City of the Dead

by Herbert Lieberman

  “Good.”

  “Good?” the Deputy Mayor splutters.

  “I deserve everything I get.” Konig laughs, a long, harsh, mordant laugh.

  “I don’t see what the hell’s so funny.”

  “Everything. Everything’s funny. You and me, Maury. We’re funny. And the Mayor’s funny, too. Everybody’s funny. There is a justice, isn’t there? Oh, I don’t mean the whorehouse justice of a courtroom with a lot of sons of bitches dancing through a charade. I mean something beyond that. Far beyond that.” He laughs again, cackling almost gleefully. “And the funniest thing of all is me. All my life I’ve been fighting this sort of thing. These hypocrites. These trimmers and bastards. These son-of-a-bitch liars trying to cover their tracks in the slime. And now, Maury, the funniest thing of all is that I’m one of them. Tell His Honor I’ll be there at ten a.m.”

  When Konig hangs up it is almost dark in his office. A comforting darkness to cover his desolation.

  »59«

  “Dr. Konig.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go to your front door.”

  “What?”

  “Open it, but don’t step out the door or make any false move.”

  “What? What the hell is—”

  7:00 P.M. KONIG’S HOME.

  A click, then silence.

  “Hello—hello—hello.” Konig stands holding the phone, peering hard into its mouth, a feeling as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Who’s this?” he shouts but hears only the sound of silence roaring back at him through the wires. “Who’s this?” he mutters again, dumb with fright. But he knew who it was. That voice, quiet, infinitely refined, was unmistakable.

  Turning now he stares wildly at the window. Then in the next moment he is striding, lurching, tripping across the dining room, through the library, the living room, plunging headlong through the front hall, and standing, finally, shirt-sleeved at the open door.

  The soft April dusk is poised quiveringly on the verge of becoming dark. Framed in the orange glow of antique coach lanterns hung on either side of the door, Konig squints through the thickening shadows down his front walk. He can see nothing. It’s the supper hour. Lights flicker from the windows of surrounding homes, but the streets are strangely deserted.

  His eyes suddenly adjusting to the dark, Konig sees at the foot of his front walk the squat silhouette of a small foreign-built car. It’s almost directly on a line with the front door and pointed up the street. In that light he can discern neither the color nor the model of the car, but he can hear its motor idling there in neutral.

  In the next moment he hears the click of a door opening. The dim illumination of a dome light suddenly floods the car’s interior. It is quite easy to see four distinct heads in the car.

  Craning his neck, he squints harder. There’s movement going on within the car. Then from one of the rear doors he sees a figure emerging, or being pushed out.

  Remembering the order not to step outside the door, he waits breathlessly. Someone is now standing by an open rear door. Not really standing so much as leaning, or being propped up from behind. The figure appears to wobble drunkenly, and in the dim illumination of the dome light he can see hands reaching up from behind, gripping the upper arms of the wobbly figure, supporting it.

  The figure standing there at the foot of the walk has a rag-doll quality.-Its legs won’t support it. Its head lolls like a puppet’s to the side. Slowly now the head rises and as if with great effort appears to be gazing directly at him. In that light he cannot see the face, but he knows it is a female’s, and he knows the outline of the head, the stature—

  Lolly Konig is standing at the foot of the walk, perhaps fifteen yards off in the dusk, so close he might almost reach out and touch her. Because she totters and wavers so, he has an impression she’s drunk. Or more probably under heavy sedation. If it weren’t for the two hands supporting her from behind, she’d crumble right there where she stood. She appears to be holding her head up with tremendous effort, trying to see him. He can hear voices muted and conversant behind her. He stares back hard, struggling to see her face.

  Suddenly she slumps. A cry strangles in his throat. He starts down the front steps. The moment he moves, however, there’s a scramble in the area of the car. He hears more voices. The rag-doll figure is yanked back into the car. There’s the sound of several doors slamming and a motor being gunned.

  At the foot of the walk, paralyzed and grieving, Konig watches the two red taillights recede into the darkness, turn the corner at the end of the block, then disappear. For several moments, however, even with the car out of sight, he can hear the mocking roar of its motor.

  He stands there for some time, riveted to the spot, staring at the point where the car had disappeared, as if willing it to come back. The air is heavy with the languid scent of honeysuckle and lilac. Permanence and serenity appear to be everywhere this night. How many such nights had he sat outside with Ida and Lolly, barbecuing steak, having a drink, laughing, chattering over the day’s work. The soft glow of lights from the windows of neighboring homes flicker prettily all about him. Beyond those windows, families are gathered for the evening meal. People talk and chatter and laugh over the day’s events, lulled by the illusion of a benign universe.

  Konig turns now, hearing the ringing of a phone coming harsh and insistent from within the house. In a matter of moments he’s back up the stone walk, up the stairs, through the front door, and into the hall where the phone is shrieking at him.

  “Dr. Konig.”

  “Speaking.”

  “That was awfully stupid what you did today.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “By all rights I should have killed her immediately.”

  “Please don’t hurt her. It was my fault—I—”

  “Never trust yourself to the police. The police are bunglers. And the Bureau agents are even worse. They’re retarded.”

  “I’m very sorry about all that. It wasn’t any—”

  “My associates are infuriated. They know you tried to screw us today. Now they insist I execute your daughter at once. As retaliation.”

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Konig can hear himself pleading.

  “I don’t want to hurt Lolly. I’m actually quite fond of her. She’s a lovely girl. Sensitive. Artistic. I’ve enjoyed having her. If this were a different sort of world, if circumstances were different—” Wallace Meacham’s voice trails off into wistfulness, then shifts back into its gentle but insistent tones. “I brought Lolly around tonight so you could see her. See she’s alive and well. I didn’t want you to worry. We’re not barbarians. We’re quite human. I know how a devoted father worries about an only daughter—”

  “Bring her back.” Konig struggles to control the emotion in his voice. “I have the money right here. Bring her back now and—”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dr. Konig,” Meacham goes on quietly, persuasively. His voice has an almost hypnotic effect. “You see, I’m a very trusting fellow. Very naive. I like to believe the best about people. If someone strikes a bargain with me, I assume he’s honest. That he’ll play straight.” He chuckles, warmly. “My associates call me a fool. They say, ‘Don’t trust this guy. He tried to screw you once and he’ll try it again.’ I’m afraid that in the light of today’s events, I must now believe them. Wouldn’t it be foolish for me to walk into your house now with Lolly? Very easy, very tempting, but foolish. For all I know you’ve got a half dozen of your stooge cops sitting in there with you.”

  “There are no cops here now, I swear to you. Just bring her—”

  Suddenly an operator’s voice cuts in asking for an additional twenty-five cents. Beads of sweat glisten on Konig’s forehead while he stands there waiting for the conversation to resume. Shortly he hears a coin drop in a slot on the other side, then a bong.

  “Dr. Konig?”

  “Yes—I’m here.”

  “This is Friday night.”

  “Yes.
”

  “Sunday morning, three a.m., I want you to be at the Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ll see a white Chevrolet, ’74 convertible, black top.”

  “Yes.”

  “You follow it.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Follow it wherever it goes.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “When it stops, you stop. When it goes, you go.”

  “I understand.”

  “At a certain point the car will signal you to stop and then pull alongside. You do that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone in the car will roll down his window. Don’t attempt to talk with him or communicate with him in any way.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “Just hand him the money.”

  “I understand.”

  “Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “I want to warn you—there’s very little traffic on a Sunday morning at three a.m. in Brooklyn. Particularly the areas you’ll be driving in. Consequently, if a number of cars, or even one car, should just happen to be following you and the white Chevrolet, your daughter’s life is over. You understand that, Doctor?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Very good. Because I must tell you. As a result of today’s treachery, my associates are in an extremely ugly mood. If something untoward were to happen this time, I don’t believe I could restrain them any longer.”

  “Nothing will happen,” Konig says a little breathlessly, his heart smashing in his chest. “I understand perfectly. Please don’t hurt her.”

  “That all depends upon you now, Doctor. Sunday morning. Three a.m. Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Yes—three a.m.—white ’74 Chevrolet convertible. I’ll be there. After I turn over the money, when do I get her back?”

  “If everything goes well on Sunday morning, you can look for her twenty-four hours later.”

  “All right,” Konig stammers. “I’ll be there. I’ll be there. Just please don’t hurt her anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, Doctor,” Wallace Meacham murmurs soothingly. “Trust in me, so I can trust in you. Oh, and Doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “That bugging device I hear on your phone. Awfully noisy. You ought to change it.”

  »60«

  “Personally I don’t believe half of it.”

  “Half of it is true.”

  “Then it’s the other half that’s important.”

  “I’m afraid that half won’t sell newspapers.”

  SATURDAY, APRIL 20. 10:00 A.M. THE MAYOR’S STUDY, GRACIE MANSION.

  “And the figure of a million dollars a year is greatly exaggerated.” The Mayor strides up and down the length of the study. He is a short, burly man with unremarkable features that nevertheless convey a sense of inner strength. It is Saturday morning, not normally a working day, and so he is not yet dressed, but simply attired in a silk paisley bathrobe. There’s a pot of coffee on his desk. “When the auditors finish going through the books, I think we’re going to find the amount of money paid out to these chiseling morticians considerably less—”

  “Nevertheless,” Konig says bitterly, “money was paid out. The situation was there. I was aware of it and I did nothing about it.” From where he sits, stony and resigned, in a capacious leather wing chair beside a large picture window, Konig has an unimpeded view of the East River flowing swiftly past.

  “But I’m not worried about that.” The Mayor marches truculently forward, waving a copy of the morning’s Times before him. “We can get past all that. There’s not an agency or department on the City payroll that doesn’t have its share of chiselers and grafters. A certain amount of that is unavoidable. For Chrissake, Paul—you’re not a god. Why should your office be different from any other office? It’s not that I’m worried about.”

  “You’re worried about the Robinson business.”

  Something apprehensive and troubled clouds the Mayor’s features as he sits down at his desk. “If it were just your office, Paul. But it’s not. It involves several other departments. Even the DA’s office. Binney’s very upset. This other chap—What’s his name?”

  “Carslin.”

  “Right, Carslin. This bastard had the gall to suggest to me that even the DA’s office is in collusion with innumerable City agencies to cover up this thing. Have you seen the papers yet?”

  “I saw the Times this morning. I gather a grand jury is unavoidable.”

  “Binney thinks so. And of course you’ve heard about the two congressmen?”

  “Yes.” Konig stares resolutely out at the river.

  “Both up for re-election this year, and this, of course, is the cheapest form of campaign advertising.”

  “I understand,” Konig says, watching a tug beat its way upriver against the current. Looking south he can see the towers of the Queensboro Bridge wavering phantomlike through a yellow morning haze. “What would you like me to do?”

  The Mayor folds his hands before him on the desk and stares fixedly at Konig. “I’d like you to think about taking early retirement.”

  Konig sits unmoving, his gaze still riveted on the gauzy spires of the distant bridge. “Do you want me to just think about it or do it?”

  “Oh, for Chrissake, Paul,” the Mayor fumes. “Don’t make this thing any harder on me than it is now. I don’t want you to do anything for the time being. For the next few weeks the newspapers are going to be beating their chests, clamoring for a public execution. There are men in this Administration I’d gladly consign to the scaffold in a minute. You’re not one of them. You’ve served six Administrations loyally. Your career has been distinguished throughout. You’ve built up one of the finest forensic departments in the world. You’ve run it with integrity and guts. I will not permit these self-righteous media bastards to make hay out of one foolish, ill-considered slip. Why in hell have you been protecting Strang?”

  Konig’s head snaps quickly about, his burning gaze locking with the Mayor’s. “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, come on, Paul.” The Mayor yanks acigarette from his pocket. “I’ve known that for weeks. Just as Strang was so eager to inform on you in this mortician scandal, there are others just as eager to inform on him. You’ve got some very ambitious boys down there on your staff.” The Mayor grins slyly. “But I really didn’t need anyone to tell me. The minute Strang walked in here, I had him pegged. Show me a selfless, dedicated public servant, and I’ll show you a very ambitious man.”

  “Who told you?” Konig asks again.

  “That Strang had done the Robinson autopsy?”

  “Yes—who told you that?”

  Once again the sly smile spreads across the Mayor’s features. “You keep your secrets, Paul, I keep mine.”

  “Probably Bonertz. Or Delaney—he’s unhappy enough.” The Mayor shrugs, smiles, touching his fingers to his lips to show they are sealed. “In any event,” he goes on, “I don’t want you to leave immediately. That would give it the look of a public hanging, and I will not permit that to happen.”

  Konig stares grimly back out the window. “Then what do you propose?”

  “I want you to slowly reduce your responsibilities over the next three months.”

  “Phase myself out?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “It’s only a matter of two more years, George,” Konig suddenly pleads. “Couldn’t you possibly—”

  “No.” The finality of the Mayor’s word has the effect of a great gate closing. Konig’s hurt eyes linger for a moment on the Mayor’s stern but not unkindly features. Then they wander back out the window and south to the bridge. “It’s not only this Robinson business either, is it, George?”

  “No,” the Mayor replies flatly. “It’s your health too.” Konig shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “They tell you everything around here, don’t they, George?”

  The Mayor laug
hs out loud. “I’ve got an office full of selfless, dedicated public servants. But seriously, Paul. You’ve got to quit. You’re killing yourself. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll be carried out in a box.”

  “I’d prefer that to this slow but discreet retreat you’ve got planned for me.”

  “Skip the self-pity, Paul,” the Mayor snaps irritably. “It doesn’t become you. The minute you leave the City, a dozen foundations, universities, hospitals, will be banging at your door. You’ve still got a great deal of living ahead of you. Why the hell aren’t you under a doctor’s care?”

  “I’m under my own care,” Konig’s voice rises harshly. “Who’s to be my successor?”

  “Up to you entirely. I presume it won’t be Strang.”

  “Pearsall’s your man,” Konig goes on matter-of-factly. “First-rate pathologist, and a good administrator. I trust him.”

  The Mayor scratches the name on a pad. “Then so do I.”

  “And just for future notice,” Konig continues, “I’ve got a man down there now, a kid, actually, but worth while watching.”

  “How old?”

  “Late twenties. Just out of school a few years but definitely a comer.”

  “Name?”

  “McCloskey—Tom McCloskey.”

  Once again the Mayor scribbles hastily on his pad. The discussion ended, Konig now rises to go. The Mayor rises, too, and for a moment the two of them stand there awkwardly searching for a graceful way to end their talk. Suddenly the Mayor is laughing. “Thirty years I’ve known you, Paul, and you haven’t changed a bit. Not in all that time. You’re still the same surly, tough old son of a bitch you were then.”

  Still laughing, the Mayor comes around his desk and throws an arm warmly about Konig’s shoulders. “Only Ida could take the bite out of you. Take the wind right out of your sails. God, how well I remember Ida, bless her soul. Remember the picnics and all the kids?” His arm still about Konig’s shoulder, they move slowly toward the door. “Your little girl—”