by Bob Mayer
Vic’s Diner: Good Food
Kane checked the area before entering. No Navajo bearing large knives.
The New York Times was already on his table along with a meal ticket containing a coded one-time pad message of groups of five letters in Thao’s precise handwriting. Kane’s booth was in the far corner, opposite the swinging door with a small window that led to the kitchen where Thao was hard at work. More booths lined the wall and windows facing each street and there was a counter on the inside wall with a serving wall behind it. The floor was faded black and white tile, but cleaned and waxed to a sheen. The booths boasted new red and white coverings.
There was no sign of the Kid who brought the Times to Kane very morning. His duty was done and he was back somewhere in Tribeca after his night doing what he did.
“You’re late,” Morticia said. “I paid Ryan.”
“’Ryan’? Kane asked, then belatedly remembered that was the Kid’s real name as Morticia rolled her eyes. “Thanks.” He slid into the booth as Morticia deposited his cup of coffee and glass of water with two ice cubes in it. He passed her five dollars to compensate for the paper.
Morticia was Kane’s height, six feet. She wore a tight black dress that extended to her ankles and a black wig with a silver streak in it. Kane had changed to similar not-blood-stained clothing, the denim shirt unbuttoned and covering the forty-five in the holster on his left hip. His thick black hair, sprinkled with gray, a few more added earlier this morning, wasn’t combed.
Morticia moved on to refill cups for a trio of meat-truck drivers who were lingering after breakfast and a night spent delivering fresh cut to butchers around the city. Kane idly wondered if he could borrow one of their trucks to get rid of the body. He had no clue at the moment how he would accomplish this feat and his brain was running on low power, refusing to engage to figure it out.
Thao, the cook and Kane’s business partner, came out of the kitchen to greet him. “How did you sleep, Dai Yu? I noticed you entered via Gansevoort.” Thao’s field of vision from the kitchen was an early warning system for the diner, much more effective than a fishing line with soup cans. From his position he could see up Washington and along Gansevoort.
Thao looked well rested considering he’d come back with Kane at four in the morning from a night spent wiping out the IRA terrorist squad on Ellis Island and disappearing traces of the crime, including deep-sixing the bodies and weapons. Which reminded Kane of his current problem, not that it was far from his frontal lobe
“One of Yazzie’s men came for me just now at my place,” Kane said, making sure Morticia wasn’t in listening distance.
Thao was just over five feet tall, dark skinned, dark haired, a refugee from the Central Highlands of Vietnam where his people had been subjugated to oppression from all sides for centuries. He’d come to the States in 1975 when Kane had been part of a rescue party for Thao and other Montagnards as South Vietnam fell to the communists.
Thao sat across from Kane, a sign of the seriousness of the situation for him to abandon the grill. “And?”
“He’s dead. I’ll get rid of the body tonight.”
“That was quick,” Thao said. “Do you know where Yazzie and the other four are?”
“No idea,” Kane said. “I’m sure they won’t be in the warehouse in the Bronx where I last saw them. That was a temporary arrangement.” He held up the meal ticket. “I’m tired, Thao. Just tell me the message?”
“Sofia Cappucci desires for you to call her at fourteen hundred hours.”
“She said fourteen hundred hours?” Kane asked about the daughter of the head of the Cappucci crime family.
“No. Her exact words were ‘two this fucking afternoon’. And her request was—” Thao searched for a word—“terse.”
“An order,” Kane translated.
“In essence,” Thao agreed.
Kane glanced past Thao as the door opened and Detective Omar Strong entered via Washington Street.
“We will talk,” Thao said as he noted the entry and excused himself to get back to the kitchen.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Morticia greeted Strong with a peck on the cheek.
“Morning pretty lady,” Strong replied. He was a large black man, wide of body, solidly built. He wore a custom suit that fit him like a well-cut glove. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, indicating he’d parked a distance away and the suit wasn’t designed for hot summer days. Nevertheless, the shirt was buttoned all the way and the tie securely cinched. He had the gold badge of a detective on his belt and a bulge on the right hip where his revolver was holstered.
“Got the message that the Irish problem has been resolved,” Strong said as he replaced Thao in the booth. “There were no details from Thao. Do I want details?”
“I don’t know,” Kane said. “Do you want details?”
Strong looked him up and down. “You look like shit, but don’t seem the worse for wear as opposed to whatever you did the night of the Blackout.”
“You’re welcome,” Kane said.
Strong frowned. “Excuse me?”
Kane leaned forward. “You. Are. Welcome. If we’d have been a second later, the Statue of Liberty would be missing its head right now.” He sat back as Morticia, who walked with fast, short strides under the tight length of the skirt, appeared to glide up.
Morticia placed a cup of coffee in front of Strong. “The usual?”
Strong shook his head, but he was still looking at Kane. “Got to get back to the Task Force. The case is breaking fast.”
“You’re going to get Son of Sam?” Morticia asked. “Do you know who he is?”
“We have a very good idea,” Strong said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think it’s going down today or this evening.”
“That’s great,” Morticia said. “Congratulations, Omar.” She leaned over and gave him another kiss on the cheek.
She moved off to serve other customers.
“See?” Kane said. “That’s the proper response to someone taking care of a dangerous problem. And you haven’t even arrested him yet.”
“You want me to give you a kiss?” Strong asked. “All right. Give me details. Without exposing me to information that would make me a co-conspirator to murder after the fact or any other felony.”
“How about misdemeanors? Do you do parking tickets?” Which reminded Kane he still had his friend’s, Lew Merrick’s parking ticket in his apartment that needed to be taken care. Right after the body, Kane thought.
“Fuck you,” Strong said, without any enmity.
“By the way, it isn’t supposed to be murder to kill the enemy,” Kane said.
“We’re not in Vietnam anymore,” Strong pointed out.
“No. We’re not. But I got accused of murder there,” Kane said. “So perhaps you can understand my cynicism about law and order.”
Strong raised his wide, powerful hands in a signal of surrender. “All right, man. I get it.”
“Do you?” Kane asked. “How do you feel about Son of Sam?”
Strong’s forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
“Is he just a case for you? Or he something more? Because you’ve gone after plenty of killers, right? Is he any different?”
“Yes.” Strong didn’t hesitate. “He’s different. The others, I always knew why they did it. Usually stupid ass reasons, like in a fit of anger. Or during a robbery. This guy? I’ve got no clue why he’s killing strangers.” He held up a broad hand. “And don’t start in with me on the evil thing again. Yeah, he’s evil, okay?”
“All right.”
“Now. Tell me what you can.”
“Let me just say there were six IRA, technically the commie arm, the National Liberation Army. They were hiding on Ellis Island. They were going to blast the head of the Statue with TOW missiles. We stopped them just as they fired the first missile. They won’t be causing any more troubles.”
The details gave Strong pause. “TOWs? Where did they get th
ose? That’s heavy weaponry.”
“You don’t want to know and you don’t have to worry about the source. It’s dried up.”
Strong pursed his lips. Backtracked slightly. “’We’?”
“An associate,” Kane said.
“I assume Thao, since he called me.”
Kane didn’t respond.
“Will these Irish fellows show up anywhere else?” Strong asked.
“They won’t be causing any more troubles,” Kane repeated.
“I meant will they show up like Damon and his three goons and whoever was the fifth body in the Nabisco Factory?” Strong clarified. “Are the bodies on Ellis Island? Someone’s gonna notice that eventually.”
“No. We made sure they won’t be found.”
Strong considered it for a few seconds. “I don’t approve, but, yeah. Thanks.”
“You underwhelm me with your enthusiasm,” Kane said.
“Lady Liberty, the city of New York, and a grateful country thank you,” Strong said without any emphasis.
“Why is Lady Liberty thanking Kane?” Morticia asked as she slid up to the table.
“He did a—” Strong paused, stopping short of what he’d been about to say—“useful thing.”
“You were gonna say ‘good’,” Kane goaded him.
“What did you do?” Morticia asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Kane said.
“Fine. Men. Keep your secrets.” She moved off. She passed Kane’s 17-year-old younger cousin, Dave Riley, who had just finished bussing a booth. Riley was wearing jeans and a stained black t-shirt. He was moving with a purpose; which Kane knew boded him well for the military when his time to report to boot camp came this fall.
“They were really going to shoot the Statue with a TOW missile?” Strong asked.
Kane sighed. “See? That’s why I had to take care of it. You still can’t believe. Let me put it this way: the missile was fired and ended up in the harbor because I destroyed the tracking unit before it hit and detonated.” He tensed as a woman walked in from Gansevoort. Average height, slender, short black hair, narrow, sharp face untouched with make-up, wearing a gray tailored pants suit and flats, a matching purse tucked under one arm, she paused in the doorway, scanned the diner, her eyes passing over Kane without pause, evaluating everyone in the place, then she headed for the counter. She took a seat that gave her a wide range of surveillance on the diner and doors. And an excellent field of fire.
“Fuck me,” Kane muttered
Strong looked over his shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody you need to know,” Kane said. “The ghost of trouble past. And present. And most likely future.”
Strong held up a hand. “You’re right. I don’t want to know more about any of this. Got a big day ahead. Stay out of trouble if you can. We’re gonna get that son-of-a-bitch.”
“Right.” He forced a: “Good luck.” Kane thought of the body in Pope’s garden that needed to be dealt with. And five more Flint Boys who’d sworn a blood oath to avenge their brother’s death. Kane wondered if a second brother dying made any difference in that? Did that mean two of them could come at him at the same time? He had to brush up on his Navajo customs.
Strong switched his coffee to go, said goodbye to Morticia and was gone to pursue Son of Sam, which the NYPD had been doing for over a year now, although just the realization a serial killer was behind the killing had taken them seven months.
“He never leaves happy after talking to you,” Morticia complained as she topped off his coffee.
“Maybe he should stop coming in, then?” Kane said.
“He likes the place and the people. He just needs to stop talking to you. He’s working his ass off on Son of Sam. You know, Kane, sometimes you have to throw people a bone.”
“What?”
“You know. Make them feel better, even if you don’t mean it. It’ll do wonders for your personality and your social life. Speaking of which.” Morticia looked at the counter, then back. “You know her?”
“I knew who she said she was. Not sure who she really is now or who she’s going to be.”
“That’s very deep,” Morticia said.
“I told Omar good luck,” Kane protested to Morticia’s back as she diverted behind the counter to pick up plates Thao had just slid up on the serving wall.
Kane reached below the table and switched on the small recorder secreted under his side.
The woman walked over and indicated the seat across from Kane. “May I?” The brogue she’d had when Kane had previously spoken to her was gone. Her voice had a slight New York accent, which could easily be as fake as the Irish brogue. She didn’t wait for an answer, sitting and putting her purse on top of the table.
“I usually like to know who I’m talking to,” Kane said. Given she’d pretended to be the wife of the leader of the IRA terrorist team from the previous night and his dying words had indicated she was not that and his wife had been dead for months, Kane knew he was facing a player. For which team, there were several possibilities. “What should I call you?”
“Caitlyn works.” Her face was narrow, deep furrows around her sparkling green eyes putting her age around Kane’s, thirty plus years of hard living. Her lips were thin and pale red. Her fingernails were rough, unpolished, worked to the quick and didn’t match the level of the outfit.
“It’s a lie.”
“It’s a common enough name,” she said. “Let’s stick with Caitlyn. No sense confusing what has already been established. We both have a lot to keep track off as it is.”
“With a C,” Kane said. “Right? But you’re not Mrs. Flanagan, that’s for certain.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Mister Flanagan told me before he passed on.”
She nodded. “I assumed the pretense wouldn’t last long.”
“And if I hadn’t taken out Flanagan and the others last night?” Kane asked.
“Plan B.”
“Which was?”
“No need to discuss that, is there?” Caitlyn said. “I’m glad you are well.”
“Am I?” Kane asked. “Who do you work for?”
“You’ve dealt with the six Swords of Saint Patrick.” Phrased like a question, yet Kane felt it wasn’t.
“They’re breathing water.”
“That was fast and you seem none the worse for it,” she said, a hint of approval, at least more than Strong had shown.
“There was a clock ticking.”
“There was,” she agreed. “I’m relieved it’s been stopped.”
“You already knew that or else you wouldn’t be here,” Kane said. “Stop pretending it’s news. The question I have, is how do you know?”
“Because you’re sitting here,” Caitlyn said. “If you’d failed, you wouldn’t be and we wouldn’t be chatting.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And Thao? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“Why didn’t you take Merrick?”
Kane experienced that tingly sensation deep in his gut when he knew he was short a few with someone who held all the cards. “Who do you work for?” He asked once more.
Morticia came by with a mug. “Your coffee, miss. Would you like anything to eat?”
“No, thank you, Morticia,” Caitlyn said without taking her attention from Kane.
Morticia glanced at Kane, back at her, back at Kane, then sighed. She walked away.
“An odd woman,” Caitlyn said once the waitress was out of listening range. “I doubt the nametag is her true identity. And there is the wig.”
“It’s a persona,” Kane told her. “Like Caitlyn. You also wore a wig. Red. I liked the grey in it; a nice touch. You also did a pretty good Irish accent. Your New York is iffy. Not Bronx.”
“Yours isn’t Bronx any more either,” she noted. “Years away from the city takes the edges off.”
“You think I’ve lost my edge?”
Caitlyn raised one eyebrow.
“Not at all. We were discussing accents. Your edge is as sharp as it’s ever been.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” Kane asked. “Spent years away from the city? Are you from here?”
“I’m from nowhere in particular.”
“What about right now. Who do you work for?”
“Does it matter? You stopped bad men from doing a bad thing.”
“Since you know so much, why didn’t you or whoever you work for stop them?”
“It’s not in our mandate.”
“Who is ‘our’?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked,” Caitlyn said. “Since I didn’t answer the first two times, why do you think three is the lucky number?”
“Hope springs eternal,” Kane said.
“We both know hope is fleeting,” Caitlyn said. “Sometimes hope isn’t even a good thing. People like us deal in reality.”
“’Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly’.”
For the first time she was puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“The cop who was just in here. He likes quoting Langston Hughes. That’s from one of Hughes’ poems. And the second stanza is ‘Hold fast to dreams, for when dreams go, life is a barren field, frozen with snow’. For some reason, one of the nuns at Holy Rosary forced us to memorize that poem. And a few others. One about a tiger burning bright comes to mind.”
“That one I’ve read,” Caitlyn said.
“Is that so?”
“The Tyger. It’s by William Blake. Interesting choice. The nun made you memorize it because she was making a point.”
“What point was that?” Kane asked.
Caitlyn took a sip of coffee, regarding Kane over the rim with her green eyes. She put the coffee down. “Do you have dreams, Kane?”
“Nightmares. Occasionally.”
She nodded. “A legacy of the life of the realist.”
“Do you have dreams?” Kane threw back.
For a moment she looked past him, unfocused, but then she was back. “No.”
“Nightmares?”
“I used to.”