Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  “If you’re right, we’re in deep shit.”

  “We were in deep shit twelve hours ago when I wrote the story. I wanted to draw them out. Got my wish. Stupid, stupid move, trying to flush out killers with a story. I should have waited, waited until I had the real thing.”

  “Novak wanted it just as badly—maybe worse.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m the one with the judgment. Been that way since we started at the paper. Now he’s …. Go with him.”

  Cramly disappeared down the hallway, moving quickly for an old man.

  Bet he can’t decide which is more dangerous, being here or with Novak.

  Taylor’s guilt could easily have sat him down in the one working chair, kept him sitting and blaming himself until he figured the only thing to do was go down to the Blarney Rock at 43rd and Eighth and try and wash away the blackness claiming him. Somehow he mustered enough anger to shove back the guilt. The mixture had saved him before. Had got him going. It got him going this time.

  On the wall of Novak’s office remained the list of City News Bureau’s four clients. No, five. Novak had penciled in WWRN last night before buying the bottle of sparkling wine. Bloody shards from the bottle were at Taylor’s feet. One of the weapons used on Novak? Blood mixed with the blank sheets of newsprint they typed on, producing a sweet, pulpy, iron stink that drove Taylor from the smaller office. He put his shoulder to his own gray steel desk and with a loud groan, righted it. He picked up the Rolodex cards—seventeen years of collecting contacts—and put four messy piles on the desk. Those who ransacked the place weren’t bright enough to know how much damage they could have done by taking or destroying those.

  One of the phones on the floor still purred a dial tone.

  “Thank Christ.”

  Taylor worked his way down the list of stations. Two didn’t pick up, while a third was an engineer who “didn’t know anything about news.” On the fourth try, Taylor heard the deep tones of a DJ, Nicholas of the Night, who’d broadcast the overnight shift and was stuck doing fill-in for the morning guy.

  “Do you read the headlines?”

  “After midnight, yeah. There’s a news guy before that.”

  “We sent over a story about the shooting of a cop yesterday evening.”

  “Corruption. Briefcase full of bonds. Good one. We read it a few times, before and after midnight, but had to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Got a call from a cop. An angry cop. Said the story was wrong. So I called my station manager. He’s a bit of a chicken shit. Said to spike it.”

  “Cop say anything else? Give you a name?”

  “Captain Callahan. Wanted to know where we got the piece from because it wasn’t in any of the papers. Told him you guys. Figured if he had a beef, he should talk to you. Did he reach you?”

  “Oh yeah, he reached us.”

  “He sure as hell was pissed. He was yelling right through ‘Lyin’ Eyes.’ That’s a four-minute song. Speaking of which. Gotta go. ‘Feelings’ only runs three and three quarters.”

  Nice touch with the name. Had to be Top Deck.

  Taylor thought hard on what they might have learned from Novak that could be damaging. The phone tip about the radio call was anonymous. Shit, Rayban.

  He tried to reach Samantha before he went downtown. Things were too dangerous. He needed her to know. He called her apartment. No answer. No surprise. She hadn’t been back there in over a week. He now had more than one reason to talk to her father. The Sergeant picked up at his house.

  “I’m already late for my shift.” He was angry.

  “Look, my boss was badly beaten, our offices wrecked because of this damn story. Please. Talk to me when you get off. Anywhere, anytime.”

  “Don’t trust you. I’m not sure Samantha does either.” Not sure? That meant she couldn’t have told her father everything. Yet. “You helped her out, so we’ll have a drink. Nelligan’s on East 233rd, right across from Woodlawn Cemetery. Perfect place if you dick me around. Even better place if you’re dicking my daughter around.”

  Terrific. A trip to the Bronx. What happened to crime stories that stayed in Manhattan?

  He hung up. The wreckage of the office looked worse the more he stared at it. In less than a week, he’d managed to lose two jobs. One was careless, but two was just plain stupid—in this case, colossally stupid.

  He called St. Clare’s Hospital.

  “Critical condition,” said Cramly.

  Taylor wondered how long Cramly would stay with Novak. Would he ever come back to the office?

  The subway ride downtown was fast, the cars nearly empty in the lull just after the morning rush. His car had two homeless men and an acoustic guitar player, but the musician had to leave when the bums started a fight over who would get to beg on that car. Make a nice little story if Taylor were in the market for nice little stories.

  The anger driving him forward smashed into a wall of panic when he reached Rayban’s regular corner on Avenue C. The boxes, blankets, and small collection of personal items were gone. A drunk clung to a light pole a quarter of the way up the block like the earth would flip over if he ever let go. The drunk nodded as if he understood when Taylor asked about Rayban. When the drunk spoke, slurred half words and drool came out, but nothing that made any sense.

  Taylor went up both sides of the block. He pushed his way into the building where John Mortelli had had his squat, found the police padlock broken off and the apartment cleaned out. He walked one block west, where he found a well-dressed black man coming out of a building in decent shape. He said he was Joseph Walker, a social worker checking on clients. He knew of Rayban.

  “I can’t get those two into a shelter. Bad experience, I think, though they won’t say. Something happened to Sally. Sometimes I’m not sure which is worse—the streets or the shelters.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He over on C?”

  “Gone from his usual patch.”

  “Rayban’s got more than one. A circuit. Moves about every three weeks. Try the other side of the FDR, down by the river.”

  Taylor took Walker’s phone number—always good to have a contact who knew the neighborhood—and ran the length of 15th Street. At the FDR, he hopped the fence and dodged traffic across six lanes of cars, all of which would have hit him as soon as look at him if he hadn’t been more nimble. About 200 feet north, both Rayban and Sally were lying on blankets set out in front of their boxes. The dog slept in Sally’s.

  “Reporter-man, welcome to our waterfront abode. With the sun at this angle, you’d almost believe the East River was a river. I’d stay here all year, but at some point the cops gotta move us along.”

  “You need to move now. Somewhere people don’t know.”

  Rayban sat up. “What happened?”

  “That information you gave me about Mortelli. Some corrupt cops may know it came from you.”

  “You said I’d stay out of it.”

  “Had to tell my boss. Somebody nearly beat him to death last night. I don’t know what he told them.”

  “You’ve screwed us. Totally.” Rayban stood up. “Where are we supposed to go? This is our neighborhood. You need to know your neighborhood to keep from getting killed.”

  “I’ll help you find a place.”

  “Screw you. I’ve had enough of your help.” He started stuffing the blanket into a beat-up black garbage bag. “C’mon Sally, we’ve got to get somewhere safe.”

  “Somewhere safe. Somewhere safe.” Sally folded her blankets and towels and put them all in a big round hatbox. “The garage. The garage.”

  “We don’t want to go back there.” Rayban quickly folded his cardboard box into a neat square and used rough twine to tie it up. “You wanna know how messed up this is? Her family has a place on the Upper Eastside. Last March, when it got really bad, we snuck into the garage—they have a whole house with a goddamn garage. Her father found us. Cold, fishy little man. Just stared at her for ten seconds and ca
lled the cops. She shook the whole time we waited. He told the cops we were burglars. Dumped in the system. That really messed her up. Sent her off to some other universe. She’s only lately started coming back to earth.”

  “I can do it. I can do it.”

  Sally stood, picked up John-Boy’s rope leash and handed Taylor a piece of paper folded into a tight triangle in the way kids did when they made paper footballs. Smeared ink and smudges of dirt covered it.

  “I’m going to shut these cops down as fast as I can. Two, three days.”

  Rayban shook his head no, but Sally said, “Yes. Yes. Up in mountains. Up in the mountains.”

  Taylor looked at Rayban as if he were a translator.

  “She still don’t forget her family’s schedule. Old fish eyes has a lodge upstate. He shoots at deer this time of year because there aren’t enough steaks on his table.”

  “They’re definitely away?”

  “She’s always right on that stuff.”

  “Back on Friday. Back on Friday.”

  “Then I have until Friday.”

  By now, Rayban’s stuff was tied together to form a misshapen backpack, which he shouldered. “Don’t take any longer. Sally’s being brave now, ’cause she knows they’re gone.” He lowered his voice to a hissed whisper. “She gets put in the system again, she’ll fall so far back into her skull I might never get her to come back out. Do it sooner. Because you well and truly screwed us. I don’t want to be dead.”

  Rayban, Sally, and the dog started the walk along the Hudson River that would take them from one socioeconomic universe—Alphabet City—to an entirely different one—the Upper Eastside.

  I’m losing track of the lives I’ve ruined.

  He flipped the paper triangle once in the air, caught it and carefully unfolded it. The writing was a neat cursive.

  Hello, whoever you are,

  This is not a suicide note. I’m being SENT to my death. Least I think so. If you have it, I must be dead. I told Sally to give it to someone she trusts. Everyone thinks she’s totally out of it. Even Rayban doesn’t totally get her. He’s overprotective. She knows who to trust. She learned the hard way.

  I already told Rayban most everything about the cop, him shooting Moon. I didn’t say anything about the business card. Rayban worries too much. He might do the wrong thing.

  After the cop told me what I was supposed to do, he offered me five bucks for dog food. Said I didn’t want anything from him. He smacked me again and threw the money on the floor. I picked up the singles when he left. Mixed in was the cop’s business card. I’m not even putting that in this note. Too dangerous. I hope whatever happens to me, the dogs survive this. I know Rayban will help out there at least. I opened Perry Mason’s collar, stashed the card in there and stitched it back up.

  I’ve also written the serial numbers of the bonds on the back of this. If they haven’t been found yet, the briefcase is in the shed where I keep the dog food. Dad thought I never listened. But I did. He said these numbers are gold. They are the one way to trace those things. I’m not sure if he’s mixed up in this. He made threats. They’re there just in case. I hope I was right about Sally and this note gets in good hands. Actually I really hope no one ever has to read this, but now I believe that’s too much to hope for.

  Peace,

  Johnny Mort

  Taylor turned over the sheet. Fifty seven-digit numbers were neatly printed in two columns. This was a way to track the bonds. But that was nothing next to what was in Mason’s collar. The dog was probably snoozing in the cabin of the houseboat. The business card in his collar would confirm who set up the murders.

  Chapter 23

  Nelligan’s Pub was like a trick box. From the outside, the place looked to be a nondescript Bronx storefront facing lines of marble tombstones across the street. When Taylor stepped inside, it was like he’d been transported from New York to a village pub in Ireland. The transition was so astonishing that he went outside to look at the front and walk back in again. This bit of reporter’s observational instinct got him a good up and down from the gimlet-eyed bartender wiping nothing much with a clean white cloth. One old man sat on a barstool drinking a bottle of Guinness. Taylor had seen the dark Irish beer in a couple of spots in Queens—though neither of those came close to looking as Irish as Nelligan’s. This place was posing for a postcard.

  “What will ya be havin’ now?” The bartender’s accent had been imported with the Powers Whiskey mirrors, Irish road signs, framed black and whites of sheep, sea, and turf and the rest of the bric-a-brac.

  “Rolling Rock, please.”

  “We’ve none of that trendy shite in here. If it’s American you want, I’ll sell you Schmidt or Pabst’s. They’re piss water too, if you want my opinion.”

  “Too right,” said the Guinness drinker.

  “A Schmidt, thanks.”

  The old man stared at him unapologetically. Taylor knew the look. You’d get it in any bar in his old neighborhood. In any neighborhood in New York. What’re you doing in my place? You’re not from here.

  The old man, with a full beard and wool cap that looked like it came off the same postcard, offered up a test for Taylor. He slid over a blue and white Maxwell House can. Scotch taped on the side was a hand-lettered sign. “Give to Noraid. Help families in Ireland.”

  Noraid, the Irish Northern Aid Committee, funneled cash from the U.S. to the Irish Republican Army. Sticking a couple bucks in there would buy Taylor a little peace in here. It would also help buy guns over there.

  He turned from the can to the bartender. “My mother always said charity begins at home. I’d like to buy this gentleman a round.”

  “What parish was she from?” asked the old man. “I’d imagine one over Arthur Avenue way. You look to come from that part of the world.” He made it sound like Taylor sailed across the ocean to get there, rather than arriving from another Bronx neighborhood, an Italian one.

  This will blow his mind then. “We’re from Queens.”

  “Queens. Lousy with EYE-talians. Right Jimmy?” He spoke to the bartender like Taylor wasn’t there. “Still take their money. A porter and a Jameson please.”

  “My mother was Greek Orthodox, actually.” He toasted the bottle of Schmidt and sipped the beer. “Least I’m not Protestant, right?”

  Jimmy the bartender was fast and strong. He grabbed one arm and lifted Taylor off the barstool and across the bar. Pain. Every time Taylor got yanked around, his bruised ribs started hurting again His bottle crashed on the shiny wood and splashed beer all over his pants and jacket.

  “Hey, easy, fella.”

  “Don’t easy me. The Troubles are something we do not joke about. I don’t care if you’re a Chinaman bowing down to his big fat Buddha. In fact, better that than your Greek church with its icons and false saints and other bloody heresies.”

  “Let him be.” Mick Callahan stepped up to the bar. “The young man’s not very bright. From what I hear, he’s already had his head banged on a couple times too many.”

  Samantha’s father, in faded work pants and a flannel lumberjack shirt, walked away from the bar to the jukebox, selected songs and sat down at a table to the right. Taylor wiped as much beer as he could off his pants and the front of the field jacket. Though his brother’s old jacket had seen worse, Taylor hated the thought that he’d stink like a drunk—like his father.

  “You buying another?” Jimmy smiled like his question was the day’s best joke.

  “Yeah, another. Didn’t get to drink much of the first. Whatever Sergeant Callahan’s having too.”

  Jimmy looked for Callahan to give the nod he’d accept a drink from the heathen, which he did, ordering a Pabst.

  Taylor set both beers on the table. “Thought it would be Guinness.”

  “You have to be raised to that stuff. I was born here in America.” The plain statement of fact sounded angry.

  Taylor had to admit he was worried about confronting a cop about corruption. Still, that he�
�d done before. His problem was he wanted to have it both ways this time, to check a story he couldn’t ignore and somehow hold onto Samantha. He didn’t think that was going to be possible.

  He touched the sharp corner of the small paper rectangle in his coat pocket. Mick Callahan’s business card was the one dropped in John Mortelli’s squat, because that’s what Taylor had taken out of Mason’s collar. He’d have laughed if it weren’t such deadly information. It was the kind of secret clue he never encountered in his work. He was going to get shot for being a Hardy Boy.

  Still, he needed Callahan to stay calm and listen. There was more to this than the card.

  On the jukebox, Irish voices sung the one about the Wild Colonial Boy. Loudly.

  Callahan leaned in. “Those two over there.” He nodded at the bar. “They can spread a story faster than the New York Times and the Irish Independent put together. Everyone comes in here. That’s why the music.”

  “Clancy Brothers, right?”

  “Didn’t know they had fans among the Eastern Rite.”

  “My father’s half English, half Irish, full drinker.”

  “Catholic?”

  “Atheist.”

  “To quote your poor joke, better than Protestant. But too much religion and The Troubles. It’s my daughter I care about.” The slight smile vanished. A strain came into Callahan’s voice, worry and anger—with the edge going to worry. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her since last night.”

  “I told her not to mess around with a reporter. She didn’t listen. She never listens.”

  May as well go straight at him. Get this over with. “I talked to Detective Christian Slive yesterday. You know him?”

  “Yeah. Is he after Sam?” Callahan’s blue eyes looked intently at Taylor.

  “He told me something your daughter didn’t like, which is why I don’t know where she is now.”

  “Well, if she didn’t, doubt I’m going to either.” Callahan finished off his Pabst and waved two fingers at Jimmy.