by Toby Ball
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I could usually get what I needed, because of the club and all. But there was less to go around. Wasn’t just there for the asking. You had to plan a little and there were times when most people couldn’t get anything at all. Dry times.”
“But not anymore.”
“Not for a while, Frankie. It’s just not an issue. You get what you want when you want it. No problems.”
“When did this embarrassment of riches begin?”
Floyd squinted his eyes a little in concentration and took a long sip of the whiskey. “You know, maybe five years ago. Something like that.”
“Five years ago. You sure?”
“Yeah,” Floyd said, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think that’s about right.”
“So about a year or so after Henry became mayor.”
“Sounds good. What are you trying to get at here, Frank?”
“Floyd, who do you buy from? I need to talk to him.”
Floyd winced. “Where are you going with this?”
“Look, trust me. I’m not trying to take anybody down here.” Frings corrected himself. “That’s not true. I am trying to take someone down, but you know it’s not you and it’s not the guy who sells you your dope.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”
“Okay. You heard of a guy named Otto Samuelson?”
“Bad gee, right? Sent up the river a while back?”
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. It’s not the river you’re probably thinking of.”
“Don’t get all inscrutable with me, Frank.”
“I’m saying I just got back from visiting him out in a place called Freeman’s Gap.”
“He’s already out?”
“Never went in.”
“Shit,” Floyd said. “Why the hell not?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure.”
“You think talking to my guy is going to help you out?”
“That’s right.”
“Connect the dots for me, Frank. I don’t follow.”
“When I was out there with Otto Samuelson, we went for a little walk in the woods, and you’ll never believe what’s growing back there.”
“No,” Floyd said, eyes widening.
“More than you can imagine.”
“So instead of going to jail, he moves out to the sticks and grows reefer?”
“That’s exactly right. And he’s not the only one. You know that story you told me about Whiskers?”
Floyd nodded slowly. “I see what you’re saying.”
“So I want to find out from your guy who he gets his reefer from. I’ll bet it’s from a guy named Smith who has it brought into the City by some other ginks from a decade back or so. Maybe even Whiskers.”
“Jesus, Frank, you sure you want to go here?”
Frings nodded and sipped his coffee.
Floyd sighed. “I’ll be back.” He walked off, shaking his head a little.
“Where you going?”
“I can’t just bring you to my guy. You can imagine that he’d be a little nervous talking to the famous Frankie Frings. I’ve got to get him used to the idea and hopefully drag him back here to talk to you.”
“I hate to say this, with you doing me a favor and all, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know, Frank. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Floyd’s well-earned reputation for discretion paid off and Frings was only kept waiting for the better part of an hour. Floyd’s man was dressed in expensive silk slacks—black with light blue pinstripes—suspenders, and a white undershirt. His arms were strong and scarred, his hair matted together into little nubs. Underneath his beard, his obsidian face was hard, his eyes yellow around the pupils and red around the edges.
“This is him,” Floyd said to Frings.
Frings extended his hand, but the man didn’t even look at it, instead zeroing in on Frings’s eyes.
“Floyd tell you why I want to talk to you?” Frings asked.
The man nodded.
“Who do you get your supply from?”
The man gave Frings a hard look. Frings wondered how Floyd had persuaded him to come.
“I don’t see that it makes sense for me to tell you.” His voice was thick and carried some kind of accent. African?
“Why’s that? I guarantee that none of this comes back to you. Floyd’ll vouch for me.”
The man shook his head in disgust. “Why would I turn in this man? If he’s gone, how do I make my money? Where do I get the mesca?”
Frings had anticipated this. “I know where they grow it. If they go down, I’ll show you where the fields are and then you can cut out the middleman. It’ll be more for you. You’ll control the whole process.”
The man stared at Frings. Without moving his eyes, he asked Floyd, “He on the level?”
Floyd said he was.
“Better be,” the man said. “Better be.”
“So?” Frings prompted.
“Ofay. Big. Calls himself Mr. Green. Not his real name. Don’t see him much. Usually sends some hard men with the pounds. But Mr. Green is the man in charge.”
Frings described Smith.
“That’s him.” The man spoke as if half-asleep or drugged. His eyes still held Frings’s.
“How does it work?”
“His boys come with a shipment once every two weeks. I pay them for the last shipment and then I spread the supply around to the people who sell it.”
“Like Floyd.”
The man nodded.
“Does he deliver to anyone else?”
“Sure. Plenty of others down here.”
“East Side?”
“Yeah.”
“What about other parts of the City?”
“Just here.”
“Not in the white parts of the City?”
“No.
“How do you know?”
“You buy mesca in Ofaytown?”
“I . . .”
“No. That’s why you come here to buy. Because there isn’t any mesca in Ofaytown. Mr. Green told me that I was not to distribute to Ofaytown. I told him maybe someone I give it to decides to take it there themselves. Mr. Green says he’ll take care of that. I should just worry about where I sell.”
“So you stay on the East Side?”
“No angle in crossing Mr. Green,” the man said with a sad shake of his head.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Pesotto, Red Henry’s tailor, was on his knees, marking with chalk where the hem of the mayor’s tuxedo pants should be let out. This was the usual ritual before any black-tie event in the City, and tonight’s celebration of the Poles’ decision to locate their factory in the City was to be a black-tie affair. Henry was obsessive about how he looked at such occasions and had his tux altered the day of, so that it would fit perfectly. Often, Pesotto merely went through the motions, the tux fitting perfectly as it was. The important thing was for Henry to feel for his satisfaction and confidence that some minute adjustment had been made.
As was the case at all these fittings, Pesotto had followed instructions and Berlioz flowed tinnily from the Victrola. Henry stood with his eyes closed, seemingly lost in the music as the stooped tailor made chalk marks on his pants.
Henry’s rapture was broken by the arrival of Peja, along with Smith and Feral. Henry opened his eyes slowly, keeping the rest of his body motionless. Pesotto ignored the interlopers and continued with his work.
“We need to talk,” Peja said.
Henry nodded.
Peja said, “In private.”
Henry grunted. “Pesotto is discreet. Aren’t you?”
Pesotto did not answer because he was deaf.
“You see?”
Peja looked uncomfortably at Feral and Smith, both of whom ignored him, then said, “First, we got some of the kids and we were right, they are the bombers.”
“Some?”
“Some got away. It was chaos, apparently.”<
br />
“Chaos?”
“I’ll get to that.”
“Did you at least find out why they’re bombing the houses of the most important goddamn people in this City?”
“Yes, they—”
Smith interrupted, “One of the boys broke down in the wagon on the way to the station. It was a little hard to get exactly what he was saying because he . . . well, he doesn’t seem to know a whole lot of words. But we have the basic story. He says that several months ago—that’s our guess, he couldn’t be more specific than not a long time and not a short time—anyway, someone went to the orphanage to visit the boys. He said it was a man who had red and gray hair and big wide chops.” Smith scratched his cheeks to make the point.
“Christ almighty,” Henry said. “Whiskers?”
“We’re pretty sure. I’ll get to that in a minute. So this gink—probably Whiskers—visits the kids and lays out the whole Navajo Project to them, if you can believe it. The whole bit. You can guess how this goes over with a pack of boys, and they get all belligerent. Then this gink tells them he has a present for them, and, according to this kid, he has a trunk with him that turns out to be filled with dynamite and everything else they need to make those bombs. He shows these kids how to make them, you know, wrap them in rope, tie a long fuse. Then he takes one of them, the leader I guess, on a trip around the City. Shows him all the points of interest.”
“Block’s house. Altabelli’s, Bernal’s, mine.” Henry still hadn’t moved.
“Those and some others. That’s how you get at these people who have ruined your lives, he says. You bomb their fucking houses. So when this kid gets back to his buddies, they decide to screw the orphanage, and they head out to the warehouse village with their trunk and start putting the bombs together.”
Pesotto straightened and Henry obligingly stepped out of his pants. He now stood in only his boxers, socks, and a sleeveless undershirt. Pesotto took the pants and, with a nod to Henry and the others, shuffled into a back room.
“Where’s Whiskers?” Henry asked.
“Well, that’s another thing,” Smith said. “Once we heard this, I got in touch with Kragen out at Freeman’s Gap and he went by Whiskers’ and says he’s not there. I said to go check Otto’s place, and Otto isn’t there either. He’s checking on the others right now.”
Henry was reddening. “What else?”
“You remember Poole?” Smith asked.
“The Red dick?”
“That’s him. I worked him over a little a few days back. Told him to lay off the Prosnickis.”
“I remember.”
“Well, funny thing, he turns up at the warehouses as we’re taking the kids out.”
“The hell’s he doing there?” Henry’s shoulders were becoming mottled with red patches as his blood pressure rose.
“Didn’t I tell you? The leader of those little shit kids is Casper Prosnicki. He was there looking for Casper, just like I told him not to.”
Henry sighed with impatience. “So you have Poole.”
Now Smith looked nervous. “No. We went after him, but he got away.”
“You’ve got the Prosnicki kid?”
Smith stared at the floor.
“You don’t have the goddamn Prosnicki kid?” Henry roared.
Smith kept his gaze on the floor.
Henry calmed himself a little. “How the hell did you let that happen?”
Smith shrugged, knowing that nothing he could say would do him any good.
“You’ve got people looking for Poole?” Henry asked quietly, a deliberate attempt to keep his temper in check.
“Everybody. ASU, police, the whole bit. We have his place staked out and people on the street.”
Henry rubbed his bald scalp thoughtfully. “That it?”
Peja answered this time, getting it out quickly. “We think Frings might have gone to see Otto.”
Henry didn’t answer. His body tensed, producing visible fear in Smith and Peja. Feral continued to stand silent and relaxed.
“He was seen coming back on the road to Freeman’s Gap and then straight to the Palace.”
“And Whiskers and Otto are missing.”
“That’s right,” Peja said.
“Where is Frings now?”
“He’s at the Gazette.”
Henry looked at Feral. “Hurt the girl. Send Frings a piece of her. He doesn’t take us seriously, but we can change that in a hurry.”
With his eyes, Feral acknowledged that he had heard, a display of unresponsiveness that would have infuriated Henry if it had come from Peja or Smith. But from Feral it just confirmed Henry’s impression of efficiency and ruthlessness; and it helped him relax somewhat.
Henry looked at Smith and Peja. “Take care of these things now. I do not want anything going wrong at the signing or the party tonight. Understand?”
The Berlioz had ended and the needle skipped, filling the silence with its rhythmic banging against the center of the record.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
In Little Lisbon, merchants were setting out their wares as blue sky emerged from the clouds and the remnants of the deluge washed into the storm drains. The streets were so congested with pedestrians, merchants, and delivery trucks that the hack let Poole out at the fringes.
Poole waded through the crowd, holding his hand gingerly against his body. His wet, disheveled appearance drew occasional glances. There was, he knew, a café in the neighborhood that was a headquarters of sorts for the Portuguese communists. If Enrique was not there, they would at least know where he could be found.
The crowds made the maze of narrow streets even more disorienting, and he had to ask directions several times. The smell of fish and unfamiliar spices assailed him. At last he found the place, no sign above the door and no windows, but three tables on the sidewalk outside.
He drew instant attention from the five men, small and lean and hard, who sat inside drinking pungent tea. Poole walked to the counter where an old man with a white beard that hung to his waist said something to him in Portuguese.
“I’m looking for Enrique.”
“Don’t know him,” the old man wheezed.
“I don’t have time for this. I’m Ethan Poole. Carla Hallestrom is my girl.”
The man stared at him impassively.
“I was at the strike.”
A man at one of the tables got up and walked over to Poole. His breath stank of garlic. “I saw him there. The police cracked his head with their nightsticks.”
The old man looked at the man with the garlic breath and then at Poole. “Upstairs.” He motioned with his hand for Poole to go back to the street, then around to the left.
She must have heard his footsteps on the stairs because when he reached the landing, the door was open and Carla was waiting for him. They embraced, Poole lifting her off the floor so that her feet dangled around his shins.
“I was so worried,” she said, letting go of his neck, as he lowered her to the floor. “How did you . . . oh my God.” She noticed his hand.
“They were at the warehouses, arresting kids.”
“Casper?”
Poole shrugged. “Could be.”
“And you?”
“They chased me. I got away, but they got a good look at me. They know I was there.”
Enrique was in the doorway. “Come in. We’ll clean your wounds.”
Later, his hand cleaned and wrapped in gauze, Poole sat on Enrique’s ancient couch with Carla. Enrique was in the kitchen with his wife, and the smells wafting from there had Poole’s stomach grumbling.
“Tranghese from the apartment above us met me on the street and warned me,” Carla explained. “He said they came asking questions about us.”
“How long before they look here, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but we shouldn’t stay long. I don’t want to put Enrique’s wife in harm’s way.”
“Okay. Maybe we eat and go. Did you have your meeting?”
�
��Yes,” she said, smiling. “It had the effect we wanted.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Frings watched Ed, the assistant, struggle through the newsroom to catch him before he reached Panos’s office. Frings sped up a little, making Ed practically break into a run.
“You got something for me?” Frings asked.
Ed was clearly annoyed. “You asked me to run those names by Lonergan, see if there was anything in the papers about them in the past five years.”
The names from Puskis’s list. “That’s right. Anything come up?”
Ed shook his head, a little smile creasing his face at the thought of Frings coming up empty.
Frings nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
Ed shook his head and walked away to other business, muttering.
Panos was talking to a young reporter whose name Frings couldn’t remember. He looked up as Frings walked in unannounced, his face turning from annoyance to pleasure.
“Frank. Good to see you this afternoon. I’m briefing Caskin here about the big gala tonight to which I am sending him.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Panos.”
“What? You want to go to the big party and drink some champagne and eat those beautiful little treats that they always have? Is that why you want to talk to me about this thing?”
“I, you know, I apologize, buddy,” Frings said to Caskin, “but I really need to talk to Panos privately.”
Caskin got up from his chair. Frings carried a lot of clout in the newsroom, especially among the new reporters, who were still intimidated by his reputation.
Panos said, “Go get some coffee, Caskin. I’ll talk to you again when I am done with Frank here.”
When Caskin was gone, Frings closed the door and Panos sat forward in his chair with his forearms on the desk.
“What is this, Frank?”
“It’s the big one, Panos. I’ve got the big one. Red Henry could go down within the week.”
Panos’s eyes widened. “What is this you are talking of?”
“Panos, I’m going to tell you. But you’ve got to let me play it my way. Can I trust you on that? There are other factors.”
Panos gave a look of exaggerated hurt. “You know you can trust me, Frank. You get the story, you tell me when it can run. I just make sure that it is okay. Good?”