Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  “Let me know when he’s got his tokens.” Taylor leaned against the wall of the stairway holding Samantha so they looked like a couple saying goodbye. This pissed off the rush hour commuters streaming past them, all of whom had something nasty and specific to say. Samantha watched over his shoulder, and after fifteen seconds, nodded.

  Priscotti clicked through the center turnstile and stepped through the nearest open doors to the R train.

  Samantha used the far-left turnstile first. Taylor fumbled his token, and it dropped to the ground on the other side, rolling across the platform and off the edge. It was his last. No time to buy. He jumped the turnstile and joined Samantha a car ahead of Priscotti as the doors slammed shut.

  “Hope he didn’t see that scene of yours.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  Priscotti got off at Times Square. Taylor lost him almost immediately in the shifting crosscurrents of people moving between eight different subway lines. Ridership might be down, but the place was still a crowded maze during the evening rush.

  “Damn. Where is he?”

  “There.” Samantha pointed at the broad back of a blue uniform going up the stairs to 42nd Street.

  Taylor had a weird flash Priscotti was heading to the City News Bureau’s offices. Who’d attacked Novak? Slive, Priscotti, or Schmidt? Or all of them?

  Above ground, Priscotti strolled west on 42nd Street with its quarter mile of marquees offering porn of all types, colors, sizes, and flavors.

  Even with the marquees, Times Square was a dim, grimy place. The famous flickering, flashing, dancing signs had been switched off due to the energy crisis. The only light came from plain old billboards and the porn marquees, and most of those made grim reading anyway. The lights were down and crime was up—way, way up. For that reason, most people stayed away at night, unless it was porn they wanted. Or they were the brave customers of the remaining legitimate Broadway houses. Many of the latter went door to door by cab.

  A hooker in a skimpy plastic green dress leaned against the wall under the sign of The Victory Theater, which had once been a legitimate house and then a grand movie palace but had sunk to pornography with most of the others on the long block. Why was she standing there? Catch them when they’re horny?

  Halfway down, Priscotti entered a porn shop that advertised a theater upstairs.

  Samantha shook her head. “This is not good. No guns, no backup, no idea what’s inside.”

  When they reached the store, Taylor cupped his hands to cut the nighttime reflections so he could see inside the shop. “Dildos, whips, eight millimeter films, looks like some of those new videotapes. A wall full of magazines. Sign says the movie upstairs is Triple Timing Teacher Tallie Gets It Triple Times. Now that’s bad writing.”

  “What I meant was we have no idea who’s inside. How many we’re up against.”

  “We know Priscotti is, and unless he’s a connoisseur of porn—”

  “Oh he is that.”

  “If Slive’s business is porn, he’s probably in here too.”

  A beggar in a parka and pajama bottoms jostled Samantha, who pulled her fist back so fast the man yelled and ran toward Eighth.

  Taylor cupped his hands again. “Here we go. Slive’s on the stairs. Priscotti is coming up behind. They’re carrying something. No, someone.”

  Samantha, who’d continued to stare at the bum, now turned to the window and peered in for the first time.

  “Not someone. The Sergeant.”

  Chapter 28

  Samantha grabbed the door. Taylor grabbed Samantha and pulled her back. “Whoa, you were just saying we don’t know who else is in there.”

  “I know my father is. Changes everything.”

  “Fine, but don’t just charge. Let them go where they’re going upstairs. They see you, all hell breaks loose, and they’ve got your dad unconscious.”

  She stepped to the other side of the door. “Soon as they’re upstairs, I’m in.”

  A payphone faced him at the curb. “One more quick call.” Taylor dialed Stein. Of course he was away from his desk. Taylor left the address with another investigator and told him Stein should get there as soon as possible.

  Samantha pulled the door open. “They’re gone.”

  Cigarette smoke mixed with the sweetest sort of perfume. Taylor really didn’t want to know what gave off that scent. Samantha walked straight to the counter.

  The guy behind the register, with tangled hippy-length hair and the look of someone who could easily have fleas, appraised Samantha like she was a new piece of merchandise.

  “Don’t get couples shopping in here. Even the kinky ones send in the guy. How can I help ya out? Or in?” His chuckle was a wheeze.

  “We’re in need of something special.” Samantha leaned in closer. “Something very special. I’m embarrassed to say it too loud.”

  “Ah well, you can tell old Cloudy.”

  He leaned in just as close. Samantha reached up, grabbed a big handful of dirty hair and slammed Cloudy’s face into the counter. She didn’t let go, smashing his face a second time. He slid across the counter and hung on its edge, leaving a trail of blood. Samantha leapt over, hip-checked Cloudy to the floor and pulled from below a sawed-off shotgun with electrical tape around the handle. She put it on a clean area of the counter. She rummaged around some more. Next came a big pistol—a .357.

  “When did you dream up this approach?”

  “The instant I saw Dad. One of the highest crime rates in the city. Good odds the counterman has something. Odds were even better, given Slive’s working out of here. Added bonus. We don’t need to worry about this scumbag for a while.” She picked up the sawed-off. “Can you handle that?” The shotgun’s barrel pointed to the .357.

  “Not sure.”

  “You own a gun.”

  “Never really practice with it.”

  “More good news. Well, aim well and watch the recoil. Even without aiming, you get close enough, you’ll hurt someone pretty bad with that cannon.”

  “Can you use a shotgun with your arm?” He pointed at the cast. “Lot more kick than my little pistol, and that hurt back at the Riis Houses.”

  “Yeah, probably going to sting some, but less than a bullet in the head.”

  Samantha jumped back over the counter and led the way to the stairs. With the shotgun in one hand, she eased her way up to the red door at the top. She signaled to Taylor to get ready, so like some detective in a TV show, he held the gun with arms extended straight and rigid. Her eyebrows lifted. He kinked his elbows and loosened up a little. She nodded and opened the door. Groaning came out of the darkness. They both ducked and waited until simultaneously realizing the noise was the groaning of sex, not violence—and movie sex at that.

  Taylor had to smile in spite of their situation. Samantha shook her head. She took a couple of steps into the darkness with Taylor right behind. The flickering light of the movie lit 10 or 12 rows of seats sloping down from where they stood. On the screen Tallie was definitely being triple timed. Cigarette smoke clouded the darkened theater.

  Samantha crouched into a seat in the back row and Taylor slid in next to her.

  From that vantage point, they could see four men watching the film, all of them sitting separately. No sign of Slive, Priscotti, or Samantha’s father. The stairway running down along the rows of seats led to a door next to the screen. The word exit glowed above it. Aside from the door they’d come in, that was the only way out of the theater, barring someone crawling into the window of the projection booth four feet above them. Taylor pointed at the exit door with the barrel of the gun, a strange, heavy sensation. Like pointing death.

  Samantha brought her lips to his ear. “Watch these guys as we go down.”

  “One’s a lookout rather than a Teacher Tallie fan?”

  “Who knows in this screwed-up game?”

  They took the stairs slowly. The men continued to watch the screen. Flashes of the movie flickered off their eyes. O
ne of the viewers, unaccountably, was crying. Taylor checked the projection booth. Only the beam from the projector and blackness behind. Maybe they’d gotten lucky and Cloudy also ran the machinery. If not, someone up there had to see them now.

  On the other side of the door was a padlocked, alarmed exit to the street and steel stairs leading down to the basement.

  Samantha took the first step down.

  A small wedge of waxy yellow light from the exit sign illuminated the first half-dozen stairs. After that, they moved in near total darkness. Samantha would take a step, stop for Taylor to come down to the one she’d left, wait a couple of seconds and move to the next.

  Murky light reappeared below them after twenty or so steps through that blackness. The bottom? Yes, and another door, just cracked open. With as much confidence as he had upstairs, Taylor went into his stance. Samantha slowly pushed the door open with her toe. They held for ten long seconds as their eyes readjusted to the light, Samantha slowly swinging the shotgun in an easy, level arc. Whatever her fellow cops thought, she knew her job.

  They were at the entrance to a cluttered storeroom filled with sex toys and pornography. At least that was what was in Taylor’s immediate vicinity. Shelves went back into the darkness. Again, there was no sign of the three men. Taylor went in first this time. To his right were several open boxes containing contraptions that looked better suited for torture than pleasure.

  Samantha tapped his shoulder. “Go around left. I’ll go right. We don’t know how big this place is or where they’ve got Dad.”

  “And we don’t know how long the sleazebag upstairs will be out.”

  She nodded. “Use that big gun if you have to.”

  She disappeared between two mannequins in leather and silk. The leather made Taylor think of punk rockers. He’d never considered the similarity to fetishism.

  Need to get my skull checked when we get out of here.

  He crept along the outside wall in the hope of linking up with Samantha wherever this basement ended. Battered metal shelves held unopened cardboard boxes. Stacks of porn mags were wrapped together in plastic. Three octagonal suitcases almost tripped him. Labeled with movie titles, they were the cases the film reels arrived in.

  Light splashed between a break in the shelves ahead, and Taylor dropped low, creeping closer and closer to the back wall. There was another doorway. No sign of Samantha. Voices. He froze. Couldn’t make out what was being said. He moved in as close as he dared. A man talking. It was Slive. The cool arrogance was easy to identify. A muffled response. Slive laughed like he was really enjoying himself.

  Taylor lay flat and crawled forward, stifling a grunt as his injured ribs complained about the maneuver. He had to see what was happening on the other side of that doorway. Inching up, he peered around a stack of boxes. Slive stood in a small room lit by a bank of exposed yellow fluorescent lights. One tube flickered off and on with an insect-like clicking.

  A card table in the middle of the room was covered with evenly stacked gold canisters, as in some strange poker game. Mick Callahan, now conscious, sat at a chair with his hands behind his back, presumably tied or handcuffed. No Priscotti.

  If he’s out here somewhere, we’re in trouble.

  Taylor prepared to slide back behind the boxes and listen out of sight, but Slive walked around the table and looked into the basement storeroom. Taylor froze.

  “I’m going to kill you,” said Callahan.

  “You’re going to do nothing.” More of that pleased laugh. Slive picked up one of the little canisters. “Four minutes of eight millimeter film. Gold. Real gold. A very special clientele will pay hundreds, even thousands for one of these.”

  “Because you killed someone.”

  “An accident.” Slive waved the hand holding the canister in dismissal. “Was supposed to be a bondage scene. Craig got carried away. Oh but what a fortunate accident. These films can make money we never dreamed of when we took over this business. This is the deal we were looking for. But you had to go and grow a conscience. Or did your balls shrink? We were already in the film business. Your idea in the first place. Why provide protection when we can own the whole business? A brilliant idea, Mick. Yours.”

  “Wasn’t my idea to kill Dodd. You went too far when you pulled my daughter into this. She was never supposed to be near any of this. That’s family, not business.”

  They’re partners? Shit. What will Samantha do?

  “Dodd was a big problem. You refused to see that. He saw our guys dumping the body.”

  “Didn’t matter. Dodd couldn’t connect you to it.”

  “Fuck that. He did see Priscotti because that fat idiot couldn’t wait for a good time to deal with the body. Fucking idiot panicked. The only break was Dodd calling into me because a cop was involved, rather than trying to arrest all three of them that instant. Fucking Dudley Do-Right. I offered up Schmidt. Said he was running the porn operation with Priscotti and I needed more time to bring them all down. But Dodd wouldn’t drop it. Couldn’t be bought. And you couldn’t make up your mind what to do about him. Doesn’t matter now. Tonight I’m going to take care of you with the gun that killed Dodd. The one Mortelli is supposed to have used.” He held up an automatic. “One of my rules. Never dump a dirty gun. They always come in handy. Buried guns. Guns tossed in the water. They get found every time. What do you think the detectives will make of it? Oh wait. I’m the detective on this case. Everything’s covered, nice and neat. Schmidt never knew he was working for me. You didn’t even know he was. Let’s face it: our partnership started falling apart long ago.” Slive laughed. “Schmidt thinks Priscotti’s his boss. Imagine, that fat oaf. Why would the IA guy be running the game? I collected and protected and no one knew. Now I own something even bigger.”

  “Not if you leave bodies everywhere. They’ll get you.”

  Slive bent to the floor to pick something up, rose to his feet holding a black bra of fishnet and frills. He attached the straps to Callahan’s ears so the cups stood on top his head. Slive’s other hand held a stack magazines. These he spilled on the table in front of Callahan and in his lap.

  “They’re going to have some questions when they find you. A big thick file on everything you’ve been up to in the One-Nine will hit the right desk tomorrow morning. You’re more than a distraction. Sergeant Mick Callahan. How did we miss him the first time? Look what the hell he’s been doing. Now this, on the other hand ….” He held the film canister up toward the light like it was some sort of religious relic. “The clientele for these … I’ve only just tapped into. I’ll take in one hundred, two hundred thou a film. I’m going someplace where the occasional disappearance is no big deal. Maybe down by the border. Turn these out just fast enough so the sickos will be desperate for the next one.”

  “You’re the fucking sicko.”

  Slive hurled the canister at Callahan, hitting him square in the face. The canister popped open. Black spirals of film fell down Callahan’s chest. Blood ran from his nose to his mouth and chin. “There’s your last bit of the business, me boyo.”

  On the other side of the doorway, Samantha crawled toward the light from the small room. Her face was set and serious, as it had been when she split from Taylor.

  She hasn’t seen or heard anything yet.

  Taylor held up his hand to tell her to stay where she was. He pointed to the doorway and held up two fingers.

  From around the corner behind her, Priscotti appeared. His gun was out and touching the back of Samantha’s head before Taylor could do anything.

  Chapter 29

  Samantha froze. Priscotti, staring intently down at her, didn’t see Taylor where he lay in the shadow of the boxes on the other side of the wash of light from the door. Not yet, at least. He couldn’t move. Just had to hope.

  “Slive, we’ve got a family affair.”

  Priscotti prodded Samantha to stand up and move into the doorway.

  “Why, the brave policewoman. How did you find us?” Again Sl
ive laughed like this was the best game he’d ever played.

  Mick Callahan’s reaction was the opposite. For the first time he sounded panicked. “Sam, what are you doing here?”

  “I was trying to get Slive before he got me. Followed his lapdog.”

  Priscotti slammed an elbow into Samantha’s back. “You’re going to end up in that movie anyway. Maybe I’ll get to play a part.”

  “How long were you there?” said Mick Callahan. “What … how much did you hear?”

  “Ah, yes.” Slive took a lock of Samantha’s auburn hair in his fingers and rolled it back and forth. “Mick’s little girl. A stalwart in uniform. You have no idea what Daddy’s been up to. How about I brief you?” He took her by the arm and forced her into another chair at the table. Priscotti handed Slive his cuffs, which Slive clicked on. “Let me tell you about The Sergeant, my partner all these years—”

  Callahan was up with a roar. Bent over with the chair handcuffed behind him, he charged Slive. The barrel of Priscotti’s gun flashed. Callahan fell backwards, hit the wall and slid down onto his side. Taylor rose from his crouch. Blood darkened the left shoulder of Callahan’s flannel shirt.

  Slive slapped Priscotti hard with an open hand.

  “What’s that for?”

  “He’s handcuffed to the goddamned chair. I’d have knocked him down. Now we’ve got a mess to deal with.”

  “You said we were going to make a mess tonight.”

  “Not here, you complete idiot.”

  “Dad! Dad, say something.”

  Now what do I do? That office is a death box.

  Priscotti and Slive were both armed. Samantha was cuffed to a chair behind Slive, and her father at the back, now wounded, lay on the floor, attached to his chair. Taylor was outnumbered and outgunned. He had to get one of them out of the office. Divide and conquer. Or at least divide and not get shot.