“What if I wanted to tell you a secret?” Charlie asked, with an unexpected earnestness. “Just between us. No cops can know. Would you keep it?”
“No.”
Marie might have hesitated, had Charlie not put it that way: As a matter of fact, Charlie, I happen to be a cop. It was just as well. Charlie held her breath, and then she let it go. She held her cigarette up, as if she expected Marie to light it. When Marie failed to oblige her, Charlie lit it herself. “Is this guy Paulie serious? Why’s he playing hard to get? I’m not supposed to be the one who asks him to dance. I’m leaving Gino, and I want to hurt him. But I’m not gonna hurt myself, if you guys are just running a game. Gino and his friends, they play for keeps.”
Marie was in unknown terrain, managing an informant, and in too-familiar country as a wife who’d taken her punches. She had always kept two sets of books in her head, as a human being and as a cop, and the steady gains from the second helped offset the losses of the first. Charlie had no business being with Gino, for love or money. Could it be that there was no conflict, that what Marie wanted to say was exactly what she should—as a policewoman who wanted to become a detective, and as a Catholic who hoped to avoid hell? She promised herself that she’d stop if it felt like she was lying. Acting was a talent, but lying was a sin.
“To me, what you said was incredible. Paulie mentioned See It Now, like it was an insult, but I thought it was great. I never knew anything about heroin. At the same time, I understand why Paulie says it doesn’t really help him. The DA needs evidence to make a case. The way the law works, you have to see something yourself, before you can say it in court.”
The mention of judges and courtrooms seemed to unsettle Charlie. “Am I in much trouble, Marie?”
Marie nodded slowly. “Yeah. You’re in big trouble, but it isn’t with the cops. I’ll make a big stink to let you go home from here, no matter what, and I think they’ll listen. But you’ve made bigger mistakes than smacking Paddy. You’re with the wrong guy, doing the wrong thing, and the road you’re on—you and I know—it doesn’t end with you owning a nightclub. You’re such a smart girl, such a pretty girl, with so much going for you.
It makes me sick to see you throw your life away over a bum like Gino. I don’t want to push you to do anything you don’t want. I can try to help. But only if you’re telling me the truth. There’s nothing in your apartment?”
“No, I told you. It’s in his place, I guess, or the bakery. The family owns the building. All of them have apartments upstairs, the mother and father, brothers. Gino, his wife, his kids. Two little babies, both boys.”
“And what Paulie said about you going back to him, if he makes nice? What if he says he’s sorry? Not for the first time, right?”
A wistful look crossed Charlie’s face. She watched the thread of smoke writhe like a snake before a snake charmer before grinding out the butt. When she didn’t reply, Marie pressed on. “Sooner or later, Gino’s going to prison. You want to be one of these girls who think a special day—Valentine’s, whatever—is an eight-hour bus ride to the middle of nowhere? Sitting across tables with a hundred other inmates, the guards yelling if your hands touch? That’s if you don’t go to prison, too.”
Charlie sat still and looked down. There was a reckless emptiness in her eyes.
“My husband is a policeman, too, Charlie. But I have my own paycheck. If anything happened, and he wasn’t around—God forbid—the world wouldn’t end. Not money-wise. I wouldn’t be out on the streets. You talked about a nightclub. Could that still happen?”
“I still work a couple of nights a week, and I know the business. I have my savings. A nice little bundle, but not enough for a club. Gino pays for the apartment. Another good reason to move. To go downtown, to the Village. I like it better there.”
“That reminds me, Charlie. You said that you took the packages to Brooklyn, the Bronx. But these guys grabbed you in the Village.”
“Yeah, that. That’s nickel and dime. Gino skims from the packages, he does his own little side thing. Half an ounce on two pounds, maybe, and not every time, not with the same customer. He cuts it again and packs it up into capsules for a couple of small-timers. A luncheonette on Barrow. There’s a newsstand, on Ninth and 20th, a night clerk at the YMCA on 23rd, and a couple of bellboys at—”
“Charlie! This kind of stuff is exactly what Paulie was asking!”
“Are you kidding me? I gave him Nunzi from Astoria, Frankie from Pleasant Avenue! They make millions! Half the heroin in the country comes from them!”
“All you said was their names.”
“Saying their names could get me killed.”
“I appreciate that. But pointing a finger doesn’t make a case. What they need is facts, times and places. Things that you saw, with your own eyes.”
“Well, I saw fifty capsules of heroin go into a sugar bowl at the Flegenheimer Luncheonette. It’s in the back. White china bowl, blue flowers, third shelf on the left. We just delivered it to the owner. He cooks, too. Name’s Artie. He’s Greek, short and fat, tattoo of a bluebird on his left arm. Is that the kind of thing you want?”
“Yes, Charlie, it is. Let me find Paulie, see if we can let you be on your way. Tell me, though, why you’d never go back to Gino. Why is this time different?”
Charlie didn’t answer, but as Marie made to leave, Charlie held her arm. “How does what I told you hurt Gino?”
“It doesn’t, really.”
“Then we got to figure this out together, Marie. The only way I can really do this is to put him away. I don’t want to go to prison. Nobody does, I guess. But what I really hate is long bus rides. Can we talk again?”
“I’d like that.”
Marie went out to look for Paulie. As it happened, he returned to the office just then and beckoned her to follow him into the hall. His expression of discontent had vanished; now, he grinned like a kid. In the hall, Paddy awaited them in a similar state of elation. “Nice job, honey! I knew if I put you two broads together, you’d get what we needed! I knew you’d break her—I mean, she wanted to talk, so it wasn’t so hard, but you had her wanting to come back for more.”
Marie couldn’t speak. She’d been set up. And she’d been spied on. Several notions occurred to her at once, but a Christian woman couldn’t put them into words. She looked at Paulie, who didn’t appear to be ashamed of his complicity, or his partner’s. Hadn’t she told him that she wouldn’t work with Paddy? As several blasphemies began to take shape in her mouth, Paulie and Paddy both interjected.
“Listen, Marie, you did great,” Paulie began.
Paddy cut him off. “I know it was a dirty trick, what I did downstairs, but I got the both of you to hate me, didn’t I? Didn’t I? You and her were on the same side, after that. I wouldn’t have been so rough, unless I knew you could take it.”
“I didn’t like it either, Marie, I don’t talk to ladies like that, even if they’re perps. But you gotta admit, it worked.”
“That’s the thing, the only thing,” Paddy continued. “It worked.”
“And I called Mrs. M.,” Paulie went on. “I called her when I left the room. I asked if you could be assigned here, to handle Charlie as a confidential informant. A couple of weeks, at least. Who knows where it could lead?”
Marie managed to persuade herself that cowardice was the lesser part in backsliding from her hard line on a Paddy-free partnership. It had been typical of her experience in the department that opportunity and indignity arrived hand in hand. It still steamed her to recall the crack about the red hat, but she’d heard worse. Sticks and stones. Still, it felt like she had to swallow a thumbtack to agree.
And then Paulie said, “Congratulations, by the way, on your husband’s medal. But I know you have it in you, too. You’ll get there.”
Another thumbtack—a rusty one—even before Paddy piped in, “Listen, honey. I know I owe you an apology. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you out, buy you a cup of coffee.”
&
nbsp; Marie had been assuaged by the mention of Mrs. M. and the transfer, but Paddy needed his head examined if he thought they were friends now, or that they ever would be. She’d rather eat red-hot, three-inch nails than have coffee—
“I wouldn’t go out with you if—”
“I was thinking of the Flegenheimer Luncheonette.”
MARIE TOOK DOWN Charlie’s contact information and escorted her out of the precinct. They parted, each convinced that they had done well by each other, and that they would do better still. Marie hurriedly changed back into her civilian clothes and joined the detectives in an elderly green DeSoto, shabby even by cop standards. She assumed the car to be Paddy’s from the lumberyard of toothpicks she had to brush off the back seat. She liked how fast things were moving, but the speed of events had also out-paced her ability to forgive the men. She had so many questions, but she didn’t feel like talking to them, just yet. It was a relief she didn’t have to relate the particulars of Charlie’s information: Artie, Greek, short and fat. Bluebird tattoo. Blue-and-white china bowl, third shelf on the left, in the back.
They didn’t speak until they arrived in the Village. Paulie turned to Marie, and he made his proposal in a tentative, gentle voice. “Marie, what I want us to do, is—if you don’t mind—is we’ll just put a couple of eyeballs on the set for a bit.”
Marie took in the phrase the set. She liked how it made them seem like they were in a play, and she planned to use it herself at the earliest opportunity. She nodded as Paulie went on, “Give Paddy fifty, a hundred feet when you tail him. Once he’s inside the diner, wait a minute, so you’re not together. We don’t know the layout—is it one long counter? Crowded or empty? Paddy’s gonna try and pick a spot where he can see inside the kitchen if Artie goes to the sugar bowl. If Paddy has his back to the door, you sit where you can watch behind him. I’ll be outside. If somebody makes a buy, follow him out, and I’ll follow you. I’ll grab the buyer, Paddy grabs Artie. Okay, Marie?”
“Fine.”
“I asked Inspector Melchionne if you were ready,” Paulie said. “You were born ready, she said.”
Marie might have smiled, but she could see Paddy smirking in the rear-view mirror. No, she wouldn’t let him see her soften, not yet. She checked her watch: almost four o’clock. “Is there anything else?” Marie said evenly. “If not, let’s go.”
“Play for time,” Paulie counseled. “Stall for as long as you can, and maybe we’ll get lucky, and somebody interesting drops by.”
As Paddy opened the car door, Paulie reached over to take hold of his sleeve. “Paddy, you didn’t tell any of your newspaper friends about this, did you?”
“Who, me? This is a penny-ante dope spot.”
Marie could tell that playing coy wasn’t Paddy’s strong suit, but Paulie didn’t seem too bothered, whether he took it as admission or denial. After Paddy departed east on Barrow Street, Marie followed at a leisurely pace. She kept his obnoxious red head in sight, half a block ahead of her. He walked like a cop, with an unrushed, ambling gait. Why hadn’t Paulie gone in to sit at the counter? Maybe Paddy would have stood out too much, loitering outside. After a block and a half, she lost him behind a newsstand, and then she picked him up again, crossing to the north side of the street. There it was, the luncheonette. Once she saw him go inside, Marie stopped at the newsstand. She’d read all the morning newspapers twice already. Life had a photograph of Nikita Khrushchev on the cover, angrily shaking an ear of corn. If the counter was crowded, it would take up too much space. Reader’s Digest was too small, and it wouldn’t stay open, even if she cracked the spine. She felt like Goldilocks, trying the bowls of porridge. And then she saw Time, with the president of Chevrolet on the cover: Two Cars in Every Garage? Detroit’s Compacts Arrive. This one was just right.
A bell rang when she opened the door, but no one looked up. No one was there, aside from Paddy. The counter was L-shaped, with a dozen red vinyl stools planted on the linoleum floor, slightly askew, like dandelions. Four narrow booths crowded the wall. None of the seats allowed for a clear view of the door, but the bell sounded a warning for any new arrivals. Marie chose a counter seat at the narrow end. She was closer to Paddy than she would have preferred. He had a cup of coffee and a menu in front of him. She opened the magazine.
Could she see a menu, please? She was getting hungry, and she wanted something else to read. She wouldn’t look at Paddy. A man shuffled out from the kitchen. He was short and fat, with a bluebird tattoo on his forearm. He plucked a menu from the far side of the counter and placed it in front of Marie.
“Sorry,” he said, with a harried, affable smile, “The waitress had a problem with her kid. She had to go home. We close in half an hour, but I’ll take care of you, whatever you want.”
“Thank you.”
Artie turned to Paddy and said, “Hash and eggs, over easy, right?”
“That’s right.”
As Artie disappeared into the kitchen, Paddy winked at Marie. Really? She couldn’t decide whether it was more ridiculous as a cop-signal, or a come-on. Yes, they made it inside the diner! She liked Artie better than Paddy now, too—that list was lengthening by the hour—even as the flicker of sympathy she felt for him flustered her. Drug dealer or not, he seemed a decent boss to his waitress. That he had a good side was sad, in its way. Recalling Paulie’s admonition about playing for time, Marie decided against a sandwich, or a dish that was ready to serve, like stew. When Artie reappeared, he asked, “What’s it gonna be, honey?”
“Do you have any soup?”
“Chicken noodle and split pea.”
Marie bit her lip, as if torn by the choice. “Pea soup. No! My mother makes that, and nobody could make it better than Mom. No, I’ll take a cup of chicken noodle, for now. All of it looks so good . . .”
“Coming right up,” said Artie, warmed by the compliment. As he dashed back into the kitchen, he called out, “Take your time, dear!”
What an amateur that Paddy was, ordering hash and eggs—three minutes, from griddle to plate! Not that there was much on the menu that would take time. They weren’t at the 21 Club. Not meatloaf, not goulash. Not a steak; not here. There, she had it—liver and onions. That had to take longer than a hamburger. As she flipped through her magazine, Paddy reached for a Wall Street Journal on the counter and half-heartedly pretended perusal. “My own investments are fairly conservative,” he intoned. “General Motors, General Electric, U.S. Steel.”
As small talk went, this was microscopic, and even Paddy seemed to realize it. He slid the paper away. “Whatcha reading? Anything good?”
Marie shook her head. He didn’t seem to require her participation in the conversation. “Not much of a reader myself.”
Marie raised her eyebrows and turned the page.
“I’m more into music. I like to take a girl out dancing, Friday nights. How about you, honey, you like to dance?”
Marie kept her eyes on the magazine and held up her left hand. When she tapped the wedding ring, he hissed: “Take it off! Take the ring off! Don’t be stupid!”
Marie refused to look at him, but she had to concede that Artie was more likely to take a shine to a single gal than a married one. She lowered her hand beneath the counter and slipped the rings off. Still, she was sure Paddy was working a double hustle, trying to pick her up even as he put her down. She only had to join him in one of the games he was playing. Once the rings were safely in her pocket, she allowed herself to concentrate on the magazine.
President Eisenhower had just entertained the Soviet premier at Camp David. She didn’t care to read about it, even if it explained why Khrushchev was shaking an ear of corn. Turning the pages, she found something more in her line—
CRIME: Knights v. Crowns
Outside a slum-neighborhood high school in The Bronx, a cluster of Puerto Rican teenagers, members of the Royal Knights street gang, waited for their victim. When school let out, the hoodlums swarmed around John Guzman, member of the enemy Valiant Crown
s gang, and started shoving and punching him. Guzman fled back toward the door of the school building. Royal Knight Edward Peres, 16, drew out a shortened .22-cal. rifle and shot him in the chest.
When Artie reappeared with Paddy’s hash and her soup, she gave her order. She was more demonstrative with her hands than she had been earlier, so that he might notice her newly naked finger. “Is it good? I was thinking about the stuffed cabbage, or the chipped beef. But I think I want the liver and onions. Do you recommend it?”
“Absolutely. Best you’ve ever had, or it’s on the house.”
“Great. Let me have it with French fries, instead of the boiled potato.”
French fries should take longer. Plus, she could douse the plate with ketchup if the liver was too livery. She was doing well, so far, if she had to say so herself. She looked down again at the magazine and didn’t respond to Paddy’s pestering.
“I bet you like to dance. I can take you anywhere—the Palladium, the Peppermint Lounge. How ’bout the Copa? I don’t got much use for Puerto Ricans, but I like Latin music. Latin girls, too.”
Marie tasted her soup, and she was pleased.
“What’s your favorite song? Who’s your favorite recording artist? I bet I can guess.”
Marie continued with her reading. She was glad that she’d moved to Yonkers. Fear of crime hadn’t figured as a motive, only opportunity—the city meant crowds and concrete, while the suburbs promised an unattached house, fresher air. But in the past years, acres of tenements had been bulldozed in Manhattan in the name of slum clearance, sending tens of thousands of poor people to the South Bronx, where the slums grew larger by the day. That’s where the Royal Knights did their jousting.
And those ridiculous names! The old fogeys who blamed comic books for delinquency might have been on to something. With a little make-believe, random kids from rough streets become Buccaneers and Egyptian Kings, Dragons and Savage Skulls. And once you called yourself some-thing—Policewoman Carrara, for example—you had to act the part.
Marie stiffened, alert to the sudden noise in the room. The bell at the door hadn’t rung, but the sound was far more alarming. She hadn’t noticed the jukebox on the wall. Paddy hadn’t guessed her favorite singer, but it was a very pretty song.
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