He shook his hands in front of him. “I want none of that.”
His wife opened her eyes, and he bent over her. She whispered in Chinese. The man answered. She spoke again, still whispering but angry. He sat back up. “My wife shames me. She asks me to have some courage.”
In the ten minutes they waited for the ambulance, Mr. Hu told what he knew of the shakedown, moving onto other businesses. He wouldn’t talk about gambling or prostitution.
“Mr. Harlan owns discount store in middle of next block. He didn’t even do anything wrong. They told him he pay so he won’t get robbed. He didn’t. He got robbed. Cops offer to sell stuff back. He said no to that. They leave a pile of burnt broken things in front of store.”
The ambulance arrived.
“What will you tell them?”
The revolving red lights made Hu’s features dance. “Some robber came at her. We’ll say same to police. You must keep our names out of this. This is as much courage as I can afford.”
Harlan—short, bottle shaped, and dressed in a wrinkled seersucker suit that was wrong for the neighborhood and the season—invited Taylor into his office, a space cordoned off by boxes in a store that appeared to sell everything, with everything placed pretty much anywhere. He poured rye into two plastic tumblers and slid one to Taylor. “Mrs. Hu got herself beat up?”
“Pretty badly. They said you’ve had trouble too.”
“That’s too bad. I like them. I couldn’t afford the local police tax. Insurance paid for the theft.” Harman knocked back half the rye. “I don’t have insurance for payoffs. They’ve left me alone since. Perhaps more profitable endeavors came along.”
“Why don’t you report them?” Taylor sipped his.
“You know, I like talking to reporters. I’m publisher of a weekly newspaper out in the Rockaways. Was my dad’s business—business, that is, if you don’t define a business as something that makes you any fucking money. I’m not talking with anyone who doesn’t drink.” Taylor finished half the cup. It was raggedly rough and he liked it. Harman drank most of his and poured into both glasses. “But much as I like talking, reporting bad cops is another thing. It’s one thing to dodge them. Don’t even know how long that will last. I don’t get the idea they’re very organized. They take what comes. Different if you report them. You get every cop—straight, crooked, and undecided —crawling up your ass. I’ve got no violations, not doing anything illegal. They knocked me over once. I’m probably not worth bothering with after that. That’s exactly how I want things to stay. How did you find out about the Hus?”
“I was following Schmidt to see if I could talk to his marks.”
“Your lucky day then. Want to know where Schmidt is now? One stop on his rounds never changes. Two doors down is a walk-up, 3-D. Luce and Stacy. Whores, but nice enough ladies. They shop a lot here. Schmidt stops in, gets a little payment-in-kind along with his cash. Be up there now.”
Taylor stood. “Thanks.”
“This may be a broken-down neighborhood. There’s still decent people here. We haven’t gone completely into the shitter yet. Schmidt and his gang are going to push us there, the greedy fuckers. When you buzz, say Harlan said to ask for Luce.” A disconcerting wink. “Schmidt likes Stacy, the poor thing.”
Taylor took the stairs up to 3-D two at a time. He had his .32 out. He figured there was one way to handle this. He’d let Schmidt say whatever he wanted—if he wanted to say anything at all—but without the use of his gun or Billy club. After that, Taylor was going to get the hell out of there, tell Slive what he had and get the story transmitted in all its sad, bad, exact detail.
A chunky blonde with black roots opened the door. Taylor stepped into the apartment’s living room, which had been furnished in a tawdry fantasy of a fancy sitting room. The couch and three chairs were plush and red, all with too many pillows. The gun held at his side, Taylor rushed down the hallway before Luce could yell, and hearing the expected noises, pushed open the door. He crossed the room and sat on a chair in the corner—which conveniently held all of Schmidt’s gear. An ass rose and fell under the sheets to a wheezy sort of grunting that sounded anything but sexy.
“Officer Schmidt.” The ass stopped like someone slamming on the brakes. The body rolled over. “We need to talk.” Taylor rested the .32 on his knee as Schmidt pulled himself to a sitting position against the headboard. “Not the way I usually like to do an interview, but you’re a special case.”
Chapter 25
“Man, you are shit-deep in a world of hurt.”
Next to Schmidt, a more realistic blonde held the bed sheet up to her nose. An odd sort of modesty for her profession. Or did she think the sheet would stop bullets? Guilt fluttered through Taylor. He wasn’t even pointing the gun and didn’t like scaring her with it.
“You can leave, Stacy. My business is with Schmidt. Feel free to call the police. Though I doubt he wants to take the chance an honest cop might show.”
“You’re a fucking dead man. You’re already inside your coffin.”
“And you’re Johnny One Note.” Taylor tried to keep his voice even, but anger boiled up from deep inside. Stories weren’t supposed to do this. You couldn’t care, not too much, because when you sat down at the typewriter, you needed to look down on the world you’d visited, perhaps uncovered, and describe it with that disconnected objectivity the insurance executive expected with his cornflakes. Dodd. Samantha. Rayban and Sally. Moon. Novak. This whole neighborhood. Taylor wouldn’t mind seeing this bastard hurt some. Wasn’t the job though. “I’m not dead. I’m sitting here with the drop on Mr. Top Deck, who was in bed with a prostitute. What I am is a reporter with the City News Bureau.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. You almost killed my boss. Wrecked our office. This time, I’ve got the whole story on your racket. Just letting you respond to the charges against you. I’d hate a policeman of your standing to think you were treated unfairly. My service will send the story to its radio station customers. But I’m thinking this one is so good, I’m also going to give a copy to a friend at the Daily News. You and I can agree that lots of folks read the Daily News. Folks in the mayor’s office read the News. The Chief of Department. Over in Internal Affairs, they read it too. So, now that you understand why we’re here, is there anything you want to say about the bribes you and your fellow officers have been collecting from prostitutes, numbers rackets, and upstanding store owners?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no comment.’ Families to think of. What about murdering Officer Dodd to protect your operation? Same response?”
Schmidt tipped his slender head in the same way Mason did whenever Taylor tried to give the dog a command.
“You’re dead anyway, but I’ll tell you this. I had nothing to do with Dodd. If I were going to kill him, I’d have just done it. You’ll find that out soon enough.”
“I can quote you?”
“You won’t get the chance.”
Standing, Taylor picked up Schmidt’s gear, eased his way to the bedroom door, stepped out and pulled it shut. The noise of a nude cop getting out of bed fast. Taylor sprinted for the front door.
Luce pulled it open, and as he passed, she whispered, “Please stop him.”
He flew down the stairs and left Schmidt’s stuff at the bottom. At least that would slow him down. He hit the street and cut over to Avenue A with the intent of taking a zigzag path back to the precinct. He guessed—more like prayed—that was the last place Schmidt would look for him, considering that other Top Deck cops could be there.
He hoped like hell Slive was. The IA man would have to take seriously the information Taylor had on Schmidt.
My ass is on the line now. Five radio stations aren’t enough to save it.
The Daily News wouldn’t run the story without some sort of confirmation from Slive. They’d insist on checking everything Taylor had. All that would take time, which brought h
im right back to how his ass was really on the line now.
The rain started again and was driven into his face by a cold autumn wind as he reached the other side of Avenue A. He pulled the collar up on the field jacket, put on the wool hat, and hustled westward, checking behind for Schmidt. Nothing. At this point, any cop could be a threat.
Three soaked tickets stuck to the Ford’s windshield. The cops of the Ninth liked easy pickings. He crossed to the front entrance of the precinct, was halfway up the cement steps when he spied Slive pulling out of the lot in an unmarked white Chevy. Taylor ran toward the car waving. Slive didn’t see Taylor. But Taylor did see Slive’s passenger: Samantha Callahan.
The car turned right, away from Taylor, on East Fifth.
“Shit, shit.”
He sprinted back to the Ford, tore the tickets off, climbed in, and sped down the street. The light went red, stopping Taylor behind a car at the intersection as Slive’s Chevy made the turn and headed south on Second Avenue. Taylor squeezed the steering wheel like he was wringing out a washcloth.
What was Samantha doing with Slive? Had she finally agreed to come in and talk? Maybe she’d decided that was the safest move. He hated not knowing what she was doing. He didn’t want to think how angry she still was with him. He had to catch up with Slive before things got any messier.
Messier? There’s a word. More like before I’m a mess on the sidewalk.
The light dropped to green and Taylor leaned on the horn. The big Buick in front of him crossed the intersection. Taylor made the turn. He took the middle lane of the avenue and was halfway through the intersection at East Fourth Street when he realized the Chevy had turned. The white car was already half a block east.
“Shit, shit.”
He swung the wheel hard and hit the gas at the same time, trying to slip past a Checker Taxi turning from the far left lane—the lane you were supposed to turn from. The Ford wasn’t quite fast enough. The cab smashed into the corner of the Ford’s back bumper, sending the rear end of the car skidding. A yellow cab slammed into the Checker. Both cabbies were out of their cars at cabbie speed and coming straight at Taylor’s car. One had a baseball bat.
“Sorry, guys. No time to work this one out.”
He spun the wheel the other way and hit the gas.
Three tickets, a crushed bumper, a three-car accident. I’m not renting a car for twenty years.
He raced a block and a half and ran into traffic again, with the Chevy still a full city block in front of him. Taylor couldn’t make up the distance. Each time the light went red, he was a street behind. Slive reached Avenue D, the western border of the giant Jacob Riis public housing project, which ran six blocks from East Sixth to East 13th along the East River. When Taylor got to that intersection, he couldn’t find the Chevy up or down Avenue D.
“Shit, shit and shit again.”
He banged the steering wheel.
Got to think.
Slive wouldn’t come this way to get on the FDR Drive. This wasn’t the way to go north either. Avenue D petered out seven blocks up. For some reason—a reason Taylor couldn’t fathom—Slive and Samantha must be somewhere in the Riis Houses. The complex, 20 buildings between six and 13 stories tall, had been built on a campus—a highfalutin word for a place plagued by crime and poverty—created by eliminating the Manhattan street grid. Only East Sixth and East 10th were left to cut through the project. Taylor, watched warily by several children and a woman with a shopping cart, rolled slowly along both streets to their ends. A wino on a bench wasn’t wary. He smiled and waved.
By the time he got back to 10th and Avenue D, Taylor was second-guessing his gut instinct that they were in here somewhere. He took a right and drove north on D, passing several of the X-shaped, red-brick apartment towers. Just at the north end of the complex, D bent around toward the river. If this street had its own name, it wasn’t posted. It dead-ended in front of one of the bigger Riis buildings. Slive’s unoccupied car was parked in a spot next to a basketball court.
Taylor buzzed five, six apartments. Nothing. Maybe the system was broken. Maybe everything was broken. He pulled the door. It opened. The lock was so badly damaged that a piece of metal hung from the side of the doorframe.
The odor of trash mingled with pot. Down the hallway to the right, a black garbage bag stuffed on top of another had wedged open the trash chute door.
“Jeeeesus, what is this, Pig Day at the Riis?” A young black man came from the left hallway toward Taylor.
“I’m a reporter working a story.”
“A story! Hell, I’m a story. You want to interview me?”
The man, with a beard and a medium-length, neatly trimmed Afro, stopped right in front of Taylor. The pot odor strengthened as if a cloud hovered around the guy.
Play the play you get.
Taylor took out his notebook. “Actually looking for a couple of police officers.”
“Oh, so you don’t want to interview me?”
“No, happy to. I’m a police reporter. I’m always interested in how the public thinks the police are—”
“Shitty, they’re doing shitting. It makes me so goddamn angry.” The man put his hands on Taylor shoulders, squeezed and looked into Taylor’s eyes. He laughed. “I’m fucking with you, man.” The laughter turned to heaving, like he was yelling out his mirth. “I saw your cops. That’s why I said it was Pig Day. I’m Desmond. Follow me.”
“Thanks. Taylor with the Messenger—with the City News Bureau.”
“S’matter man, don’t know where you work?” Desmond went through a metal door and up concrete stairs. “Elevators are out. Actually they aren’t ever in.”
After five flights, they stepped into the hallway. Desmond walked a few doors down and pushed open the door to apartment 5-H. Taylor stepped into the entryway. Samantha was handcuffed to the springs of a bedframe that had been propped into a corner of the living area. It looked like a torture device. She’d been stripped to her underwear.
Slive leaned against the counter of the efficiency’s kitchen, which was cluttered with paint cans, tools, and glass jars. He smiled, looking welcoming, calm, and successful.
This is all wrong.
Taylor moved into the room toward Samantha. Without thinking.
“Welcome to the Playhouse,” Slive said. “Take care of him.”
Taylor dropped into a black hole, propelled there by a sharp, shuddering pain at the back of his head.
Chapter 26
His name repeated over and over again. Hearing almost hurt as much as thinking. His name made him think he was stupid for some reason—like he was the guy who’d walked into a trap.
Riiiiiight. Because I did.
“Taylor. C’mon, Taylor.”
He cracked open his eyelids and the light dealt another hammer blow to the back of his head. He wanted to shut them tight but knew the pain would still be there even if he did.
“We’re running out of time.”
He opened his eyes all the way, and his stomach lurched. He kept from puking. His wrists were bound tight behind his back, his feet even tighter. Aside from the pain, the other sensation that managed to penetrate his scrambled brain was the hot prickly numbing of his feet going to sleep.
“Why?” It was the shortest thing he could say and hope to find out what was going on.
Samantha rose above him at an angle, still shackled to the mattress frame, still in her lacy white underwear. “Slive’s coming back. They’re going to kill us and film it.”
“Film it?”
“A snuff film. He’s going to make a snuff film. I’m supposed to be the star.”
Now he had to close his eyes again. He’d been hit too hard. Those words didn’t make any sense, and he didn’t know how to force them into an order that would. Moving words around was what he used to do well.
“Please open your eyes.”
“Sorry. Head’s a mess. Thought you said Slive’s making a snuff film.”
“You heard right. H
e’s running some kind of porn operation out of the Riis Houses.”
“Jacob Riis?” Here was a fact that did make sense to his scrambled brain. He started mumbling. “Right, Jacob Riis. You know he was a journalist too. Reported on the awful conditions in New York’s slums. How the Other Half Lives. That was his book. Collected his newspaper stories.”
“What is wrong with you? We’re going to die in a housing project and you’re giving me its history?”
C’mon, think straight. “My head feels like it’s been split in half.” Slive’s running a porn operation? While working IA? “Kristy Copper. Dodd’s lead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember that missing person Dodd had you track down?” Taylor said.
“Yeah.”
“She was a floater in the East River. Talked to her boyfriend. Said she worked in porn movies. He believed she was killed making a snuff film. Didn’t get a chance to tell you. Or track down that lead. Story’s always had too many damn leads.”
“That’s the connection then. Slive’s making snuff films and Dodd was on to him. Slive set up the murders.”
“Pretty good theory, given the situation we’re in right now. How did he get you?”
“I called Priscotti after I left you Monday night. I wanted to grill him until I found out what was really happening. With Dodd. With my dad. With the corrupt cops. I met him at his place in Brooklyn. His mother was at bingo. Things went south fast. He told me everyone knew my dad was under investigation, then picked that moment to try and get romantic. Least what he thinks is romantic. I pushed him off. He got mad. Told me he was the one who put out the false radio call. He attacked me. I swung and connected. He hit harder. The next thing I know, Slive’s standing over me.”
“Priscotti’s in this with Slive? What about Schmidt?”
“I don’t know who’s in with who anymore.”
Taylor’s neck ached from holding his head off the ground to look up while Samantha talked. It hurt less than his skull, but he didn’t need any more pain. He lowered his head slowly to the yellow linoleum tile. From that sideways position, he noticed some things in the room he hadn’t seen when he first rushed in. A blackboard on the wall. Two movie lights on metal stands. A hobbyhorse. Posters that looked like the kind schools used to teach the alphabet. He twisted at his tied wrists. The coarse rope burned, and nothing else happened. He knew the rope around his ankles was even more secure. The pins and needles in his feet told him so.
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