Material Witness

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  At last she reached Ferrara’s and ordered a double-shotted café latté, which she drank down immediately, and then another with, this time, a truncate cone of the establishment’s legendary rum cake. This produced in her an effect similar to that which drug scene habitués achieve by downing Quaaludes and amphetamines together, although with considerably less fetotoxicity: a lightness of mind that is all the more beguiling because it precedes total oblivion.

  Thus primed, she found herself able to arrive at a course of action. She still had some misgivings; the plan might require her to dissemble just a trifle with Karp. This was her chief concern, that and the possibility that she might end no better than she started with respect to information. That she might be killed in the process barely crossed her mind.

  When she returned to the loft, she called Harry Bello at home. The phone rang for half a minute before Bello’s whispery voice came on the line. Without preamble she invited him to dinner that evening, lasagna. She doubted that he would plead a previous engagement, and he didn’t.

  He said simply, “Thank you,” and she said, “Around six-thirty,” and that was it. My most gnomic relationship, she thought, and started to arrange her little kitchen for serious cooking.

  They picked Francine Del Fazio up easily at the corner of Crosby and Howard, whipping the car swiftly around the corner—a leap, a muffled scream, and it was over. One second a woman was striding along a dingy street and the next she was gone. Carmine had to admit that Joey was good with his body.

  He heard the struggles in the backseat subside. “Joey,” he said, “we need her alive. We gotta talk to her, remember?”

  “Hey, she’s fine,” said Joey happily. “She’s gonna stay alive and awake for the whole thing, as long as I want. Ain’t you, sugar?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bello arrived, fashionably late at seven, looking worn and smaller than she remembered, clutching a bottle of Bardolino. He was only mildly drunk. Marlene was wearing her red Chinese jacket outfit for the occasion, giving her the look of one of those toys that pops up after you knock it down. He offered the wine wordlessly as he moved into the loft, his deep-set eyes taking in the room in one sweep. Marlene saw his eyes cast around again, more slowly this time, and when his eyebrow moved up a fraction of an inch, she said, “He’s in Atlanta. Just us burnt-out Italians tonight. You hungry?”

  “I could eat, yeah,” said Bello, and she ushered him to the dining zone. A dinner with Harry Bello, she found, was easily distinguishable from one with Oscar Wilde; the cop ate steadily and with good appetite, acknowledging Marlene’s comments with monosyllables between bites, and succeeded in consuming two-thirds of a lasagna the size of the Manhattan Yellow Pages. Marlene talked throughout the meal, about Italian cooking, about Queens and cops she knew that Bello might know, trying to draw him out, to find the person beneath the cryptic style. She also filled him in on what she’d learned through Karp and Stupenagel about Leona Simmons.

  In the end, after having eaten all he could, and having drunk five-sixths of the wine, with the espresso and biscotti on the table, Bello, who might be a drunk but was no boor, began to yield before Marlene’s assiduous pumping.

  He had, it emerged, been married to the same woman for twenty-six years, had been with the cops since he got back from Korea, and still lived in the same house he had bought on the GI Bill the year after Doris and he were married. Doris had wanted him to go to college on the Bill too, but he liked the cops and he thought he was too antsy to sit in a classroom.

  Doris had taught first grade. They never had any kids, a buried sadness. But two city paychecks—they had a nice life, and Marlene sensed that the romance that had blossomed in high school had never faded, preserved, as by a minor miracle, through the sexual katzenjammer of the sixties and despite the many temptations that drop in the path of New York police detectives.

  He also talked about working Brooklyn homicide in the old days, watching as wave after wave of gangsters succeeded one another, keeping time with the changing demographics of New York: Irish, Jewish, Italian, now American and Jamaican black; even more recently various new immigrants from the mysterious East—Odessa to Saigon—had cut into the action. They all seemed to affect the same style of flash and often chose the same corpse-disposal areas as their predecessors. They talked for a while about the blackened underside of the famous melting pot; the old days were better.

  Harry told a good story when he got warmed up. The star of all the stories was Jim Sturdevant, the dead partner, the bravest, the best friend, the best cop …

  After one of these tales, Marlene said, tentatively, “Yeah, it must have been a real shocker when he died. How did it go down?”

  Bello’s face froze and the life seemed to vanish from his eyes. His eyes closed in a long blink and then he looked away from her. He cleared his throat. He cleared his throat again, but nothing emerged.

  Marlene reached across the table and clasped his hand. He started to jerk it back, then relaxed and let her hold it.

  “What do you want from me?” he said, his voice husky and strained.

  “You want to know? I’ll tell you,” she said. “OK, two things. One is, I feel for you. You had some rough knocks. Your wife dies. Your partner gets killed, and not only does he get killed but in a way that you can’t even think about, much less talk about. You were … you think you fucked up in some way, that’s why he died. You’re carrying the guilt.

  “No, let me finish. This isn’t cheap psychology. I’m feeling this. I look at you, I see my brother, Dom. I don’t know what happened to him in the fucking war, because he won’t talk about it any more than you’ll talk about what happened with Jim, but I know he went away a bright, funny kid and he came back like you are now. He does odd jobs our dad gets him. He could drink you under the table, believe me.

  “So we have this case dropped in our laps. I’m in it because—I don’t know—I can’t just sit. I thought I could, but I’m not made that way. I’ve got to find out. I got to! You’re the same way, except you don’t want to know what happened to your partner. You killed your curiosity. So you’ve retired from the detective business. You can’t really work on the Simmons case. It’s too painful to use that terrific mind you have, so you’re kicking it to pieces. It’s like watching a moron child tear apart a beautiful antique clock. So cut it out! That’s the first thing. Cut it the fuck out!”

  Bello didn’t say anything for a long time. The only sound was breathing and the refrigerator’s cycle and the distant traffic on Broadway. At last Marlene said, “You want some more coffee?”

  Bello nodded and she rose to fill up the little stove-top espresso maker. Then he said, “What do you believe in?”

  Marlene was used to the elisions and non sequiturs that passed for conversation with Harry Bello. She could fill in behind them. She turned to face him and patted her belly. “I believe in this. Plus love, I believe in the healing power of it. At moments I believe in the Holy and Apostolic Catholic Church. Family. A short list.”

  “The job?”

  “Oh, yeah, how soon we forget,” she said with a grim laugh. “Do I believe in Justice? You know, Karp gives a little speech to the green attorneys we take in every year. Something like, abandon hope all ye who enter here. Lasciate ogni speranza. You’re not going to change things, you’re not going to stop crime, things will get worse with every passing year. Being a pro is doing the right thing despite all that. It’s its own reward. And so on.”

  Bello’s eyes narrowed and his mouth relaxed into a shadowy smile. “Does it work?” he asked.

  Marlene shrugged. “Fuck if I know. It works for me. Butch believes it.” The coffee was ready and she poured the inky brew into regular cups. She placed a cube of sugar on her tongue and drank, letting the coffee swirl past its sweetness.

  Bello smiled again. “My grandma used to do that.”

  “Mine still does. So. What’s it gonna be, Bello? You gonna straighten up? Get it together? I tell you w
hat, and this is my final offer.” She pointed to her belly with her thumb. “You got nothing to live for? I’ll let you be a godfather to the kid here. Take an interest. Protect her from the devil and all his works. And we’ll catch the bad guy. What d’ya say?”

  Bello laughed, a soundless chuckle, shaking his head. Marlene giggled. He said, “You’re a piece of work, you know that, Ciampi?”

  “And you too, Bello,” she said.

  He sobered. “The thing is, though, I’m off the case.”

  “You’re what!”

  “This morning, after I talked to you. McKelway, the watch commander, called me in and told me to turn all the Simmons stuff over to Darryl Fence. No, Marlene, I didn’t fight it. Face facts, I been fucking the dog for a year now. Like you said a while back—maybe there’s this big investigation and Simmons is part of it. It means amateur hour is over.”

  “Shit, Bello, what’ll you do now?”

  “I don’t know. Same as always: sign in and sign out. Cash my check. They got me helping the arson squad—somebody’s torching buildings over by Long Island City. I’ll live.”

  “But … ah, shit, Harry! We were doing good.”

  “Yeah, well, not good enough. McKelway said the decision came down from way, way up.” He finished his coffee. “What the hell, I don’t sleep anyway,” he said, half to himself.

  “I’m going to keep at it,” Marlene said, her jaw stiffening.

  “You can try. Fence is pretty good. A couple of nice collars. But he’s not gonna give you the time of day.”

  “I wouldn’t ask him,” Marlene snapped. “What about Leona? Did somebody pick her up?”

  “I guess not. Fence didn’t mention it.”

  Bello stood up and looked around for his coat. “I got to go,” he said. “Thanks for the lasagna. And the rest of it.”

  “The two-dollar lecture. You think I’m a schmuck, right?”

  “No, I don’t. You know something? Since Jim and Doris passed away, I haven’t touched anybody I wasn’t arresting, or a stiff, until tonight.”

  “That’s shitty, man. Enough to drive you to drink.” She handed him his coat and kissed him on the cheek. He put on the coat, and as he turned to go, he asked, “What was the second thing?”

  “Huh?”

  “The second thing. You said you wanted two things from me, but you never got to number two.”

  “Yeah. Number two was I want you to set up a meet between me and John Doone.”

  He stared at her. Behind his eyes she could almost see the stainless steel gears whirling as he calculated, balanced, figured, ran through conversations, and came up with the answer.

  A full minute passed. Then Bello nodded slowly and said, “Wednesday.”

  Marlene expected Bello to call the next day, Saturday, telling her that the meet with John Doone had been set up. There was no call. By noon on the Tuesday she was getting worried, but had resolved to trust Bello and not to nag.

  She was called instead by Ariadne, this time at a decent hour, the early afternoon.

  “Stupe, it’s two in the afternoon. I thought you’d still be in bed.”

  “How do you know I’m not?” she replied, and then in a shrill, breathless tone, “Faster, Duane, faster! Use your tongue.”

  “Duane?”

  “Just a little jest, Marlene, to enliven your dull days. Actually, I’m calling from the St. Regis, where I have just had my second interview with La Mackey.”

  “How did the first one go?” asked Marlene.

  “It was beyond boring. Names dropped like rain. And clothes. We toured the wardrobe. It took forever and a day.”

  “It sounds like fun. You always did like clothes, Stupe.”

  “I won’t dignify that with a reply, especially coming from someone who positively lusted after my closet for years.…”

  “And did we find any little clues amid the Diors?” asked Marlene sweetly.

  “No, no, Marlene, what we were doing, if you remember, was establishing a premise for our growing intimacy. Which I did. Now we meet for drinks at the dear old Saint R. to exchange girlish confidences.”

  “And were there any?”

  “As a matter of fact, after the fourth stinger there was a modest gusher. Things are not terribly House and Garden chez Mackey. He doesn’t know how to treat a woman. He plays around. She found Someone, but It Was Not to Be. How deeply shocked she was when he was murdered. I was suitably impressed. No names mentioned, but I was assured that he, the slain lover, was well-known.”

  “Does she have any ideas about who whacked Mr. Wonderful?”

  “Yeah, that’s interesting,” said Stupenagel. “I said, ‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’ and she gave me a knowing look and said, ‘He’s insanely jealous. Insane!’ Then all of a sudden she realizes what she’s said and she goes dead white. She goes, ‘Oh, God, oh, God, please don’t ever say I said that—he’ll kill me,’ and so on, the tears flowing like rain, as they say. Very impressive.”

  “She likes the husband for it?” asked Marlene.

  “Let’s say she’d like it to be him. She’d also like it if he got poked in the eye with a lit cigar. Not a reliable judge.”

  “What’s your take on her, in general?”

  “Mmm … your basic bimbo, with delusions of cultural grandeur; insecure; self-dramatizing. The background is: from a little shitheel town in P.A.; went to Philly to be a ‘dancer,’ although where she actually danced was left vague.”

  “The horizontal foxtrot maybe?” asked Marlene.

  “I doubt it. She doesn’t have that whore’s edge. I’d guess she’d want a ring and the hall hired before spreading the golden thighs. Anyway, met the asshole in Philly, married, one kid, a girl. Besides that, I think she’s really scared shitless. She’s a good little actress, but not that good.”

  “When did she last see Simmons?”

  “This we haven’t determined yet. She was blubbing so much that I figured if I brought Simmons’s name up, I’d need to shove a wooden block between her teeth. Later I’ll call her up and say that a rival reporter is about to link her name with the Simmons murder and the only way to avoid a major scandal is for her to give me the full story, to insure sympathetic treatment.”

  “Sounds good, Stupe. Then we can both drop by Elizabeth Arden to have the slime removed. I love this work!”

  “Leave sentimentality to the bimbos, dear,” said Stupenagel. “The only thing that keeps this affair from degenerating into a sleazy triangle murder is the dope angle. I still have hopes in that department.”

  “Yes, me too,” said Marlene. “I’m trying to wangle an appointment with our local kill-crazy drug baron to see about just that. Also to find out what happened to the flying Leona and, if possible, talk with her.”

  “Sounds interesting. Can I come?”

  “Not a good idea. I think it’ll be hard enough to get him to see one stranger, never mind two. Keep in touch, kid.”

  “Yeah, well, watch your ass. If you get killed, can I have your toys? Or your husband? I still can’t believe you got a tall one. A nice body too, I saw him play on TV. He must be a total schmuck.”

  “Far from it; he is the embodiment of every human virtue, and God’s gift to women,” lied Marlene smugly, thinking, “Or soon will be.”

  Stupenagel sighed. “I must be doing something wrong. Maybe I should turn to the church in my despair. I have a neat diamante cross somebody gave me. I could start right now by praying to St. Regis over vodka gimlets. Hey, you’re a Catholic; is there really a St. Regis?”

  “Yes, he’s the patron saint of rich assholes. So long, Ariadne,” said Marlene and hung up.

  Barely pausing to take a breath, she called Harry Bello’s office and found out why she had not been able to reach him for three days. A cop at the 105th told her that he was in Bellevue, the detox ward. Cursing vigorously, she struggled into warm clothes and hopped a cab uptown to the hospital complex.

  “How did you get in here?” ask
ed Bello sourly from his bed.

  “That’s nice,” she said. “No ‘Good to see you, Marlene.’ No ‘Thanks for the flowers, Marlene, twelve months pregnant you shouldn’t’ve dropped everything and come running up through the fucking sleet to my sickbed, Marlene.’ ” She tossed the plastic-wrapped bouquet she had purchased at the shop downstairs onto his bed. “You know what you can do with these,” she said.

  Bello put a hand over his eyes and shook his head. He looked even more pasty than usual, and the tendons stood out in his neck, like those of a much older man. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sit down.”

  She pulled a guest chair up to the head of his bed and sat.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I got drunk,” he said.

  “So I assume. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “I left your place after dinner. I got in the car. I was feeling groggy, so I pulled over on the other side of the tunnel, in Sunnyside, and took a nap. I slept for about an hour and a half, and then I figured I’d drive over by Long Island City, take another look at the fire scenes. I told you about that?”

  “Yeah. They took you off Simmons and put you on this arson deal.”

  “A piece of shit,” said Bello contemptuously. “You never catch these guys unless it’s some bozo who’s got insurance up the ass and a gas can in his trunk. The owner, understand? But here there’s no reason. One building, a glass jar factory, last boosted the insurance in 1949. The rest of the buildings’re tenements, absentee owners, shitty insurance. Tough for the folks thrown out on the street, especially for the ones that died, but no angle, except a nut, or some kind of fucked-up revenge. I mean, what can you do, arrest everybody in town with matches and a gas card? But it’s arson homicide, so they got me in on it. Detached duty. It means: Keep the asshole out of my hair.