Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  “Constable McNally.”

  “Quite right. That’s why I started looking at the legal notices. These companies are what you would call ‘dirty.’ ”

  “How dirty?”

  “Both connected to organized crime.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read every newspaper published in the city. I file. I cross-index. I remember. They’re mentioned here. They’re mentioned there. That’s why these particular notices jumped out at me. They’re most certainly connected to the syndicates. Call your sources at the police department. Do a reporter’s job on this. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Taylor opened his mouth and shut it again.

  “That’s right. There is nothing you can say.”

  Taylor picked up the phone and dialed Chumley’s. His best source on organized crime, Detective Mark Murphy, used the bar in Greenwich Village as a base. The guy also still talked to him.

  “You working?”

  “Enjoying the brunch.”

  “Chumley’s has a brunch?”

  “My kind. They pour it.” The cop already sounded three sheets to the wind. “What are you doing in on a Sunday?”

  “I’m trying to track down two companies that bid for a city contract last year. The loser was Garibaldi & Winkle. You know it?”

  “Sure, a front run by Karl Poborski. A mob player going all the way back to prohibition.”

  “What’s he into?”

  “Kickbacks on contracts, extortion, racketeering. Interesting character. He’s the oldest surviving member of a Polish family shoved aside by bigger and deadlier Italian organizations.”

  “How about Clean Streets?”

  “They’re another one. Linked to the Grado family. You see both companies involved in the same dirty business. Which means you’re going to find something wrong with that contract. Bribes, kickbacks. The usual shit.”

  “Anyone targeting Garibaldi?”

  “You kidding? The department’s too busy with drugs and muggings. The FBI, I mean, it’s their fucking job. They haven’t done shit since Watergate and Hoover kicked it.”

  “Contact info?”

  “Hold on, let me check my little black book of bad behavior.” He was gone about a minute. “Poborski lives at 3238 Netherland Avenue in the Bronx. He gives a lot of money to Saint Gabriel’s Church on Arlington Avenue up there. That’s his one financial excess. The only one anyone’s found, at least. I don’t have anything on Clean Streets. I’ll phone you back.”

  “I appreciate this. How’s things?”

  “Shitty. I got busted down to the drug squad four months ago. Everyone’s either high, corrupt, or scared shitless. And those are the cops. The city’s a cesspool and I’m sliding into it.”

  He read more of the clips on Declan’s grandfather, Big Johnny Scudetto. He took some notes, even though nothing really grabbed him. The mob connection to city contracts preoccupied his mind. Sunday afternoon was a great time to catch people at home. He decided to head up to the Bronx to talk to Poborski. His other leads were dead-ends. Besides, this was a good interview to do before meeting McNally in the morning.

  He snuck out the same loading dock he’d used to enter the building to avoid Fedora and his boys if they were camped out in front of the MT. He rode the Broadway express, changed to the local and dozed for much of the ride. The nap turned down the volume on his hangover. He walked up to Netherland Avenue from Broadway. He still limped on his sore right ankle, which he’d taped before leaving the trailer. He’d come close to yelling when he put his shoe on and now had it tied as loosely as possible. At least he hadn’t injured the left leg, which was where he wore his ankle holster. His head cleared as he approached Poborski’s. A new lead always had that effect.

  Poborski lived in a classic Riverdale Tudor. The homes in this Bronx neighborhood had yards, trees, hedges, and driveways. They were a socio-economic universe away from the South Bronx, a mere four miles south of here, where blocks were being torched weekly.

  Taylor pressed the doorbell, setting off a multi-tone chime like a church bell. He put a piece of Teaberry gum in his mouth. The black wood door swung in, and a tall, heavyset man with thick white hair looked down on Taylor through the glass. His bulk was a mix of muscle and fat, giving him a curdled look, like an old bear—diminished but still dangerous. He held a dinner napkin in one hand.

  “Mr. Poborski?”

  “Who are you?” He wiped the corners of his mouth and checked around and behind Taylor. The habit of a wary man.

  “Taylor with the Messenger-Telegram. I’m working on a story about Declan McNally—”

  “Constable McNally’s son? Such terrible news. Awful news. But we’re in the middle of Sunday dinner right now.”

  “I only have a few questions. As you said, a terrible tragedy.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “It will only take a little of your time.”

  Poborski pushed open the storm door. As Taylor stepped in, he met a wall of heat. Steam hissed from radiators. The house was a sauna. On top of the heat and humidity, almost mingled with it, the smell of boiled cabbage hung in the air. Poborski turned into the living room. The odor intensified and became oppressive. He pointed Taylor to a couch and sat in a chair next to it. The furniture was draped with gold slipcovers. On a low marble coffee table sat a crystal ashtray, a sterling silver cigarette holder, and a standing lighter big enough to weld steel.

  Poborski indicated the cigarette holder. “Would you like a smoke, Mr. Taylor?”

  “No thanks.”

  From the back of the house a commanding voice pitched high yelled something in Polish.

  Poborski answered back at the same volume. “My wife, she does not like Sunday dinner interrupted.” He smiled. “How can I help you? It’s very terrible. A good family. A very good family.”

  “Do you know Constable McNally well?”

  “I do business with the city. Lots of contracts. Of course I know him. I work with him very well. We feel very bad for him. Such a tragedy. We saw the whole family at the funeral mass.”

  “I’ve been doing some research on Mr. McNally’s work. Your company won a road salt contract for two decades. Until last fall. Clean Streets got it.”

  “Sometimes you get outbid.”

  “Losing a deal like that must be major. Five and a half million dollars. Sixty million over twenty years. Serious money.”

  “So?”

  “Violence is done for a lot less.”

  “What are you talking about violence? I’m a businessman. Contracts are won and lost every day. You’re here harassing me on my Sunday. Yet the cops haven’t bothered to talk to me. Even they’re not so stupid.”

  “They have their methods. I have mine. Sometimes they don’t show up until after they read about somebody in the paper.”

  “Is that a threat?” The smile was gone, replaced by a look of malignance.

  More yelling from the direction of the kitchen.

  Poborski snapped back a quick answer without looking away. The clock on a side table ticked. “Some people think I am tough. They have not met Mrs. Poborski. She believes in the old Polish customs. Sunday dinner is not interrupted.”

  Taylor knew the customs Poborski favored. He wasn’t brave in any stupid way, but he knew he had one shot at this. Either that or cross Poborski off the list of leads worth pursuing. He wasn’t a detective. He couldn’t demand that the man come in for more questioning.

  “My police sources tell me Clean Streets is a front for a syndicate run by the Grado family.” An old gambit. Make Poborski’s competitor sound like the bad guy in the story and maybe get a rise.

  The old man gave an exaggerated I-don’t-know shrug. “You will excuse me. I am a private American citizen. I do not need to be put through this.” He stood up.

  “Do you know Mark Voichek?”

  “I have never heard of him.” Exasperation tinged his voice now.

  A muscul
ar younger man, baldheaded with a goatee, appeared in the doorway. He folded his arms, and everything under his polyester shirt moved like live animals in a shiny green bag.

  “My son, Sash, comes to bring me back to dinner. He is a good boy. He does everything Mrs. Poborski asks.”

  Taylor stood to leave. “This is what I know. Voichek is a homeless man.” He remembered Voichek’s rebuke. “Check that. A hobo. Three men attacked him and stole his clothes. That same night those clothes ended up on Declan McNally. The boy was left out on the street. Drugged into unconsciousness and soaked to the skin so he’d freeze to death.”

  “This is a very messy business you describe,” Karl Poborski growled. “Sounds like it will get even messier. It’s none of my business. I must eat my dinner. Good day to you.”

  Poborski departed down the hall. The younger man opened the front door with a look like he wanted to slam it into Taylor’s head.

  Taylor walked back to the subway station. Trying to get anything out of Poborski had been risky. Taylor knew that. But he’d learned a couple of things talking to that dangerous man. The police hadn’t yet made a connection to the mobster. That could be good, if Taylor was ahead on the story. It could be bad, if he was barking up the wrong tree and that tree had an old bear in it. Taylor didn’t think so. Poborski had wanted to end the conversation as soon as the salt contract came up, and not just because his wife was screaming at him. His demeanor had switched instantly from concern about the McNally family to anger.

  The hangover was back full strength by the time Taylor boarded the subway. The hothouse cabbage smell had overwhelmed the nap and aspirin.

  Chapter 23

  Taylor stopped three blocks from Laura’s apartment building and called into the MT.

  “Two messages. Mr. Harry Jansen said to tell you ‘nothing yet on Voichek.’ Mr. Worth also left a message. He said, well let me see.” The operator stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a long one. ‘Taylor, I know you’re picking up messages here. So you must not be sick. Personnel says I don’t have to wait until you come back. I’ll have you out on your ass by five tomorrow. Be here after the page one meeting.’ ” She paused again. “I’m sorry. That was his language.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “That man is always so rude when he calls in.”

  “He’s rude to everyone.”

  A bastard. That’s what Worthless really was. He circled two blocks at random and walked back down Lex, all to make sure no one was following him. He could save his job if he figured a way to keep Clare Kazka and her mom safe. There was the rub. Whatever he had by five tomorrow would be enough. Or it wouldn’t. He’d deal with what came after … after. There wasn’t time for worry.

  He pushed Laura’s buzzer. The speaker gave a muffled squawk. Please don’t let it be the roommate. He couldn’t bear spending the afternoon by himself.

  “It’s Taylor.”

  More squawking, the door buzzed, and he started up the stairs, going slowly to favor his hurt ankle. On the second landing, Laura met him with a hug. He balanced on his good leg and loneliness left like a chill chased away by a warm fire.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No worse for wear. I can walk, after a fashion.”

  “Why didn’t you call and say you were coming? I only went out once to get the papers. I made Sarah Jane and Annie clear the hell out.”

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense. I was afraid I’d find out you weren’t here if I called. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “Superstition instead of facts?” She smiled. “Of course I’m here. Come on up.”

  Taylor climbed slowly and this made her fuss over him even more. He liked it. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had. He eased onto the futon and asked for a glass of water and two Tylenol. Alternating with aspirin every two hours got more painkillers to his head and ankle.

  “When are your roommates coming back?”

  “Not for a while. Why?”

  “I need a nap. I could drop off right here.”

  She looked disappointed, opened her mouth to speak but seemed to change her mind. “You sleep. I can read the Sunday papers. I went down to the newsstand and got the Boston Globe and the Washington Post too.”

  “That’s a treat.” He stretched, closed his eyes, and in moments, fell into blackness with a violent shudder. He opened them with another shudder convinced he’d dozed for only a few minutes. Laura sat under a cone of yellow light from a floor lamp, her face relaxed and beautiful as she read. The window behind framed buildings and a dark sky. Hours must have gone by during one of those deep naps that seemed to pass in a heartbeat.

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter after seven.”

  He blinked his eyes and fought the desire to drop back down into wonderful sleep. “Thanks for letting me nap. Yesterday was one hell of a day.”

  “Tell me what’s happened. I’m dying to hear.”

  He sat up and stretched his long legs in front of him. She moved onto the futon.

  “Voichek split on me. He’s panicked. I’m really worried about him.”

  He described the arrival of the mobsters the night before and his visit to Poborski. As he talked, she gently rubbed his neck.

  “Your muscles are like iron cords.”

  “Please don’t stop.” He rotated his head as she massaged. “I have to find Voichek before they do.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s up against, and I’m up shit creek. If Voichek doesn’t turn up, I’ve got nothing. I like the guy. You need to meet him. There’s a story there for you.” He leaned back against her. “He’s a walking dictionary for this old-time hobo language. You don’t hear these words anymore. It’ll make a great feature for the paper.”

  “You know I love anything about language.” He again remembered making fun of her linguistics classes. He looked back but didn’t see anything in her face that said she did. She added, “What about the mafia angle?”

  “I didn’t get anything solid from Poborski. Maybe there’s something. I have to find a way to jimmy that door open. If the contract is tainted, McNally is corrupt. I’ve got these pieces, but I’m not sure if they’re part of the same puzzle. McNally better give me some answers tomorrow. Worthless can do whatever the fuck he likes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s going to fire me at five.”

  “Asshole.”

  “It’s been coming. I’m not sweating it. I was set up and the paper bought it. Now I know I’m in the clear. I’m on to a good story. I’m shoving this story down Worth’s throat. Just hope I can get it in time.”

  She pulled him close and kissed him softly. “You lie back and relax. No napping, though.”

  “How could I?” He laughed and kissed her once before falling back onto the futon.

  She gently kissed him as he slid one hand up her peasant dress. His hand rose on a smooth, firm thigh.

  “Nothing like a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  The kissing grew more passionate. Laura undid his belt and jeans. Their breathing came faster. She hiked up her dress and lowered herself onto him, started slowly, picked up speed, arched her back.

  When they had both finished, she lowered her head to his chest. Her breathing was quick. “You like a little afternoon delight?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Sometime after, when he was half asleep, half awake, relaxed and happy, a siren, now two, came down Third Avenue. Laura raised her head to look out the window over his head. “Engine Three-Three and Truck Nine. The romantic symphony of New York.”

  She got up and made herself a cup of something called Lapsang Souchong tea. Taylor didn’t get tea, and she already knew better than to force anything new on him. He didn’t do well with new things. She brought him a milky Nescafé loaded with sugar. A small gesture, but a perfectly wonderful one. She was so easy
to hang out with.

  “Sunday evening’s a balanced thing.” Laura sipped and steam from the mug curled over her cheekbones. “It’s too close to Monday to start big projects. There’s really only enough weekend left to do nothing.”

  With that, she settled into one corner of the couch with the Book Review from the Sunday Times. Taylor picked up The Daily News to read the stories filed by the tabloid’s top-notch police reporters. He found a pretty good one—hell, an excellent one—on a mob hit out on Staten Island, a netherworld populated by bad guys and cops indistinguishable from one another. Same houses, yards, schools, cars, and sometimes, even jobs.

  He contemplated the Sunday evening doing nothing that Laura suggested. It sounded perfect, but perfect wasn’t possible for him tonight. He rose from the couch.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I feel like I should be looking for Voichek. But to be honest, I don’t know where to start. Won’t until Harry Jansen comes up with something. Tomorrow I’ll see Constable McNally.” He rubbed his eyes. “There is one thing I’ve been avoiding. I have to tell the homicide detectives about Voichek. It can’t be my secret anymore. Who knows? Maybe something crazy will happen and the cops will actually find him before the villains do. Either way, I can’t sit on it any longer.”

  “I’ll come with you. Be better than being with my roommates.”

  “The cops are going to yell at me.”

  “My roommates will do the same. Unless they yell at each other.”

  Chapter 24

  The desk sergeant at the 10th didn’t ask a single question when Taylor said he had information, instead sent them straight upstairs. The McNally case was four-star high priority.

  NYPD Inspector Anthony Dellossi, in a crisply pressed shirt and wearing the gold eagle of his rank, knew Taylor. “Goddammit, if you bullshitted my sergeant to get up here to poke around—”

  “Relax, Inspector. I’ve got something for you.”

  “What, you’re checking it out before publishing?” He laughed darkly and returned to the file he was reading. “New one for you, Taylor.”