New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  The wait wasn’t long before a young man wearing only tight shorts and sneakers, naked torso wet with sweat and dotted with sparkle, opened the door, letting out a blast of music. He had a large bin in hand. He joined the bouncer with a clatter of empty bottles. Kane sprinted toward the door as the mobsters slipped inside, timing between arriving before it closed and not getting seen.

  He didn’t make it.

  The door shut with a thud and clicked.

  Kane stepped back. The building was vibrating from the music. Kane picked up the walkie-talkie. There was chatter on the net, undisciplined, people talking across each other in an almost unintelligible garble. The door clicked.

  Another scantily dressed young man exited and froze at the sight of the two bodies in the alley. Kane shoved the radio at him. “I’ll get help.” Kane pushed into the club.

  He headed toward the music via a corridor lined with overflowing trashcans and cases full of bottles. Through another room bustling with activity as waiters grabbed bottles, cases, and buckets of ice, hauling them out. They paid no attention to him or the threesome in the corner.

  The music was deafening, a rhythmic thumping that rattled the teeth and shook the body. Kane entranced Studio 54 main, stage right. A DJ was on the center of the stage spinning discs. Lights were flashing, lasers reflecting off a large disco ball hanging from the high ceiling of the former television studio. The dance floor was a mass of sweaty, spinning, flickering bodies. There were balconies surrounding the main room. Around the dance floor were couches, tables and chairs. It was impossible to determine the exact layout with the lack of consistent lighting and the crowd. A layer of cigarette and marijuana smoke hung over it all like the club’s own high-end smog.

  Spotting Delgado, however, didn’t take long. The mobster was bulling across the dance floor, his soldiers a phalanx of fat and muscle. Kane scanned along their vector.

  Briefly highlighted by a flash of light were Toni Marcelle and Sofia Cappucci, aka Mrs. Delgado. They reclined on a couch in a somewhat discreet corner, a bottle of champagne in front of them. They were oblivious of the approaching testosterone rage, engaged in a deep and passionate kiss. They broke the kiss and Toni rested her head comfortably on Sofia’s shoulder. Sofia Cappucci was Rubenesque, giving Toni a comfortable spot for her head.

  Frank, the bodyguard from the firm, spotted the coming storm and stepped around the couch in a protective mode. Kane gave him a plus for facing the oncoming mobsters and moved to the edge of the stage to hop off into the dancers and slide through to assist, but before he committed to that, the bodyguard’s position was bolstered as a cluster of bouncers pushed through the crowd and joined him. The man from the stool was with them, screaming at Delgado as the two groups collided. One of the bouncers held up a silver badge, also yelling, an off-duty cop, temporarily resuming the job.

  The music and dancing continued unabated. Grace Jones’ I Need A Man was thumping.

  Kane backed into the shadows on the wing of the stage. He scanned the balconies. Difficult to see details. The lasers flashing off the disco ball, the strobing lights, the smoke, and the overall dimness obscuring the field of observation. A random laser beam reflected back from something on one of the balconies. Kane kept his focus there.

  At the far edge of the dance floor, the confrontation shouted and threatened and then subsided as Delgado screamed futilely at his wife and Toni. He reluctantly turned and gestured for his men to follow. The two women didn’t appear particularly upset as Sofia Delgado laughed and picked up the champagne bottle to top off their flutes.

  Kane stared at the balcony from which the laser beam had been reflected. Quinn’s tall, slender form was briefly silhouetted against a door opening to a hall behind the balcony, then he was gone.

  Kane rapidly retraced his steps, out the back, where the two victims were being attended to. He ran to his motorcycle, unlocked, fired it up and drove around the block to a vantage point to observe the double-parked Cadillacs and the front of Studio 54.

  Despite the oppressive humidity and heat he was barely sweating. His hands were steady, his mind centered. Sirens echoed in the distance, but that was standard for the city. It was doubtful the club owner would call the police; no one in the business needed that kind of attention.

  Delgado was still venting as he stormed to his car. He cursed at the driver who opened the passenger door. Disappeared inside.

  The convoy squealed away, turning south on Broadway.

  Kane didn’t think Delgado was heading to the piers with his entourage in tow. He killed the engine.

  Quinn exited, smoothly palming one of the bouncers. Dutch wouldn’t have had to teach him. Quinn slithered through the party mob of unanointed but pathetically hopeful for their fifteen minutes. Straight toward Kane. The absence of the .45 tilted Kane’s tactical situation. Quinn wore a black silk suit and red shirt, but instead of boots, a pair of green, canvas sneakers, more like moccasins. And he wore his sunglasses at night. A camera was looped over one shoulder.

  “Did you enjoy being on stage?” Quinn halted ten feet away, the perfect distance to keep an armed advantage over an unarmed man. “Nice motorcycle. Useful for the city traffic. Better than your Jeep, eh, mate? Got to have the right tools for the right job.”

  Kane didn’t reply. The ground was vibrating from the music and the crowd was loud, but Quinn and Kane were in their own bubble.

  Quinn pointed at the green sneakers on his own feet. “Used these in in the bush while tracking. Had to move quick. Make no noise. They wear out fast, a week maybe in the bush. A bit faster here in the city but I’ve got plenty. You were easier than you should have been. City life’s made you soft.”

  “I have a long list of faults,” Kane said. “Soft isn’t one of them.”

  “Lost your edge then; whatever you want to believe, mate.”

  “We had an understanding,” Kane said.

  “We did,” Quinn agreed. “Unfortunately, Alfonso Delgado is a complete muppet.”

  “Does that mean idiot in Kiwi?”

  “You broke the deal, Kane. You shouldn’t have sent those photos to Mister Cappucci.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Sure, you did. The ones Mister Cappucci received were taken and developed by your hand, were they not? And yet you said there were no copies. Thus, you breached the agreement before it had time to settle into place. Your photos, your fault.”

  “Your logic is a mess.”

  Quinn laughed. “We’re both messes, are we not William Kane?” He pointed at the mark under the lens of his sunglasses. “Viper. Almost got my eye. Had to cut it deep, then grab a stick out of the fire and cauterize to stop the venom. Natives say if the viper don’t kill you, you end up becoming one, or some such nonsense.”

  “Sounds like a pretty accurate legend.”

  “Why I always wear these glasses,” Quinn said.

  “Because you’re afraid of snakes or are one?”

  Quinn remained still for several moments.

  Kane waited but when nothing was forthcoming, he filled the void. “Why did you kill Cibosky?”

  “I believe you are the prime suspect in that,” Quinn said. “Or are the NYPD completely incompetent?”

  “I’ve discussed the matter with them.”

  “Yet here you are. Must help to have uncles on the force. Perhaps the police need more evidence?”

  “I don’t think they do.”

  “The understanding went two ways. You shouldn’t be following Mister Delgado.”

  “The understanding was negated in all directions when you killed Cibosky.”

  “Ah, such an accusation. With absolutely no proof. The sign of a desperate man.” Quinn held up a single finger. “Go home, William Kane. This matter is no longer your province.”

  “As long as I’m the prime suspect in a murder, it is.”

  “My speculation would be that if you went home and interfered no more, that will not be an issue. As it is, all the current ev
idence the police possess is highly circumstantial, is it not? As long as that remains so, you’ll be fine.”

  “Why are you following and photographing Ms. Marcelle?”

  “Ms. Marcelle? Perhaps the subject of my hobby is Mrs. Delgado? As the subject of yours was Mister Delgado?”

  “What is Cappucci doing about the photographs from the pier?” Kane asked.

  “No clue,” Quinn said. He unfurled a second finger. “Go home.” His right arm crooked ever so slightly, the hand closer the edge of his black jacket. “I’m graciously allowing you to depart. Don’t waste the opportunity.”

  Kane was perfectly still for five seconds and met Quinn’s cold gaze. Kane started the motorcycle’s engine. Drove past Quinn who stepped to the side, staying out of arm’s reach. Kane turned on the lights and rolled away. Rounded the corner on Ninth and drove south.

  When he reached the bend where Ninth turned into Hudson Street, he braked, pulling over to the side of the street. The towers of the Trade Center were brilliantly lit above the tenements and brownstones of the Village, the lofts of Soho and Tribeca. Entire floors in the silver pair of buildings blazed with lights, others were sprinkled with them.

  Kane sat there for several minutes. Then drove to the Village. Unlocked and stored the motorcycle in the old garage on West 4th, off Seventh Avenue. There was an empty space where the Jeep should be, a mirror to the lack of the .45 on his hip. He looked about the dark space. Kane unscrewed the handle of a broom. He tucked it tight to his left side as he exited, slid the door shut, and locked the warehouse. He took a deep breath, then dove to the left.

  A bat thudded into the door where his head had just been. Kane continued the dive, tucking his chin in, rolling, letting the flat of his left upper back take the impact with the sidewalk. He used the momentum to go to his knees and swing the broomstick, hitting the goon who’d missed with the bat in the front of the left shin.

  The batter screamed a curse and hopped back, his leg stinging. There were two of them armed with bats, weapon of choice by Delgado’s soldiers. Both were big, dressed in the standard uniform of sweat pants and muscle shirts. One bald, the other with a crew cut. Baldie was still cursing, gingerly testing the leg. Lots of steroids and not Studio 54 material.

  Kane got up, rising on the balls of his feet, right foot slightly forward, feet far enough apart for good balance and lateral movement. He had the broom handle in both hands, diagonally across his body, right side up.

  “This is for Cibosky,” Crew Cut said. He charged, bat held high.

  Kane gave ground and snapped the broom handle into position, one end locked under his left armpit, the other end angled downward like a lance. Crew Cut’s momentum rammed his testicles into the end of the stick. The bat, a few feet shorter than the broomstick, whiffed harmlessly in front of Kane as Crew Cut doubled over in agony.

  Kane removed the end of the broom stick from his arm pit and spun it, rotating his hands and hit Crew Cut on the back of the head with a solid strike, knocking him to his knees. He blocked a swing from Baldie, the bat shattering the stick in the middle with home run force.

  Kane’s hands stung from blow, but now he had a three-foot stick in his hands, each with a sharp point on one end. He took a step, twirled both to get the feel.

  Crew Cut was still on his knees moaning and shaking his head, his brains scrambled.

  Baldie was pulling the bat back for another strike when Kane attacked with a flurry, sharp end of one stick jabbing with his right hand, the left battering at Baldie’s head. Kane slid his feet forward, jabbing, hitting, as Baldie backed up. The bat dropped as Baldie raised both hands to protect his head from the blows, so Kane used his right hand to jab the stick hard into his solar plexus. Baldie gasped in agony. The jagged end of the stick came back red with blood.

  To the left, Crew Cut was trying to get to his feet, reaching to his waist. Kane took advantage of Baldie’s agony to pause the stick attack and lift his left leg, knee high, then strike straight out with a side kick, the heel of the jungle boot hitting Crew Cut in the forehead.

  Crew Cut was out, crumbling to the dirty sidewalk.

  Kane turned back to Baldie.

  “Fuck you!” Baldie yelled as he charged, wildly swinging his fists.

  Kane kept out of striking range and targeted Baldie’s hands, bones audibly cracking as the sticks battered them. Baldie kept coming, a testament to whatever drugs he’d taken this evening or slow nerves. Kane dropped low and did a leg sweep. Baldie fell forward, instinctively putting his hands out to cushion his fall. That was a mistake as the already broken bones crumbled.

  Baldie screamed, but it was squelched as Kane kicked him between the legs from behind, the toe of his boot smashing testicles. Baldie curled in a whimpering ball and Kane was on top of him, one stick raised high and aimed for the throat.

  Baldie’s face was covered with open wounds. He was trying to say something through his agony. Tears of pain mixed with the blood. The stick was vibrating in Kane’s hand. He shifted focus from the throat to his own hand. The shaking stopped. Took several deep breaths. Put both sticks in his left hand and did a quick search with his right, pulling a snub nose .38 out of Baldie’s waistband.

  Kane went to Crew Cut. He frisked the unconscious mobster and found a similar .38. Kane stuck one in each cargo pocket of his pants. He returned his attention to Baldie. “Delgado sent you?”

  The man nodded.

  “Tell him I didn’t kill Cibosky.”

  Baldie’s head drooped, chin on chest.

  “Did you hear me?” Kane demanded.

  A nod.

  “Because if I killed Cibosky, I’d kill both of you. Right now.”

  Baldie looked up, tear-streaked blood on his face, eyes wide.

  “Get the fuck out of the city,” Kane said. “After you give Delgado my message. Tell him to stay away from Toni Marcelle. Got it?”

  Baldie nodded.

  Kane walked away. He went directly home, checked that the matchstick was in place, then the piece of clear tape he’d added for redundancy at the top of the door.

  He entered, locked the door and dead bolted it. Went into the bathroom and washed the blood off his hands. He didn’t bother to get undressed. Dragged the sleeping pad into the kitchen, underneath the table. Crawled onto it and put the sticks to one side. He twisted, pulled his shortened Fairbarn-Sykes out of the sheath and rested that hand, with blade, on his chest. He considered the confiscated revolvers, but trusted the blade. He lay there, sweating, unable to sleep for an hour.

  Finally, he rose. Taking the knife and both sticks, he went out the back door, among the plants in the garden. Found a corner of dirt by the back wall, hidden from view. He could smell the greenery, the dirt, the pungent odor of the city.

  Kane settled into an uneasy slumber.

  Monday, 2 JULY 1962

  UNITED STATES MILITARY ACADEMY, WEST POINT, NEW YORK

  “Sir, New Cadet Kane reports to the man in the red sash, as ordered.”

  “Drop your bag,” the Man in the Red Sash commands. The cadre member wears gray trousers, a starched white shirt, a black nametag on the left chest with a polished set of jump wings above. A white cap with a shiny black bill shades his eyes. Gray epaulettes on the shoulders sport a black shield with Academy crest superimposed and three yellow stripes indicating he was a ‘Firstie’ and his rank. And, of course, a wide red sash around his waist.

  New Cadet William Kane leans over and puts his bag on the hot pavement while making sure his toes are exactly on the line of tape two feet on front of the First Classman. He resumes a strict position of attention, as best he understands.

  The Man in the Red Sash smiles and Kane swells with a sense of accomplishment. They stand in an area surrounded by gray-stone clad barracks on three sides. A row of five Men in Red Sashes have lines of newly arrived youngsters nervously waiting in front of them.

  “Pick your bag up, please,” the Man in the Red Sash says pleasantly.

&nbs
p; Kane, a bit confused, picks it up.

  “DROP THE BAG, YOU DUMB SMACKHEAD!” the Man in the Red Sash screams, his face just inches from Kane’s, spittle spraying.

  Kane’s hand responds while his mind tries to catch up, releasing the bag. It thuds onto the pavement. The Man in the Red Sash’s face is beet red, a vein bulging in his temple.

  “When I order you to do something, you do it instantly. Do you understand, smackhead?”

  Kane thinks the man’s array of insults seems limited. “Right, sir.”

  “NO!”

  The Man in the Red Sash appears to be taking this overly personally.

  He leans forward, his shaded eyes peer unblinking into Kane’s. “Wrong answer, shit for brains. You have three answers and only three. I’m going to tell them to you. Once. They are: ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. No excuse, sir’. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kane gains reprieve as there is a commotion among the Men in the Red Sashes. A limousine has rolled up on the far side of Thayer Road and a young man is exiting. He stands and holds the door as an older, distinguished looking woman and a younger one with thick black hair, exit.

  “EYES FRONT!” the Man in the Red Sash screams at Kane, but he and his comrades are smelling the scent of fresh meat. And more.

  “Girlfriend?” a Man asks his fellow Men.

  “Not for long,” one replies. “She’s too hot for a beanhead.”

  “Sister and mother,” another says. “See the resemblance. The mom isn’t bad either. I’d give her a six. The sister is definitely a nine; she loses one for that big nose.”

  Kane can’t help but rotate his eyeballs. Sees hugs to the unsuspecting not yet New Cadet accompanied by tears from the two women. Farewells. Kane had said his ten minutes ago to a gruff father and his teary mother. The not yet New Cadet breaks away and walks across the street.

  Kane can’t believe it. The guy is carrying a bag in one hand and a tennis racket in the other. That is not on the list of what to bring. And, the guy is smiling.

  More spittle sprays his face. “GET YOUR BEADY LITTLE EYEBALLS TO THE FRONT, CROT!”