Nightbird (21 page)

D
anny Eumont spent Monday afternoon looking for Wacky Walzak, but he couldn’t get Faye Boudreau out of his mind. What happened
between them, happened; he wasn’t going to analyze it now. The important thing was Faye was in trouble. Maybe he’d missed
something with Gillian, but he wasn’t going to do it this time. He just needed a few hours to think it through before he called
his uncle. To find the right way to say it. After all, he’d been drinking, the juniper berry, and the jet lag. All that. Maybe
just be honest: I had sex with her. Maybe not. Either way Joe Gregory was going to be merciless.

He didn’t find Wacky until an hour before curtain, coming out of Shubert Alley. The night was warm, and the streets were packed.
Office workers, getting out of town, hustling toward the Port Authority and Penn Station, crossed paths with theatergoers
traveling in from New Jersey and Connecticut.

“What do you know about Buster Scorza?” Danny said.

“Enough to say cement shoes are not my style,” Wacky Walzak said.

Cars idled in front of parking garages, waiting for spots to open, blue exhaust fumes rising. On the sidewalks, early arrivals
gathered nonchalantly under marquees, occasionally drifting into the path of a head-down, homebound New Yorker. A full-speed
pedestrian shoulder slam was just one more Gotham experience.

“Everybody knows Scorza’s a bad guy,” Danny said. “All I want to know is, what is Trey Winters’s connection to Scorza?”

“Not my area of expertise.”

Danny treated Wacky to a hot dog from a street vendor outside Charley O’s restaurant. Wacky wore a T-shirt that read, “Send
a salami to your boy in the Army.”

“This is all I get for my help?” Wacky said. “A dirty-water hot dog. Dinner under the umbrella with Mr. Big Spender. ‘Hey,
big spender… spennnnd… a little time with me.’ Remember that song from
Sweet Charity
?”

“I still owe you a dinner,” Danny said. “Anywhere you want to go.”

They were standing near the Booth Theatre on West Forty-fifth Street. The Booth connected with the Shubert Theatre on Forty-fourth.
Back to back. They’d been built as one building, but the Booth had half as many seats as the Shubert. Wacky bit into his hot
dog with everything, and onion sauce dribbled down his chin.

“My uncle told me you knew more about the theater district than anyone. Yet you can’t tell me one simple fact about Buster
Scorza.”

“Buster Scorza has nothing to do with the theater.”

“He used to head the stagehands union.”

“He’s been beheaded,” Wacky said, a dime-size dollop of yellow mustard resting on his purplish lower lip.

“If he’s been beheaded, why is he meeting with Trey Winters?” Danny said.

“‘Hey, big spenda…’ Cy Coleman song. Neil Simon book. The hookers sang it. Did you know that at that time Neil Simon had four
plays on Broadway simultaneously?”

“That’s really interesting, Wacky, but I have an important appointment on the East Side in fifteen minutes.”

Danny was due to meet Abigail Klass for dinner. He figured he’d get a cab easily; all traffic was coming toward the theaters
at this hour, and cabs usually went away empty.

“I’ve never dined in Twenty-one,” Wacky said. “I like those little jockeys going up the stairs.”

“Twenty-one’s the magic number,” Danny said.

The sound of bagpipe music came from the corner of Broadway and Forty-fifth. Danny could see the lone piper in MacGregor kilt
and bearskin hat standing behind his open case. In the hour before curtain the streets of the theater district were filled
with street performers. Singers, trumpet players, jugglers.

“You must buy these twelve to the pound?” Wacky said to the small Greek behind the hot dog cart. “Thin as a pencil, these
hot dogs.”

“Shut you crazy mouth,” the vendor said. “Nine dogs to a pound, like always. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Terra-cotta figures lined the upper portions of both theater buildings. On the capitals of the Shubert were two woolly rams;
along the top of the building were heads with bat wings. The capitals of the Booth featured two openmouthed animals; under
the cornice at the top of the building were a series of brackets consisting of white glazed human heads, all with their mouths
wide open. Danny pulled big-mouthed Wacky away from the Greek bearing a hot fork.

“Am I wasting my time here?” Danny said.

“You know, once I found a Raisinet in a box of Goobers peanuts. Everybody said I was wasting my time. I wrapped it in plastic
and sent it back to the company. They sent me a whole case of peanuts.”

A woman walking into Charley O’s with two little girls warned them about the long lines to the ladies’ room at intermission.
Make sure you pee before you leave the restaurant.

“I really don’t have the time for this,” Danny said, checking his watch. “I’m going to let Joe Gregory talk to you.”

“Don’t bother the man, he’s probably busy beating some hapless miscreant. The truth is I don’t know the answer.”

“Gregory says you know the answer, because he does. He says Scorza met Winters through Paul Klass.”

“He only knows that because he worked in Vice,” Wacky said, then mumbled, “Uh-oh. Too much information. Too much information.”

Outside the Shubert a guy in a tux and a mask entertained the waiting crowd by singing songs from
Phantom of the Opera
. His top hat sat on the ground in front of him, ready for cash.

“Now tell me what Vice has to do with it?”

“I’m still very hungry, you know,” Wacky said, jingling the coin changer on his belt. “Hungry man of La Mancha. Little wieners
do nothing for me.”

“Don’t push me too far, Wacky.”

“Paul Klass passed away. I will not tarnish his reputation.”

“You’re giving me no choice. I’ll call Gregory, tell him you sandbagged me.”

“It’s all ancient history,” Wacky said, jingling the coin changer louder and faster. “Only a few alive know the tale.”

“Gregory will be here tomorrow night,” Danny said.

“So will I,” Wacky said. “Haven’t missed a performance in five years. Then only because I snapped my ankle in a pothole crossing
Forty-third. Streisand hated to miss a performance, too, you know. Once in the Winter Garden Theatre Barbra’s understudy in
Funny Girl
, Lainie Kazan, was ready to go on. Babs called in with strep throat. Lainie was so excited; she’d waited fifteen months.
She was in costume, curtain ready to go up, when La Streisand drags herself in and insists on going on. She knew Lainie was
talented.”

“That’s it. Adios,” Danny said, and turned around.

Wacky grabbed him by his sleeve. He held a roll of bills up to his face. “Subtlety goes right over your head,” he said.

Danny finally got the point and handed Wacky two twenties. Wacky placed the bills in a thick roll and snapped a rubber band
around it.

“Tell me now, will you, please,” Danny said.

“Paul Klass had a nefarious dealing with Buster Scorza. It’s no secret. It was well-known on the street. Paul Klass was not
ashamed of his lifestyle.”

“What nefarious dealings?”

“Did I say nefarious? Was that my line?”

“Don’t do this,” Danny said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve had enough.”

“Okay, Mr. Impatient. It seems that Paul Klass had certain, shall we say, exotic habits, pleasures, whatever.”

“Tell me, you crazy fuck!” Danny yelled.

“Young boys. Paul Klass had a thing for young boys.”

“Is Trey Winters going to Scorza for young boys?”

“Absolutely not. The man has been a chippie chaser all his life. It’s his reputation, his legacy.”

“No boys for Trey.”

“Believe me,” Wacky said. “That I would know.”

On the sidewalk behind them a one-legged pigeon hopped around a discarded lunch bag, pecking at a chicken leg. Danny wondered
what kind of bird ate other birds.

“Then why is Winters going to Scorza?”

“You’re the detective.”

“I’m not a detective, I’m a reporter.”

“Whatever,” Wacky said. “I know what I know. Scorza supplied young pretty boys to Paul Klass. And others. But I’m talking
years ago. Years, years, years. Things were not so wide open in those days. The average person needed somebody like Buster
Scorza. To get… you know, stuff.”

“Like little boys?”

“Little boys, little girls, sex, drugs, rock and roll. Maybe not rock and roll.”

The crowd in front of the Shubert burst into applause as the guy in the tux and the mask bowed. The Phantom of the Alley nudged
his top hat forward. Danny hoped he had enough money left for cab fare.

“Maybe there was something going on between Paul Klass and Trey Winters,” Danny said. “Could he have been one of Klass’s young
boys?”

“You’re not listening to the lines. I said Paul liked young boys. Young, very young. I’m talking twelve, thirteen years old.
Pretty-boy Winters was already too old when he arrived in New York.”

“And you know that for a fact.”

“I delivered enough Cokes and cheeseburgers to apartment eighteen-K in those days.”

“That’s it? That’s your forty-dollar guess?” Danny said.

“That’s a century-note gem, not a guess, sonny boy. I gave you a discount because I like your uncle.”

Danny turned and ran for a cab dropping passengers off on Broadway. He thought about Faye getting out of the gypsy cab from
Tremont Taxi, her face swollen. He wondered how she was. The rolling lights on the ITT news billboard read, “First rule of
success: Subscribe to
The Wall Street Journal
…. Yanks lose to Brewers 6–2.”

“We still on for Twenty-one?” Wacky yelled.

A
“forthwith” in the NYPD is an order to get your butt to a specified location. It means now.
Right now!
“Immediately” is not a strong enough word. Death is not an excuse. At 1845 hours on Monday evening, forty-five minutes after
their tour ended, Ryan and Gregory received a telephone message from the night desk man in the Chief’s office. He’d guessed
correctly that they’d be in Brady’s Bar, behind headquarters. The message he relayed was a direct order from the chief of
detectives to meet him at the Downtown Athletic Club. Forthwith! Both cops knew that good news never followed that word.

The Downtown Athletic Club is a thirty-five-story brick structure that faces the Statue of Liberty, at the southernmost tip
of Manhattan Island. The Retired Detectives Association of the City of New York held its monthly meetings in the club’s Heisman
Trophy Room. Guest speakers were culled from the current power structure in law enforcement. That night’s honored guest was
Chief of Detectives Patrick Ferguson.

“This isn’t a social thing,” Gregory said as he pushed the elevator button marked
H
. “No, no, no, no, we’re not talking sentimental old times tonight.”

“Paddy’s not a sentimental guy anyway,” Ryan said. “Remember when the PC wanted the bosses to come up with their own Christmas
anticorruption program? Paddy had a huge poster put on the wall showing Santa Claus in a coffin.”

The walls of the Heisman Trophy Room were covered with portraits of every winner since the first award in 1935. The trophy,
named after the club’s first athletic director, John W Heisman, was presented in the first week of December to the athlete
voted the outstanding college football player for that year. Visitors to the club often wanted their pictures taken next to
the portrait of their hometown or alma mater hero. Visiting cops posed next to the portrait of O. J. Simpson, their handcuffs
dangling.

Dinner had not yet started when Ryan and Gregory arrived. The cocktail hour was more popular than the chicken breast. Most
of the big, happy crowd lingered at the bar, telling war stories and plunking down plastic chips for drinks. The Chief sat
at the dais, laughing with a handful of old-timers. He wasn’t worried about his speech; he had only one basic speech, but
it was a work of art.

Although many of the people around the Chief knew him from the bad old days, none would call him “Paddy Roses” tonight. Tonight
he was “the Chief,” with all due honors and respect. Some were there to seek his blessing, hoping to engineer a “contract.”
Hoping the Chief might, in his infinite wisdom, make the phone call that would transfer them or a loved one into a prestigious
assignment on a high floor in headquarters. Most came, “hat in hand,” as Gregory always said, because memories and past loyalties
were the only collateral they could bring to the table.

As soon as the Chief spotted Gregory he waved everybody off and pointed toward the far window. The window overlooked the Hudson.
Ferries and cargo ships floated gracefully around the river like sailboats in a park pond.

“What the hell is going on with the Stone case?” the Chief said.

As soon as he said that, they both knew the case was over. The chief of detectives didn’t issue a “forthwith” just to inquire
about status.

“We got one or two questions, Chief,” Joe Gregory said. “It’ll be closed tomorrow.”

“It’s closed now,” the Chief said. “It’s done, stick a fork in it. I spent half the afternoon on the phone with the mayor’s
office. They think you’re trying to set the records for lawsuits in a single case.”

Scorza, right?” Gregory said.

Ryan looked out the window at the stunning view. The city’s new Holocaust museum was in the last stages of construction. Along
the river’s edge the line of new high-rises stretched north as far as the eye could see. Everything built on landfill. Twenty
years ago only water bordered the West Side Highway.

“I can understand you hassling Buster Scorza,” the Chief said. “I might even enjoy telling his lawyer to go fuck himself.
But tell me why you’re still breaking Trey Winters’s balls. Following his wife into her health club.”

Ryan could feel Joe Gregory glaring at him. He hadn’t mentioned his interview of Darcy Winters.

“Whatever you say, Chief,” Gregory said. “We’ll go back to the office now, drop off the paperwork.”

“Give us until the end of the week,” Ryan said.

“Why?” the Chief said. “Everything points to suicide. Even the lab report shows she was taking depressants.”