Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  Webster’s voice halted Vinda. “During your time in the department, haven’t you ever bent rules?”

  Vinda smiled. “Good-bye, Mr. Webster.”

  Sunbeams speared through the clerestory windows, illuminating the central portion of Saint George’s Church with bright sunlight. Inside the church, a scattering of people praying and meditating knelt in the pews, their eyes fixed on the altar’s golden tabernacle.

  A passerby, his tan cashmere overcoat draped over his shoulders, stood at the bottom of the wide steps, looking up at the church’s spires towering over the new nineplex movie theater at First Avenue and Thirty-second Street. His gaze fell to the massive bronze doors that depicted Christ in His Majesty and Abraham leaving the sepulcher. He put his foot up on the first step and then withdrew it. Clutching both lapels, he debated with himself whether or not to enter the Eternal One’s house. Perhaps He would give him a sign, perhaps He would listen to his pleas. He sucked in a mouthful of air and went quickly up the steps.

  Entering the marble vestibule, he looked down at the bénitier and, without realizing what he was doing, plunged his hand into the holy water. A soothing sensation flowed into his fingers and up his arms, engulfing his body in a sea of tranquillity. Pulling his hand out of the sacramental liquid, he held his dripping fingers up and shook drops of water off of them. Going inside, he slid into the last pew without genuflecting. The bench extended under one of the ambulatory’s arches, and was bathed in shadows. Sitting alone in the darkness, he sat perfectly still, hidden from the world and filled with rage at the injustices he had suffered. Why have You forsaken me? I’ve done everything You have told me to do. What more do You want of me? Tell me. I beg You, don’t allow them to take Valarie away from me. Please, not again.

  He sat for a long time staring out at the altar, aware of the pain gnawing at his stomach. An aching cold had invaded his body, numbing his bones; he pulled his coat tight across his chest. Give me some sign, he prayed, close to despair.

  Movement off to his right made him turn. Three Sisters of Saint Joseph were walking down the aisle. The one in front was young and very beautiful. The watcher’s mouth fell open, and his eyes grew wide in astonished recognition. It was his Valarie. Rising up out of his seat, he watched as she genuflected at the foot of the altar, pushed open the brass gate, and walked up the carpeted steps toward the altar. The Eternal One had sent him His message. He had commanded him to send Him more nuns to replace Valarie. Not one at a time, but several at once. That way their Trinity would grow strong, bonding the three of them together, forever.

  Morty Hymowitz, professionally known as Marshall Hawthorn, for some curious reason liked his friends to call him Vinny. He favored beautifully cut Italian clothes and Gucci accessories. He stood a bit over six feet, loved to dance, and had sharp features that many women called handsome. A slight feral aspect to his face had been remarked on by those who disliked him.

  Vinny was a theatrical agent who relished being seen at his favorite table in the Four Seasons Grill Room, sipping white wine. He enjoyed watching all the important people making their lunchtime deals. Being there, he felt that he was a player, the head gonif in the Land of Gonifs, and not that poor lanky kid from Eastern Parkway who the big kids used to call the skinny asshole.

  Vinny was toying with his wineglass, waiting for his guest to arrive. He usually enjoyed this lunchtime game-playing, but not today. Today he had to deal with his most pain-in-the-ass client, Michael Worthington. Whenever Vinny would suggest that this or that was the way to go on a deal, Worthington would balk, and want to do the opposite. Vinny could never figure out whether he did it because he got off on being a contrary son of a bitch or because he was one of those guys walking around with a constant committee meeting going on in his head.

  Then he saw Worthington coming over to the table with a very unpleasant expression on his face. Glancing disdainfully around the room as he sat down, Worthington said, “You know I don’t do lunch, so why the it’s-important-we-meet phone call?”

  “Two days ago I expressed you the screenplay of Reckless Disregard. Did you read it?”

  “Yes. It’s violent, moronic junk.”

  Vinny hid his dismay and anger behind a false smile. Ignoring his client’s reply, he continued as if he hadn’t heard Worthington. “Paul Hiller called me from the Coast this morning. He’s packaging the movie, and he wants you for the male lead.”

  “I just got done telling you, the screenplay is crap.”

  “Michael, I’ve spoken to at least a dozen other people who’ve read it, and you’re the only one who doesn’t think it’s great.”

  “So sue me.”

  “This movie could make the difference to your career. It’s the lead, Michael. Jeff Wilder is directing, Lawrence Hill did the screenplay, and your friend Jessica Merrill has already agreed to do the female lead. These are all top people. I’m telling you, Michael, this project has real money written all over it.”

  “I’m not interested. And stop bullshitting me. Jessica told me she gave you a ‘maybe’ on this one, not a ‘yes.’”

  The bastard’s tormenting me on purpose, Vinny thought. He mustered every ounce of courage he could, and said, “I’ve worked hard for you, Michael. When you first came to me years ago, you were broke, and didn’t have a decent screen credit to your name. I’ve developed you into one of the industry’s leading supporting actors.” Vinny leaned across the table; his patience had run out. “Christsake, we’re talking about the lead opposite Jessica Merrill. A chance like this comes along but once, if you’re lucky.”

  Worthington let his wrist hang limp over the edge of the table. “Where is it going to be filmed?”

  “Here in Manhattan.”

  Vinny noted, with dawning hope, that Worthington suddenly seemed less negative.

  “What kind of a deal did Hiller offer?”

  Vinny brightened. “Five hundred thousand, five hundred per diem, and, more important, equal billing.”

  “What about a piece?”

  “Negotiable. I can probably get you two points of the net.”

  Worthington picked up his butter knife and began restlessly scraping the blade over the tablecloth. “I’m surprised Jessica has agreed to do another film so soon after the last one.”

  “Jessica wants to stay on top, and she knows the best way to do that is to continue to make good movies.”

  Worthington scanned the elegantly spacious dining room, enjoying Vinny’s discomfort. Finally, without looking at his agent, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Vinny’s shoulders gave a slight sag of relief. “What about you and your wife having dinner with me and my lady friend one night this week? I’ve never met her.”

  “I’ve told you many times, I keep my family life and my professional life separate. I don’t want my wife getting involved in this lunatic business. We keep our social life private.” He picked up a menu and began to study it.

  You scumbag, Vinny thought. So I’m not good enough for you socially. I just keep the money rolling in. Well, pal, what you don’t know is that I’m going to make more money out of Reckless Disregard than you are. And it is a piece of shit!

  On Forty-seventh Street, just west of First Avenue, there is a warren of small street-level stores that are difficult to rent because of their size. Three years ago, Worthington had rented one to use as his own personal exercise room and rehearsal hall. All the walls were mirrored, and the floor shone with polyurethane varnish. Banks of white fluorescent light fixtures hung down from the ceiling. The only furniture in the store was a complete set of home Nautilus exercise machines, a bridge table with a television on top of it, and a folding chair in front of the television.

  Worthington had completed most of the Nautilus circuit and was working on the abdominal machine. He was wearing only shorts, and his body glistened with sweat. His flat stomach showed the strain of the workout. While he went on with his exercise program, he grinned at the irony of his agent’
s desperation. Taking the role in Reckless Disregard would suit him perfectly. It was junk, but it would keep him in New York, freeing him to implement a plan that, had Vinny known about it, would have turned Vinny’s delicious lunch into ashes in his mouth.

  FOURTEEN

  The obelisk-shaped clock tower of the Williamsburg Savings Bank had long been a Brooklyn landmark, its towering dome, holding the tallest four-faced clock in the world, a beacon of a glorious past.

  Vinda parked the department car on Hanson Place. It was bitterly cold outside; the car was filled with warmth and the windows fogged over. He got out and looked across the street at the Long Island Railroad’s Atlantic Avenue station. Walking to the corner, he saw that Bickford’s Restaurant and the adjoining Oyster Bar had been turned into cinderblock tombs. He grimaced in sadness and walked away from the corner, heading for the first homicide victim’s residence on South Elliott Place. He had just come from visiting the Lucas and Johnston crime scenes; both victims had been murdered near their homes. He wondered if the place of occurrence was significant. It was a little before four o’clock, and a sullen winter twilight was gathering on the horizon. He ruminated about his earlier meeting with Malcolm Webster; since that morning he had been suppressing the urge to telephone Sam Staypress and voice his indignation over being set up. He knew better than to do that; the chief of detectives would deny ever having heard of Webster. Vinda would only get angrier and angrier, and might say something stupid to his boss. Hurrying along, he saw that the wholesale meat market on Sixth Avenue was closed for the day. The butchers began their day at two in the morning and ended it around 9:00 A.M. Empty trucks were parked parallel to the curb, and most of the premises were shuttered behind steel accordion doors. Scurrying cats scavenged scraps of offal. Other creatures lurked inside of doorways, behind trucks—two-legged creatures prepared to rob, mug, and rape. As Vinda neared South Elliott Place, his cop instincts alerted him to danger. He reached inside his coat, slid out his .38 Colt detective special revolver, and thrust it into his overcoat pocket.

  “Yo, mah man,” someone called out to him.

  Vinda continued walking fast, his hand tightening around the checkered grips of his gun. He heard movement behind him and spun around. There were two of them, one tall and white, the other short and black, both wearing the junkie’s uniform of the day: dirty, torn jeans, old worn sneakers, T-shirt under olive-drab field jacket. The taller one had on a Yankee baseball cap, its bill turned sideways. Their faces had long ago become masks of despair, with glazed, sunken eyes. The white guy was twitching and shivering, holding a filthy rag to his running nose. Vinda thought wearily, Here come the fun-time twins, Lamont Scumbag and Danny Dickbrain.

  “Yo, mah man, got a match?” the taller one called.

  “Yo, Lamont, you got any hope of recovering from your wounds?” Vinda shot back.

  The shorter of the two began shuffling and twisting in a dance of arrogance. “You t’ink you bees a bad motherfucker. Bro, I ain’t ehfreid of jou.”

  “Wha’ motherfuckin’ wounds?” the taller one asked, approaching warily.

  “The ones I be puttin’ in you with this,” Vinda announced, aiming his revolver at the tall one’s face.

  “’eeeeeeeet, man, we only be wantin’ a match,” the taller one said, turning and swaggering off. His partner glared at Vinda, spat on the ground, and then followed him.

  Vinda watched their backs until they disappeared around a corner.

  South Elliott Place was a block of row houses waging a winning war against the pestilence of decay and drugs. The Lucas home was halfway down the street and had small planters of hardy ivy decorating both sides of the steps. Two signs were attached to a pole sunk into the well-tended plot of yellowish green grass. One said KEEP OUR COMMUNITY CLEAN, the other, JUNKIES NEED NOT APPLY.

  A tall, attractive black woman in her mid-thirties peered out from behind the door curtains. Her pleated white skirt and tan sweater were set off by a long strand of black pearls. “Lieutenant Vinda?”

  “Yes,” he said, producing his shield.

  She opened the door and stepped aside. “I’m Vanessa Brown, Mary Lucas’s sister.”

  He took off his coat and placed it in her waiting hand. She hung it on the wall rack just inside the vestibule and said, “Lieutenant, my mother is not well. My sister’s death has devastated her. I really don’t see why it is necessary for you to interview her.”

  “Mrs. Brown, your mother might possess some scrap of information that could set us on the right course. It’s important, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  She sighed in mild annoyance and led him through a large living room with chintz-covered furniture and a floral carpet, and into the side parlor that served as a den and television room. An old woman dressed in mourning black sat slumped in a heavy armchair with doilies on both the arms. Her deeply wrinkled face still bore traces of her youthful beauty. Vanessa Brown introduced the policeman to her mother and went and stood behind her, protective hands planted firmly on her mother’s shoulders. The old lady sat staring off into her own sorrowful void, her fingers moving rapidly over a rosary. Her dazed eyes looked up at the policeman and she said in a quavering voice, “Mary was a good girl.”

  “Yes, I know,” he answered in a sympathetic voice.

  “Mary was a good girl,” she repeated. “Everyone liked my Mary.” Her fingers gripped the beads. “My Mary was a good girl.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Vanessa Brown pleaded.

  He looked at the grief-stricken women and thought, Enough is enough! “Thank you,” he said softly, and walked out of the room.

  Back in the living room, he noticed the pictures on the baby grand piano next to the window. One of them drew him over. “Our family,” Vanessa said, coming over and standing next to him.

  One of the pictures in front was of a policeman standing beside an old-style RMP sedan. The green-and-blues had been off patrol since the seventies, and the green metal box visible under the rear window, which contained the RMP’s rifles, had been taken out of radio cars in the early fifties. The husky patrolman wore the old-type cartridge bandolier around his gunbelt. “Our dad,” she said. “He was the first black policeman ever assigned to the Sixty-first Precinct.”

  “I didn’t know your dad was on the Job,” he said, giving the photograph his full attention while he recalled the old-style sedans with the radios that never seemed to be able to receive ungarbled transmissions. The department had come a long way since the first radio-equipped car cruised the city in 1917. “What year was this taken?”

  “I’m not sure. Dad was appointed in 1946, and put in thirty-five years before he retired. We lost him five years ago in a freak accident.” She looked at him with new intensity. “The media is full of Jessica Merrill, and the murders on Sutton Place and in Rue St. Jacques, but not one mention is made of my sister. Don’t black women count, Lieutenant?”

  People moved back and forth in Corregidor’s tunnels; middle-aged men gathered around the bar, talking in muted tones while their suspicious eyes watched the crowd. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, its plumes separating and floating upward, disappearing into vents in the carved hardwood canopy.

  Marsella and Moose Ryan had arrived a little before six, and had appropriated one of the scarce alcove tables. They were going over their notes, sipping drinks, and digging chunks of cheddar from the tub, when the rest of the team arrived. Getting halfway up from his seat, Marsella waved to them. Vinda nodded. Moving toward the alcove, Vinda scanned the bar and spotted Agent Orange and his coterie huddled at the end. Vinda and the chief of patrol exchanged blank stares.

  “Anything?” Vinda asked, walking into the alcove and pulling a chair back from the table.

  “Lou, we spent the day at the Department of Mental Health. The sick ones are in hospitals, and the ones that aren’t so sick are in group houses or some sort of work program,” Marsella said.

  “We spoke with one of the shrinks, and he told
us that there is no real way of telling which sicko is our sicko,” Moose said, pulling a folded page from his jacket. “Here are forty possibilities who might fit the bill. You can see from their diagnoses that they all have direct lines to J.C.”

  Vinda unfolded the sheet and studied the list. “Lou, checking out all those names is gonna mean that we need more people to help us. The four of us can’t do it all,” Marsella said.

  “Remember the pipe bomber? It took almost fifteen years to nail him by checking records,” Agueda chimed in.

  “We’ll do what we have to do, but we’re going to get this guy,” Vinda said. “So we just keep punching.”

  Marsella signaled the waiter for a round of drinks. A flurry of activity made them look toward the entrance, where they saw the chief of detectives arriving with his retinue. Leventhal peeled away from the others and came over to Vinda. “May I see you a minute, John?”

  Vinda got up and walked outside the alcove. The C-of-D assumed the position, hand partly across his mouth, and confided, “Pollack and his editor know about the similarities of the wounds in the Webster and Camatro homicides.”

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter how. The point is that they know. The up side is that David Pollack has convinced his editor that revealing that information could jeopardize our investigation, and his editor agreed to sit on it for a while.”

  “Looks like I owe David one.”

  “Perhaps you should let him win at backgammon once.”

  “There are limits, Chief.”

  “I find it strange that they didn’t connect the Lucas and Johnston homicides,” Leventhal said thoughtfully.

  Vinda looked down the bar and directed a nasty look at Agent Orange. “Their stool didn’t know about the other two.”

  Leventhal gave Vinda a cynical smile. “That prick.” He carefully adjusted his tie, tugged down his suit jacket, and said, “I’ve got an appointment.” He moved off into the tunnel that fed into the main dining room. Vinda watched him heading toward the detectives waiting for him, and then noticed an attractive female detective standing in the middle of the group. She was giving the chief of detectives a warm smile.