by Peter Watson
The van was parked outside a toy shop. Being Sunday, the shop was closed. One of the mob men waited in the van while the other had gone inside with Ewald.
Suddenly, as Charlie was imagining the breakfast he was missing at home, the door to the shop opened and the other mob man came out. He pinned the door wide and then went to open the back of the van.
‘Looks like they’re making a move,’ said Harry.
‘Stand by,’ whispered Charlie into his microphone. ‘Suspects may be loading what we are looking for into their van.’
The man reappeared at the doorway, this time carrying two cardboard cartons. The other man got down from the driver’s seat, went round to the back and climbed in so that he could stack the cartons. Then the first man went back inside the shop while the driver lit a cigarette.
Charlie reached for his binoculars in the glove compartment. When the man came out a second time he could see that there was red overpainting on the cartons but his arm obscured the lettering.
He waited for the man to come out again. This time Charlie breathed out heavily. ‘Shit, Harry, this could be it. You know what’s supposed to be in those cartons? Olive oil. Since when have toy shops sold olive oil?’
He picked up his radio. ‘Okay you guys, we’re going in. There’s some cartons being loaded that look too juicy to pass up. Pete, you there?’
‘Charlie!’
‘Pull over to Roosevelt Avenue and block their exit – but not till I say.’
‘Right.’
‘Jimmy?’
‘Here.’
‘There’ll be a back entrance to the shop somewhere, probably an alley off Parsons Boulevard. Find it and cover.’
‘You got it.’
‘Rocco!’
‘Yes?’
‘Cover us in case it gets dirty.’
‘We’ll be there. I can see you from here.’
‘Okay then. Anybody not ready or not clear about what to do?’
Silence.
‘Good luck then. Let’s go.’
Charlie and Harry drove quietly up Union Street, arriving abreast of the shop just after one of the men had disappeared back inside. As Charlie braked and pulled the Pontiac over so that the van’s way forward was blocked, Harry – who already had his window down – was aiming his gun at the driver.
It took the driver maybe two seconds to realize what was happening, but that was enough. By now Rocco’s car was visible twenty yards down the street and Charlie had his gun on the driver as well. The man put up no resistance.
But then the door to the toy shop banged shut and bolts could be heard being slid into place. The men inside had seen them! Shit! thought Charlie, now things could get really nasty. He didn’t want a shoot-out without being able to alert the neighbourhood, it wasn’t good publicity for the Customs Department. Still, it looked as if he had no choice.
‘Harry!’ he yelled and grabbed both him and the driver and bundled them behind the van, out of sight of the toy shop and fairly safe if shooting started. It also gave them a chance to search the driver. Amazingly he wasn’t armed – they found his gun under his seat in the van. Harry handcuffed him to the driving wheel so he and Charlie were free to go after the others.
As it happened, though, it wasn’t on Union Street that the shooting started. Before Charlie or Harry had worked out how to tackle the front of the shop, gunfire was heard at the back.
Charlie motioned down the street for Rocco to take charge as he and Harry approached the front of the shop. He looked in through the window, past shelves of dolls and plastic aircraft. The shop looked empty. Using the barrel of his gun he smashed the glass in the door while Harry lay flat behind the brickwork.
Nothing.
He reached in and slid back the bolt, careful not to snag his skin on the jagged glass. He swung the door open.
Still nothing.
He got to his feet and together they entered the shop. The first room, the shop proper, looked well-stocked but dusty, as though it hadn’t been open for a while. That figured. Charlie next stepped through a narrow passageway to a small backroom. There he froze, seeing movement beyond the window. ‘Harry!’ he whispered and pointed.
‘Right with you.’ Harry flattened himself against the wall where the door would open, his gun pointed at head height towards whoever came through the back door.
They stood on either side and Charlie signalled for Harry to pull it open. Outside it was sunny. There was no one to be seen. Charlie began to sweat: he hadn’t been this close in a tangle for months and he didn’t like it. He had to move, though. Those earlier shots would have brought people onto the streets and they were all now at risk.
He inched through the door. As he did so, he noticed a shadow to the left behind the wooden casing around some pipes. He decided that commonsense was the better part of valour.
‘There are two of us,’ he said loudly. ‘We know you are behind those pipes. You may get one of us but never two. And your buddy is handcuffed to your van. You can’t get away.’
He was sweating again. He had made his voice sound more confident than he felt.
‘Sir?’
At first Charlie thought the voice was Harry’s. Then he realized it came from outside. From behind the pipes. ‘Jimmy?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s me.’
‘Christ, I nearly killed you.’
‘You nearly bought it yourself.’
‘What happened?’
‘We got them. One injured – in the arm and chest – and the German gave himself up.’
‘Holy shit. No kidding. Wow!’
‘This way –’ and Jimmy led them back through a small yard to an alley. There, Jimmy’s junior partner stood guard over Ewald and the injured mobster. Also, as Charlie had feared, a group of local residents stood watching at the far end of the alley.
‘Have you sent for an ambulance?’
‘Yessir.’
The operation was quickly tidied up. The ambulance arrived, the crowd was dispersed and Charlie and Harry drove away with Ewald in their car, the van driver going with Jimmy. But not before they had opened the cartons. For a moment Charlie thought that they had made a dreadful mistake – each carton really did contain bottles of olive oil. Only when all the bottles were taken out of one and it remained curiously heavy, did he realize that it must have a false bottom. Slitting the cardboard with his knife, Charlie found what he’d been looking for: a good kilo of white powder trickled out when he turned the carton over. And there were thirty cartons.
Later that night, after Charlie had paid off the final instalment to his informant, the interrogations began. One interesting discovery was quickly made. Both the New York men were illegal immigrants. From Sicily.
*
‘How many anti-Popes have there been?’
‘Ned! I don’t think that’s very suitable question. Not now.’
There was an amused silence around the table at Gina’s. They had all been nervous about this meeting: David, Bess, Ned. David knew that his son’s many questions were a sign of nerves, and he also knew that if Ned had not liked Bess, he would have lapsed into silence.
They were celebrating David’s investiture into the Order of St Sylvester which had taken place that morning. It was the first time David and Bess had met since Thomas had changed his mind on divorce. The news was better now, though: the tribunal in London had considered the evidence, the ‘Defender of the Bond’ had assessed it and the petition, favourable to David’s case, was now with the Bishop. If he agreed then it would soon go to Rome as the next stage.
‘When was the Great Schism, then?’ Ned insisted. ‘Didn’t some Popes rule from Avignon and some from Rome?’
It was Bess who answered. ‘I haven’t a clue, Ned. History was never my strong suit. I deal in the present. Now, if you want a look at the papal computer tomorrow, then that’s something I do know about.’
‘What can it do?’
‘What can’t it do? The phone numbers of every bi
shop in the world, the nature and location of all modern miracles – with our assessment of them, a worldwide list of all prominent Catholics who have told us that, when they die, they will bequeath their estates to the Church, estimates of who listens in to the Vatican radio, assessments of the religious beliefs of world leaders, the location of every site said to hold a piece of the Holy Cross and other relics . . .’
‘Are there miracles, still?’
‘Oh, yes. You’d be surprised. Come tomorrow and find out.’
Ned looked at his father.
David smiled and said: ‘Fine by me. You two will have to go alone, though. I’ve got to spend the morning in the Archive, chasing Leonardo.’
‘Is it a date, then?’ asked Bess. Ned nodded straight away.
David relaxed. Ned would not have agreed to accompany Bess, all by himself, if he were not ready. It was a good sign. David was buoyed up, too, by the conversation he’d had with Wilde on the day before he and Ned had flown to Rome for the investiture.
‘I’m getting some good stuff,’ Wilde had said when David rang for a progress report.
‘Good stuff? What do you mean?’
‘Sorry, I mean Ned’s beginning to talk much more freely in our sessions. I don’t intend to be specific, he has to be able to trust my discretion, but I can tell you he’s saying more, and with more feeling.’
‘May I know in general what you’ve been discussing?’
‘The future.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
‘Very. Most psychiatrists concentrate on the past, on the circumstances that have brought the patient into their care. I prefer to get my patients thinking about the future – its pleasures, its possibilities – as soon as I can. The technique has its risks: if people see their future as bleak the effect can be depressing. But if it works, recovery can be quite rapid.’
‘And with Ned?’
‘Two things. He seems to have frightened himself with his suicide attempt. That sometimes happens. The chief effect, clinically, is to make his sleep very disturbed. Fears always surface in the dark, in bed. I have therefore prescribed a mild sedative and told the school: naturally his housemaster will keep the tablets, not Ned. But you yourself should keep some with you at home, for when he is with you.’
‘How long will they be needed?’
‘Not too long. The tablets are as mild as I can make them and Ned is not to use them as an excuse for sleeping in in the mornings. I’ve told his school and I’m telling you. Sleeping in is a bad sign and should be stopped.’
‘Whatever you say. You said there were two things.’
‘Yes. In our talks about the future, I have found that Ned has a secret passion. He hasn’t told you or his mother because he thinks you will disapprove.’
‘No! We’re not the disapproving types – surely.’
‘You’re both ambitious for Ned. You want him to go to university, for instance.’
‘Is that unusual – or bad?’
‘Maybe not, but that’s not how Ned sees it.’
‘Are you saying he doesn’t want to go to university? It’s early days yet, he’s got a lot of time to make up his mind. Does he want to do something else? Has he told you that?’
‘Frankly, yes. And I sense that he’d like me to pass it on. Although he’s genuinely interested in fakes, his real interest is in gold. He loves gilded things, gold jewellery, gold objects from history, those wonderful Sienese paintings with gold backgrounds, gold bookbindings, ormolu. You’d be surprised how much reading he has done, how much he knows. Anyway, rather than go to university and study an academic subject, he wants to be a craftsman. He wants to be apprenticed to a goldsmith.’
David had been surprised and flummoxed. It had never crossed his mind that Ned might not want to go to university. He examined his feelings. Was he disappointed? To be honest, he supposed he was. He had always imagined his son at university. He realized that part of his feeling arose because the children of his friends all seemed to be going to college these days. He had assumed Ned would want the same. On the other hand, was it really so terrible that Ned should want to be craftsman? After all, David knew plenty of picture restorers, enamellers, jewellers and, yes, gold and silversmiths – and he found them a calming breed, men and women who got quiet but very positive satisfactions from their work. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that such a career suited Ned’s personality. And his son would be following him into the arts – he had always wanted that.
‘What should I do?’ he asked Wilde.
‘Face it. Discuss it with him. Tell him how you feel. How do you feel?’
‘Surprised. Part of me is disappointed, but I can see it makes a kind of sense for Ned.’
‘Good. We’re really making progress now. Let me know how your talks with him go. He’ll give me his version but I’d also like to hear yours.’
Now, at lunch in Gina’s, David had yet to raise the subject with Ned. He wanted to do so as naturally as possible, and hadn’t yet worked out just how. At that moment Gina approached their table and spoke to Bess. The signorina was wanted on the telephone. Bess got up and went to the back of the bar, where the phone was. She was gone some time. When she returned she sat down, fiddled in her bag, then drew David to one side. ‘Here are the keys to the flat. Take Ned there after lunch and I’ll see you later. I’m just going to slip away, I don’t want to spoil the party.’
‘What’s wrong? Why are you going? Where are you going?’
‘The office, where else?’
‘How long will you be? Ned will be disappointed. I’m disappointed.’
‘I don’t know how long. Maybe quite long. Please apologise to Ned. But I must go.’
Quickly she cupped her hand over David’s mouth so he could kiss her palm.
‘You haven’t said what’s wrong. Is it bad? You look worried.’
‘I am worried. For Thomas’s sake. We’ve just heard from the Archbishop of Havana. In spite of Thomas’s intercession those eight assassins were executed this morning.’
*
When Jack Silver, the Mayor of New York, heard about Charlie Winter’s heroin bust his first reaction was to visit the custom’s men in the World Trade Centre. Then he called a press conference in City Hall. He strode into the room and started speaking almost before he had reached the microphone. He was a small man, with rich black hair, wide eyes and a mouth that was big in every sense. His family were in the tailoring business but you wouldn’t have guessed it from his generally sloppy manner of dressing.
He spoke quickly, ‘I’m sorry to call you guys here at short notice, I know you like to have a lie-in after the weekend.’ The waiting reporters laughed politely – it was a joke they had heard more than twice before. ‘But I’m pleased about something and I’m on fire about something. I guess I’m wild too. You could even describe me as pissed-off. And you guys know how I like to let go.’
They did indeed. Silver had got where he was by letting go. He was a professional at indignation, a master at being the outraged and innocent victim. It was no bad thing either, in its way. In fact, it was an astute political skill. People – voters – have feelings. Sometimes they have strong feelings. They don’t always want their political representatives to see both sides of an issue. Sometimes they want to be shown that their prejudices are shared and respectable enough to be said out loud. This is what Silver saw himself as: a mouthpiece.
‘What am I pleased about? I’m going to tell you. What am I steamed up about? I’ll get to that later. I’m pleased, very pleased, with our boys in customs. Eleven million dollars worth of heroin isn’t peanuts. Maybe that’s five hundred kids here in New York who won’t end up as junk. Maybe more. Those guys in customs, Charlie Winter and his fellow officers, deserve a big slap on the back. They took some risks but it worked out. I’ve written their boss, the Secretary of the Budget, and recommended a bonus. I have a copy of the letter here. The city is going to honour them, too, and I want you peopl
e in the press to push it. There’s enough bad news in your goddamn rags – like pictures of my ugly mug – so here’s some good news for a change.
‘Now, what am I steamed up about? Well, it will take a little longer to explain so if you need to change the tape in your recorder, or you want to go to the john, do it now.’
Silver paused and grinned. He knew he was good copy. It was the best way of getting his message into the goddamn rags untampered with.
‘What I’m steamed up about is that two of these darned heroin dealers turn out to be illegal immigrants. We pay enough in goddamn taxes to stop this sort of thing but still it goes on. And I’m hopping crazy, I’m melting with rage that these two pushers are illegal Sicilian immigrants. Let me remind you of the last time some illegal Sicilian immigrants made headlines in this country. It was a few days before the great sale of Vatican treasures here in New York, at St Patrick’s Cathedral. A painting, a priceless old master as you may recall, was slashed at the Getty Museum in California. The Mafia did that because they wanted to get back at the Pope, they wanted revenge because his fund in Sicily had proved so effective. Then there was that business at Oakland airport. What seemed like an accidental fire in a warehouse and a failure of the runway lights, just as a 727 was landing, turned out to be part of a protection racket. The 727 left the runway, killing thirty-six. No one was ever caught, but the word was that Sicilian immigrants, illegal Sicilian immigrants who had left Italy because of the Pope’s fund, were responsible for that too and got some hefty payoffs from Oakland airport authority so it wouldn’t happen again.
‘Now, I’ve always been a great fan of Pope Thomas, and not just because he’s an American. What he’s been doing, selling off those pictures and putting the money into charity work is really neat.’ Silver spread his arms. ‘Or I was a great fan. Until last night. This morning, now, I’m still a fan – but part of me is fuming. And that’s what I want to tell you about. Last night, very late, I went down to customs to congratulate those guys. And what do I find? I find that these two Sicilians, one of whom is in hospital at your expense and mine, one of whom is in prison at your expense and mine, have also been forced to leave Sicily because of the Pope’s fund.’