Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  “I interviewed a man named Mark Voichek. His clothes were on Declan McNally.”

  Dellossi looked up from the file. The small shiny brown eyes in his narrow face were easy to read. He thought he was smarter than you. He knew you were guilty.

  “The field jacket with the flags and the patched jeans. They were stolen from Voichek by three hoods. They were going to kill him too, but he got away. They’re still trying to kill him.”

  “Where is Voichek now?”

  “I talked to him yesterday. He split last night. He’s worried about getting killed.”

  “You let him?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Make a citizen’s arrest?”

  “No, just place a fucking citizen’s phone call.”

  “I spent most of yesterday running from the killers with him.”

  “All the more reason to come to us. I promise you, if we don’t find him, I’ll have you for something. Accessory after the fact. Obstruction. Trespass. Whatever. Anything. You can’t fuck with an investigation.”

  “Fuck with it? I found the guy.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a hobo. He lives on his wits and odd jobs.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is this vagrant claims his clothes were stolen and put on Declan McNally. How do you know he’s not the killer?”

  “You wonder why the guy didn’t want to come in?” Laura didn’t stint on the sarcasm.

  “Listen Miss—”‘

  “It’s Laura Wheeler. Ms. Laura Wheeler.”

  “Taylor’s in trouble here. You want to join him?”

  “Easy, easy.” Taylor held up his notebook. “Let’s stay cool. I’ll tell you what else I’ve got.”

  He provided a description of Voichek and the three hoods. He didn’t give everything he knew about the McNally case, just everything about Voichek. Cops had burned him before. They’d buy a favor by giving one of his leads to another reporter. Or do it just to fuck with him.

  “I better be able to corroborate the incident at the coffee shop.” Dellossi stubbed his finger on his legal pad as if trying to pin Taylor’s facts to the paper.

  “You will. What have you got on the case?”

  “I’ll tell you when I tell the other reporters. Which will be when we make an arrest. We are pursuing a number of promising leads.”

  “That’s bullshit. I just gave you your only promising lead.”

  “Careful, Taylor.” Dellossi smiled like he’d won a game they were playing. “You’re lucky I don’t sit you down with one of my stupider sergeants and have him interview you about all this for eight or ten of your Sunday night hours. We’re done here.”

  Laura spoke as soon as they were out on 20th Street. “What a dick. That’s how a senior officer acts?”

  “They don’t like it when you’re out ahead of them.”

  “You must get that treatment a lot.”

  “Some. It’s easy to take when that’s what it means. I got something I wanted, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Confirmation. He didn’t even hint at any leads, and that means he doesn’t have anything. He’d want me to know if he’s got something going. Too much ego. Too much political pressure. If we’re out in front of the cops, we’re out in front of the other papers.” They walked to the corner. For the first time in a week, the temperature had climbed above the twenties. Positively balmy after the terrible March cold wave. “I’ll check in with the switchboard. Then call it a night and get some rest. Five o’clock deadline tomorrow. Got to make something happen.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the Kazkas.” She put her hand on his arm. “You really have to do something with that information.”

  “I can’t put them in harm’s way. Or spoil the trail to whoever set me up.”

  “There must be a way. You’d exonerate yourself at the MT in an instant.”

  He picked up the receiver, slid in a dime, and with it, mouthed a silent prayer for news of Voichek. There was news, but not the kind he wanted.

  “Mr. Harry Jansen called forty minutes ago,” said the operator. “Here’s his message. ‘Torres the Kid saw Voichek on West Forty-fourth. Before he could catch up, three men chased Voichek. Torres followed. They headed onto the pier at Forty-third. Torres called from a pay phone across the street and said he was going onto the pier. I tried to stop him. Some of us are heading over. I hope numbers are enough. Please help if you can.’”

  Taylor thanked the operator and hung up.

  “I’m coming with you,” Laura said.

  “No. I don’t know what’s going on. It could be dangerous.”

  “It’ll be dangerous for you too.”

  “This is all going in a bad direction. Please, go back and tell Dellossi about this and go to the paper and wait. Be my rewrite man.”

  “Man?”

  “Man, woman. Whatever works.” He waved down a cab.

  “Take care, Taylor.” Laura’s voice trailed behind.

  Chapter 25

  The broken-down theatrical palaces on 42nd Street flashed past. One advertised “classic New York burlesque.” The rest, triple bills of triple-X.

  In light Sunday traffic, it took the cab ten minutes to reach the curb across the Westside Highway from the pier. That wasn’t fast enough for Taylor. He was desperate to get there and keep a murder from happening. He was at least an hour behind the action. Taylor threw too much money at the cabbie, got out and ran across the street and along the front of the pier.

  No police cars, marked or unmarked. No John Doe. No homeless. No sign of anyone. A garage-sized door into the covered pier stood ajar. Taylor easily squeezed through the gap. Dust circulated in the cold air of a long warehouse lit by security lights outside. Footprints on the floor showed a crowd had milled around and moved down the pier to the end. Taylor found the place where the big group stopped and a smaller party of three people separated and walked to a place where the boards were pushed apart. He leaned out of the hole. A body was splayed in the position of a drowned man forty feet below but kept from the water by the rock-hard ice of the Hudson. Blood from Voichek’s head stained the snow cherry red.

  Bodies didn’t bother Taylor. Yet the sight of this one forced him back inside. Defeat and despair grabbed hold of him. He hadn’t kept the old man safe. The story was out of control, writing itself before he could. Killing people before he could stop it.

  He guessed one thing from all the footprints in the dust. Jansen and his people must have already been there and left once they saw the body. Did Torres the Kid leave with them? Or had the thugs grabbed him? Another murder? If Torres followed Voichek and saw anything and escaped, he was now the link to the killers. If he was alive. “Ifs” were the enemy. Too many goddamn ifs. He should have kept Voichek with him. Or gotten him into police custody. His head spun. Things he hadn’t done. Things he needed to do.

  No other clues were evident, but he wasn’t a Sherlock Holmes, not even an Anthony Dellossi. He needed to interview people to figure out what the hell was going on.

  As he crossed the Westside Highway, a police car pulled up. He owed Voichek the time to see his body safe. A fire truck and ambulance followed, and two brave firemen crept out onto the ice. After a minute, they dropped a blanket over Voichek’s body. The firemen loaded the body onto an aluminum stretcher and pulled the stretcher off the Hudson as if it were a sled in the Yukon.

  Taylor turned away. He’d have time to mourn Voichek later. Nothing mattered but tracking down the murderers. A bus rumbled up 11th Avenue. He was happy to pay the fare to go six blocks to Jansen’s improvised homeless shelter between 47th and 48th. The place was empty of people. The bundles, bags, and blankets were all gone. Only a stray item on the floor attested to a fast clear out. Taylor didn’t blame them. Their people were being killed, and the why didn’t matter. Safety did. Glowing embers faded in the fire pit, and darkness closed in around him. Nothing here would be any help.

  A crash from b
ehind.

  He spun. Nothing. He thought of the revolver at his ankle, but that was a bad idea given the darkness and his poor aim. He picked up a two-by-four from a small stack of firewood and swung it in front of him, as much a blind man’s cane as a weapon. He walked in the direction of the sound and found a doorway into a tented hallway.

  “Hello?” Footsteps ran away. He pushed on, and the darkness became so complete it seemed to touch his eyes. He moved the club in a wider arc. The wood made a clunking noise as it hit the walls. “Who’s there? I just want to talk.”

  A light flickered up ahead. Ten feet or a hundred? No way to tell. He wanted to close the distance but couldn’t in the blackness. Bright light right in his eyes. Whiteout. A different kind of blindness. Running footsteps. Someone hit him hard and spun him, and he banged his forehead on a wooden support.

  Taylor touched his head. No blood. He turned around once to get his bearings. Nothing. Around again and his eyes, recovering from the flash, found the doorway back to the main room, which in that blackness glowed as a rectangle of light from the dying fire’s last bit of brightness. The runner passed through the doorway like a shadow. Taylor hustled to the door and got into the main room as the figure raced past the brick fire circle.

  “Wait. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  That just spurred the figure on. The runner was faster than Taylor could manage with two good ankles. He or she was going to get out into the streets and disappear into Hell’s Kitchen. Something on the floor gave Taylor an assist and tripped the runner. A flashlight spun across the floor. Taylor got there before the runner could get up.

  “No! Please don’t kill me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” Taylor held up the two-by-four like a club. He tossed it aside, and the clattering caused the boy to throw his hands over his head. Taylor gripped one arm and studied the small thing he’d caught.

  “I didn’t see nothin’.”

  “Torres the Kid?” The boy didn’t respond. “I’m Taylor. Harry Jansen knows me.”

  “I’ve heard of Taylor, but how do I know you’re him?” He tried to squirm out of Taylor’s grip.

  “I’m not attacking you, am I?”

  He quit struggling, and Taylor let go so he could stand. A big purple knit ski cap was pulled down over the boy’s ears. Dark hair curled from underneath it. A camel hair coat hung down to the tops of old-fashioned Converse basketball shoes.

  “You’re the one who writes about the dead. Is that why you’re here? To get Voichek’s death story?”

  “No. I was hoping …. I wanted to find him alive. Did you see what happened?”

  The coat was clean, as was his face. Torres the Kid took care of himself. Voichek was the one who taught him how to do that. Taylor let the wave of sadness rise, crash and retreat. No time right now to hold onto it.

  “It was awful.” Torres blew out an exhausted sigh. “I couldn’t do anything. Anything. I hadn’t seen Voichek for almost a week. Since Port Authority, right after he started hiding. I went to check one of his spots here on the West Side. A garage nobody uses. Just as I got there, he bolted with those hoods chasing. It was like a posse in the movies, where they go after the wrong guy. He was the wrong guy, right?”

  “He was the wrong guy.”

  “Voichek ran onto the pier. That scared the hell out of me. Voichek taught me to never ever go down a dead end. I don’t know why he did. Maybe he was already hurt. I peeked in. There’s nowhere to hide, so I snuck up along the side flat against the wall. Voichek was facing me, and their backs were to me—”

  “How many?”

  “Three. One in an old man’s hat and two in ski caps. Voichek saw me. I know because he shook his head a little and looked back at the door to say I should get out of there. Without warning, he charged one of the men wearing a ski cap. The tall hood in the hat laughed and watched for a couple of punches and went over and kicked Voichek. He kicked him and kicked him and kicked him until the only time Voichek moved was when that boot hit his body. Christ it was horrible. They threw him right off the pier. I started running. I’ve never been shot, but I was scared. I was sure I was going to find out what that feels like trying to get off the pier. No shots though. I hid across the street before they got outside.”

  “Did the men say anything?”

  “While he was kicking Voichek, the hat, he spoke. ‘You should have let us do you a week ago when no one cared. Worthless fucking bum. Worthless fucking bum.’ I don’t think Voichek could hear anything by then. I watched after they left. I was afraid they’d come back. Jansen and everyone showed up, went in and left again pretty quickly.”

  “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “In case those yeggs were around. I was scared they’d follow my friends. I was scared they’d get me.”

  “You were smart.”

  “I wish.” He looked down at his sneakers. “Voichek helped people. He always helped me. Why would they kill him?” His eyes welled up, but he wiped them with the baggy camelhair sleeve and stood stoically.

  “Is Torres your last name?”

  “I’m just Torres the Kid. I left the other names behind. Are you gonna turn me over to the bulls?”

  Taylor had to smile a little at Voichek’s hobo lingo. Maybe here was a way it would survive.

  “I should, for your own protection.”

  A look of terror came over Torres. “You said—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. Where do you think Jansen went?”

  “Don’t know. Everything is such a mess. People will use churches, Sally Ann, wherever they feel safe. We won’t be back here soon.”

  Voichek murdered and Jansen’s community destroyed. Taylor hadn’t done much to help any of them. He had to make sure this kid was safe and then find the men who killed Declan McNally and Mark Voichek. He couldn’t make things right. He could never make things right. He had a lifetime to feel bad. Right now, he’d do whatever he needed to do to stop the killing.

  “Could you identify the three of them?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. They were kinda far away. I’m not talking to any cops.”

  “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” That meant out of Hell’s Kitchen.

  They left the shelter and walked east on 48th toward Times Square. A block later, a shadow detached from the deeper shadow of the building in front of them and blocked their way. Torres the Kid reacted in an instant, racing back the other way toward 10th.

  “Kid, wait!”

  A second figure appeared—seemed to materialize on the sidewalk—and snatched the sprinting boy. The Kid gave one yelp and went quiet. Taylor pulled out the .32, closed the distance and leveled the gun.

  “Let him go now.”

  One blow knocked the gun out of Taylor’s hand. A leg swept and sent him crashing to the sidewalk. A fist with “KILL” tattooed across the knuckles grabbed a big clump of Taylor’s field jacket and the other fist—this one read “OR BE”—pulled back to strike.

  “No, not him.” Torres the Kid grabbed the big fist. “He’s the Writer for the Dead. He was looking for Voichek.”

  The bulky man pulled Taylor up to his feet and straightened his jacket.

  “Sorry about that, man.” The voice was an iron rasp. “Jansen had us watching the area. He thought Torres the Kid would come back. We didn’t know what to expect. I’m McAfferty. This is Doonz.”

  McAfferty had a block head, flat line for a mouth and intelligent green eyes. The other man came up behind and made no impression in the dark except for his size. There was a lot of him.

  “We’ll take Torres.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

  Taylor looked down at the boy. “You okay with that?”

  “Sure I am. Jansen sent them, didn’t he?”

  “You can keep him safe?”

  “I’m 101st Airborne. Doonz was Force Recon in ’Nam. We can take care of ourselves, and the rest. We’re going to get him out of harm’s way. After that, we find the fuckers who did
in Voichek. That man was a decorated vet. We don’t let that happen to a brother in arms. Bastards can’t be allowed to think we’re all crazies who will roll over or run away when they kill one of our own.”

  “You know the kid is a witness. He can ID the killers. The police will want to talk to him.”

  “They can when Jansen decides so.”

  “That’s probably for the best.” Taylor was dead on his feet and relieved the boy’s people could protect him. Torres the Kid leaned against McAfferty. “Have Jansen contact me if you track the hoods down.”

  “You’ll hear about it.” There was a wickedness in McAfferty’s voice.

  The three walked toward 10th. Taylor turned and made his way to the muted glow of Times Square and the Howard Johnson. He sat down in the phone booth, closed the door, flipped through his notebook and outlined the story in his head. It was time to put what he had into print. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if that forced the killers out into the open. He hoped it did. He dialed the MT and asked for Laura.

  “I’ve got a story on Voichek’s murder. I’ll dictate it to you. Get the night editor to take it as yours. How long have I got?”

  “Forty minutes for the late city final.”

  “All right, here we go.” He looked down at the notebook. “Dateline, Manhattan. The man whose clothes were used in the murder of city teenager Declan McNally was himself killed yesterday by three men who may be connected to the McNally homicide. Mark Voichek, a self-styled hobo of no known address, was beaten to death by the three men and pushed from the 43rd Street pier onto the frozen Hudson River, according to a witness. New graph. In an interview Saturday, Voichek said his clothes, including a World War II Army field jacket with more than 40 country flags sewn on both sleeves, were stolen by three men last Monday. McNally, the grandson of Manhattan Democratic Chief John Scudetto, was found dead in the same clothing the next morning in the Gansevoort Market. New graph.”

  Taylor fed ten paragraphs to Laura, who typed it out on her Selectric just as fast. She read the copy back to Taylor. “It’s a good story.”