Flood (18 page)

27

I WALKED A few blocks through the sunlight, found a pay phone, and called Flood. Someone else answered. “Ms. Flood is instructing.” I hung up while she was saying something about leaving a message. Walked another few blocks to another phone and called Mama. I told her I’d be over and hung up on her too when she started going on about being careful with bad people. After walking crosstown all the way to the West Side I got into a cab and told the driver to cruise down West Street. I got off near the World Trade Center, bought a copy of that night’s
Harness Lines,
and took my time strolling back to the office.

I passed an OTB parlor on the way. I don’t do business with them—at least I don’t place bets—but I do have one of those plastic credit cards that says I have a telephone account. Very useful. Not for betting on the phone, but for using the City of New York as a courier service. Here’s how it works: let’s say you’re rolling down the street carrying cash and some people know about it. They’d like to talk to you. So you duck into an OTB and make a cash deposit to your telephone account. You fill out a deposit slip just like in a bank, and they give you a stamped piece of paper for a receipt. Then you light a cigarette with the receipt and go back outside. If the people waiting ask you to step into their car and they search you, there’s no cash. They conclude you weren’t carrying the money on that particular occasion. Then, when you want your cash, you go to the main OTB branch on Forty-first Street, give them your account number and code word, and they give you a check that’s as good as gold. You can either mail the check to yourself or walk a half-block and turn it into cash. It’s a fine way to move money around the city, and OTB doesn’t charge a cent for the service. Even the checks are free.

When I got back to the office I let Pansy run on the roof again. She looked as calm as usual but that didn’t mean much—dogs don’t have long memories. The phone line was clear so I tried Flood again.

“Ms. Flood, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“You’re great at disgusing your voice, Flood.”

“Burke?”

“Yep.”

“I went to the court and—”

“Save it. Not on the phone. I’ll—”

“But listen—”

“Flood! Give it a rest. I can’t talk on this phone, okay? I’ll pick you up tonight, your place, at seven, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can you wait in the lobby downstairs? Move out when you see the car?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t sound so depressed, kid. It’s coming soon.”

“Okay,” as flat as ever.

“Later, Flood.” I hung up.

I cruised over to Mama’s in the Plymouth, parked around the back, and went through the kitchen to look through the glass. The place was empty except for some dregs from the late lunchtime crowd. Stepping through the kitchen door sideways I entered the restaurant from the back like I’d been in the bathroom. I sat down at the last booth in the rear, the one with the half-eaten food standing around on the plates, and one of Mama’s waiters approached. “Will there be anything else?” I don’t know how Mama trained them, but they were good—I’d obviously been here for the past hour or so. I told the waiter I was satisfied and lit an after-lunch cigarette.

When the rest of the crowd moved out Mama left her place by the cash register in front and came over to sit with me. The waiter cleared off the table and I ordered some eggdrop soup and Mongolian beef with fried rice. Mama told the waiter to bring her some tea. “What is happening, Burke?”

“The usual stuff, Mama.”

“Those men on the phone—bad men, right?”

“Not bad like dangerous, Mama—just bad like lousy, you know?”

“Yes, I know, I hear in their voice, okay? Could be very bad people if you afraid of them, right?”

“Oh yeah, fear would make them tough for sure.”

“Max help you?”

“Sometimes.”

“I mean with those men, okay?”

“Max is my friend, Mama. He would help me and I would help him, understand?”

“I understand. Beef good?”

“The beef is perfect.”

“Not too hot?”

“Just right.”

“Cook very old. Sometimes you do thing long time you get very good, right? Some things you do too long, not so good.”

“Like me?”

“You not so old yet, Burke.” Max suddenly materialized at Mama’s elbow. She slid over in the booth to make room for him and signaled for more tea. Mama thought tea was important to Max’s continued growth and development. Max seemed indifferent to the entire issue. “Do all Chinese people believe in tea?” I asked her.

“All Chinese people not same, Burke. You know this, right?”

“I just meant, is it a cultural thing, Mama? Like when the Irish drink beer even when they don’t like it?”

“I don’t know. But Max like tea too. Very good for him.” I looked at Max. He made a face to say the stuff wouldn’t hurt him so what the hell. He reads lips so well that sometimes I think he only pretends not to hear.

“Well, that’s kind of what I meant. You’re Chinese, Max is Chinese, you both like tea . . .”

Mama giggled like I’d said something funny. “You think Max Chinese?”

“Sure.”

“You think all people from Far East Chinese?”

“Mama, don’t be—”

“Maybe you think Max
Japanese?”
Mama giggled again. Don’t ask me why, but Chinese people don’t like Japanese people. In fact, the only subject on which I’ve seen Orientals agree is that none of them seem to like Koreans.

“I know Max isn’t Japanese.”

“How do you know?”

I knew because one night Max and I were talking about being a warrior and what it meant, and I mentioned the samurai tradition and Max said he had nothing to do with that. He told me a samurai must fight for his lord and Max had no lord. I didn’t get all of it, but I knew he wasn’t Japanese. It made sense to me—if you’re going to do crime for a living, the only way is to be self-employed. But I just told Mama, “I know.”

Max looked over at Mama, bowed his head to show great respect for all things Chinese, and then made great mountain peaks with his hands and pointed at his chest. Mama and I said “Tibet” at the same time and Max nodded. What the hell, Max wasn’t any more of a citizen than I was.

Mama said she had to get back to business, and Max stood up to let her out of the booth, bowing and sitting back to face me again all in one motion. Mama looked at me, then at Max, and spread her hands in a gesture of frustration. Max nodded sharply to tell her that I would be all right, and she seemed satisfied. Then he put twenty fifty-dollar bills on the table next to my copy of the racing form. I pocketed eighteen of them, left the remaining two for him—ten percent is his usual transportation fee.

Max wasn’t going for that. He crooked the first two fingers of his right hand in a come-here gesture and I put my money back on the table. Then he extracted another two bills from my pile and motioned I was free to pocket the rest. Okay, so we
each
had a hundred on the table. So what?

Picking up the racing form, Max indicated that I should pick out a horse for that evening and we’d both invest. I made a variety of gestures to show him that I couldn’t always be expected to pick winners, but Max put his hands together in a prayerful attitude, pointed at me, and tapped his pocket. He was saying that I must be especially skillful since, after all, I’d won all this money.

The last thing I needed was Max’s silent sarcasm. Thus challenged, I whipped out a felt-tip pen and went to work on the form. Max sat down next to me and we spent the next hour or so going over the charts. I used some blank paper to demonstrate that although Yonkers and Roosevelt were both half-mile oval tracks, Yonkers had a much shorter stretch run. So a horse that fired late but lost at Yonkers because he just ran out of racetrack would have a shot at Roosevelt. Then I showed him the bloodlines of certain animals that seemed to run better in cooler weather. (You have to look for Down Under horses, from Australia or New Zealand—their biological clock is different from American horses because their summer is our winter.) I told him about high humidity making horses go faster, and the importance of post position. For pure guts, I told Max, all other things being equal, you have to go with a mare rather than a male horse.

When I finally checked my watch, hours had flown by. Max was as intent as ever. Finally we found a horse that had been running strong at Rockingham, up in New Hampshire, and was shipping in for the first time. A three-year-old that hadn’t been heavily staked, he was trying the older horses in a $27,000 claimer. He had a good driver, decent but not spectacular breeding, and he looked tough as nails. And Rockingham was a couple of seconds slower than Roosevelt, track for track. Looked good to me—I thought he was maybe in a little cheap, and leaving from an inside post to boot. The horse was named Honor Bright, but I don’t bet on names. Max took our two hundred and used my pen to circle the horse on the racing form. Then he nodded at me, bowed, smiled, and split.

It was about time to meet Flood, so I did the same.

28

IT WAS ALMOST seven when I poked the Plymouth’s nose down Flood’s block the way a ferret sticks his nose down a hole before taking the plunge. Everything seemed quiet, so I rolled down my window and snaked out the hand-held spotlight so it was pointed across the windshield directly at Flood’s door. When I flicked the switch the night turned into day—nothing happened, nobody jumped from the shadows. Flood walked out the door wearing an ankle-length maxicoat with a big pocketbook slung over one shoulder. She climbed in the car without a word and I set it rolling downtown.

As soon as we straightened out, Flood started pulling pieces of paper out of her bag and talking at the same time. “I did exactly what you told me. I looked through everything. There’s no name even
like
his anywhere. I even asked the clerk to help me and he did and we still couldn’t find anything.”

“Just calm down, Flood. It’s no tragedy. Did you write down all the docket numbers from the days I told you to check?”

“Every single one. There’s no—”

“Never mind.” I already had an idea about the Cobra, and if Flood had done her job we’d know soon enough. We still had a little time so I pulled into a parking place, got the pocket flash from the glove compartment, and took Flood’s notes out of her hand. I was trying to concentrate but I was slowly being knocked unconscious by Flood’s perfume—it smelled like Eau de Whorehouse and it was thicker than flies on a corpse.

“Flood! What the hell is that stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“That fucking perfume! It smells like a used motel room.”

“I thought it would go with my outfit,” she said bitterly, and the maxicoat fell open to reveal Flood. Revealed her because the clothes she had on obviously did nothing to cover her—a jersey sweater clearly worn without benefit of a bra, and pink pants so tight I could see the muscles of her thighs. Even the black wig said Slut.

“Flood, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said I had to wear this nonsense, so I thought—”

“Flood, for chrissakes, I said to wear the outfit to court, right? Not for the rest of your life.”

“You didn’t tell me I should change, so—”

“Don’t you have a fucking grain of common sense?”

“First I’m a dumb broad because I don’t listen to you—now I’m a dumb broad because I do. Which is it?”

“Flood, the outfit was for court, so they’d look at your body and not pay any attention to your face. Tonight we’re seeing an assistant D.A.”

“You think he won’t look?” Flood pouted like a real brat. I would have given her a smack if I wasn’t afraid of permanent injury.

“Sure he’ll look. But he’s a professional, not like those rumdums at the courthouse. He’ll remember your face anyway. And it won’t matter—he’s a straight citizen, not one of the bad guys.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’ Wonderful.”

“You want me to go home and change?”

“There’s no time. We can’t be late for this. Besides, you’d have to take a bath for a month to get that smell off.”

“I only did it because—”

“Bullshit, Flood. You’re not that dumb. I think you like wearing that get-up.”

Flood got a dangerous edge to her voice when she said,
“What?”

“You heard me. This isn’t a game, right? Use some sense.”

“I’ll keep the coat buttoned, Burke. Okay?”

“Keep your lip buttoned too.”

In a sweet little-girl voice, Flood said, “Please don’t get mad, daddy,” and reached over to squeeze my hand. Then she moved over against the passenger door like some high-school girl rejecting a pass. By the time the Plymouth was turning into Baxter Street behind the courthouse I felt some life come back into my hand. Actually, I’d thought it was paralyzed for life, but I’m too tough to scream. I’ve got my pride too.

I parked the Plymouth where I could move it easily if I had to. I told Flood, “That was childish. You’re a real adolescent. Give me your coat.”

“What for?”

“Because we’re going to walk up the steps, and people besides the D.A. will be watching, right? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to wear that outfit after all. But stop being a baby, okay?”

Flood said okay, handed me the coat, and turned to go. I checked to see nobody was around, then dropped an old business card on the ground. My arms were full of Flood’s coat and briefcase, so I said “Grab that, will you, Flood? When she bent at the waist to pick it off the ground, I gave her a healthy smack with the hand she’d squeezed. It was like slapping a side of beef—the pain shot from my hand right up my arm. Flood straightened up like nothing had happened, giggled and said, “Used the wrong hand, huh?” She wiggled off ahead of me and after we got about ten feet said, “Want to give me my coat back now?” I did and I wouldn’t think Flood was dumb anymore. At least not about some things.

Toby stood up when we came through his door. He always dresses the same day or night, whether he’s on trial in Supreme Court or sitting around his office listening to political discussions: Brand X three piece-suit, solid-color buttondown shirt, striped tie, wingtip shoes. Toby has a thick mustache but it doesn’t make him look any older than he really is—late thirties, I’d guess. His image is perfect for juries: solid, respectable, middle-class, not flashy or arrogant. Toby’s not a man with major resentments about his life. He’s not crazy about the fact that some defense attorneys who couldn’t carry his briefcase make five times the money he does, but he lives with it. No politician, his rise through the office has been steady if not spectacular. He doesn’t like criminals much, but he doesn’t stay up nights planning how he’s going to stop them all by himself. But he doesn’t like baby-rapers a whole lot. Maybe because he has little ones of his own—I don’t know. I do know he’s sincere about it—I’ve worked with him before. Toby held out his hand.

“Mr. Lawrence, good to see you. And this is Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yeah, this is the little woman,” I said, carefully keeping clear of Flood’s reach.

“What’s on?”

“There a guy, Martin Howard Wilson, who rapes babies for fun and profit. Without boring you with a long story, we’d like to find him.”

“Why come to me?”

“He was indicted over here for sodomizing a kid. The kid died. So did the indictment. I figure he rolled over on somebody and maybe there was good enough reason for your people to let him go, okay? But he didn’t pay for what he did and I represent some people who think he should.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“About the people, no. About the maggot, sure. I got a decent physical description, approximate age, last known whereabouts, even an alias. Calls himself
The Cobra,
if you’re ready for that.”

“What else?”

“Toby, he’s got a blank docket number.”

Toby said “Oh,” and sat back to think. I’d checked Flood’s lists and there was a complete run of docket numbers in sequence for the arraignment and indictment days when Wilson made his appearances, but one number was missing. Both Toby and I knew what that meant, and if the
federales
didn’t have this freak holed up in their so-called Witness Protection Program the Manhattan D.A. should know where to find him, or at least what he looked like. But it was a lot to ask, and Toby and I both knew it.

“Your people who want to find this guy . . . he steal money from them or something?”

“Something.”

“Why should I do this, Burke?”

“Lawrence.”

“Lawrence. Why should I do this?”

“Because this guy has a special racket. He works the daycare centers, the babysitting gigs, the foster-care scam, the runaway-youth hostels, the sheltered workshops, the group homes. You know the routine—he’s a disaffected Vietnam vet with a story to tell, and the liberals just fucking eat it up. Then he swallows their kids. And he walks off the charges for some reason. He
has
to be rolling over on someone to do that. And now he’s loose again and he
will
take out some more kids as sure as we’re all sitting here having this debate. He’s a dangerous, vicious degenerate who got a free pass from the government to do his filth. You want more?”

“You wouldn’t be working for the people this man allegedly rolled over on, would you, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. I thought you knew better, Toby.”

“I know you—at least I know something of you. And I know you walk pretty close to the line all the time.”

“There’s some lines I wouldn’t cross.”

“So you say.”

“My references are in the street, right?”

“Some of your references are doing time.”

“How many for baby-raping?”

“Okay, I get your point. Now let me think a bit.” He turned to Flood. “Are you uncomfortable like that? Would you like me to take your coat?” Flood the genius favored him with a dazzling smile and handed it to him. Toby approached to take the coat from her and the combination of Flood’s perfume and her dancing chest almost knocked him back into his chair. But you don’t get to be a top criminal trial lawyer without some degree of composure, so he just took the coat and turned to hang it on a wooden rack—only his reddened ears gave him away. We all sat in silence, Toby smoking his pipe, me smoking one cigarette after another, and Flood taking deep breaths every time she thought Toby or I looked bored.

Time passed. Nobody talked. Phones rang down the hall, sometimes fifteen or twenty times. They always stopped eventually. Maybe someone picked them up, maybe somebody gave up—who could tell? We all jumped when the phone on Toby’s desk rang. He snatched the receiver, barked “Ringer!” into it, and Flood and I listened to his half of the conversation, obviously with a new D.A. in the Complaint Room:

“What’s the cop say?” Pause. “What about the complaining witness?” Pause. “Guy have a record?” Pause. “Okay, don’t get worked up. It’s no big deal. It’ll never get past the grand jury. Write it up as Assault Third and put a note in the file,
No ACD at Arraignment.
At least we’ll make him sweat a bit. Tell the Arraignment Part A.D.A. to ask for five hundred bail. Yeah.” Pause. “That’s all.” And he hung up.

ACD just means Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal, a six-month walkaway for the defendant—if he doesn’t get busted during that time, the whole case against him is dismissed. All Toby meant was that the guy was going to get a play at some point, but they’d jerk his chain at the first appearance. Standard stuff.

Toby turned to face me. “You’ll answer for Mrs. Lawrence here?”

“No question.”

“She from here?”

“Related to someone from here.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Max the Silent.”

“She doesn’t look Chinese.”

“Doesn’t talk much either, have you noticed?”

“Is that the relationship?”

“No. And Max isn’t Chinese.”

“Okay. I’ll have to go and see if there’s a file. I’ll read through it if there is—then I’ll decide. No discussions, okay? If it looks right to me, maybe we can talk. If not, time for you to go.”

Toby excused himself and went down the hall. Because of our relationship I didn’t use the opportunity to add to my collection of official stationary. Toby knows Max. I had to bring him in once when the police were looking for him and Max had to testify in front of the grand jury. I got to go inside with him since I’m a registered interpreter for the deaf. It says so on the official letterhead of the appropriate city agency. Max wasn’t indicted.

As soon as Toby went out the door Flood opened her mouth to say something. I motioned her to be quiet. I believe Toby’s honest, but I don’t believe any city office isn’t bugged. If it was we hadn’t said anything that would get us in trouble, but with Flood’s mouth you could never be sure. I winked at her to show confidence I didn’t feel, and we sat there waiting.

Toby’s phone rang again. I ignored it. Flood was good at waiting—she just went into some kind of breathing exercise and made the time go away. Her eyes were focused, but she was meditating—in a resting phase, like a battery storing up energy.

Toby didn’t get back until it was almost nine-thirty, but when he walked in the door carrying a thick manila folder, I knew we’d won.

“I can’t show you what’s in here, but you’re right about your man. I’ll tell you some things. Don’t ask me any questions—just listen and then leave, okay?”

I nodded yes and Flood became as rigid as a setter on point.

“Martin Howard Wilson, d.o.b. August 10, 1944. Arrested and indicted as you already know. Agreed to provide specific evidence on the kiddie-porn operations of several individuals, including Elijah Slocum, Manny Grossman, and one Jonas Goldor, the last of which purportedly included the use of children in active prostitution and the sale of children across state lines. This Goldor, I’ve heard, is a very bad guy. He almost makes a religion out of pain, seems to believe in it somehow. I’m told he can be so persuasive that he actually talks people into trying it of their own free will, but that’s just hearsay. Lots of rumors that he’s killed some of his playmates, and Wilson claimed he even knew where the private graveyard was.

“There’s an old address for Wilson, but it’s strictly n.g. now. We checked. We’re looking for him too. We didn’t actually give him immunity. We
promised
him immunity when and if he made a case against Goldor and actually testified before the grand jury and at trial if necessary. His lawyer said he couldn’t be in protective custody and still make the case for us, and we bought it. Wilson seemed to really get into the whole undercover thing, like he always wanted to be a cop or something. He was going to set up a preliminary buy—a truckload of kiddie porn coming in from California. We were going to use those guys as rollovers too, make as strong a case as we could against Goldor. The buy never went down and Wilson disappeared. But he’s still out there. He calls in every once in a while and claims he’s working on the case for us.

“There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Murder Two. Sodomy First Degree. Kidnapping. The works. The A.D.A. running the case doesn’t know himself if Wilson’s really trying to make a case for us, but when Wilson gets popped he’s going down for the homicide. Period. The only other thing I can tell you is that Goldor’s listed in the Scarsdale phone book, he’s got no mob enemies and a lot, of powerful friends. Big political contributor, owns a lot of good real estate, even pays his taxes on time, I’m told. But there’s one funny thing . . . even though we don’t have real good intelligence operations in the Hispanic community we do know that Una Gente Libre—you know, that Puerto Rican terrorist group—has the word on the street that they’re going to whack this guy. Goldor, not Wilson. We don’t know why, or anything about them. And Goldor, we know for a fact, doesn’t believe it for a second.