“It’s gotten worse since we last talked.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Those mobsters are shaking my people down. It’s no longer the carrot. All stick. They know who you are by name.”
“How?”
“You made yourself pretty famous when you chased the Street Sweepers away from the shelter. Then you got Joshua Harper back for his funeral. The homeless don’t get much, so you don’t have to do much for them to become a name on the street. My people are tough, but they’re not tough guys. When they get knocked around enough, they tell what they know and sometimes make up things they don’t. Whoever these mobsters are, they know your name and they know you’re a Messenger-Telegram man chasing a story.”
“Dammit. Listen, if you hear anything I should know—I mean anything—leave a message with the paper’s switchboard. Anytime, day or night. Don’t wait till we can talk.”
“I understand.”
“Were your people hurt?”
“Beat up pretty badly.”
“Will they talk to me?”
“I don’t know. They’re all scared. I’ll see what I can do. Take care of yourself. And please take care of Voichek.”
“I think he can take care of himself.”
“It’s been a long time since he was in trouble this deep. I’m worried for both of you. This is getting very ugly. Violent and ugly.”
Taylor was left with the question of how to tell Voichek they were in deeper jeopardy. He couldn’t think of a good way and so put off worrying the old man with it and walked back to the table. Voichek was reading a Daily News left by two men who’d sat at the next table.
The ambush at the Lighthouse made Taylor hinky. He was more determined than ever to work the story now he knew that the mobsters stole Voichek’s clothing. They were trying to kill Voichek to cover their tracks because they murdered Declan McNally. That had to be it. He couldn’t do much sitting in Nathan’s. Still, Coney Island was a safe haven. Out past the boardwalk was the ocean and Staten Island. After that, the Verrazano Narrows and Europe. Wouldn’t hurt to rest here a bit longer. He wasn’t sure what to do with Voichek. He couldn’t keep the man safe by himself. Maybe an idea would come to him. He reached over to the neighboring table for another discarded paper, Friday’s edition of the weekly Brooklyn Bulletin. He flipped to the police blotter, his favorite column in any of the dozens of weeklies that covered New York’s neighborhoods.
PARK SLOPE—A 31-year-old thought she fought off two attackers after they grabbed her purse. The muggers jumped the woman at 10:17 p.m. on Fifth Avenue and pushed the victim to the sidewalk. She refused to let go after one grabbed her purse, and both men gave up, fleeing toward Fourth. Ten minutes later, one returned and stabbed her.
BROOKLYN HEIGHTS—A pickpocket team continued to plague the neighborhood. A 45-year-old woman lost her wallet to a “bump and run” while shopping in the A&P Supermarket on Henry Street.
WILLIAMSBURG—A mugger attacked three victims on the J-train, stealing cash and credit cards in a 12-hour robbery spree. A 6-foot-7, 230-pound man threatened to throw a 66-year-old woman on the tracks at Hewes Street if she didn’t turn over her purse. He fled with it. Two hours later, at the same station, a man of the same description punched a man in the face and took his wallet. A third victim was accosted on a train traveling between subway stations.
CARROL GARDENS—A couple on a motor scooter chased down a thief who’d grabbed a woman’s prize-winning poodle. The victim told police she was walking Pinkie’s Powderpuff Pozo near Degraw and Hoyt when a teenager ran over and took the dog, whipping the leash out of her hand. The couple on the scooter gave chase. The woman rider hopped off and snatched Pinkie and jumped back on the scooter.
The blotter always had a dog story. He’d read the blotters enough in the past ten years to know the character of the crime had changed. More muggings. More murders. The subway was a great source of danger. He looked over the rest of the paper and traded with Voichek. He spent a while puzzling over a story about the Urban Development Corporation defaulting last month on $100 million in bonds. The writer was worried about New York City’s debt and the fact it never actually got repaid. Six billion dollars sounded like a lot, but Taylor wasn’t a numbers guy.
A uniformed Nathan’s employee turned over chairs and put them on the tables. The wall clock read eleven-twenty. Time to head to Queens.
PART VI: Sunday, March 16, 1975
Chapter 21
They’d caught their first piece of good luck all day. A gypsy cab, red bandana tied around its whip antenna, pulled over after they’d stood on Stillwell for only ten minutes. The Chevy Bel Air’s backseat was big enough to be a bed. Taylor would have happily stretched right across it to rest his throbbing right ankle if Voichek weren’t along. Instead, he got as comfortable as he could. Brooklyn turned into Queens as the driver took local streets to Ahab’s Bar & Grill.
Taylor handed the driver five bucks. An obscene amount, but obscene was the going rate for travel between outer boroughs at that time of night.
Inside Ahab’s, Danny was impassive behind the bar and would be until last call at 4 a.m. and right through the lock-in for the hardcore drinkers at six. Voichek ordered rye on the rocks, Taylor a Rolling Rock pony. Danny, without being asked, picked up the black phone from below the bar and put it in front of Taylor. He was in his office away from the office. He was comfortable here, happy even.
Voichek lifted his drink. “Thanks for the third rail.”
“Talking west?” Taylor clinked his bottle against the glass.
“Yeah. What we call booze.”
Taylor dialed the MT’s switchboard and picked up two messages from Laura, the last simply, “Call me. I’m worried.”
The operator scolded him. “You need to get back to her.”
Laura answered on the first ring.
So did her roommate. “Who’s this?”
“Get off the damn phone, Sarah Jane! Are you okay? I’ve been worried to death.”
“Don’t need to be so testy.” The phone clicked.
He took in a breath.
“I’m here still.” Laura’s warm voice was a tonic after the long hard Saturday. “Tell me everything.”
“Man, there’s so much. I’ll start at the beginning. The McNally funeral was the full St. Pat’s production. There must have been five hundred people. I talked with Constable McNally a little bit afterwards. I’m going to see him Monday. The fun really started at the service for Joshua Harper.”
Voichek finished his whiskey. Taylor signaled Danny for another round and shifted a couple of barstools over to get privacy. Danny asked Voichek how he knew “the crazy reporter” and Voichek laughed.
In a low voice and leaving out no details, Taylor talked Laura through the Harper service, the chase, the Lighthouse ambush, the hours on the subway, Voichek’s revelation he’d been robbed of his clothes and their time at Nathan’s.
“Christ. Are you hurt?”
“Banged up a little.” He drank the second beer. Each one tasted better. It would be a delicate balance numbing his ankle while keeping his head straight. Or straight enough.
“Do you want me to come out there?”
“No.” He answered too fast. “I don’t want you in danger.”
“I’m not worried.”
“The killers know who I am. I don’t have a plan for what I’m going to do.”
“About Voichek?” she guessed.
“Yes. Let’s meet tomorrow afternoon. I need some sleep.”
“At the MT?”
“Nah, not on Sunday. How about your apartment?”
“I like the way that sounds.”
“As long as I’m sure no one’s following. I’ll call you either way. We still need to confirm that Declan was dealing up at Columbia. Find out who supplied him.” He looked down the bar. “I should get back to Voichek.” He didn’t want to hang up.
“Take care of yourself.”
“Don�
��t worry. I’m no hero. Just a scribbler with a sore leg and a headache.”
He missed her voice as soon as it was gone. Having her come over would have been the best thing in the world tonight. Laughter. Talk. Her touch. And a very bad idea. Voichek sipped the rye with an expression of relish that was surprising given the old man insisted on the cheapest brand in the rail. Voichek was his responsibility, and he had to see this through. He walked to the bathroom, turning over what to do next. He kept coming up with the same answer. Voichek wasn’t going to like it. He was going to think Taylor was pushing him off after getting what he needed. No matter how it looked, it was time to talk to the cops. He returned to the bar with his mind made up “What we should ….”
Voichek wasn’t there. Danny hadn’t seen him go. A note was scrawled on a cocktail napkin.
I’m not one who can accept such hospitality without being able to repay. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. There are yeggs and bulls everywhere in this mess. I’m better off alone. If I can think of anything that will help, I’ll let you know. Please don’t follow. I’ve told you everything I know but this: one of them said to the other, “This is a stupid reason for a contract.” I assumed the contract was on me. Then I ran hard. Guess they really meant the kid. I’m going to keep running.
—MV
“Shit, damn, shit.”
Taylor stuffed the napkin in his pocket, waved at Danny to put the drinks on his tab and hobbled up and down the blocks around Ahab’s. Back in front of the bar, he blew out vapor like an old steam engine. Voichek, the only thing close to a witness in the murder, had disappeared into the vastness of a New York City night. The man was at the mercy of any street person who’d take 20 dollars to tip the men trying to kill him. Worse. The bad guys were beating up homeless people to get information. He hadn’t told Voichek about that development. It was going to be part of his speech on why they needed to go to the homicide cops. Voichek didn’t understand the threat he faced, and it was Taylor’s fault.
He needed to check the subway station next. He ran to the corner just as the black Oldsmobile sped past and skidded into a pool of blue and yellow light thrown by a store across the intersection. Fedora came out of the car.
Taylor didn’t watch for the other two thugs, instead he ducked back into the bar. How’d they find him so goddamn fast? Wait. Think about it. The switchboard gave out Ahab’s number to anyone after-hours. Stupid. He’d expected the thugs to keep searching Voichek’s world on the street, not come directly after him. He’d been too tired to think straight and stupid to believe it would be safe here.
“Danny, you’ve got some villains behind me.”
“Why are the bad guys always after you?”
“Autographs. They love what I write. Just don’t say anything about me or my friend. You going to be okay?”
“Hunky dory.”
Danny pulled an M1 rifle, his father’s World War II original, from below the bar and rested it on the brown wood. Taylor watched from the dark back hall. The little pistol was strapped to his left ankle. He wasn’t going to leave Danny in the lurch, not if things got ugly. The three men entered the front door and pulled up short. Of all the guns they might face in New York City, this was near one of a kind. Fedora moved his hand up his coat.
Danny stroked the rifle. “Bub, this will blow such a big hole in you. Why, I’ll be able to see your buddies shitting themselves behind.”
“We were just looking for drinks.” A distinct Italian accent. “Not a very friendly place you run, my friend.”
“What you’re looking for is the door. I’ve already called the cops.”
“What are they going to say about that?” Fedora nodded at the rifle.
Danny shrugged. “They never seem to notice it when they get here.”
The three men backed up, trying their best to look coolly unhurried as they retreated. Taylor left by the rear door and edged along the brick wall to the front corner of the building. The men studied the bar, as if figuring the strategy for a second assault.
Fedora pointed to the car. “We’ll go to his house.”
Shit. This was all going to hell. Taylor took a back way, came down a driveway across the street. As expected, the Oldsmobile was parked at his address. He eased between a retaining wall and the Moscowitz’s Ford Falcon.
“Who could live here?” Fedora stood between the other two in Taylor’s front yard. “The whole place is burned up. Burned and boarded up.”
“This is the address.” The one on the left walked over and peered into the trailer in the driveway, kicked open the door and went inside. “Looks like he lives here.”
“What is he, some kinda fucking gypsy?”
The light flicked on and shadows danced across the windows of the little round Airstream. Things fell. One crash followed by another. They weren’t being gentle with his stuff. Taylor knew they’d find nothing pawing through the remains of his life but was angered they’d wreck what little home he had. He limped to a pay phone a block away, called in a B&E and snuck back to the driveway. The thugs were in the Oldsmobile, parked a hundred feet up the block, the car dark but for the burning embers of cigarettes.
The Olds took off the instant the squad car’s lights showed blocks away. The patrolmen spoke to Taylor for thirty seconds and went after it. The chase was always better than taking a statement from a pissed-off citizen. They came back twenty minutes later to get his description of the car and the men. Taylor said nothing of Voichek or the McNally murder.
He returned to Ahab’s on the theory the villains wouldn’t revisit the scene the same night. He drank ponies until his ankle went numb and kept going until it didn’t feel like he had a leg. He was in a bittersweet mood, celebrating the break in the story, and at the same time unhappy that Voichek had left. He’d gotten good information from the old man but couldn’t write a story connecting the clothes to the murder until he knew for certain where Voichek was. He’d never again file a story when the key source couldn’t be located. Once burned and all that. Tinker Bell had taught him that a great deal of paranoia was a basic requirement. He waved for another beer. The three thugs were the key. He had to find out who they were and why they murdered Declan McNally.
Chapter 22
By universal journalistic agreement, Sunday was the no-news day. Unless something large crashed, or a whole lot of people died in one place—or even better, both happened at the same time—most reporters didn’t work. The paper’s floors in the New Haven Life Insurance Company Building were empty but for a handful of weekend editors and the guys in sports.
Taylor, alone in the morgue, read a story on page 18 of the New York Times. South Vietnamese President Thieu ordered his troops to abandon the Central Highlands. South Vietnam retreated in the face of the oncoming forces from the North. The Sunday Messenger-Telegram hadn’t even bothered with the wire copy. The few remaining dominos were falling. His brother hadn’t sacrificed his life; he’d thrown it away. Taylor balled the paper up and threw it across the room. He wanted to hit something, hard. Damn, what did you do with anger when there was no one to take the blame? He held his head in his hands. He didn’t have time for this. This was his last day on the McNally murder. Half the weekend was gone. He had good information on the stolen clothing, nothing on three nameless mobsters, and no Voichek. Come Monday, that wouldn’t be enough. He liked Voichek and didn’t want him to end up dead. How to stop it?
The door opened and Mrs. Wiggins came in. “You’re more dedicated now than when you had a real job at this paper.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
“On Sundays?”
“Every Sunday. It’s the only way I can catch up on the indexing.” She sat down at her desk. “I saw Marmelli on the elevator. Aristotle Onassis died last night. The weekend editor ordered him in to go through the AP and UPI.”
“Beware the Ides of March.”
“The way he complains, you’d think he never works w
eekends.”
“He doesn’t. Not often.”
“He asked if I’d heard of T. Bone Walker.”
“He’s dead?” He turned in the chair to look at Mrs. Wiggins.
“Yes.”
“One of the greats.”
“Don’t I know it? Marmelli isn’t even running a short. I saw T. Bone perform down in the Village.” Mrs. Wiggins sounded wistful. “That was a thrill.”
“When did you see him?”
“Don’t sound so incredulous. Just after the war.”
“I’m impressed. And surprised.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Librarians lead long and interesting lives. You’ll eventually learn that.” She picked up a thick stack of clips from the desk. “Take these. After you left Friday, I found something in the legal notices that might be of interest.”
“Legal notices?”
“Certainly.” She said it like he should already know the why when he didn’t even know the what. “An intriguing tale of salt. In November, Clean Streets, Inc., won the road salt contract advertised by the city. I went back to the year prior and found another firm, Garibaldi & Winkle, got that same contract. In fact, Garibaldi & Winkle had won it for twenty straight years.”
“You have my attention.”
“A five-and-a-half-million dollar contract. Over twenty years, it was worth close to sixty million dollars to Garibaldi. Who’s the city lawyer that awards these?”
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