Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “Since I’ve been back, I go to the Bronx every Saturday,” Kane said. “Stand at the intersection of Gun Hill and Eastchester at the exact time Joseph died. Conner was there this last Saturday. I told him I ‘what if it’ a lot. The accident, all of it. He told me I was being silly and stupid. He told me I have to think about the future. Normally, advice from Conner is easily ignored. But he’s right on that topic.” He gave it four taps of her finger before following up. “It was terrible, but that doesn’t excuse you lying to me about Truvey being on the boat. Where is your father?”

  Toni’s eyes were hard; they reminded Kane of her father’s in that moment and caused his heart to ache. “Fuck you, Will.”

  The look was gone and the Toni he knew was back, but he had to wonder if he knew Toni. “Is he with Clark?”

  “I’ve got no idea,” Toni said. Her shoulders drooped. “I never thought of Clark as someone father would run to. Then again, I never thought father would run.” She stopped tapping and reached out for Kane’s closest hand. He forced it to remain there as she put hers on top. “Tell me something, Will. Be honest. As honest as you can be. What happened in Boston? What happened the night of the Blackout? You just told me you killed Haggerty.”

  Kane was shaking his head, but she lifted her hand and placed a finger lightly on his lips. “Hush. Hush. Listen. Listen. I’m not asking you to tell me. I’m asking because I want us to understand something. I know you lied to me about Selkis. I can read the papers, even the stuff buried in the city section. You killed the guy who cut Selkis’s throat, didn’t you? Took the pager off him. He was the John Doe found in the peepshow next door. Crawford must have a long arm, because the entire thing is wrapped up as far as the cops are concerned according to my contacts.”

  Kane didn’t respond.

  “Yeah,” Toni said. “We all got secrets, Will. But here’s the one thing at the heart of what’s between us. Long before all this.” She glanced at the saber hanging on the wall, then at the lone picture on her desk taken on Trophy Point during graduation in 1966. “You, me, Ted. We had something. A special friendship. It didn’t end when Ted died. I think it still exists. But it was damaged badly long before this. When you wrote to father and me about what happened to Ted in Vietnam. Can you honestly tell me there are no lies or withholding of information about how Ted died?”

  It was Kane’s turn to not be able to meet her gaze.

  “You did what you thought was right about that,” Toni said. “Didn’t you?”

  Kane nodded.

  Toni walked to the bar, poured herself a drink and then filled another glass. Came back, put it in front of Kane. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, Will? Broken. Shattered.”

  Kane reached out to the glass. Ran his finger around the rim. “You’re right. We are.” He pushed the glass aside and reached across. He took her wrist. “I hate that I have to ask this. The fact I have to means something is broken between us, Toni, and I’m not sure we can ever get it back. Did you know the boat was a set up?”

  “No.”

  “How did you know Truvey would be on the boat?”

  “Selkis told me. I kept it from you, because as you said, you’d have felt like a pimp and probably said no to the gig.”

  Kane stared at her and her eyes blazed back at him. They remained like for several seconds before she spoke. “You’re hurting my wrist, William.”

  “I believe you.” Kane let go. “The actress? Truvey. She needs some gigs. I told her you might be able to help her given you have all these show biz connections. It’s the least we can do since she almost got killed over bullshit she had no clue about.” He put one of Truvey’s card on the table. Then he put Thomas Marcelle’s film next to it. He placed the card Yazzie had given him next on the other side from Truvey’s. He got up. “Page Yazzie. Tell him to be at the diner at three.”

  As he walked out, Kane expected to hear Toni ask him what he planned to do. The door swung shut on her silence and he took that as her assent.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

  In combat, ambushes are usually cleverly disguised. At the very least, even if it’s a hasty ambush, it’s camouflaged. The one coming toward Kane on Washington, two blocks from his home, was neither, which gave him the option of avoiding it.

  Kane was tired, upset and had a lot to do this afternoon. He didn’t have time to avoid it nor was he so inclined. The two men looked like construction workers, with heavy, beat up boots, jeans stained by concrete dust and once-white t-shirts. More details came into focus as they got closer and he recognized them. They were the two who’d held Conner in the stands at Van Cortlandt. An older man, hair and beard prematurely grey, his arms scrolled with tattoos, including one of the Screaming Eagle of the 101st Airborne. The younger guy was bigger and walked with more swagger, the way the immature often do.

  They halted fifteen feet away, blocking the sidewalk.

  Kane didn’t stop until he was just outside of arms reach.

  The older one updated Kane on the purpose of their visit. “Mister Walsh said you need to be taught a lesson.”

  “I’m a fast learner,” Kane said. “Can you give me the Reader’s Digest version?”

  “It ain’t a speaking we’ll be giving you,” Airborne said.

  “To be fair,” Kane said, “I’ve spent a lot of time learning lessons in the vein you seem to be indicating. But really, if your goal is to beat me up, how will that teach me anything? What will it change?”

  Airborne shrugged. “Won’t change you, most likely, but it will make others think twice about betraying the Cause.”

  “Do you know how I supposedly did this?” Kane asked.

  “No,” Airborne said. “Don’t need to.”

  “How is Mister Walsh doing?” Kane asked. “Last time I saw him, he was bleeding. I bandaged his sucking chest wound. You were there,” he said to the older guy. He had to assume Sofia Cappucci’s phone call might have reached the Boston Irish, but the New York Irish were a different story. Given how rarely his siblings talked to each other, Kane imagined Boston and New York Irish mobsters were worse.

  “That’s why you’re just gonna get a beating.” Airborne glanced at his partner. “Chris?”

  The youngster responded by reaching behind him and retrieving a set of nunchuka, two wooden sticks attached by a six-inch length of chain.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Kane muttered.

  Chris stretched the nunchucka and moved his feet into an approximation of a fighting stance, doing his best to imitate Bruce Lee. Airborne was more traditional, balling his hands into fists. Chris whirled the nunchucka in a blur of movement in front of him, indicating he’d done more than just watch the movie, finishing with one in his left armpit. Airborne’s stance was on the balls of his feet telegraphing he wasn’t an amateur or a brawler like Magnus. The two spread apart, indicating they’d done this before. Chris readied the nunchuka, one in each hand, held out in front of him.

  “I see your tattoo,” Kane said to the older man. “Screaming Eagle or puking chicken?”

  “Fuck you,” Airborne said as he charged forward, Chris belatedly following suit.

  Kane helped Airborne’s momentum and weight on its vector by stepping to the side, letting the fist whiff by and punching him hard on the side of his head with his right hand while drawing the forty-five with his left. He lifted the gun, not to shoot, but slashed it toward the approaching nunchucka as Chris whirled them, holding one stick, aiming the other at Kane’s head. The barrel of the forty-five hit the chain, abbreviating the strike and the closest piece of wood, rather than strike Kane, wrapped the chain around the gun.

  Kane jerked the gun, pulling Chris toward him and used his other hand to clamp down on Chris’s hand. Squeezed hard. Chris gasped and let go and Kane claimed the weapon with his right hand, left hand still holding the gun. Kane’s internal clock was ringing; it was taking too long.

  A punch hit Kane in the lower back, just missing his kidney. He staggered forward
several steps, going with the force of Airborne’s punch, pain radiating.

  Kane spun about, holstering the pistol and stretching the nunchucka in front of him. Airborne and Chris faced him. Airborne didn’t appear bothered by Kane’s punch and Kane pretended the same.

  “Want to call it a day?” Kane asked. “We didn’t spend much time on the nunchucka, since Master Pak considered them frivolous, but he felt it appropriate we train on all possible weapons an opponent might possess.”

  Airborne’s eyes narrowed, appraising Kane, but Chris came at him, fists swinging. Kane used the ends of the batons to block each blow, the attacker’s flesh and bones the worse for the encounter with the hard wood.

  After five swings and wooden hits, Chris backed up, cursing, knuckles bleeding, fingers bruised.

  “How about you just tell Walsh you beat me up?” Kane suggested. He whirled the nunchucka in a blur, advancing on Chris, who stumble-retreated as they flashed within inches of his face. Then Kane dropped them and stepped back. They clattered at Chris’s feet. Keeping a suspicious eye on Kane, Chris picked them up, wincing in pain.

  “I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon,” Kane said. “I played your game.” He nodded at Airborne. “You got a good punch in. I’ll be sore tomorrow.” He shifted to Chris. “Nothing broken in your hands. They’ll be okay. Even-steven?”

  “What unit and when?” Airborne asked.

  “173rd in ’67 and then 5th Group in ’69.”

  “101st in ’69.” Airborne nodded. “Fuck it. You don’t tell nothing to nobody, we won’t either.” He walked away. Chris looked at Kane, at the nunchucka, then followed Airborne, tucking them in the back of his pants.

  It was two-twenty when Kane sat down at Pope’s kitchen table.

  “You’re sweating,” Pope noticed.

  “It’s hot out,” Kane said. He drank a glass of tepid water from the tap while Pope sipped his likely not tea. The table was covered with papers and books and maps.

  “I’m a bit scattered,” Pope admitted, indicating the material, but his words were slightly slurred. “I can usually focus, but I start working on one thing, then it occurs to me that it’s possibly connected to something else, but behind it all, I feel the ticking clock to Wednesday night. Crawford and Marcelle seem relatively insignificant compared to that.”

  “But connected,” Kane said. “As you noted, Marcelle met or at least talked to someone from these Swords in order to set Crawford and me up. He also paid them at least one hundred grand. Right now, that’s our best line on finding who they are and where they’re hiding. I also have a feeling Crawford is in deeper than the building deeds. Too many lies around him to just be about money. He’s a man with secrets.”

  Kane wanted to add that those secrets were worth the death of at least one of Crawford’s other adopted sons, but Pope didn’t need to be burdened by that. He relayed what Truvey had said about the cocaine and added his own information about the snuff films he’d found in Selkie’s office from Damon’s factory. “Crawford was funding more than B-films,” he concluded. “I believe he was laundering money through Crawford and there’s a lot of money around those films in the underground. Cash. Untraceable.”

  “It’s likely,” Pope agreed. “But the CIA said Crawford is untouchable.”

  “Someone told me Damon was bulletproof,” Kane pointed out. “I believe that was you.”

  “Valid point.” Pope picked up a piece of paper. “You wanted to find Judge Clark.” He passed it to Kane. “That’s his home address. Clark has always been single. Always listed as one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”

  “I doubt he’d stash Marcelle in his own place, but people have done dumber things.” Kane folded it without looking and put it in his shirt pocket, behind the notebook. “Something came up since we talked this morning. At first, I thought it was a completely different thing, but it occurred to me there might be a connection.” He relayed Sofia Cappucci’s request regarding the rail yards. He noted that Pope eyes lit up when he mentioned Roy Cohn. He concluded with: “If this Cohn guy is gay and, in the closet, wouldn’t it make sense he knows about this Gentleman’s Banker Club?”

  Pope was nodding. “Definitely. Cohn is a snake. Eisenhower sent the Department of Defense lawyers after Cohn during the McCarthy hearings trying to leverage his homosexuality.”

  “Okay. If Clark doesn’t work out, Cohn will have to be second choice. I put a bug in his ear.” Kane checked his watch. “What about the Swords of Saint Patrick? Anything?”

  “Not specifically,” Pope said. “Lots of babble about religion but nothing I’d feel comfortable saying is applicable. If they’re NLA, they’re not religious. I think they picked that moniker to point the blame at the IRA.” Pope indicated the maps. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what they’d target. But it’s overwhelming. I try to think like them. A target that won’t cause much, if any, loss of life, but will be significant, and I come up with dozens, if not hundreds.”

  “We’re looking at it wrong,” Kane said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Kane indicated the maps. “We’ve been focused on what the target or targets could be. Given the TOWs have a range of three k’s, even if we know the target, they could be firing from a lot of places. That’s the key. Not what they’re shooting at. Where they’re firing from.”

  “Ah!” Pope got it right away. “A tall building would be the first thing I’d think of.”

  Kane nodded. “Or the top of the suspension towers of one of the bridges. GW. Brooklyn Bridge. Any of them. They’d have a great field of fire. Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Ah, yes, a phone,” Pope remembered. He passed a couple of papers to Kane. “The phone guy came by. He hooked a line up in the basement and put a phone there. The number is on the top piece of paper, but the line won’t be activated until this evening.”

  Kane took the papers, copied his new number into his notebook, then indicated Pope’s phone. “Mind? Until mine works?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Kane called Merrick’s team room. The soldier who answered fetched the team sergeant. Kane relayed his sudden insight.

  “Really?” Merrick said. “No shit. We figured out firing position was key in about forty seconds. I got the team working it as a theoretical right now. We’re wargaming a lot of different scenarios. Empire State Building. Either of the World Trade Center towers. Of course, the guys are going to look at me a little funny if this does go down. You need to get me something more to work with.”

  “I’m trying,” Kane said.

  “Okay. I mean, from what you said, they want to make a splash and if they’re doing this at midnight, odds are whatever they’re targeting could be vacant, right?”

  “Most likely,” Kane said.

  “I’ll call the diner and tell Thao if we come up with anything,” Merrick said.

  “I appreciate it,” Kane said.

  “You want me to come down? Help out if you’ve got to take action?”

  “We’ve got it covered here.”

  There were several seconds of silence. Finally, Merrick spoke: “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”

  Kane gave the correct reply. “Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in here.”

  “But watch out for the flying monkeys,” Merrick warned. “They show up when you least expect them.” The line went dead.

  Kane put the receiver back on the hook and sat down with a sigh. The clock was ticking on his next action and on whatever the Swords had planned. “I’ve got experts going over the targeting,” he told Pope.

  “I heard,” Pope said. “To be honest, I’m a bit surprised at how much I care about this city. I was a lad in London during the Blitz and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Hey,” Kane said. “Your friend, Maggie?”

  Pope frowned. “Yes?”

  “When’s the last time you met her?”
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  “A week or so,” Pope said. “Why?”

  Kane was uncertain how to proceed. “Maybe you should invite her over or something.” He glanced at the trash bin overflowing with bottles.

  Pope’s eyes narrowed. “You fathering me?” Before Kane could reply, he spoke harshly. “I’ve been drinking scotch since before you were sucking out of your mother’s teat.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.” Kane checked the time. “Got to go.”

  Pope didn’t respond.

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN

  “Your cook is a dangerous man,” Yazzie said as Kane approached his usual spot in the diner.

  Yazzie was seated in the adjacent booth, back against the wall, one leg cocked up on the seat, allowing him a vantage of the diner and both doors. The booth was next to where Kane usually perched, which made him wonder if he was missing something.

  “He is,” Kane agreed. The place was empty except for the sound of dishes and pans clattering in the kitchen as Wile-E and Thao closed out. Kane went to his normal spot.

  Yazzie twisted on the seat, vinyl squeaking, to look at him. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Yazzie switched seats so that he was facing Kane in the same booth. “Happy?”

  “You don’t know Boss Crawford as well as you think you do,” Kane said.

  “I don’t believe you’re in a position to say that.”

  “Did you look at the films I gave you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you found Thomas Marcelle?” Kane asked.

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be here,” Yazzie said.

  “What happened to your offer regarding the people who planted the bomb?” Kane asked.

  “Have you found them?”

  “No. But I did discover they’ve acquired three TOW missiles.”