But that, Harrigan thought, is assuming Tanner Burke is
the lady in question. And assuming, even then, that Mr.
Baker is still with her. But if she isn't, and he isn't, then the appearance of a visitor would tell one tale at least. It would
tell that you, Michael Biaggi, you little bastard, are a man of
flexible loyalties. It might tell that you're on a second pay
roll, possibly even a third.
He was on his second cup of tea when the visitor came.
Harrigan grunted in disgust as he once again raised the
binoculars. He'd been hoping for Stanley Levy. The appear
ance of a Stanley Levy would have been definitive. It would
have explained Michael's odd nervousness upon learning
that the lad whose destruction he did nothing to prevent was
the son of Domenic Tortora. It would have meant that
Michael had somehow found his way onto Tortora's payroll.
The appearance, on the other hand, of a government type
would mean that Michael had made a quiet call in that di
rection. Grounds there for a reprimand, to be sure, but per
haps not the fatal reprimand that a Tortora connection would
require. And it would mean that old friend Duncan Peck
does indeed have an interest that is something more than ac
ademic.
But it was not Stanley Levy, nor was it one of the trench-
coat types. It was a man who would need no tale of neg
lected children to pry loose information from a desk clerk.
The man climbing the green-carpeted steps was the tall, uni
formed policeman from the faraway Sixth Precinct.
Stanley Levy too was in the park. A mile from Harrigan's
station, Levy shivered on a bench he'd just wiped clean with one of the handkerchiefs he carried. Vinnie Cuneo loitered a few feet away at the curb of the
Eighty-fifth Street roadway,
spitting through his teeth as he watched for the headlights
that would turn into the park from Fifth Avenue.
Domenic Tortora's summons had come an hour earlier.
Stanley had answered it reluctantly. He'd been very close to
Baker. And he'd sensed an increase in activity along the
block of hotels that bordered Central Park on the south. Per
haps Baker was about to make a move, or place a call he
shouldn't place, or take one of his walks again. If he did,
Stanley would have been near. And ready. Had not the sum
mons come. Had he not been forced to wait here with this
ignorant lump of shit, watching him expel his excess saliva.
The rising sun had almost touched the horizon. The softly
lit sky reflected now off the huge glass expanse of the new
American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It sent a dim veil of light across the place where Stanley waited, ex
posing him. Uneasily, he looked at his hands. It had been
almost two hours since he last washed them. Levy fished a
dew-dampened cloth from his pocket and began working it
between his fingers.
“Boss is comin',” Cuneo muttered.
The headlights of a dark Mercedes swept across the mu
seum as the car turned into the park. The thug waved and
gestured in what he presumed to be a posture of vigilance.
Levy remained seated.
The car's high beams locked on the larger man's body and homed on it, stopping only inches from his legs. It sat
there idling, its tinted windows closed, as if waiting for Vin-
nie Cuneo to conclude that it was time to take another post. Time to wait where he could watch the park entrance. Vinnie nodded that the message had penetrated and lumbered
quickly in that direction. The door at last fell open, inviting
Stanley.
“Good morning, Stanley,” came the curiously gentle
voice from inside the car. Tortora was in the driver's seat.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Tortora.” Stanley rose to his
feet and eased his body into the sedan's front seat, closing
the door behind him. He did not extend his hand. Tortora, he knew, would understand that. Tortora's own hands remained
folded on his lap and his face was almost swallowed by the collar of an oversized coat that was too warm for this time
of year. He sat sunken into the farthest corner of the soft leather seat, his features gaunt in the blue glow of the dash
board lights. He seemed very small, much smaller than
Stanley knew him to be. A white silk scarf that covered most
of his lower jaw gave him all the more a look of frailty. And
his cheeks and eyes had a powdery cast to them, the some
how hollow look of a man wasted by illness or blanched by
too little sunlight.
Stanley Levy had never seen Tortora in the light of day.
He was, Stanley knew, only three years past sixty,
but he
managed to look twenty years older. Levy knew what his
mother would say. She'd say all it took was some cod liver
oil every day starting sixty years ago and he wouldn't look like he had one foot in the grave, and besides, he shouldn't
be driving his fancy-s
c
hmancy car in the damp air instead of
being home watching out for his health, which is the most
important thing along with a good upbringing. But Stanley
had a feeling that cod liver oil wouldn't have helped the way
Tortora looked. Maybe years ago it might have, but he was
past that. What it really was was the genes. Tortora must
have had genes like from hanging judges and witch burners and those monks from the Spanish Inquisition. In picture
books with old-time drawings, these guys always looked
like Tortora, especially with that white scarf around his face.
But that's appearances, Stanley reminded himself. You can't
go by appearances. Style is what counts. Next to health and upbringing, style is the most important thing.
Stanley's admiration for Tortora was as total as his loy
alty toward him. He could not remember a time it had been
otherwise. Sometimes he could not recall a time before at
all. He regarded Tortora as a “serious man,” a high compli
ment in Stanley's mind. A contemplative man not given to
rashness. To Tortora, violence was a tactic sometimes un
avoidable and always regrettable. It was to be employed
only when the gentler forms of persuasion had failed. Tor
tora was a conciliator. And that was good, Stanley thought.
But he never stepped over the line into appeasement and that was even better, and it made him easy to respect because you
knew no matter how slow he moved, he'd always get the
other guy. The other hoods knew that. That's why they left Tortora alone and never tried much to move in on him. It's respect that does that, he thought. And style.
Tortora, for all his apparent esteem within Greater New
York's extralegal community, was an almost delicate man. A
bookish man. Dickens was one of his favorites. And Trol
lope and Jane Austen. But especially Arthur Conan Doyle.
Domenic Tortora could recite whole passages from
The Ad
ventures of Sherlock Holmes
without missing a single nu
ance of dialogue. He knew when a semicolon required a
lowered voice and when a pause suggested an arching eye
brow. The escapades of Holmes and Watson were a minor
passion that Tortora delighted in sharing with Stanley Levy.
Levy remembered a time long ago when Tortora quoted
from
The Hound of the Baskervilles
and he, Stanley, aston
ished him by replying with the answering line from the text.
Stanley couldn't remember when he'd read it, but he knew
he must have. And then Tortora found out somehow that
Stanley had once been a member of the Baker Street Irregu
lars. At least that's what Tortora said. Stanley couldn't re
member.
Anyway, it didn't matter now. Now there were much
darker thoughts on Tortora's mind. He seemed lost in deep thought. Perhaps two minutes had gone by since his greet
ing before he spoke again to Stanley Levy.
“You know about my son, Stanley?”
Levy shook his head slowly. He knew almost nothing of John Tortora except that he was an embarrassment to his fa
ther. A freak, speaking of genetics. One of those bad jokes
that God plays on some men in the same way that big ath
letes seem to have nothing but daughters and business big shots always seem to have sons who are faigeleh.
“I've come from Mount Sinai Hospital,” Tortora said qui
etly. “My son has been beaten. His face .. . has been devas
tated. His jaw, his teeth, his nose. There is one cheek so
shattered
...
so pushed in
...
that it will never again come
fully to the surface. There are blue holes near his eyes that
will always mark him. And his arm ... There is no bone left in one of them. Only splinters of bone like a board that has
been crushed.”
“Who did this thing, Mr. Tortora?” Stanley's voice was
gentle.
Tortora did not answer. Rather, he sat slowly shaking his
head in the manner of a man who knew the answer but could
not bring himself to accept it.
”A friend was with my son,” he said finally. “His injuries
are even more terrible. It's the boy Warren. Perhaps you've
seen him with John.”
“Fat kid.” Levy nodded. “Eats fettuccine by the bucket.”
“No longer,” the older man answered. “Warren is dying.
I saw it in him. He has the look of a man who is afraid to
live.”
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Tortora.” Stanley cared less for Warren, if that were possible, than he did for John. What
was significant, however, was not that these two nudniks were hurt, but that a son of Domenic Tortora had been at
tacked.
“Mr. Tortora,” he asked again, “do you know the people
who did this?”
“Jared Baker did this.” His voice was hard and flat. “Your
man, Jared Baker, got away from you and destroyed my
son.”
Levy held his breath and watched the old man carefully.
“Your man.” What's that supposed to mean? Does it mean he
was somehow to be blamed for the harm that had come to
John Tortora? Levy slipped his fingers over the shaved han
dle of the ice pick he wore at his wrist and flicked his eyes back toward Vinnie Cuneo's post. He would not have used
the ice pick on Tortora. Not even if it meant his life. But he would use it on Vinnie if Tortora waved for him. Then he
would go away for a while until Tortora could get over being
upset.
Tortora sensed his unease. He smiled sadly and reached to pat Stanley's sleeve.
”I am not deranged by this tragedy, Stanley. You would
be the far greater loss. My son, as you know well, is a
swine.”
“He's a kid,” Stanley protested, relieved. “Kids grow up. You could still be proud of him someday.”
“Your sympathy and good will are noted, Stanley. We
may now forgo all ritual condolence. The boy was a despi
cable child and a worse adult. My . . . stature, if you will,
only served to make him a bully in the bargain.”
Stanley shrugged and sat back in his corner. He drew a
dry handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe away the film of nervousness that had formed on his palms. Al
though he was mildly surprised by Tortora's assessment of
his son, it surprised him not at all that the boy had turned out
badly. It's what happens, he thought. It's what happens when
a kid grows up without a mother. The kid's mother got tu
berculosis or something just as bad, he remembered hearing, just after the baby was born. Ended up in a grave out in Tuc
son, God rest her. And God only knows what he, Stanley
Levy, would have turned into if he hadn't had a mother who
looked after him and taught him things like only a mother
can show you. Refined things. And how to be nice. And
about going to the library and reading books and going to the museums on Sunday. Boys need that kind of teaching
just as much as girls. And now look at Baker's kid. It was an
especially terrible thing, her losing her mother, because now she has to grow up with one leg all mashed and ugly and she
won't have a mother to talk to her about how she's got other
things she can feel good about. You watch what happens.
Baker's kid was going to get all screwed up too. Who's
going to teach her different? Her father? Even if he doesn't
die too, which now the smart money has to say he will, he's
already all fucked up.