Nightbird (10 page)

“Then you’ll tell me everything.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Gregory said.

The early sports guy on Channel 2 was lamenting the Yanks’ loss of Bernie Williams, fifteen days on the DL, strained left
hamstring. Pitcher Hideki Irabu was wearing long sleeves to cover tiny magnets that adorned his body to relieve tension and
promote blood flow. A small cartoon lightning bolt in the corner of the screen warned of thunderstorms.

“In regards to Trey Winters,” Gregory said. “His alibi checks out perfectly. The guy was long gone before Gillian took the
header.”

“So what does that mean, the investigation is finished?”

“It’s at least up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

The lower edge of the bar’s woodwork was ringed with Christmas lights that stayed up all year. Sinatra sang “Nancy with the
Laughing Face.” The night bartender came through the door to greetings all around.

“I never said that Winters killed her by himself,” Danny said. “All I said was that he’s involved. He had something to do
with this. Something. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to let him off the hook that easily.”

“Maybe you need to get mugged again,” Gregory said.

Then he broke into “Give My Regards to Broadway,” the first line of the song. Gregory had a habit of bursting out in unprovoked
song in a deep, operatic voice, his chin tucked down against his chest. Just one line of a song, two at the most. Show tunes,
top forty, church hymns, Gilbert & Sullivan, nonsense songs, anything. One line. Then, just as suddenly, he’d stop and resume
the conversation as if nothing had happened. It was like watching
Tourette’s Syndrome: The Musical
.

“You find out anything new at all?” Danny said.

“Same story he told on the night of her death, kid. Same old shit, chapter and verse.”

“Sounds like a wasted day.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Gregory said, hoisting his glass. “This bar is in my will, you know. Three grand for a big party
in my honor. Your uncle is my executor.”

Danny knew all about Gregory’s legendary will, which was a living will only in the sense that it never stopped growing. His
uncle said he had shoeboxes at home stuffed with Gregory’s codicils, written on cardboard coasters and cocktail napkins. Beneficiaries
included bartenders, waitresses, coat check girls, cabbies, hookers, even the shoe shine guy in the subway station at Columbus
Circle.

“What does my uncle think about Winters?”

“Your uncle, bless him, thinks he gave us too many details.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“He says people who give too many details are usually trying to deflect attention away from something else.”

“Like an affair. He was having an affair with Gillian. You agree with that?”

“Is the East River a river?” Gregory said.

“Actually, no,” Danny said. “The East River is a saltwater estuary. A strait that connects upper New York Bay with the Long
Island Sound.”

“Well, it was a river when I was growing up,” Gregory said. “And I do agree, Winters was screwing her.”

Gregory reared back and sang, “They… tried… to sell us egg foo yung….” Then quiet. He took a drink, then turned toward Danny.
“One bitter cold night,” he said, “about a dozen of us are sitting here. All guys from the job. December, January. It’s late.
The wind is howling outside, snow swirling. Everything is copasetic… when the door opens. This guy in a ski mask walks through
the door. The place goes silent. The guy in the ski mask pauses at the end of the bar, right there. Looking around. He doesn’t
say a word. Then he reaches in his pocket. The whole thing took maybe fifteen seconds. When he looks up a dozen guns are pointing
at him. The guy falls right out, smack on the floor. We look in his hand and he’s got an address, around the corner. He wanted
directions.”

“A little bit of an overreaction,” Danny said.

“No shit,” Gregory said. “Who the hell faints, Marie Antoinette?”

Solitary drinkers did not visit Brady’s Bar. Their isolation alone would make them suspect. Five small cliques made up the
entire crowd, virtually all male huddles, except for two cop groupies humping the backs of the youngest group. Two women trying
desperately to be discovered, laughing too loudly and rubbing up against men who’d rather hear war stories than love stories.
But every time the door opened, every cop in the place, no matter how subtly, turned to check the door. They all went quiet
when Anthony Ryan walked in.

“You two bonding?” Ryan said, touching his nephew’s right shoulder.

“Your partner is giving me the benefit of his vast knowledge.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” Ryan said.

Rank does not matter in a cop bar. No attention is paid to stripes, or bars, or gold eagles. It’s all about respect. Danny
had noticed long ago that although most cops treated both Ryan and Gregory with respect, there was a difference. Gregory they
treated like a rough-and-tumble older brother. But Ryan was accorded a quiet reverence, as if he were a visiting cardinal.

“He’s touched on every subject except the Winters interview,” Danny said.

“I have something of interest,” Ryan said as he dumped a bag of salted pretzels on the bar. “The lab called on the sticky
substance on her lips.”

“Should I leave?” Danny said.

“No…,” Gregory said. A hint of reluctance.

Ryan ordered a Jameson and water and frowned when he noticed Danny’s beer on the bar. But Danny was only sipping, well aware
of the brew’s effects on his medication.

“Apparently, right before she died,” Ryan said, “she put on some heavy stage makeup and lipstick. When it mixed with the blood
it became sticky. That’s what the lab thinks I noticed.”

“Case closed,” Gregory said.

“Not quite. They also found a trace amount of a viscous substance. Something pine based. They think it’s rosin.”

“Like the ballplayers use?” Gregory said.

“Coletti says it’s used in some exercise and dance studios, too,” Ryan said. “For grip, to prevent slipping. So we’re going
back into Gillian’s apartment. He wants to check her ballet shoes. She might have put them on and touched her face. I made
arrangements with Crime Scene for a second search, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Gregory said. “Mid-Town already closed down the crime scene.”

“I called Trey Winters and told him we needed the key back. We’re also going to simulate her fall.”

“That involves Emergency Services; that’s a major operation, pally. You got something else up your sleeve.”

“I’ve got this up my sleeve,” Ryan said, and with his index finger pushed his nose to the side in the universal sign of the
bent-nose Mafia thug.

The crowd in cop bars consists of various circles of men who alternate between raucous, backslapping laughter and solemnly
whispered secrets. Anthony Ryan spoke so softly, both Danny and Gregory had to lean forward. He said he’d received the LUDs,
the local calls, from Trey Winters’s office phone. Besides calling Gillian on the night she died, he also made three calls
to the Orpheus Lounge and one to the Pussycat Palace. The following day he called both locations again. Once each this time.
Ryan looked around for eavesdroppers, then said both places were owned by Buster Scorza.

“Who’s Buster Scorza?” Danny said, and they shushed him.

“Mobbed up big time,” Gregory said. “At one time he owned over twenty massage parlors and peep show locations. He still owns
half the real estate west of Times Square. And he got it the old-fashioned way. With muscle.”

“You thinking Winters hired Scorza to have Gillian killed?” Danny said.

“That’s a stretch,” Gregory said.

Someone handed the bartender a newspaper. The back of
The Daily News
read,
WEATHER HOT
,
IRABU COLD
.

“Not for nothing,” Gregory said. “But Scorza also has some connection to the stagehands union. It could be legit business.
Just make sure you got the res gestae first.”

Gregory moved away to sell tickets and glad-hand. The bar was packed with potential boat ride customers and guys who hadn’t
heard his entire repertoire of war stories. Danny wanted to take a few notes on the cryptic jargon that passed for conversation
in a cop bar, but he knew better.

“What the hell is the res gestae?” Danny said.

“It means ‘the thing,’ in Latin. It means nothing here. He’s just breaking my balls. Reminding me it’s his case.”

“The Pussycat is that big porn place on Eighth Avenue,” Danny said. “It’s a raging cash machine. Three floors of sex in every
possible contortion.”

“I don’t want you going near Buster Scorza, Danny. Or Trey Winters. Understand? Even with two good arms.”

“Where’s the Orpheus Lounge?”

“Ninth Avenue. Years ago it was a hangout for Broadway musicians. Now it’s a wrinkle room.”

Danny knew that wrinkle room was shorthand for a bar that catered to aging gays. “Let me help out on this. I could approach
it from a different angle. Not everybody wants to spill their guts to cops.”

“Not Scorza,” Ryan said. “We’ll give you people to interview. Just don’t go near Scorza.”

“Give me somebody, please. I want to do something. I keep thinking I screwed up here. I should have noticed something was
wrong with her. Maybe she’d still be alive today if I had something else on my mind besides getting laid.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ryan said, and wondered how many times he was going to say it in this case. “Something happened earlier
that night. Winters had made his mind up to have Gillian drug tested. Then he apparently changed it between six-thirty and
eleven. All we know now is that during that time, he made phone calls to Scorza and had dinner with Abigail Klass.”

“Abigail Klass the food writer? I can interview her.”

“Winters says he had a change of heart and decided not to give up on Gillian. You believe that, Danny?”

“I think he was scared shitless his rich wife would find out about his affair with Gillian.”

“Gillian’s sister, Faye, spoke to her after Winters left, and said she was very upset, talking crazy. If we believe Trey Winters,
she should have been happy.”

“You think Winters is lying?”

“All the years I’ve been a cop,” Ryan said, “I talked to a lot of liars. One thing they all do is rationalize. No matter how
you push, accuse, insult… they give you a rational explanation. Today I pushed Trey Winters and he never got mad at me. Liars
are never angry, Danny. Remember that.”

V
ictor awoke to sirens, the music of the Bronx night. The apartment was dark, except for a sliver of light from under the bathroom
door. Victor assumed he’d left it on when he took the red pills, earlier. He was slightly foggy, but the rest had helped.
He pulled himself up to a sitting position, feeling the tug of his stomach muscles. A good tug, the pain less severe. The
retribution from Wednesday’s reckless performances was wearing off. He got to his feet as the bathroom door opened. Pinto
stood framed in the doorway.

“I’m not good enough for you,” Pinto said, his body a question mark in silhouette. “Not smart enough, or you don’t trust me.
Which is it?”

The envelope meant for Trey Winter was not on the table. It was in Pinto’s hand.

“You have no answers, my friend,” Pinto said, waving the note. “Before you always have answers.”

“That note is none of your business, Pinto.”

“It wasn’t my business when I took you from your busboy job and taught you to juggle. It wasn’t my business when I taught
you to work crowds.”

“Give me that,” Victor said.

“I should have let you waste yourself like your father.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You found a way to strike it big, and fuck Pinto. I understand that.”

“I thought it was too dangerous for you. A man your age.”

“Oh, too dangerous for me, but not too dangerous for you, taking your pills like little candies.”

“You never keep your mouth shut about anything, Pinto. What was I going to do?”

“You thought I would tell somebody? I had schemes in Russia make your scheme look like little potatoes. I didn’t even tell
myself things then, in case I talked in my sleep.”

Pinto threw the letter on the table.

“See,” Victor said. “You put your fingerprints on the letter. Sometimes you don’t think.”

“Blackmail needs two to work it right.”

“I’m not blackmailing anyone. It’s a simple business deal.”

“That is why you cut words out of the newspapers. Because of a business deal. You think I’m stupid, that insult is worst.”

Victor walked into the bathroom to wash his face. The water felt good. The smell of the soap invigorated him. Victor had inherited
his father’s looks, lady-killers, both of them. His mother always said that if his father prayed at all, he prayed to the
Virgin Mary, because he believed he had a way with all women. Victor saw in the mirror a tired man, his skin losing the glow
of health. He needed to get out of this city. He heard Pinto banging things around.

Victor dried his hands. He put his gloves on and took the scissors from the table. He walked into the bedroom. Both dresser
drawers had been dumped on the bed. Pinto flung clothes into his old scarred trunk, a trunk they’d lugged for many miles in
his Chevy. Victor knew he deserved better than this.

“We are ended,” Pinto said. “No longer partners, no longer friends. I am driving to Florida in my car; you get your own car.
Get your own limo. That’s what you see about yourself. Big boss in the limo.”

Victor plunged the scissors down into Pinto’s back, but the blow lacked force, and his hand slipped off as the metal struck
bone. Pinto jolted straight up, arching like an angry cat. The scissors loosened, dangling down toward the floor.

“What are you doing!” he bellowed, reaching behind him.

“What do you think, you dumb bastard,” Victor said.

Pinto twisted away and ran for the door, scissors flopping, his legs kicking high like a startled deer. Victor grabbed a fistful
of the Russian’s hair and spun him around, and the scissors clattered to the floor. He slammed Pinto down on his back and
fell on his chest, knees first, with all his weight. “Ooomph!” came out of the Russian. Victor sat on his chest, his knees
pinning the Russian’s arms as he wrapped his hands around Pinto’s throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength. Victor’s
arms and hands were weakened, but the Russian was no match. Pinto kicked wildly behind him. Victor held the pressure steady.