The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  Especially her bed. They had made love on it. Their first time. She had made love more joyfully, more hungrily, longer, more often, more generously than with all the boys and men who had touched her life taken together. She had pleased him there. He had pleased her. He had loved her. Deeply. Thoroughly. She was not wrong about that. It was in his words, in his touch, and in his eyes. Eyes that she had caused to come alive. Eyes that died again as he stood by her bed in a hospital in Davos. She had not seen him since, except in her memories. And in her dreams.

  It was just as well, she told herself. Her father was right. She wasn't even twenty-five yet. She had her whole life to live. There would be other men. They would be closer to her age. They would live in the same world. By the time Paul Bannerman was twenty-five, as her father pointed out, he was already killing people.

  She'd tried to argue that. “What about soldiers?” she asked. “Killing is what they're trained for from the time they're eighteen. They're ready and willing. Semper fideliso. What about street cops? What about Raymond ‘the Terrible’ Lesko who was no older than Paul when he threw a rapist down an elevator shaft, the story goes, or the four or the nine more men he shot depending on which of the other stories you believe? And don't say that's different.”

  “It is and it isn't,” he answered. “You've grown up with cops. You've seen how cops, after a few years on the job, get so they can only talk to other cops. It's what happens when day in, day out, you only see people when they're at their worst. Even someone they stop for running a red light, decent guy, wife and kids, is all of a sudden insulting, he hates you for doing your job, and now and then he pulls a gun and blows a hole in you. Cops get so they can only talk about these things to each other. No one else could understand. No one else wants to know. Including their wives. What wife wants to hear that shit every night? So they talk about new slipcovers, or what's on TV. They pretend. They wait for the pension. Meanwhile, the cop starts seeing women on the side. Lady cops. Hookers. Cop groupies. Women who live in his world or at least he doesn't have to pretend with them. At least there isn't this great big wall between them. And in the end, most cop wives never make it to the pension anyway. Except for the part the divorce court gives them.”

  “That's what happened to you and Mom?” she asked. Although she knew the answer.

  “Every story's different,” he said, “and every story's the same. The point is, you take what happens with cops, and you multiply it by ten, and maybe you're still not even close to what happens to people like that crowd up in Westport.”

  ”I love him, Daddy,” she said, very quietly.

  He sat her down. Hugged her. “You want the truth? I even like him. A little. The guy you think you love is Paul Bannerman. Nice guy. You could do worse. But the guy you can't live with, for a million reasons, is Mama's Boy.”

  She said nothing. She shuddered.

  “I'll even give you this,” Lesko said gently. “Maybe this country needs people like him sometimes. Maybe, with everything that's going on in the world, I'm even a little sorry he's trying to hang 'em up. But they'll never let him do it. Not his friends, not his enemies. No one knows it better than Bannerman. He knows he was kidding himself. Sooner or later, it's going to hit the fan. I don't want you in the middle of it when it does. To give the guy his due, Bannerman doesn't either.”

  “I'm a big girl,” she said stubbornly. ”I can take care of my—” She bit her lip. An abrupt wave of her hand told her father that he had no need to contradict her. The marks on her face, the bandage that still covered her left eyebrow, were proof enough.

  He answered anyway. ”I know,” he told her, “that next time you'd be more careful. It's not that simple. It's not like, living in New York, you're careful where you walk at night and who you let into your apartment. We're talking killers here. On both sides. With them, in the time it takes you to even to get nervous, someone would be dead. And if Bannerman has you to worry about, and it slows him down because maybe he doesn't want you to see something that would make you afraid of him, that someone could be him. It's a different world, Susan. And you can't live in it. I know what I'm talking about.

  ”I know you do.” She squeezed his hand. And she knew that when he spoke of different worlds, and of different people, and of impossible loves, he was also talking about himself and a tiny elegant woman named Elena Brugg.

  He'd said little after that. Nor did she argue. She wanted to say, but didn't, that sometimes people know things that aren't true. Or that shouldn't be true.

  The three days passed. On Tuesday morning, Susan Lesko kept an appointment with her doctor. The stitches were removed. A ski accident, she told him. He said she was lucky, that there would be a scar but it would not be terribly noticeable. The Swiss surgeon knew his business. The hairline fracture of her cheekbone had knitted properly; it would leave a small lump under the skin that might shrink in time. The bruise over it, small but dark and clotted, would also fade eventually. In the meantime, makeup would cover it. He replaced the bandage on her brow. Keep it on for another day or two, he said. She stripped it off before she reached the street.

  Her doctor's office was on Park Avenue near Thirty Eighth Street, a few blocks south of Grand Central Station. She walked toward the terminal, intending to pass through, to continue up Fifth or Madison for a while and enjoy the rare springlike temperature that had worked up from the Gulf overnight. But as she reached the station lobby, her eye fell upon Gate 25, just left of the escalators. She had used that gate many times in recent months, many weekends in Westport. Another train was boarding, going there again. She looked away, biting her lip. But slowly, almost unwillingly, she turned her head to stare up at the main Departures board. The Westport train, it said, would leave at 11:07. She checked her watch: 11:02. She bit harder.

  It was foolish. She knew that. But there she was, at a quarter after twelve, standing near the Westport station, trying not to be noticed, watching local businesspeople walk into Mario's just across the street.

  Billy McHugh would be at the bar. Molly Farrell would be seating luncheon customers. One might be Paul. He took lunch there often.

  The thing to do, of course, would be to walk back into the station, keep her head down, and wait for the next train back to New York. She knew that. The last thing she needed was to be caught standing there like a dummy if Paul Bannerman's car suddenly popped around the corner.

  On the other hand, she was hungry. It had been days since she felt much like eating. Eight pounds lost since Davos, when two would have been plenty. Portions at Mario's were huge and they were good. And Molly, who had stayed with her in the hospital, talked to her, listened to her . . . was a friend. So was Billy. He'd been there as well, she heard. He'd always been kind to her.

  Her father tried to tell her things about both of them. He meant well, she supposed, trying to make her feel well rid of them. And there was probably some truth to the stories. But not much. No one who spent ten minutes with Billy, let alone Molly, could believe that he would . . .

  Never mind. It's too ridiculous.

  Susan went in.

  Billy saw her first, then Molly. Billy waved, a big grin, then held up a bottle of the Chablis that she liked. Molly ran over, took her by the shoulders, inspected her face, smiled her approval, then kissed her cheek and led her to the small window table that she had often shared with Paul.

  See? They were glad to see her. They were friends.

  Molly, after five minutes, went back toward the office. While there, Susan felt sure, she made a phone call. Susan saw that in the glance she threw at Billy as she returned and in the briefest flicker of sympathy that crossed her eyes as she stopped once more at the table before returning to her station at the door.

  Susan ordered. She watched the street. Paul did not come.

  So on Wednesday she took the train again. And on Thursday. And again on Friday.

  On that Friday, Detective Lieutenant Harry Greenwald pulled his car into a metered space on B
roadway near the corner of 181st Street and waited, his engine running, windows up. He was ten minutes early.

  Greenwald was well off his beat, but he knew this neighborhood. He had grown up not far north of here, in the Inwood section. Right against Fort Tryon Park and in the shadow of The Cloisters.

  Used to be nice, he thought ruefully. Trees on most of the streets. Window boxes with flowers. People mostly Irish and Jewish. Working stiffs. Kids grew up to be cops, firemen, postal workers. The Jews had all the stores. In the streets, always a touch football game or a stickball game going on. Not that much traffic. Cars waited until a play was over. Even so, the cops were supposed to break up the games. Confiscate the stickball bats. No big deal if they did. The kids would just go down the nearest basement and steal the super's broom. That's what crime in the streets was like in those days. That and throwing snowballs off roofs at people walking by and sneaking into the subway to go up to Baker Field on Saturdays. And sneak in there, too.

  The Jews weren't that much on football, Greenwald remembered, even counting Sid Luckman and Sammy Baugh. But they were better at stickball and school-yard basketball. Hell, back before the war and a little after, the Jews were better at all the sports. Look at boxing. The only thing the Irish kids had on them was that they got new suits every year for Easter but even that was dumb because that time of the year you pay retail.

  Greenwald smiled. It was nice.

  Look at this shit now, he thought. No Irish, no Jews. Go find a tree that hasn't been poisoned to death by the air. Garbage in the streets. Graffiti sprayed on every building. And he could sit there an hour without ever seeing a single white face except on weekends when the cars from Jersey and Connecticut drive in to make a buy. Cocaine was the only white thing left here if you didn't count the new Reeboks on the feet of every kid with a beeper on his belt and a pocket full of crack vials.

  Greenwald shook his head. Say any of this at home and his daughters call him a racist. He wouldn't have to say nigger. Or spic. All he has to say is nonwhite and it's like he's the Grand Dragon. Never mind that they live out in Port Jefferson where there isn't a black family within a half a mile. It's why he doesn't bother talking to them about it. What do they know?

  Anyway it's not the black blacks. It's not the ones whose parents grew up in the city and who busted their asses to get someplace like the Jews did in the thirties and like the Irish did before that. You look at the blacks who are in pro sports or the blacks on the cops. They're mostly from the old-time families. What it is, mostly, is the Jamaicans and the Dominicans. For ten years now they've been coming by the planeload. They head right for the welfare office for something to tide them over until at least one member of the family can hook up with a drug gang. First thing they buy is those Reeboks. Then the beeper. Even kids who don't deal wear beepers so they get respect.

  Next they buy a gun.

  This isn't true? This is racist? Five Dominican gangs have divided up the entire West Side, Broadway to the river, from 133rd Street to 181st. The Jamaicans, the “posses,” have St. Nicholas Avenue and are moving east and south with guns and crack. More than 500 shootings, counting misses, in the past year. Over a hundred didn't miss. Are there decent people here? Hardworking? Religious? Sure. You can spot them on their way to work, on their way back, and buying food or going to church. They're the ones with their heads down, moving fast, keeping their kids close until they can get home and lock the door. They try to keep their kids clean but sooner or later the kid has to go to some shit public school or go find some shit job. That's when he learns economics. What's better, kid? Two hundred bucks a week for pushing a broom or $1,500, part-time, pick your own hours, no heavy lifting.

  He saw Wiggins coming. Skinny. All arms and legs. Crossing 181st, doing a roll, looked like he was floating, head bobbing to the sound from a Sony Walkman. Green-wald rolled down the sidewalk window and whistled. Wiggins made a show of innocent confusion. You talking to me? I ain't done nothin'. What do the man want with me? Greenwald flashed a badge. Yelled at him. Ordered him into the car.

  To anyone watching, the thin black man was arguing, denying, occasionally flinching whenever Greenwald raised a hand. In fact, Detective Sergeant K. T. Wiggins, now back on undercover after helping to guard Susan Lesko, was handing an audiocassette tape to Harry Greenwald. Greenwald snapped it into the machine he held on his lap.

  “The first voice,” said Wiggins, holding a hand over the “play” button, “is a Jamaican called “Buster Bang.” Real name: Nathaniel Weeks. He's a hitter . . . enjoys his work ... for a Jamaican gang called the Jungle Posse. The second voice is Hector Manley, street name is “Dandy.” Hector's garbage but he's quality garbage. Couple years of college, one year in a Catholic seminary, quit, became a goon for the Labor party, busted one head too many and had to split. Hector is with an elite offshoot called the Jungle Lites. The meeting is in his apartment. It was wired just two days ago when Hector got rousted by the DEA. Hector is worse than a hitter. Story is, the Jungle Lites were—”

  ”I know,” said Greenwald. “Trained in Cuba. Urban guerrilla techniques. And this is about Westport?”

  “If I was sure, I would have called Lesko myself. You listen. You tell me.”

  Greenwald pressed the button. Voices came on, melodic, singsong. One good thing about Jamaicans, thought Greenwald, is you can eavesdrop without needing a black guy to translate. They all sound like Harry Belafonte.

  “Right here,” said Wiggins. He turned the sound up.

  ”. . . got to bang that dry cleaner man. Got to bang him soon. ”

  “Not yet. I will speak with him first. ”

  “He is hurting us, Dandy Man. The others see we do nothing, it makes them brave. ”

  “On Saturday, I will go to see him. Do nothing until then. ”

  “What about the Arab? Have you decided?”

  [A pause.] “We are to meet next week. Wednesday. ”

  “It's a lot of money, Dandy Man.”

  “It is also a lot that he asks. ”

  “Forty cars? We can have them in a day. The drivers are no problem. We have brothers in Norwalk and in Bridgeport. We have it fucking surrounded, Dandy Man. Give me two days, three at most, and it will be done. We will be famous, you and me. No one will ever forget us.”

  Certainly not the police” [Then, thoughtfully.] “You would do this thing, Buster?”

  “Think of it, Dandy.” [Voice excited, gleeful] “Forty cars, all at once. One big bang and there is no more town. Fourth of July, man, and we can watch it. There is a highway bridge where we can see it all. They will think it is the end of the world.”

  [There was a sound. A door buzzer.]

  “Have you spoken of this? To anyone?”

  “Only you, Dandy Man. And the Arab.”

  “You will say nothing to these men. Nothing at all.”

  “But we do it?”

  “It might be done. Yes. On Wednesday, I will decide. ”

  Wiggins pressed the “stop” button. “That's it,” he said. “There's another meeting but the tape runs out before it gets going.”

  Greenwald stopped writing. He'd been making notes on a pad. He brought his pen back up to the first item. “Who's the ‘Dry Cleaner’?” he asked.

  “That's not a street name. They're talking about Wesley Covington. Owns a Minute Man franchise on St. Nicholas Avenue up in the Heights, lives on 153rd Street. He's formed a block association to try to keep out the dealers. Has neighbors, volunteers, patrolling with bullhorns and walkie-talkies.”

  “They're taking on the Jamaicans with bullhorns?”

  “They had Softball bats. Local cops made them leave 'em home. Said they should use nine-one-one instead.” Wiggins sniffed. “Show me a cop who'll answer a call on 153rd.”

  “And Buster Bang wants Covington hit.”

  “Buster always wants everybody hit. Hector's not a whole lot nicer but at least he tries to talk first. And right now he doesn't need Buster's kind of heat.”
<
br />   “Who's this ‘Arab’?”

  “No idea. Unless the DEA knows. And if they'll tell us.”

  “Why shouldn't they?”

  “They don't even know we have this tape. We asked for something else. They sent this with it by mistake.”

  Greenwald was silent for a long moment. “Between Nor-walk and Bridgeport, visible from a bridge. That could only be Westport. What's this forty cars?”

  Wiggins shook his head.

  Greenwald frowned. “Could we be talking an invasion here? Forty cars full of shooters all hitting Bannerman's town?”

  Wiggins shrugged doubtfully. “Sounds more like forty bombs. But there's no way to ask Duster Bang. He got banged himself last night. Someone threw him off a roof. We could always ask Hector but all that does is make him bag it. Then maybe the Arab takes his business someplace else.”

  “Who did Buster? You heard any talk?”

  “No, but it didn't seem to scare Hector. This morning, he's out making his rounds like nothing happened.”

  “This Arab,” Greenwald returned to his pad. “That's another street name, right? We should have it in the computer.”

  “Or a real Arab. Lots of them around. They bring in most of the heroin and hash. Ask me, Hector got offered a supply deal, cut rates, in return for a favor.”