a plan tomorrow.”

  She disappeared down the ladder. Now fully awake, he wished he had another beer. He was too tired to go to a bar on the avenue. He wanted to play “Born to Run,” but that would wake Samantha. Going to bed made the most sense. He fell asleep quickly on the couch, but not before he and Mason almost got killed. With the strong buzz messing up his balance, he brought the dog back down the steep stairway and slipped, only to catch the handrail at the last moment.

  Chapter 15

  Taylor leaned in close to Novak at his desk. “Have you said anything to anyone about the bonds?”

  “All’s quiet here. I think that debt is the least of your worries right now. The least of any of our worries.”

  What Taylor didn’t need right now were additional worries. He’d somehow convinced Samantha to stay at the houseboat today. He was worried—no, not worried, panicked—that if she went on the lam again, the cops or the villains—who also happened to be cops—would get her. Still, he wasn’t sure she’d keep her word and stay out on City Island.

  Taylor couldn’t help asking, “What’s going on?”

  “My boss was called in really early. All the editors were. They’ve been meeting ever since.”

  “That’s been going on all week. You hear anything solid?”

  “No, just something big. Today.”

  “Heard that before too.”

  Novak’s face was relaxed as always. Nothing flustered him.

  “Let me know if anything comes your way.”

  Novak rolled a sheet of typescript into his Selectric. “I think we’re all going to hear at once. We’re not going to like it either.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Must keep my nose to the grindstone.” He picked up a press release. “Exciting soap news from Proctor and Gamble.”

  “Don’t know how you do it.”

  When he’d come through the cluttered newsroom—a floor that once held insurance salesmen—only about half the staff was in at 9:45 a.m. No surprise there. Reporters and editors on a morning paper worked late into the evening and so started late in the morning.

  A big announcement really was the very last thing he needed. He already knew he wasn’t in any way prepared to look for a job, knew it so well that he’d actively tried not to think about it. For Taylor, the best-case scenario—not getting laid off—wasn’t even appealing. A merger or reorganization would be followed by weeks or months of confusion. Editors would fight turf wars while stories got missed. He’d been through that before. Nothing was more frustrating than having news he couldn’t get in the paper. After the previous merger, he’d approached newsstands with fear, expecting every time he’d see the story that was stuck in his notebook on another paper’s front page. He’d lost a great one on a Westside drug ring when the Messenger and Telegram were slammed together.

  Taylor wove around chairs, bookshelves, false partitions, desks, and low walls made out of file cabinets. Those at desks who caught his eye had the same anxious waiting look. Too many of them had watched New York newspapers sink to put on a journalist’s cynical pose. On purpose, Taylor for once circled back past the city desk. Only a copyboy sat there fielding calls. He looked clueless rather than worried.

  The long orbit brought Taylor to his desk. He flipped through the three other papers, found nothing that embarrassed him, and better, nothing at all on Dodd or Mortelli. Mayor Beame blamed Ford for the city’s difficulties. It was nowhere near as good as Carey’s speech. The mayor had been forced to the margins, yelling at Ford and Carey and all the other players with the real power.

  There was a little good news for the city in the Times. New Jersey’s governor said his state faced a crisis because bond issues were defeated at the ballot on Tuesday. This was good, Taylor figured, because New York was no longer alone in the bailout boat. In fact, the Times said most bond issues had gone down in the elections across the U.S. Voters were reacting to the crisis in NYC.

  Maybe that’ll get Washington off its ass.

  He killed 30 minutes with the papers, including looking over stories in the MT he already knew about. The editors remained in their meeting. His phone rang, and he answered. The caller had a high-pitched male voice with a strong New York accent, like deepest Brooklyn, or maybe even the oddly stretched strains of Staten Island.

  “You were at the station asking about the radio call Callahan heard.”

  “No one wants to talk.”

  Here it comes. Some officer from the Ninth reaming me out for questioning his cops.

  “I do.”

  Taylor, who was slouched back in his desk chair, sat up so fast its springs gave a loud complaining squeak. He flipped open his notebook. “You work at the Oh-Nine?”

  “I heard the call.”

  “Got a name?”

  “I’m a cop and that’s all you’re going to get.”

  “ ‘Anonymous maybe cop says call no one heard actually went out.’ Not going to help me much.”

  “You’re work’s not my problem. Now you know the truth.”

  Keep him on. Get as much as you can.

  “Why tell me?”

  “I liked Dodd. He was a solid cop. What’s happening to Callahan isn’t right. Not sure I like having them on the force, but no cop should get put in a frame. There’s a right way to do the job. But the dirt’s getting back in. Too many have their hands out.”

  “There are a lot of officers in the precinct. How come you’re the only one talking?”

  “Weren’t a lot on the local channel to hear it. Don’t know for sure how many. Already told you about the dirt. Maybe some others just don’t like having Callahans around the shop.”

  He hung up.

  Damn.

  Taylor couldn’t use the interview in a story, but he could use it to jimmy out some more information. He didn’t hesitate. He flipped to a clean sheet in the reporter’s notebook, dialed the Ninth Precinct and asked for Detective Slive. To Taylor’s surprise, Slive took the call.

  “This is going to be quick.” Slive’s voice was the opposite of the anonymous caller, smooth and deep, cultured even. “I’m not investigating this in your paper. That’s already done enough damage. We’ve got an officer down. We’ve got another officer up on charges and on the run. I’ll talk at length when I’ve concluded my investigation.”

  “Just talked to a source who heard the same radio call as Officer Callahan.”

  “Got a name?” Slive didn’t sound fazed.

  “I don’t reveal sources.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing.”

  “You’re going to ignore a legitimate claim about the call.”

  “It’s not legitimate unless someone comes forward to talk. If they don’t, then it’s the same cowardice that led to this tragedy. Dodd was murdered while pursuing a dangerous suspect. The rest is ass covering.”

  “Mortelli dangerous? Have you interviewed anyone about him? Did Trunk?”

  “We’re done.”

  He knew he shouldn’t, but Taylor couldn’t help himself. “What about the bonds?”

  Slive didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Too fast. He answered too fast. I didn’t give him enough for a denial.

  “Really? The two hundred fifty thousand in New York City bonds recovered behind Mortelli’s flat. Now, it seems, gone missing in your precinct. That’s an internal affair if there ever was one.”

  “Fiction won’t do in the newspaper. Have a nice day.”

  That’s what I needed. Taylor had watched the briefcase go into police custody.
Slive’s denial had to be enough to say the securities had disappeared while in police custody. He’s IA after all. Who better to know? That’s a story.

  He stood up as soon as he set the receiver on the hook. He’d held off too long, but now he needed to talk to Worthless about the briefcase. That the city editor would throw Taylor under a subway train at the first hint of real trouble with a story never made him confident. But he had to get this in the paper and that wouldn’t happen without Worth’s backing. As he approached the city desk, the door to the page one conference room opened. Worth was first out.

  “Need to talk to you about the Dodd shooting.” Garfield was right behind Worth. “If you and Mr. Garfield could just give me some time—”

  “There is no more time, you idiot.” Worth pushed past.

  The editors went to their various sections and came back trailing their reporters. Everyone—three quarters of the newsroom was in now—crowded around the city desk and clogged the aisles leading to Garfield’s office, which had been built right in the center of the newsroom next to the city and national desks. Garfield climbed on Worth’s shiny maple desktop.

  “I’m afraid the news is very bad. The paper is closing.”

  The collective intake of breath sounded like the whole crowd had been hit in the stomach. Several moans.

  “Shit, knew it.”

  “Oh god, no.”

  “This is the saddest day of my life. For my family. As you all know, the paper goes back one hundred eighteen years to the New York Telegram’s founding by Cyrus Garfield. We have tried to weather very difficult times in our economy, our city, and our industry.” Garfield could barely project his voice. He sounded exhausted, like a man who’d been up for nights. He probably had been. People pressed in to hear. “I could not have asked more of all of you. When the World Journal Tribune folded eight years ago, I really thought we had a chance to be one of the survivors. We couldn’t find a buyer. There was some interest from Australia, but that faded. My family’s resources are exhausted. The New Haven Life Insurance Company will not provide any more cash. They have a substantial holding in New York City bonds and are worried about their own survival.