by J. R. Rain
“Because they figured you were the only one who could put the finger on them,” I tell him.
Bull lays a big rough hand on the newly-dead man’s shoulder and grasps the back of his neck very tight, like he’s about to shake him down. “So go ahead and finger ‘em. Looks like your protection didn’t work out too good―that means you better buy yourself some payback, buddy-boy. Make like Tweety Bird and sing.”
he whole time Gluckstein’s talking, I’m wondering why Gana Kali Nichols, if that’s her real name, didn’t summon me to murder him. Finally, I realize the reason: she―or they―wasn’t sure I could get past the Kastle key lock. I think it was that simple. Of course, I could have smashed through the glass door, tearing myself to ribbons, but it could be they don’t want that. Yet. Maybe, as Bull says, they’re saving me for one last big hit and want me looking presentable for it. Erasing the lawyer was just a piece of good housekeeping beforehand.
Gana Kali isn’t her real name, it turns out; it’s Donna Nichols, according to the ghostly shyster. Her sister is named Rose, and her niece Nancy. However, those are just their gadjo names―the normal everyday ones they use for cover in their business activities. “I think maybe I’ve heard them call themselves, that is their own clan or whatever it’s called, as the ‘Horvati’,” Gluckstein tells us. The Horvaths.
So I can’t know for sure, but I’m guessing their true Romani names are Gana, Rosa, and Natasha Horvath. A man named Eli Nichols or Horvath is their patriarch; that’s the person Gluckstein mainly had dealings with. Eli Nichols Horvath has three sons, and I’m betting it was probably a couple of them who did the hit tonight. So I’ll have plenty to look for in Tabori’s database; I need to get back to my computer at the stationhouse to do it, though.
The lawyer’s got plenty more I want to hear, but I don’t want to hang around the crime scene any longer than I have to. I give the place a last quick once-over, but with no luck. His killers seem to have stolen his iPhone and laptop, along with smashing all the computers in the place and ripping out their hard drives.
“Aren’t you going to call this in?” the vic asks me on my way out. He sounds freaked again. “I know you’re a cop; I’ve seen you downtown in court.”
“Huh? No, I can’t afford to be apprehended here breaking and entering. Sorry. You’ll keep. Your secretaries or whatever will find you tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Come on, officer, have a heart―my wife will worry. And my kids.” The shock’s wearing off, and he’s getting emotional.
“Listen, Mac; bad news always keeps,” Bull McGuinness tells him soothingly. “Wouldn’t you rather your old lady got herself a good night’s sleep? Tomorrow she’ll call the building management when you don’t turn up, so they’ll send somebody upstairs to check. Tell you what, maybe Detective Dadd will leave the door open.”
For some reason, hearing Bull use my real name and rank makes me feel a little weepy, too. Like I’ve got friends in low places.
“But you can’t just leave me here! What am I supposed to do next? I don’t want to hang around in my office forever. I was planning to go half-time next year and, you know, spend more time with the kids…and now, look at me…” The lawyer starts crying, and I don’t blame him. In fact, I feel like joining him. “Shit! Look, there’s a lot more I can tell you,” he sobs pleadingly. “I just wish I had my iPhone. Can’t you at least drop me off at home?”
He doesn’t seem to get that he can go anywhere he wants on his own. Although, I guess just telling him to “follow the light” or whatever is pretty pointless. Since there doesn’t seem to be much of that in Shadytown.
“Okay, sure.” Great; now I’m providing taxi service for dead people, like that Greek guy who used to row them across the River Styx. But it seems the least I can do, under the circumstances. “Come on, let’s a get a move on.”
Gluckstein lives―lived―less than a mile from Mom and Sid, so I take the quickest route out of habit. This time of night, there’s not much traffic. On the way, he fills me in on all he knows about the Nichols, or “Horvati”, as I now think of them. Hey, I’m one of their blood now. The Gypsies always paid him in cash, he says, and contacted him by cell phone, which is why they stole his, because of the call records. If they needed him, he drove over to a sort of garage slash junkyard on the other side of town called Roosevelt’s Automotive Recycling Center. Then he’d park his car in the front lot and they’d pick him up in one of their Mercedes, just like the day he sprang the three witches from the station lockup in East Orange. Sometimes he’d meet them in various jails or in court. Otherwise, he has no idea where they live; he never even had a PO Box number for them.
“What about legal addresses on court documents?”
“No fixed address. Sometimes a General Delivery address at a rural post office.”
“And you can’t think of anything else that might give me a clue? They didn’t mention any of the rackets they were involved with, like any problems they were having with rival families? You didn’t overhear anything by accident?”
“Hey I don’t speak their lingo!” he says. His intestines keep spilling out and dangling on the car floor; even though I know they’re made of ghostly ectoplasm, or whatever it’s called, I keep worrying reflexively about all the blood and shit he’s leaving everywhere. “Even when they use English, they have their own version they use―’cant’, it’s called. And that’s practically impossible to understand, too. I should never have gotten involved with that family, the murderous, thieving fucks―I knew better. Wise guys are like fucking Scandinavians or something compared to those guys.”
I find I’m starting to personally resent statements like that, however accurate. And however much I’d have agreed with them a week ago.
“Speaking of the Italian Mafia, I did hear one thing,” Gluckstein goes on. “One time, the old man, Eli, was really pissed off about something; one of his sons had a bad drug habit and kept screwing up his assignments. Anyway, Eli complained to me about dealing with the Mafia. He said it was corrupting the younger generation, meaning his own kids. He also said that he had no choice, that the Sicilians had an agreement with the Mexican cartels, which was why they were allowed to use his people for money laundering. Then he said that for every dollar his family received from them for laundering, they had to give ninety cents back to the Sicilians or Maltese. That really surprised me―I didn’t even know there were any Maltese around here. So then he lowered his voice and said that the tliet gh’orrief were the scariest men alive. Then he changed the subject.”
It isn’t much of a clue to go on. And it makes no sense to me. The Gypsy crime families seem to be involved in petty crimes, thefts and small business scams, not large semi-legitimate enterprises like restaurants or convenience stores where it’s easier to disburse drug dollars. What kind of money is so hot it needs the anonymity of lawless nomads to get rid of? Why not just send it to the Middle East or some former Soviet republic to get rid of?
Once we get to his neighborhood, or I guess I should say, his former neighborhood, Gluckstein seems to have a lot of trouble recognizing where he is. But he’d given me the address, so I knew it was the right house. I stop the car and catch a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror gazing longingly out the window as he tears up again.
“You sure you thought this through, pal?” says Bull softly. “You really want to go in there and haunt your family?”
“You don’t understand―I’ve got nowhere else to go! Besides, they never notice when I’m home half the time, anyway. At least I won’t have to worry; I’ll always be there to keep an eye on them.”
“Until your wife starts seeing some other guy. If she ain’t already. Ever think of that?”
“Fuck―did you have to put that in my head? Look, guys, I’m grateful for the ride, but…anyway, best of luck nailing those sons of bitches that killed me. I just want to go home and lie down, okay? I’ve got a hell of a stomach ache.”
“Poor fucker�
�nine’ll get you ten his wife will be gettin’ nailed in that same bed next to him a few weeks from now by a new guy,” McGuinness shakes his porcine head as the bedraggled figure, guts trailing behind him on the suburban sidewalk like a long white and red-flecked tube-scarf, makes his way toward the gas lantern-lit front door. “Be honest, if you were a lawyer’s wife, wouldn’t you?”
“A week, max,” I say, starting up the Toyota as the dawn breaks off to the east.
“Newly dead stiffs never learn. You gotta just suck it up and start over from scratch when it comes your turn. Damn, I hope he don’t haunt those poor sad sacks in there for real―I feel kinda responsible. So where are we headed to next?”
“My mom’s. Maybe I can cop some breakfast there. And I need to pee. What do you mean exactly when you say ‘haunt’?”
“You know―all that spooky boogey-woogey man stuff. Rapping on doors or tables, manifesting yourself to people, making scary noises, carrying your head around, rattling chains. That sort of shit.”
“And you can really do that?”
“Sure―some of us got a real knack for it. Maybe not that mope shyster, though. But, cripes, does it ever take it out of you, materializing. And you can, you know, get stuck doing it real easy, like crossin’ your eyes or something. You get kind of hypnotized revisiting the scene of the crime, over and over every night, until you forget about everything else―that’s how you get suckered into turning spook. Shades ain’t always the brightest bulbs in the room, you know. And you don’t get no smarter after you’re dead.”
He has a point; I certainly haven’t. I seem, even to myself, to have forgotten every basic tenet of good detective work these last few days: the who, the why, the when, and the where. Although I now have some slight grasp on the how.
But I’m no closer to finding Gana Horvath―or stopping her from using me to kill again.
It’s Saturday, so Sid doesn’t have any root canals or extractions to take care of first thing in the morning at his office. Anybody else would sleep in. But not just anybody else could stay married to Mom. Or has. Sid handles her insomnia by getting up at the crack of dawn on weekends and going golfing. I can see a light on in the kitchen when, after having been waved through by the security guard at their gated community, I pull into their driveway and park at the House of Teeth, as I think of it. Because it’s a hell of lot of bad teeth over the years that’s paid for it.
“Bull, I need your help,” I say, switching off the ignition. “The key to this has to be Uwanawich and Marks.” The two people I murdered. “You’ve got to track them down for me. Their shades, I mean. They know more than they told you―they have to. It stands to reason. The Nichols didn’t have me bump them off just for target practice.”
I can speak freely in the Toyota―it’s not a department Crown Vic, which might be bugged with a mike or even a camera, but what the department calls a POV, a Personally Owned Vehicle. Detectives are encouraged to drive their own cars on cases these days, particularly on stake-outs―it also saves the PD a lot of money. You get a gas allowance, but of course, all the wear and tear is on your own dime. Which is why my car looks like a piece of shit.
“Okay, but Jesus, finding them again ain’t gonna be so easy. They don’t have much cause to love either of us.” He snorts with laughter. “Especially you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well collar them if you can, and when you do, explain what went down and see if you can offer them a deal. I’ll…pay them for information.” More of my money up in smoke. I sure as hell hope the IRS never audits me, because there’s no way in hell I’m going to be collecting any receipts from the other side.
“I’ll see what I can I do. But I’ll need a ride back to Rosedale―I ain’t hoofin’ it.”
“Right. Just as soon as I’m done here.”
hat takes a hell of a lot longer than I intended. Sid is having an early breakfast and insists I join him while he tells me a whole bunch of really bad jokes, mostly involving rabbis and hookers. Finally, I interrupt to ask if he’s ever heard of Jewish Gypsies in Israel.
“Huh?” he says. “What do you think I am, a mohel? I’ve never even set foot in Israel, except I give to some charity that plants goddamn trees there. Maybe you should talk to this new woman rabbi at Temple Sinai―I heard she was into a witchcraft cult or something before she went to Yeshiva, so maybe she’ll know crap like that. Got her card somewhere, hold on. Here it is: Rabbi Tamara Hirschberger. Don’t call her now, though, Saturday’s her busy day. Speaking of which, I gotta run; we reserved early so the links won’t be crowded. Of course, every other schmuck in the city’s done the same damn thing.”
After he takes off, I sack out on one of the TV room couches for about an hour before Mom, emerging at last from one of her many ‘powder rooms’, thoughtfully rousts me and sends me packing. “You don’t really mean to fall asleep there, do you?” she asks, a question I can remember even from earliest childhood. Mom never sleeps and doesn’t really believe anyone else needs to, either. She’s gonna make a great shade, but now that I’m halfway there, I’m in no hurry to see her pass over. I’m haunted enough already.
“Wow, kiddo, your old lady’s a real looker,” Bull says on the way home.
“She’s also the world’s prize bitch.”
“Hey, nice mouth.”
“Yeah, and I use it to talk to my mother with.”
I’m cross with lack of sleep and not feeling very charitable. And I’m scared. It’s occurred to me I may find an IA stakeout or even an arrest team waiting for me when I get back to my―our, Devon’s and my―house. The ballistics may have come back on the bullets already.
But no. No cop cars outside. No one home at all, except for Kitty, pissed as hell and loudly yowling about my absence all night, along with the fading Lorna. No sign of Devon, though―is it possible he spent the night at Malena’s? That’s too awful to consider, somehow. Calling or texting either of them is no use; the only way to find out for sure would be to drive by her condo, and I really don’t want to go there. So I feed the cat instead, check all my messages―three from the probably guilt-ridden Ayon―and then take a shower. A long one. Then I do some laundry. I’ve piled up a lot of evidentiary shit on my clothes, these last few days. Some are beyond saving or cleaning, so I’ll have to find a strip-mall dumpster after I tear out the labels. Preferably near a crack house or a meth lab.
I take care of that on my way back down to the stationhouse.
In the TV cop shows, I would now put out an APB on Gana Horvath aka Donna Nichols and, after a couple of car chases, a shoot-out, and a rescued hostage, the case would be wrapped up. And the curse lifted. And then me and Tabori would fall into each other’s arms. And live happily ever after.
In real life, the first thing I discover when I get back to my desk is that the password has been changed at CENTEX―the central police database―so I can’t log in. This isn’t personal; it’s supposed to happen once a month. But it sure feels personal. Lately, everything does. So I walk down the hall, and find the captain in, even though it’s End of Watch on a Saturday morning.
“Detective Dadd,” he says, looking up. “Any progress on your murder?” Meaning the words literally, for once.
“Yeah, I know who did it. But I don’t know where to find them. It would help if I could get into CENTEX.” He digs around until he’s found the new pass and forwards it to my email.
“Thought you were supposed to be off-duty till Monday.”
“I could say the same to you, Cap.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, where the fuck else am I gonna go? I can’t go home―Lenore’s still not speaking to me. I’m getting the vibe that this time she actually means it; she’s been going to fucking yoga classes, which is what women do when they’re serious about an upgrade. Oh, and by the way, I got something back yesterday from ballistics that might interest you. You know the bullet you sent them?”
He means the one I dug out of my own heart. I nod.
“Well, they say it
’s from police-issued Tupperware, registered to Sergeant Elton Mendoza. You remember, him, right? He was shot up and killed three years ago by the Thirteens.” I remember; it caused a citywide manhunt and a gang crackdown that lasted months. Police Tupperware, by the way, is slang for a Glock, identical to the one in the holster in my desk drawer at present.
“Wow.” I’m momentarily stumped. I hadn’t figured Latino gang involvement. Maybe the gun had ended up on the street, and the Horvaths had just bought it from a dealer.
“Here’s the thing, though―the department got the Glock back, and it’s been sitting in the main evidence lockup downtown ever since. That is, until they checked this morning and it’s missing. No signout.”
“Shit.” So a fellow-officer stole it. And then most likely used it on me.
“Oh, it gets even funkier. I called ballistics to confirm it, and the guy tells me that it’s the same weapon that was used to fuck up a couple of Gypsies in Rosedale two nights ago.”
Okay, this seriously freaks me out―so hard that for a second I feel like I’m going to black out. I clear off a stack of folded shirts, and sit down in the chair across the desk from Cappy. Heavily. It means that my own department sidearm was never returned to me―Mendoza’s was, instead. And I would never have noticed or found out about it if I hadn’t shot those two people the other night―who checks their own serial number? I’m not even sure I’d know my own if I saw it on the squad room bulletin board. And obviously I don’t recognize my own gun, either. I kind of have an excuse: I don’t fetishize my piece, like some police do. I never put little notches or custom grips or any of that other bullshit on it. Or gave it a cute nickname, like “Austrian Guard Dog” or “The Terminator”. Malena Ayon calls hers “Ah-nuld”, for example.
The point is: somebody’s switched my gun for Mendoza’s, the one that murdered me. And now my Glock is out there somewhere, which means it could be used for anything. Then the blowback would lead IA back to me.