Taylor thought of Samantha’s back-up piece. He sensed the leather straps of his holster around his ankle. He had to be honest. Samantha’s was the gun that would save them.
No one they passed was using an umbrella. Those were for uptown folks. At Avenue A and the corner of the park, the clop, clop of heavy steps behind them, closing as they reached the next intersection. They stopped. Samantha, thinking the same thing as Taylor, reached behind for her revolver and kept her hand back there. They crossed the street. The steps again. Taylor turned, could only make out a long coat and broad hat in the misty rain. When he looked again, the long coat was going up the steps of a brownstone with warm lights on in the windows. Home and dry in Alphabet City.
Why not? People do live in this neighborhood.
On Avenue C, Rayban’s encampment was still in place. The boxes were closed up. The rain eased a bit.
Taylor knocked on the one Rayban had been sitting in the day he’d led Taylor to John Mortelli’s squat.
“It’s Taylor from the Messenger-Telegram.” It came out automatically, before he could correct himself. No answer. He knocked again and there came a thump, thump, thump that was probably the German shepherd wagging his tail.
Two flaps opened a crack. “There ain’t any Messenger-Telegram no more. Told you your paper was doomed. Now leave me alone.”
Sally’s box stayed closed. From inside came a muffled voice. “Want sleep. Want sleep.”
“Yeah, Sally, we all want sleep. Just some people won’t leave us alone.”
“I’m still working the story. I want to talk to you about Johnny Mort.”
“Decided he’s not someone it’s good to talk about.”
“Is there something you didn’t tell me? Something to do with the killings?”
“Decided I need to go back to bed.”
“How about getting something to eat?”
“We ate. Was a good day for us.”
“A drink then?”
The flaps opened more as Rayban sat slowly up. The dog’s head also popped out. “I could do with a glass of red.”
Sally’s box shook. “No wine. No wine.”
“It’s okay, Sally. John-Boy can stay with you.”
The side flaps of Sally’s box opened and Rayban stood and brought the dog into her open arms. Taylor and Samantha let Rayban lead them north to a place he said he knew. Behind them, Sally’s voice receded. “No wine. No wine.”
Rayban’s dive bar two blocks up welcomed them with all the ambiance of a construction site. The place looked like it might have been converted from a bodega. Shelves were pushed into the back of the space, and the bar was made up of plywood laid across two sawhorses. At one end three punks drank straight vodka. This actually made Taylor relax a little. For some reason, the punks made him believe they were safer.
Rayban ordered red wine, which the bartender, a short man in a dirty T-shirt, poured from a jug with a glass loop. Samantha didn’t want anything. Taylor used that to bolster his willpower and waved the man away.
Rayban sipped. “Ah, that’s it. Stomach’s a mess. Can’t take spirits anymore. The red red wine still goes down nicely.” He hummed a little of the Neil Diamond tune. “Who’s your friend?”
“She’s helping with the story—which now hinges on the trouble Mort, actually John Mortelli, got into. What was going on?”
“Everyone knows he was in trouble. That’s how he got dead.”
“You knew Moon was missing and didn’t say anything to me. If Sally hadn’t said—”
“We’d all be a lot safer. Same if she hadn’t found the damn grave.”
“Someone killed Moon for a reason. They wanted Johnny to do something. I can guess, but it’s just a guess. Guesses don’t help us now. I think you know who and what. Did he tell you?”
Rayban’s eyes widened. He polished off the glass and stared at it like he needed Taylor to buy him the courage to talk. Taylor plunked down another buck.
Rayban drank more, swaying back and forth to a steady beat that he heard, singing more of the song. He took a big gulp. “We watched this guy casing the block for about two weeks. He was a cop. No matter how hard they try to hide it, you can tell. End of two weeks, he grabs Johnny. Johnny shakes him lose, but not for long. The guy chases Johnny down, hits him hard a couple of times and forces Johnny to take him to the squat.”
“And?”
“I wasn’t there, man. This is dangerous territory.”
“Johnny told you.”
Rayban nodded. “The cop tossed everything in the flat. Wrecked the place.”
Taylor lowered his voice. “Was he looking for the bonds?”
“If he was, Johnny didn’t say. Johnny never mentioned those to me. God’s honest. He said the cop wanted to scare him. Out of the blue, he pulls his gun and shoots Moon between the eyes.” Rayban shook his head. “Such damn cruelty to a poor dumb thing. And to Johnny.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because people are getting killed. I wanna stay off that list.”
“He killed the dog to make Johnny—”
“Do the mugging.” Rayban bottomed the glass of wine. “The most important thing was Johnny had to make sure this one cop chased him into that building. Bad cop told him where the officer would be. After that, Johnny could go on his way. Didn’t work out like that. Probably was never gonna. He was really scared. Which is why I’ve been keeping my mouth shut about things he told me.”
“The cop have a name?”
“None that Johnny gave.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Ah man, you’re putting me in a mess of shit.”
“I will keep you out of it.”
“You better. Lives on the line here. He was tall, skinny, with a bullet-shaped head. Hair was black, streaked with gray. Sorta long. Cop, cop, all goddamn day a cop.”
Taylor looked to Samantha for confirmation. She didn’t seem surprised. “That’s Schmidt.”
Chapter 20
Taylor banged the phone down hard.
Cramly turned from his desk. “Easy on the merchandise.” The rewrite man had planned to retire from the Messenger-Telegram, RIP. Now he was as worried as a mother with an infant that the City News Bureau wouldn’t last until he made 65, worried down to how the equipment was treated. “How’s the story coming?”
“I’ll get it to you.”
Taylor had arrived at the offices Monday morning to find Cramly was the de facto city editor of the new operation. He’d handed Taylor a front-page story from the New York Times reporting 15 of Manhattan’s subway stations had lost more than a third of their passengers in the past ten years. Times Square station alone experienced a 40 percent drop, from 40 million to 25 million riders. No wonder the crossroads of the world had turned into a shithole. Or was it the other way around? People stopped coming because the crossroads of the world had turned into a shithole. Cramly had told Taylor to interview riders at the station for a quickie to go out to the radio stations for their noon newscasts. The urge to argue rose in him like instinct. He was going to complain about following the Times, that it wasn’t cops, that he was on a bigger story—all the things he’d have said to Worthless. Novak had been on the phone in his office, jiggling his leg nervously. He’d given Taylor a little wave. The clipping had wavered ever so slightly in Cramly’s hand. In that moment, Taylor had checked himself. Cramly wasn’t Worth and this wasn’t the MT. Novak had taken a huge risk on all of them. He needed to pull his weight. A quick man-on-the-street story wouldn’t slow him down much, after which he’d head to the Ninth Precinct in search of Slive to try and nail down the last piece of the story on the killing of Officer Robert Dodd.
That was why he’d slammed the phone. The Internal Affairs detective was never there when Taylor called. Slive was ducking him. He knew it.
As he looked over his interviews from the subway riders, Taylor counted one small blessing. Next to the subway piece, the Times had run a story on Ford re
peating his opposition to a city bailout, which caused Carey to cancel meetings with state legislators. Some agency or the other was going to default by the end of the week.
Thank all the gods Novak and Cramly don’t want me to chase that.
Not that he didn’t now believe the city’s financial crisis was a real threat. He did. He also believed he had no way of untying that Gordian knot of numbers, estimates, claims and counterclaims. He wouldn’t even know where to start.
Before typing the rest of the story, Taylor looked up. “When are the others getting here?”
“Later. Applying for unemployment first. Double dipping. Smart.”
Why didn’t I think of that? I need to get my shit together. Story can’t always come first. My finances are a ruin.
He banged hard on the Olivetti manual. He needed to just to move the keys. His knuckles ached halfway through the story. He’d gotten soft using the Selectric at the paper. They said newspapers were going to switch to computers any day now. Taylor’s career was going in the very opposite direction. What else was new?
Still, he was closing in on the story. So very close. Between Priscotti, Stein, and Rayban, he and Samantha had collected great material. Problem was, it was either off the record or had to be sourced anonymously. Add to that the one thing he needed that he didn’t have. A real link between the corrupt cops and the killing of Dodd and Mortelli. That would be a real scoop. He didn’t give a damn if it only ran on four radio stations. The story would be a coup for Novak and the new City News Bureau. All the papers in town would pick up on it. They’d see Taylor hadn’t disappeared.
Slive was the key. If anyone, he was the one who could confirm the connection.
He can deny it all too. Then what?
He pulled the last sheet out of the typewriter and dropped the story on Cramly’s desk. “I’m getting lunch.”
“Awfully early. We’re going to need something for the afternoon newscasts.”
“Got to work on the cop killing.”
Cramly held up another clipping like he hadn’t heard. “There’s concern these new super-high voltage power lines are frying people’s brains.”
“The Times wrote that?”
“Well, you know, in their way. ‘Emissions’ blah blah ‘potentially harmful’ blah blah. Nice sort of story to scare Top 40 listeners.”
“How am I supposed to get it?”
“You’re the reporter. Call people upstate who live under them. You know, Westchester, Putnam. See if their brains are on fire.”
“Right. When I get back.”
Samantha was waiting at the Howard Johnson as they agreed. Her face was sunburned. She glowed like a summer postcard, and he couldn’t help kissing her big on the mouth before sitting on his side of the booth.
She’d gotten the color yesterday. The temperature had climbed to 72 degrees, the very strange November weather continuing one last day, and she’d convinced him to put a blanket down on the top deck and lie in the sun. She’d also banned shoptalk—nothing about the police, the news bureau, the story, none of it. She wouldn’t even let him buy the Sunday papers. They both needed a break, she’d insisted. Taylor didn’t know what to do with this break. Samantha did. Stories. She’d told him about summers growing up in the Bronx. Her family had gone to Lake George every year and visited a now defunct Bronx amusement park called Freedomland U.S.A. As she’d talked, Taylor found himself wondering about Laura and Derek. Had they discovered common interests outside the news business? Imagining them together didn’t hit him hard the way it usually did. Not the usual pang.
Samantha had shaken him from his reverie when it was his turn to tell a story. He’d struggled. Each of his seemed to start with the Messenger-Telegram. Finally he’d talked about going to a Greek Orthodox Church in Queens with his mother. He wasn’t religious now, but the memories were mystical. Icons covering the walls of the church. The priest in the long robes and the long beard. He’d told her of the wall separating the worshippers from the altar, with its three special doors. He couldn’t remember their Greek names anymore, nor their specific purpose, but knew one was called the Beautiful Gate and another the Angel’s Door. Doors to other places. What kid wasn’t captivated by magical doors? Samantha had listened, rapt. She was a Catholic and still went to mass. The church of the East was strange to her, she’d said, and his version made it sound even stranger. They’d walked Mason around the island, eaten clams, mussels, and a lobster he couldn’t afford and gone to bed, making love and falling asleep early.
“What’s that for?” Samantha asked after the big kiss.
“You’re beautiful.”
“You are the poet, aren’t you?”
“Never bury the lead. Remember that, if you switch professions. Priscotti take your call?”
“Of course.” That confidant smile. “Slive’s at the precinct. Has been all morning.”
“Goddammit. He is dodging me. Got to talk to him. It’s that, or confront Schmidt.”
“That would be crazy.”
He shrugged and tried not to sound like he was boasting. Or actually crazy. “I’ve interviewed bad guys before. It’s never smart to kill a reporter. Turns the whole thing into a much bigger story.”
“That was when you worked for the MT.”
“Good point. Least I’ve got you for backup.”
“Don’t know if that’s smart either. I’m just as likely to shoot the bastard as wait for his answers. Kills Dodd. Sets me up. I might not have gone into hiding, knowing what I know now. I was sure they were going to fit me up and fire me. Now they will anyway. Fire me at least.”
“Schmidt’s still innocent until proven guilty.”
“Such a stickler. Want me to wait until he fires at you?”
“No, definitely shoot first. What’s Slive’s schedule?”
“Priscotti says he’s like clockwork. He leaves every day at twelve twenty-five for lunch. Walks somewhere, but Priscotti doesn’t know the place. Tan trench coat, blue-gray suit. He’s tall.”
Taylor looked at his watch. “Crap. Quarter to noon. I gotta move if I’m going to join the detective for lunch.”
“Let me back you up.”
“Too dangerous for you to be near that precinct.”
“I don’t want to sit around the damn Howard Johnson waiting.”
“All right. Meet me at the Acropolis Coffee Shop on Sheridan Square. That’s Westside. Far enough from the Ninth. We can take the 1 back up here. But be careful. They’re all looking for you.”
He kissed her again and left.
Taylor was breathing hard when he pulled up from a dead run at the corner of East Fifth Street. The precinct was in the middle of the block. In steady rain, he walked the rest of the way. A delay on the subway had forced the sprint. His watch said 12:22.
Three minutes later, a tall man in a blue-gray suit and tan trench coat came out. Slive quickly put up an umbrella. Taylor followed at a safe distance, using Slive’s umbrella to keep him in sight. The detective walked like a man who never expected anyone on his tail. He wound his way to a small Italian restaurant at the corner of Thompson Street and West Houston.
Taylor watched as Slive was seated, then pulled open the restaurant door, walked in, and took the other chair at the IA man’s table.
“Thought it would be more productive if we met in person. You’re so very hard to reach.”
“Who the fuck are you?” He said it casually, like he was talking about the weather. His eyes stayed on the menu.
“Taylor. I’ve been calling you.”
“Ah, the ex-reporter.”
“Work for the City News Bureau now.”
“Never heard of it.” The waiter stopped at the table. “Chicken cacciatore with pasta on the side. Tomatoes and mozzarella for an appetizer. The gentleman won’t be joining me.”
Slive was sleek and muscular. Where did he put all that food?
“You’ll know about us soon enough. In fact, soon as I write the story on corruption i
n the Oh-Nine and the murder of a police officer to cover it up.”
“You can prove this?”
“I have a source who talked to John Mortelli. Mortelli said he was being forced to do the mugging and draw Dodd into the abandoned building. The man who threatened Mortelli fits the description of a Ninth Precinct patrolman named Schmidt. He’s part of a group taking bribes. They call themselves Top Deck.”
Slive looked at Taylor evenly as the salad was set in front of him. The tomatoes were blood red against the milky white mozzarella, making Taylor think of a wound. Slive’s gray eyes shifted off Taylor’s face to his salad. He had a long face and salt-and-pepper crew cut. He began cutting the salad into red and white cubes.
Red and white salad met white teeth and red tongue and mouth.
“Interesting.”
“Then there’s that tip I got that the radio call Callahan heard was real. You weren’t interested in that then. Now, perhaps? Dodd was set up, murdered to protect cops on the take. Mortelli was an innocent killed as part of the plot.”
“Interesting.”
“If I’m wrong, then tell me what the fuck is going on. Why did you spend so much time talking to Dodd? Because that probably made the Top Deck guys think he was going to report them. Not very subtle.”
Slive reached across the table with his knife and gently set it next to Taylor’s hand. He put another forkful of tomato and mozzarella in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “What will happen if you come at me with that knife?”
“I’m not going to.”
“When you do, I’ll pull out my revolver and shoot you. In the kneecap. Probably both knees. Dead assailants are messy. I’d want you alive.”
“I said I’m not picking up the knife.”
“That’s not what I’ll say. Or any of the wonderful staff here at Marco’s. You need to understand, just because someone says something, that doesn’t make it true. My word against yours. It’s important whose word you’re relying on.”
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