Last Words

by Rich Zahradnik

  “Thanks. There’ll be a better one when I find out who these guys are.”

  He left HoJo’s for the 42nd Street subway station, dozed off and on during the hour-long ride to Forest Hills. He stopped in at Ahab’s to see if he had any messages. Danny said no. The beers on the bar looked good. Really good. They would make his tired, hung-over, blasted empty feeling go away. For a little while, at least. He stood by the barstool where Voichek drank his third rail. Probably his last one. With a heavy heart and a deep longing for a beer, and for Laura, he left Ahab’s and crept up the alley across the street from his burnt-out house. Tired as he was, he checked the blocks on either side for a stakeout before approaching. He pushed open the trailer door—the lock was still busted—with the small revolver in the lead. The Airstream was cold and dark. And empty. He shoved the cooler up against the door. That didn’t make him feel much more secure. He stripped off his pants, eased his legs up on the narrow bed, and lay back, the Smith & Wesson in his hand on his chest. He couldn’t get rid of the image of Voichek’s body on the river, his blood staining the ice the color of a cherry snow cone.

  PART VII: Monday, March 17, 1975

  Chapter 26

  Taylor rode the E train to the World Trade Center and took the stairs up to Church Street. New York’s twin tallest buildings climbed in front of him. They’d been half-empty since construction finished in ’73 right as the oil shock deepened the recession. The Port Authority only managed to convince a few government agencies to lease space in the massive white elephants, now offering the best view in New York. He’d never been up to the top. He didn’t come here much. Downtown wasn’t police-beat territory. Sure, money got stolen. It just wasn’t considered a crime.

  He’d woken an hour earlier with the image of Voichek dead still in his head and couldn’t get it out. Fury rose in him as cold as the ice the old man died on. A collage of faces. His brother Billy, Declan McNally in the morgue, Harry Jansen, Voichek alive, Torres the Kid, Claire Kazka, Voichek dead. South Vietnam was falling. New York was failing. The only thing he could do in all the misery was track down the murderers before someone else got killed. The next step was to interview Declan’s father. Mob involvement in city contracts intrigued Taylor. Constable McNally was in charge of the city contracting, and mobsters were tied up with two bidders last fall. Families had been targeted by the mob before. He liked the lead a lot. That, and he still didn’t know enough about Constable’s relationship with his son.

  He crossed Murray Street in front of City Hall, a building dwarfed by the city it governed. It was scaled to fit in the square of a town upstate rather than a world capital. Behind City Hall climbed the Municipal Building, forty stories of towers, columns, and arches that looked like the skyscraper version of a wedding cake. More than a dozen city agencies filled it with the vast sprawling bureaucracy that was supposed to keep the city going. In this monster, City Hall’s best-laid plans often went straight off a cliff.

  He found the right elevator—thirty-three of them rose up into the Municipal Building—and rode to the 12th floor. The reception area was empty, including the desk guarding the way. The sign on the wall read:

  CITY OF NEW YORK

  DEPT. OF LAW

  Taylor walked past several offices each stripped down to a desk and a chair. Even the lawyers got chopped as the city fell into a financial sinkhole. He found law department staffers at their desks; they pointed in the direction of Constable McNally’s office but refused to say anything more. All attorneys dealt with journalists the same way. They told you nothing unless it served their purpose, and then you couldn’t shut them up.

  Outside McNally’s office sat a secretary typing on a gray electric Smith Corona. The machine clattered like something from the steam age. The woman wore a dowdy blue suit and a frilly white blouse an old lady would choose. She was young, though, and probably shapely underneath all that cloth.

  She caught him staring. “Can I help you?”

  “Taylor from the Messenger-Telegram. Mr. McNally is expecting me.”

  “I’ll buzz.”

  McNally met him at the door. His hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb since the funeral two days before. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. Not even as well as can be expected.” He shook his head slowly. “My life is filled with empty phrases like that. Come in.”

  The office was filled with flower arrangements that gave off a funeral-home odor of death. Probably all sent by contractors who worked with the city. Why else deliver them to the office? The flowers’ scents mixed oddly with cigarette smoke, which hung in a cloud at the ceiling. Taylor took one of two unmatched guest chairs.

  McNally pulled out a Chesterfield, lit it, took a long puff, and held it to the side. “I read the story on the killing of the homeless man. Written by Laura Wheeler. I thought you were working on this?”

  “She is too.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That’s most of it. Your son was wearing the clothes stolen from Mark Voichek. Voichek was murdered yesterday. I have very basic descriptions of the three hoods.”

  “Good lord.” McNally took a long drag like he was inhaling for a deep dive. “How did his clothes get on Declan?”

  “Last Monday night Voichek was jumped in an alley off West 46th by the same three. They wanted a homeless man. He bolted because he was convinced they were going to kill him. He was right. My guess now, but it’s still a guess: the three men drugged Declan with barbiturates, soaked him down, dressed him in the clothes, and left him so the cold would finish the job.”

  “Still, Voichek could’ve been involved. Maybe that’s why they killed him.”

  “I don’t believe that. I talked to him. We were both chased on Saturday by these men. The people I know in the homeless community vouch for him. He was disposable. An innocent man pulled into a plot to disguise your son’s murder as the death of a street person.”

  “You’re doing a fucking better job than the detectives.”

  “I still need to ID the three men. What I really need is a motive for Declan’s killing. I’ve got nothing. Is it possible there’s some connection to your work?”

  “My work?” McNally knocked his cigarette’s long ash off in a steel ashtray with a miniature Statue of Liberty in the middle.

  “You award city contracts worth millions. Money is murder’s second favorite motive.”

  “This job ….” He waved over the desk piled with papers like it would explain what he was talking about. “What I am is a jumped-up purchasing manager. That’s it. I buy staples and carpeting and tires for the city. That’s nothing anyone is going to kill over.”

  “I’ve been looking into some of those contracts. There was one last November. Garibaldi & Winkle lost the road salt bid. They’d had the contract for twenty years. It went to Clean Streets, Inc., instead. What happened there?”

  “Who knows? I’d have to check the files. Clean Streets must have been the low bidder. That’s how it works around here. I’m a guy buying crap for the lowest possible price.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What if there were mob ties?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Garibaldi is run by a mobster named Karl Poborski. Clean Streets is connected to the Grado family.”

  “That’s easy. The Feds are supposed to let me know if a company is connected to organized crime. They don’t win bids. If Clean Streets got it, they must have been, well, clean, at that time certainly. I really should check all this. I handle hundreds and hundreds of contracts a year. Everything is a blur. Except Declan.” He tapped his graying temple. “He’s clear as day. And he’s the one who’s gone.”

  “Bribes and extortion have been a part of contracting for as long as there’s been a City of New York.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m corrupt?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything
. Bad guys get city contracts and bad guys kill people. If you say you aren’t involved in that sort of thing, great. I haven’t found a motive for someone in Declan’s life to kill him.” He was stretching it there. Drug dealing got you killed. Laura was up at Columbia checking out that lead. McNally didn’t need to know that yet. “Please go through your files. Think hard about it. Is it possible someone killed Declan to get at you?”

  “If he’s dead because of me …. Well, I don’t know what I’d do.” The phone rang. McNally looked surprised, as if it had never happened before. “Yes, I’ll be right down.” He stood and smiled weakly. “I’m sorry. That was the boss. Apparently there’s a reporter roaming the halls. He wants to ask me about it. He doesn’t like reporters. You should probably leave.”

  “You’ll check those files?”

  “Yes, yes. Garibaldi & Winkle. Sorry, the other one?”

  “Clean Streets.”

  “Right.” He moved a stack of files and wrote on a yellow legal pad underneath. “So much paper around this goddamned place. Meaningless paper.”

  McNally walked to the end of the hall and turned left. The secretary’s chair was empty. Taylor took the elevator down and crossed the cavernous lobby. The worker ants of city government jostled him. A tap on his elbow.

  “Mr. Taylor?” McNally’s secretary already looked better just getting out from behind the desk. There was more than the hint of a figure under her frumpy clothes. “I’m Wendy Marlow. Is Mr. McNally going to be all right? I’m so very worried about him.”

  “Call me Taylor. I don’t know. It’s awful what he’s dealing with.”

  “It’s hit him so hard.” She looked to either side. Did she want to say something else?

  “Would you have time to talk? You know, explain how things work up there? It might help him.”

  “My lunch hour is at noon. Meet me at the Gaiety Delicatessen on Worth.”

  “Great, I’ll buy.”

  She seemed to like that.

  He left the Municipal Building and headed west on Worth until he came to the deli. The scent of glorious hot pastrami and yeasty doughy bagels filled the air. He was now a traitor to Grandpop and the Greek clan of the coffee shop. Coffee shop people never ever went to delis. They were the enemy, according to Grandpop. Greeks could open as many diners as they liked, around corners from each other if they saw fit. That was fine. They were all fighting the same fight against the delis for the allegiance of New Yorkers.

  He checked his watch. He had about an hour to kill, so he ordered a cup of coffee and sat down at the pay phone. He picked up one irate message from Inspector Dellossi and called the cop right away.

  “Goddammit, Taylor. If you don’t help me, I won’t help you.”

  “I told you Voichek was in trouble. That was me helping you. You were more concerned with confirming my story than pursuing the investigation. Now Voichek’s dead.”

  “That’s right. Dead. All for a goddamn story. The NYPD could have protected him.”

  “But would you have? He didn’t think police custody was safe.”

  “Deal with the guilt any way you like. Laura Wheeler said you interviewed someone who witnessed Voichek’s murder. I need to talk to that witness.”

  “She put everything the witness told me in her story.”

  “That’s not fucking good enough. You’re not a cop. God only knows what you missed. I need the witness in here.”

  “This is a scared teenager. Homeless too. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’m tired of this shit. You’re writing stories, not running an actual investigation.”

  “Here’s one of my actual angles. I’m looking at Constable McNally. He’s in charge of city contracts. Can be a very dirty business. A mob outfit, Garibaldi & Winkle, lost a five-and-a-half-million-dollar contract last fall. It’s run by Karl Poborski.”

  “McNally told us he’s received no threats. None related to his work. None related to anything.”

  “Did you dig deeper?”

  “I’ve no good reason to turn a murder case into a corruption investigation.” Dellossi’s overbearing confidence was getting on Taylor’s nerves. “Certainly won’t on one of your hunches.”

  “You don’t want to investigate an ex-cop who’s also the son-in-law of the Democratic boss.”

  “Not without good cause. The man has just lost his son. He’s a grieving victim, not a suspect.”

  “What about Declan’s drug dealing?”

  “Some Eli students told us about it. That’s off the record, of course.”

  Taylor wrote it down anyway. “Of course. What isn’t with you? Is it true?”

  “We haven’t any proof yet.”

  “Drugs lead to murder.”

  “That’s why I have a detail working the Columbia campus full-time. I’m not clear on what you’re looking for. The sexiest angle for your next story? Mobsters? Drugs? Some of both? Must be hard to top a nine-year-old smack addict.”

  “ ‘Facts are stubborn things.’ ”

  “I’ll pull you in if I have to.”

  “Let me know if you get anything on Poborski or the drug dealing.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Taylor left the phone booth and ordered another coffee and a taste of the forbidden deli fruit, chopped chicken liver and Ritz crackers. He was going over his notes from McNally and Dellossi when Wendy Marlow sat down.

  “It’s so good to get out of there.”

  “You don’t like working for McNally?”

  “Oh no. He’s wonderful. It’s the rest of them. They all hate us.”

  “They?”

  “The lawyers in our department.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re shaking things up, of course.” Marlow’s husky voice took on a conspiratorial tone like Taylor was already in on the drama of her office life. She stopped to order chicken salad on white with a Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry. Taylor asked for hot pastrami on rye with mustard and said he was done with the plate in front of him.

  “Exactly how are you shaking things up?”

  “Well, it’s not me, actually.” She laughed and her blue eyes shone. She could be really pretty. Had McNally seen that? “I just help Mr. McNally. He does things differently than the other guys. They don’t like it. You know why?”

  “I don’t.” He didn’t want to. Or need to. The petty politics of the city’s legal department were going to get him nowhere but closer to Worth’s deadline with no story.

  “It all means more work for them. They’re lazy.”

  “Mr. McNally says this?”

  “No, the other secretaries. When they still talked to me. Now I’m the enemy. Just like Mr. McNally is the enemy of their bosses.” The smile stayed in place. She seemed to like being in the office war, fighting at her boss’ side.

  “Did the other lawyers ever threaten McNally?”

  “Oh no. They’re not brave. All they do is gossip. I think they’re scared of him. He was a policeman, you know.”

  This was a dead end. All he wanted to do was get back to the MT’s morgue. She talked more. He ate his sandwich, flipped pages of his notebook and read his notes on the city contracting again. Why not run it past the secretary?

  “Do you remember the road salt contract that went out at the end of last year?”

  “God, what a commotion. Of course I do. In November.”

  “What kind of commotion?”

  “It was such a huge scene. People still talk about it. Mr. Poborski stormed into the office—”

  “Karl Poborski of Garibaldi & Winkle?”

  “Sure. The day the contract went to Clean Streets.” She leaned in, and her eyes went wide. “He comes to our office and starts yelling at Mr. McNally. Really screaming. Mr. McNally closes the office door. I can still hear. God, the things he said. ‘We take care of each other. You remember that. Your fucking father-in-law knows. I guess you’re not really family, are you?’ He storms out and slams the office door like he’
s in a Broadway play. Everybody up and down the hallway was looking.”

  “When McNally and I talked, he didn’t remember the contract.”

  “Oh, well.” She reddened and appeared flustered. She’d contradicted the boss. She reached for the Dr. Brown’s and pursed fuchsia lips around the straw. “It must be his grief. He really isn’t himself. I feel so bad for him.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Odd, though.” He circled her version of Poborski’s quotes. Hearsay, but damning hearsay. “Poborski brought up Big Johnny. What is McNally’s relationship with his father-in-law like?”

  “They talk on the phone a lot. I don’t really know anything about the family. We’re totally professional in the office.” She smoothed her skirt twice with palms flat. Marlow thought she’d helped her boss by meeting Taylor. Most people who sat down for interviews convinced themselves of the same thing right before burying their spouse-lover-friend-boss under a pile of indiscreet quotations. “Mr. McNally is a good man. He was good to me. He was going to help me prep for night school so I could get my law degree. I’m sure that’s another reason the other girls despise me. They want to stay girls. Marry someone and move to Long Island. I hate them all.”

  “He was good to you. Something’s changed?”

  “Since all this. We used to talk all the time. About all kinds of things. He’s my only friend in that office.”

  “Was he more than a friend?”

  “No.” She stiffened. “I told you. It was all very professional.”

  “If you know something about his personal life that might help, you should tell me.”

  “God, no! I understand he loves his wife. I’m always here for him. That’s all.”

  Taylor wrote “relationship??” and paid for lunch. “I’m coming back with you. I need to ask him a couple more questions.”

  “Oh, he’s gone by now.”

  “Gone?”

  “A Democratic function. St. Patrick’s Day, of course.”

  “Where?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “I’ll catch up with him then. Can I call you if I think of anything?”