“Are you okay for a couple more questions?”
“Yes.” Her chin rose.
“He also owned a dog. Did he mention Moon?”
“That name tells you everything about my son. He nursed a dog with the same name at the shelter here in town. This Moon had been badly beaten and didn’t make it. John was inconsolable. He cried for days, cried like I’ve been crying since he died. This poor little injured mutt dies, and he can’t leave his room for two days.”
“The dog he had in the city was killed by someone. John buried her and put a sign on the grave. Says, ‘I didn’t believe he’d kill you. Now I must do worse to save the others.’ I’m sure whoever killed the dog is important to the case.” Maria’s eyes opened wide. They were dark brown and suddenly lively. “Would your son act differently if the dogs were threatened?”
“I … I don’t know. He would do a lot to protect them. Shoot someone? I don’t see how he could ever shoot someone.”
“One last question. John had something very valuable stored behind his squat. A briefcase with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in New York City bonds.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Municipal bonds. The kind sold by the City of New York.”
“The police didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah. There’s something going on there too.”
“John begged us for money from the time he moved down to the city. He couldn’t have ….” A pause. “You see my husband works in the bond department at the bank.”
Here was the connection. Taylor asked the next question without changing his tone. It took some effort. “Which bank is that?”
“First National City. Anthony’s always talking about the city’s problems. That whole catastrophe. Never makes any sense to me.”
“You’re not the only one.”
She smiled. “Anthony’s been so worried for months. You’d think he was the one going bankrupt.”
“Where is he right now?”
“He’s staying at the Howard Johnson in Elmsford. I don’t know how long. We won’t get divorced. Can’t. We’re good Catholics. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just can’t look at him.”
Cecilia drove him back to the train station in her Country Squire. Taylor got out and leaned on the passenger window.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Did the bonds have something to do with John’s death?”
“Not sure. Be careful who you say anything to. There’s a reason the police aren’t asking questions. Problem is, I’m not sure what the reason is.”
The best interests of the city? That’s what Trunk hinted. Or something else.
On the train ride back to Manhattan, he made an attempt at planning his next steps. He failed. He couldn’t get Samantha out of his head. He hadn’t been able to since he’d found only Mason at the houseboat last night. No calls this morning. As the train bounced along, he alternated between anger and anxiety, chasing his emotional tail, changing directions every few spins.
The desk was half in and half out of the door of the nineteenth floor office in the Paramount Building. Novak had the end on the inside and Cramly, one of the most crotchety of the MT’s rewrite men, had the other. With Cramly groaning louder than a shooting victim, the two moved it into a small two-window office already crowded with four other desks. There’d be very little room to move around in the new headquarters of the City News Bureau.
“Couldn’t be that heavy,” Taylor said.
Cramly, scarecrow thin and wearing a battered blue suit, lit the stub of a cigar. “You fail to understand why I went into journalism.”
“Why was that?”
“No heavy lifting.”
“Here I thought it was to fuck up my copy.”
“You were never funny, Taylor.”
“I’m not the one telling the oldest joke in journalism.”
Novak faced them from the windows. He spread his hands out. “You like?”
“It’s intimate.” Taylor sat down in the nearest mismatched desk chair. “Where’d you get the furniture?”
“Dad. They redid the typing pool at his company, and this stuff was available. He’s also sending over the typewriters.”
“The ones they replaced?” Taylor asked cautiously.
“It’s so groovy,” Novak said. “We’re going back to manuals.”
Taylor grimaced. “We’re going back in time is what’s happening.”
Cramly exhaled blue smoke. “That IBM Selectric didn’t make a better writer of you.”
Novak squeezed back through the desks, smiling at his new empire. “It’s all great. The building is great. You know, two Broadway shows have their offices on this floor, and I swear to god, a for-real private detective. You need to meet him. Might get some good tips.”
“On midtown divorces and shoplifting gangs.”
“I also met this old press agent. Ancient. He’s been promoting shows since vaudeville. I told him what we’re doing, and he asked if he could pay to send stories on his clients to our radio stations.”
“That’s not journalism.”
“Can’t be too picky. A business needs money. If we can get both the stations and the sources to fork it over, why hell, then we’ve really got something going.”
Taylor shook his head. Novak was already off in the wrong direction. They’d be sending out PR puffs and news at the same time. His byline would never appear in New York again.
Novak waved Taylor into what looked like a closet. Turned out to be a very small office—not much more than a closet really—with one desk wedged inside.
“I know it’s a Saturday. Thanks for stopping by on moving day.” Novak sat down. “Speaking of money.” He pushed the door shut, and it banged on the corner of his desk before it closed.
“This is the executive office?”
“Yeah, miniature. And no window. I need some quiet to talk to clients. I know some of this stuff sounds like a bit of a dodge to you.
“Worse. You don’t let people buy coverage. You can’t.”
“All right, all right.” Hands up in surrender. “I’ll say no to the old boy. We’ll figure other ways. I can pay you three-quarters what you were making. Don’t tell the other guys. They’re getting half. I’m not taking anything at this point.”
A twenty-five percent pay cut. Hurts bad. Hundred percent would hurt worse.
“How are you going to get by?”
“I’ve got some savings. Plus, Dad agreed to pay for my apartment. You wouldn’t believe it. He’s so pleased I’m doing this. Newspaper writing was a waste of my time. Starting a business. That’s worthwhile. Even if it’s still journalism. My dad’s weird.”
“You’re lucky. At least he likes something you’re doing.” Taylor had never been able to find that one thing for his father. Now it didn’t matter. The professor’s happiness came from one source only. “All right. I’m in. But none of this press agent crap. What’s up with the other guys?”
“All thinking about it.”
“Are you kidding? Don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t. How’s the story?”
“Police corruption is probably involved. I’ve got more on John Mortelli.”
“Juicy. Come in Monday. Let’s get up and running. We need to start sending out the stories—” The phone rang and Novak answered. He quickly put his hand over the mouthpiece and bounced his eyebrows. “A radio station manager calling from the country club. I’ve got to take it.”
Taylor left Novak’s office still wondering if he’d done the right thing. Cramly unpacked a grocery bag of papers and office supplies into the desk nearest the window, which meant if Taylor wanted a view, he’d have to sit next to that cranky old man. Nope. He slumped into the chair at the desk near the door. He had a spare reporter’s notebook in the side pocket of his field jacket. He wrote Taylor’s desk on a sheet, placed it in the middle of the desk and put the notebook in the top drawer. There. Moved in. He pictu
red this little crowd of desks dwarfed by the MT’s newsroom. When would he work in a place like that again? Or was this it? Had he peaked?
Glum, he stood up and turned to the door and almost walked into Samantha, standing there in blue jeans, tight long-sleeved sweater, and windbreaker. These clothes were definitely cut for her. He was close enough after hitting the breaks to catch the hint of a light floral perfume.
“How’d you find me?”
“I called Henry and he said you planned to stop by after an interview.”
Cramly rose with a grunt. He looked Samantha up and down a couple of times. He’d been one of the paper’s leading letches. “You working here too? We need a typist to get all the copy out.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but Taylor shook his head. “Let’s go get coffee.”
“You have a coffee in your hand.”
“Let me buy you one.” He stepped past her into the hallway.
She caught up as he headed to the elevator. “I’ve got some good stuff.”
“That’s nice.” He pressed the elevator button.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“You had me freaking out. Wasn’t part of the plan for you to go off with that cop.”
“I was improvising.”
“Oh yeah. What did that entail?”
The brass needle rose slowly to the number nineteen as Samantha’s face fell. “You don’t trust me.”
“We had a plan.”
“My plan played out better.” Her cheeks reddened. “I don’t work for you. If you’re one of these guys who thinks he owns me because we slept together, you can fuck yourself. I’m not taking orders from you. Too many people already think they’re in charge of me.”
Doing it again. Screwing things up.
Chapter 19
After he apologized, they rode the elevator in silence. He thought she might storm off. Instead, they walked to the Howard Johnson with the all-male burlesque theater on the floor above and took a booth.
Samantha ordered a patty melt and seltzer. Taylor asked for a second coffee and a grilled cheese.
Instead of getting himself into deeper trouble, he stayed quiet and tried to think of something else. The first thing that came to mind was how disappointed Grandpop would be if he knew Taylor was at HoJo. His grandfather despised chain restaurants as a black enemy of the corner coffee shop. (There were many types and kinds of black enemies.) Maybe they were. Taylor kept coming to this Howard Johnson because of the brave stand it was taking by maintaining its bright orange-and-white presence at the city’s intersection of sex and crime. Even ten years ago, it had made sense for HoJo to be here. For decades Times Square had been a family destination, with several great places to eat. But Child’s Restaurant was long gone, and now the Horn & Hardart Automat had closed, replaced by a Burger King. He missed the Automat most because of its old-timey vision of an automated World’s Fair future. One wall of the Automat had been taken up entirely by little doors with glass windows, behind which you’d see fresh-made appetizers, main courses, and desserts, all constantly replaced by the cooks in the back. Popping coins in the slots in the doors purchased the dishes. All that had been obliterated in favor of the Whopper.
Taylor crunched into the sandwich. The aroma of the melted American cheese carried him further back in time to the kitchen of his childhood. Mom would have been there with Billy, while the professor was at work or a faculty cocktail. There had been lots of faculty cocktails.
His focused back on the present to find the anger still in Samantha’s gunmetal-blue eyes.
Better deal.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Maybe that won’t be enough.”
“I was worried. When you left with Priscotti I didn’t know what—”
“Did you think I was dirty too? Going over to the other side? Going to bed with him?”
“No, no, and no. Just didn’t know what was going on.” He chewed the inside of his lip after telling the lie. He had thought she might be dirty. No way I’m admitting that now. “This is dangerous work. Then you don’t come back ….” He trailed off and nibbled at the grilled cheese. He needed something to do before he dug himself into a deeper hole.
“I don’t have to check in with you. I don’t have to come back to your place. I don’t have to tell you what I’ve found out. I’m trying to save my career. My life. This is not a story for me.”
This is going so well.
He sipped the coffee.
“You’re right. You don’t have to tell me. Even if you don’t, I’m still going to try to help you. You, and not for the sake of the story.”
The fire in her eyes banked from solar flare to smoldering. The anger tightening her face let go a little.
“I just hate the assumptions. The fat slug insisted we go to dinner. Wouldn’t talk about anything but the Jets until I said yes. We went to this crappy place in Little Italy he claimed is owned by a cousin. Spaghetti for tourists. After a bottle of Chianti, he finally gets chatty. There’s ten of them in uniform taking money. To protect numbers and prostitution ops. They stay away from drugs. Too hot after the Knapp busts. No one cares so much about whores or numbers runners. They call themselves Top Deck. Something about where they all sit at Mets games.”
“Good, good. That’s more than Stein had, or was willing to give up. What about the other cops in the precinct?”
“If they know, they look the other way. That’s Priscotti’s view, at least. He can’t know what everyone’s thinking.”
“Who are the ten?”
“He wouldn’t give names. After the second bottle, I asked pointblank about Schmidt, and he admitted Schmidt’s in charge.”
“He knows a lot for an outsider. If he is. What did he say about Dodd and Schmidt’s relationship?”
“According to scuttlebutt from others, tense all summer. Got worse after Slive took Dodd aside for a long serious conversation that a few guys saw. After that, Dodd met with Slive in his office several times. Priscotti’s sure that panicked Top Deck. They had to think Dodd was giving them up.”
“When did the meetings happen?”
Samantha took out her police notebook. “Wrote it all down after I got rid of Priscotti. Moron had it in his head we were going home after dinner. What makes guys think that? Slive and Dodd started talking four and a half weeks ago.”
“Stein made an interesting point. Why set up this elaborate murder to take a guy out over a nickel-and-dime racket? This was no big conspiracy. You know, the real meat-eater corruption where cops are actually running drug rings and protection.”
“Depends on your point of view. A cop gets sent up to Attica or Ossining, and he’s looking at beatings, rape, and death. Won’t matter what the size of his take was. The big chiefs downtown want the dirt swept up fast as it appears. If Dodd was talking to Slive, that would look bad to Top Deck.”
“Okay, so they set up this shooting to kill Dodd. We still don’t know how, exactly, Mortelli fits in. Was he the killer? Or the bait? Where’s the gun?
“Nothing from Priscotti on that.”
“He gave us lots to work with. Really nice work.”
“I’m a police officer.”
“Could be journalist.”
“Don’t be insulting.” The hint of a smile.
“Stein told me Slive is some kind of hotshot at nabbing bad cops. Cleaned up three station houses. Why would he let people see him talking to Dodd? The wrong people. Not the subtlest way to conduct an investigation.”
“Not safe for Dodd at all. Deadly, in fact.”
“That and Mortelli are the big question marks. What was Mortelli doing? What, why, and for who?”
“Can’t interview a dead man.”
“No you can’t. But maybe he talked to someone. A guy named Rayban in the neighborhood seems to know a lot of Mortelli’s business. Rayban didn’t tell me Mortelli’s dog was missing. Pretty sure it wasn’t an oversight. Maybe he knows more.” Taylor finished his coffee. �
�What did you do after dinner with your fat friend?”
“Why’s it any of your business?”
“I … I just care. Never mind. I don’t want to argue anymore.”
She grinned. “That’s how you get me, Taylor. You care. I met my dad up in Westchester, then stayed at a motel in Hastings. No one here would think to look waaaay up in the country.”
“Don’t they still have a car on your father?”
“He lost them this time. Really hurt his pride he led them to me the first time.”
“I hope you’re being careful. Those goons from the park must be Top Deck. They won’t escort you to a departmental hearing.”
“Got my thirty-two for that. Had to see Dad. The Sergeant is really worried. If I don’t keep him calm, he’ll do something crazy. That won’t help either of us.”
They walked back to the office. Cramly had gone. Novak was hanging a big calendar on the wall for tracking assignments. Taylor used the phone to call Mrs. Mortelli and give her his new office number.
“Let’s go downtown and see if we can find out more about her son.”
As they walked to the subway, the call to Mrs. Mortelli again brought up Taylor’s anxiety about all the sources who wouldn’t know how or where to find him. Probably thought he’d disappeared with the paper itself. It might take weeks to reconnect with people, if ever. A dizzying sort of anxiety. Maybe he had disappeared with the paper. Maybe it was more than a home. Maybe it was his identity. Would he have to invent a new one?
The R train took them to Union Square, and they came above ground into the cool autumn evening. The sky was a deep blue and darkening. Clouds moved in as they walked, and a misty rain started. Taylor put on his beat-up wool hat and Sally pulled up her hood, and they hustled east into the heart of Alphabet City, which looked far more dangerous in the dark. Abandoned buildings with their windows yawning like black mouths made the sidewalk a gloomy place. Worse, many of the streetlights were out. A ragtag man shambled by, followed by a guy who was better dressed and somehow more threatening. He had his hood up and darkness hid his face.
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