Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  While Vinda was outside the alcove, Marsella leaned close to Hagstrom and whispered, “How’d you like to have dinner later?”

  Brushing her hair off her shoulders, she lowered her eyes and whispered, “Why, sir, you’re a married man.”

  “I don’t park my car in that garage anymore.”

  “Where have I ever heard that song before?”

  “Are we having fun yet?” a familiar voice asked Vinda from behind.

  Vinda turned and was taken aback by the blazing chartreuse in Pollack’s oversized bow tie. “David? Where do you get the nerve to wear those ties?”

  “When you’re secure with yourself, my policeman friend, you can wear whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  Brushing an imaginary hair off the reporter’s blue pea coat, Vinda said, “I owe you one.”

  The reporter shrugged indifference and, jerking a thumb at the bar, asked, “Listen, and tell me what you hear.”

  Vinda’s ears pricked. Ice tinkled above the swirl of hushed conversations. “Ice.”

  “Ice,” Pollack echoed. “Do you realize that this is the only bar in town where the ice cubes make more noise than the customers? And do you further realize that any one of those whispering paranoids at the bar could be your killer?”

  “Cops are xenophobic, David, they’re not killers.”

  A waiter darted past them, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “Have you come up with anything in your newspaper’s files?”

  “Not yet. I’ve gone back four years and come up dry. I’ll keep trying.”

  “Thanks,” Vinda said, and walked off into the bathroom. Standing at the urinal, he became aware of a hurried movement beside him, and looked to see the chief of patrol staring down into the urinal.

  “I hear there has been a leak to the press,” the C-of-P muttered.

  Stiffly courteous, Vinda zippered up and said, “’At’s funny, I haven’t heard a thing.” He turned and left the room.

  Returning to the alcove, Vinda found the team exchanging ideas about the case. He noticed that someone had placed a glass on top of the page containing the list of forty names. He removed it, noticing the brown ring the glass had made on the paper. Absentmindedly he took out his pen and wrote on the fold, “Blood and murder weapon?”

  Moose looked at the writing and asked, “You think that’s the way we should go, Lou?”

  “I think we have to figure out how this guy does his number without leaving a blood trail. There is just no way he can kill like that and not be steeped in blood,” Vinda said.

  The detectives retreated into their own thoughts.

  “A condom,” Agueda offered.

  “A what?” Marsella asked.

  “You know,” Hagstrom said, “one of those rubbery things that men slide on their thing before they do it. But a big one—a body condom. He puts it on before he does his thing, and takes it off when he’s finished.”

  “And what about in a public place like Rue St. Jacques?” Moose asked.

  Digging a chunk of cheese out of the tub, Vinda said, “He ducks in someplace, slips it on, does his number, takes it off, and stashes it in a bag or briefcase.”

  “Sort of a wetsuit,” Marsella said, rubbing his chin. “I got a detective friend of mine in Hawaii who could solve this caper for us.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Vinda said. “He wears a white hat and has a thin, drooping mustache, and his name is Charlie.”

  “Charlie Chan, how’d you know that?” Marsella said.

  “I’m the Whip, I’m supposed to know those things,” Vinda said, getting up. “It’s late. I’ll see you in the ayem.”

  Twenty-three minutes after Vinda had left Corregidor, a bedroom telephone rang inside a brick ranch-type home in Plainview, New York. Wendy Marsella’s bare arm stretched across the bed, and pulled the receiver to her ear.

  “Hi, honey, how are you and the kids?” Tony Marsella asked his wife.

  She sat up in bed, keeping the phone close to her mouth. “Where are you, Tony, at the station?”

  “I’m still at work, honey. How’s everything?”

  “Fine. The children are both at sleep-overs.”

  “During the week? What about school and homework?”

  “They’re doing their homework at their friends’.”

  “Honey, Frank, my fireman friend, is having a poker game at his house tonight. Would you mind if I sat in for a few hands?”

  “Of course not, honey, you need a little relaxation.”

  “If it gets too late, I might sack out in the office.”

  “Just let me know either way so I don’t worry.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Me too.”

  As she slipped the phone into its cradle, a hand came out from under the blanket and caressed her naked back. “What did he say?”

  “He’s playing cards at your house.”

  FIFTEEN

  In her rent-controlled apartment on Bethune Street in Greenwich Village, Adriene Agueda lay in bed dressed in underpants and a white terrycloth robe. She was half-watching a late-night movie, half-listening to the Cajun music filtering down from the apartment upstairs, snacking on the contents of a box of puffed rice, and going over the details of the case. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that the perp was wearing some kind of a body condom in order not to leave a blood trail when he fled the scenes.

  She propped her head higher on the pillow and looked over at the photograph of Vinda atop the oak dresser. He was dressed in faded jeans and a yellow shirt; his black forelock hung carelessly over his forehead, and he was sporting that devilish grin that had made her fall in love with him long ago. She had taken the picture during one of their many Central Park picnics. She became increasingly conscious of her body, and pressed her legs together and sighed, remembering the incredible sensations she had experienced every time they made love. She rubbed her eyes hard, as if trying to blot out the painful memory of him telling her it was over. “Adriene, I’ve met someone,” he had begun, avoiding her eyes. Just like him to be painfully honest. Why couldn’t he have lied? Why couldn’t he have loved me as much as I loved him? I’m tired of listening to myself list all the “why couldn’ts,” she thought, and smiled sadly.

  She got out of bed and snapped off the television, then slipped off her robe, tossed it across the bed, and crawled under the blanket, accompanied by the jamboree music of “Tipitina.” She raised her head up off the pillow for one last look at him, switched off the light, and went to sleep, trying hard not to think about Vinda.

  The distinctive silhouette of the United Nations Secretariat Building stood out against the night sky.

  Worthington was standing in his bedroom, looking out across the river at the lights of Queens. He was barefoot, dressed in a long black silk robe that had scrolled piping on the cuffs. I need inspiration, he thought, watching the blinking running lights of a helicopter over the river. Walking away from the window, he went to the living room, where he took Valarie’s dry cleaning off a chair, scooped up the bag of personal hygiene articles he had purchased in the supermarket, and walked into his wife’s bedroom. He switched on the lights and moved to the wall closet. Sliding one side of the double doors open, he pushed clothes aside and hung up the dry cleaning. He slid that side of the closet closed, and pushed open the other. Seven shelves rose vertically from the carpeted floor, and were crammed with neatly stacked feminine hygiene articles and cosmetics. Taking the new items out of the shopping bag, he put each one on top neatly in the appropriate place.

  Sliding the door closed, he turned to see Valarie kneeling on her prie-dieu. He liked how her black habit flowed gently over her body, concealing her from the rest of the world.

  As he wandered through the apartment, he was thinking about alternative ways to carry out his mission. This time he was going to send Him a worthy offering.

  Walking over to the console table in the foyer, he looked down at the week’s worth of unopened mail. I
dly going through the pile, he came across an orange flyer bordered in black. He pulled it out and read that The Women’s Register was holding a rally next Monday night to protest the discriminatory pricing policies of the pharmaceutical industry. May Gold would be introducing the guest speaker, Dr. Florence Myers, former CEO of Bristol Cosmetics. He reread the flyer, amazed that his prayers had been answered so quickly. But sooner or later, they were always answered.

  A little after two that morning, a taxi stopped at Roosevelt Avenue and Sixty-fourth Street in Woodside, Queens. Worthington paid the driver and got out. His greatcoat reached down to his cowboy boots, and his brown corduroy trousers were cuffed. A silk scarf was jauntily wrapped around his neck, and a white Cordoban hat sat on his head. He was carrying a stout oak walking stick.

  Strolling toward Sixty-second Street, his nose wrinkled at an appalling stench of urine as he passed a man sleeping inside his cardboard-box hovel in the doorway of a cinderblocked store. Reaching into his pocket, taking out a wad of money, he peeled off a single fifty-dollar bill and tucked it into the sleeping man’s hand. “Things’ll get better, ol’ friend.”

  Fitzgerald’s, a dingy and cheerless bar, was on the west side of Sixty-second, about forty feet in from Roosevelt Avenue. As you entered, the bar was on the right, running about twenty feet toward double doors that led into a kitchen. To the left was an elevated area with tables and chairs. In the rear, two doors opened into filthy toilets. Five men and one woman sat at the bar, most drinking shots and beers, the way serious career drinkers take their booze.

  Worthington threw open the door and walked inside like he owned the place. What little conversation there had been stopped as he came in. He gallantly tipped his hat to a woman half-falling off her barstool. Reaching the end of the bar, he smashed his stick across it and roared, “Innkeeper, drinks for my friends.”

  Stonefaced, the bartender, a wiry little man with a great mole on the side of his nose, came over and said coldly, “They only drink with friends.” His brogue had all the warmth and welcome of Catholic Belfast for English troops.

  “Aye, if assholes could fly, this place would surely be an airport,” the actor lamented, smiling and quickly adding in a light brogue, “They’re me misguided friends. Give ’em all a drink on Dinny’O.” Leaning over the bar, he pointed his walking stick at another man behind the bar who was bending over, scooping up garbage, and dumping it into a can. “And give himself a drink, too,” Worthington ordered.

  The other man had massive shoulders and iron gray hair cut close to his scalp. His dungarees had slipped down, revealing the elastic band of his grimy underwear and the upper crack of his ass.

  “Hello, Otto,” Worthington called to him. He strolled over to the elevated part of the bar, where he removed his coat and hat, carefully put them across a table, and sat down.

  Ignoring the newcomer, the man called Otto pushed the garbage can up against the wall. Then he crossed to the upraised area, pulled back a chair, and sat facing Worthington.

  A somber expression came over Worthington’s face as he looked at Otto and said, “Aye, ’tis a sad day when the likes of you is relegated to sweeping floors.”

  The bartender came over. Worthington ordered: “A bottle of Dom Perignon ’85.”

  Otto said flatly, “Two beers.”

  As the barman walked off, Otto looked expressionlessly at the newcomer. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “It saddens me to think that you don’t remember your old boyhood friend from the Cincinnati School, the same feller who used to stunt with you in the movies.”

  Slowly, Otto’s expression showed some faint cheerfulness. He asked in an unsure tone, “Is it really you?”

  “Aye, Otto, it’s really me.”

  “But your face, it’s all changed. You look completely different. But not your voice. It’s the same.”

  “We can talk about that later. Tell me, ol’ friend, you still in the same business?”

  The barman came over, set down two beers, and left. Otto picked up his mug, drank, wiped froth from his lips with the back of his hand, and said, “I might be. Why?”

  “Friends in Miami sent me a shopping list.”

  “What are they looking for?”

  “Something that will convey a proper message.”

  Otto drank. “A proper message, is it? And to whom are these friends of yours planning on sending these tidings?”

  “I don’t think you want to know that, my friend.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Otto said, drinking more beer and adding, “I can let you have some M-545s, fragmentation and frag-incendiaries. I also have two hundred and seventeen impact frags with time-delay fuses.”

  “Nothing more … imaginative?”

  “Ednons with electronic delay fuses.”

  “Claymores?” Worthington asked, as he raised his mug to his mouth.

  “Maybe. But they’re very hard to get.”

  “Plastique?”

  “Semtex in bars.”

  Worthington said, “Dinny’O has a long shopping list for his old comrade.”

  Vinda walked along Centre Street, past the old headquarters building, looking up with fond remembrance at the Romanesque dome, and shaking his head with dismay when he saw the LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS FOR SALE sign attached to the façade. Walking on, he glanced in at a store’s display windows, noticing the new lathes and drill presses that were sold in this part of town.

  Morning traffic had gridlocked Spring Street, resulting in the strident blasts of clamorous horns.

  Nearing Kenmare Street, he ducked into a doorway and climbed the rickety staircase to the first floor, where the peeling inscription on the door read, SOL WEINTRAUB, INDUSTRIAL CLOTHING.

  A waist-high counter ran from wall to wall, and beyond, rows of metal racks containing bins filled with plastic-wrapped uniforms covered the worn wooden floors. To the right, past the counter, was a rolltop desk, its pigeonholes stuffed with invoices. Sitting there with his feet up on the pull-out board was a man of sixty or so with a mane of white hair, tapping a pencil as he diligently went about digesting the daily Racing Form.

  Sol Weintraub was a retired bookmaker who had gotten himself swept up in the Knapp Commission investigation into police corruption in the early seventies and had done a year inside for contempt of court for refusing to testify against accused policemen. Upon his release from prison, he’d gone into the industrial uniform business. Because of his deep blue eyes, Sol had long ago been dubbed Solly Blue Eyes.

  “Morning, Solly,” Vinda said, lifting up the counter and walking inside.

  A grin of recognition spread across Solly Blue Eyes’ face when he swung his feet to the floor and saw Vinda. “Long time no see, John. I heard they banished you to no-cop land.”

  “I got time off for good behavior,” Vinda said, nodding at the Racing Form and adding, “I see you’re still at it.”

  “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, “I’m still looking for that one big score that’s gonna make me even. You always figure the next race, but it never comes.” He shrugged, asked, “What brings you here?”

  “Industrial uniforms. Is there such a thing as a body condom? Something strong and pliable that can be gotten on and off fast and folded so that it would fit inside a briefcase or a knapsack?”

  “What you’re looking for is called a ‘clean suit.’ It’s made of Saronex and is so tightly woven that it’s impervious to dust and solvents. They’re used in sterile work environments. Pharmaceutical houses, microchip manufacturers.”

  “Would they be waterproof?”

  “Of course, nothing can penetrate them. Water would just roll off.”

  So would blood, Vinda thought, asking, “Do you sell them?”

  Solly Blue Eyes went off down the aisle and reached up into a bin. He pulled down a wrapped clean suit, came over to Vinda, and tossed it to him.

  Vinda pulled it out of its plastic, and shook it out of its folds. There was a white overjacket and pants, a
nd also a hood with a glass face plate and a white cape that went over the shoulders. The glass face plate had breathing holes. There were also orange neoprene gloves that taped at the wrist with silver duct tape, and overboots of the same material that sealed at the knees with duct tape.

  Vinda put the suit on over his clothes. Walking about, swinging his arms and kicking out his legs, he tested the suit’s pliability. He had the sensation of being inside a space suit. The perp wouldn’t have to wear the entire suit, he reasoned; all he would need was a covering to take that first gush of blood. He could then turn his victim away so that the spurting blood would not get all over him. Working his way over to Solly Blue Eyes, Vinda asked, “Do they come with mouth openings?”

  “That would defeat their purpose. You’d have snot, spit, nose hair, saliva, and all sorts of germs falling all over the place, and that’d be the end of your sterile environment.”

  Vinda undid the suit and stepped out of it. Holding it up by its shoulders, he examined it thoroughly.

  “Whaddaya looking for?”

  “I’m looking to see if you could make a mouth cutout in the face plate.”

  “Of course you could. But you can remove the glass entirely.”

  Vinda brought the suit over to the counter and spread it out. He began refolding it along its crease lines. It folded into a box configuration about fifteen inches by seven inches. He pressed down on it, forcing out the air and flattening the suit. The perp could wear the top part of this outfit to keep the blood off himself, he thought, and it would be a simple matter to roll it up after he was done and conceal it under a coat or a jacket. But what if it was dripping blood? He certainly wouldn’t put it on his own person; he’d stash it someplace quickly, and he wouldn’t take time to fold it. The witness to the Sutton Place homicide had stated she’d seen him wearing a knapsack.