Paradise Man (17 page)

“Then I’d have to convince you,” he said.

And he was gone. Fay saw the charcoal wash into the hall. He was like a phantom, Holden. But sweet. She felt like some prehistoric crust that had attached itself to his rhythm. It was his eyes. She’d been in a trance when he shot Michael. It was finished before she could open her mouth. But he didn’t have mean little eyes. They didn’t tighten with each blow of the gun. He seemed as startled as Fay herself, astonished that Michael, Eddie, and the Rat should fall. He didn’t covet her nakedness, compare her tits with every other woman in the neighborhood of Brooklyn and Queens. She’d missed Michael, yowled inside her head, felt sorry for the Rat who would have given up whatever fortune he had for a feel of her, but it was as if her memory had gone, not with the pistol blows that rattled the windows, not with Michael so instantly dead, but with Holden’s eyes, beseeching her, like that poem out of the sixteenth century she remembered from her survey course at Swarthmore.

“Come live with me and be my love
...”

Now, twenty years away from her professor’s dull reading, his idiotic, sentimental drone, she understood the poem. Her college had to come from a corpse.

He was worried about the gun. Because what if Paul lent it to the Cubans, and La Familia shot up some Bandidos in one of their wars, and ballistics could prove the bullets had come from Holden’s gun? Holden would get his ass kicked by the cops. And so he stood in a booth on West Twenty-eighth Street and dialed the district attorney’s office.

“Paul Abruzzi please.”

“Mr. Abruzzi’s in conference,” the clerk said. “Who’s calling?”

“Danford Cohen. Mr. Sidney Holden is my client.”

“Hold the wire.”

Holden had to wait a couple of minutes but Abruzzi took the call.

“Yes. This is Paul Abruzzi.”

Holden disguised his voice as little as he could. Goldie had taught him that trick, not to overplay. Holden discovered the world at Goldie’s knee. “Hello. Dan Cohen here.”

“What firm are you with?”

“Geist and Cohen. We’re entertainment lawyers.”

“I don’t understand,” Abruzzi said.

“We’re negotiating the rights to Mr. Holden’s life story. We’ve been talking to De Niro. We’re hoping he’ll play Sidney.”

“Who’s Sidney?”

“Holden, sir. He asked me to call. We’ll need a release.”

“For what?”

“That marvelous scene in the graveyard. Our guys are writing it in.”

“Is Holden around? I mean Sidney ... is he there?”

“Just a moment.” And Holden handed the phone to himself. “How are you, Paul?”

“Holden, what the hell is going on?”

“Congratulate me, Paul. I’m getting rich. Hollywood is going to do my life story. They have crazy guys out there. They were looking for a bumper to reveal his life. And you know how it is. With all that publicity about the kidnapping, the guys got to me.”

“Did Fay put you up to this? Is it Fay’s idea? She and Rex used to run with a gang of Hollywood producers.”

“No it wasn’t Fay.”

“How come you didn’t mention it when I saw you?”

“I had no reason to mention it ... until you took my gun.”

“So it’s funny business, huh?”

“Call it whatever you like. But have your boy Dimitrios meet me at Thirtieth and Tenth in half an hour with my gun.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Holden? What if he doesn’t show?”

“He’ll show.”

“How do you expect him to make Manhattan in half an hour?”

“You’ve got a siren on your pretty car. Let him use it ... and if the gun’s been fired, Paul, you’re in deep shit.”

Holden left the booth, swiveling with his eyes, because he had no sense of camaraderie out on the street. He was a bumper without expectations. He approached the fur market, walked into his bank, went down to the vault, took his safety-deposit box into a closet, opened the lid. All his cash was gone. Swiss had a key to the box. The money came from Holden’s corporate account. Any of Aladdin’s officers could have captured the box. He returned it to the vault manager. The Swiss had left him without money, without wheels, without Loretta and an avenue to his rats.

He strolled toward the river and into another bank, where he kept a box under the name of Whitey Lockman, a ballplayer his father had loved. Whitey Lockman had a social security number, an address (one of Holden’s mattress pads), and filed his tax returns. Holden removed twenty thousand from the box in hundred-dollar bills. Then he marched out of the vault to meet the district attorney’s man, that detective in pink socks.

He stood in a hallway at Thirtieth Street until he noticed the Cadillac with Dimitrios inside. The Cadillac stopped at the corner. Holden leapt out and knocked on Dimitrios’ window. Dimitrios opened the door. He was a fleshy man with thick fingers. He handed Holden an envelope.

“Did you have fun with my shooter?” Holden asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“How many shots did ballistics fire into their cotton box? I’ll bet Paul had a hard-on when he looked at my bullets under the scope?”

“He never touched your lousy gun. Paul’s a prince. He wouldn’t dirty himself with a bumper like you.”

Dimitrios drove off and Holden went into a diner on Tenth, where the waiters left him alone. He took his Beretta out of the envelope, checked the serial numbers, and sniffed the barrel. It was a tainted gun, wiped and cleaned by the district attorney. Paul had Holden’s “prints” on file, the particular grooves each of his bullets made. He drank a cup of coffee, stripped the gun, and dropped pieces of his Beretta into different garbage pails. Only a god like Changó could reassemble that gun.

He went into a hobby shop on Thirty-ninth. The owner, an Iranian Jew, often supplied him with props. Holden paid a thousand for a hot detective’s shield and a Ku Klux Klan mask.

“Fardel, I want your book.”

The hobby-shop man avoided Holden’s eyes. “What book?”

“On every four-star male clinic in town.”

“Holden, I haven’t compiled such a book.

It was Gottlieb who’d told him about Fardel’s talents as an encyclopedist. But Fardel hated to part with his specialty items. They were for his Iranian friends. “Fardel, I could put on the mask, shoot your eyes out, and who would ever know? Klan masks are pretty common on Times Square.”

He put his Beretta Minx next to Fardel’s eye. Fardel gave him the list. It was a one-page address book of the most exclusive male bordellos in town, not baths, or nightclubs and waterfront bars, not hotels, or the interiors of restaurants, but houses like Muriel had, where a man could keep his own “chicken” for a month.

“Fardel, give me your key. Can’t have you calling those clinics the second I’m gone.”

Holden carried a chair into the toilet, tied Fardel to the chair, sealed his mouth with tape, shut him in the toilet, fashioned a sign that said
CLOSED FOR THE DAY
, put it in the window, and locked the store.

He’d have to get lucky to catch the kid. Because if he mooned around too long in each bordello, one would warn the other. And Gottlieb might really be in Singapore.

The first bordello Holden visited called itself a psychotherapy center. Holden used the badge to get in. The boss of the therapists knew more about the police than Holden did. But Holden still had the badge. He didn’t find Gottlieb in the therapy rooms. The place was deserted. Holden apologized and ran.

He had a big fight with husky men at the second “clinic.” But he managed to peek into every room. He discovered more beautiful women than he’d ever met at Muriel’s. The third clinic was run by a woman who looked like the Duchess of Windsor. Holden couldn’t take his eyes off her. Goldie had divulged the story of the duke and the duchess. Holden’s hero had been King Edward, who’d given up his titles, his moneys, his land, and the throne of England to marry an American bitch. He’d served out his life as a duke. Goldie had recited Edward’s abdication speech, and Holden remembered the lines about a king who couldn’t sit without the woman he loved. She’d been divorced, and the Brits wouldn’t have her as their queen. Goldie was on the king’s side. “Bloody aristocrats,” he’d said. “Serves them right. Edward’s always been my king. The house has fallen since that man. It’ll never be the same at the old castle.”

And Holden stared at the duchess’ twin. “What squad are you with?” she asked.

“I’m with the
IAD
,” he said. “We think one of our detectives is honeymooning upstairs.”

“But you don’t have a warrant.”

“I’d rather not deal with a formal complaint. It might be bad for business.”

“Can you tell me who you’re looking for?”

Holden started up the stairs, considering that king who’d lived in exile with his lady. Holden agreed with Edward in matters of love. He’d have kissed twenty thrones goodbye for the twig. And twenty more at least for Fay.

He couldn’t find Gottlieb.

He was sick of showing a badge and giving explanations. He arrived at the fourth brothel wearing his mask. It was a townhouse in the West Eighties. He herded everyone on the ground floor into a closet. “Just scream,” he said, “and see what you’ll get.”

Gottlieb was in the attic with a soldier. The soldier was neither handsome nor tall. He shivered a lot and Holden had to wallop him once to keep him quiet. The soldier slept on the floor with a sweet expression.

“Who are you with?” Gottlieb asked. “Who are you with? Don’t hurt us. I have money. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

“Sweetheart,” Holden said under the mask. “You can pay a lot more than that. I know your finances. You have half a million in the bank.”

“Holden?” the kid said, staring into the eyes of the mask.

“Who’d you expect? A different bumper?”

Holden took off the mask. The kid was naked. He crept into his underwear.

“Gottlieb, did your new masters tell you I was dumb?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You set up Mrs. Howard. You knocked on her door and let the killer in. You get one answer. Who was it?”

“Jeremías.”

“Edmundo’s bodyguard? He’s infantile. Did he come alone?”

“No. He had a couple of
jíbaros.
Just in case.”

“Did you enjoy it, Gottlieb, watching Mrs. Howard die? ... I asked you a question.”

“It had to be done,” Gottlieb said, looping the buttons on his shirt. He’d caught the wrong buttonholes. He looked like a scarecrow with his collar incorrect.

“Had to be done, huh?” Holden rearranged Gottlieb, ripped the buttons off his shirt. “Tell me why it had to be done.”

“Because of the little girl,” Gottlieb said. “The Bandidos consider her some kind of saint ... I don’t know. It’s religious shit. Edmundo was worried you’d give her back to Huevo, and he’d have nothing to bargain with.”

“Did Goldie tell him that Mrs. Howard had the girl?”

“It wasn’t Goldie. It was Nick Tiel.”

“Nick? I saved his fucking life.”

Gottlieb sat down on the bed. “Holden, I have to say it. You’re an asshole. Nick was never on your side.”

“And you? I picked you off the street. A kid of fourteen selling himself in Bryant Park for a couple of dollars. You owe me your blood, Gottlieb. What the hell did Edmundo promise you? More money? Jesus, what other kid your age has half a mil?”

“It wasn’t money,” Gottlieb said.

“Did they threaten you? I’d have fixed it. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I couldn’t. You were getting blind ... a freelancer who walked around in circles and fell into Don Edmundo’s pants.”

“It was ’Mundo who had you wait outside Mansions and tell me the Bandidos were after my ass.”

“Mundo and the Swiss.”

“Then they weren’t really interested in the Parrot. They knew he was minding the girl for Big Balls.”

“No. That was a trick of fate. But they knew about the girl, that she was precious to Huevo. They’d been trying to grab her for a year, but they always missed.”

“That’s why they killed all the
madrinas
... to get the girl. But how did Huevo figure I was the one who took out the Parrot?”

“Come on. It had your trademark. Who else would have gone into the Parrot’s apartment without a gun? But that’s where it got interesting. Huevo figures you stole the girl for La Familia. He blows up betting parlors like mad, and it bothers Edmundo, because a six-man army ought to retreat. And Huevo is widening the war. Edmundo sends out his spies. But that man was in the dark until you told Nick Tiel. He starts to laugh. ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘Let Holden keep Santa Barbara.’ And he covers Oliver Street, front and back, with an arsenal of Cubans in case Big Balls gets wise to the caper.”

“I never saw a Cuban near Loretta’s house.”

“That’s because you’re always changing taxi cabs, you can never see what’s in front of your nose.”

“If ’Mundo had the place surrounded, why’d he have to hit Loretta?”

“He was getting worried. He didn’t like you looking for Huevo. If you didn’t bump each other, both of you might start to talk. Edmundo took the girl.”

“But why’d he have to kill Loretta?”

“Wake up, Holden. She was the one person in the world who was loyal to you. She wouldn’t have given up the little goddess.”

“Put on a tie,” Holden said. “You’re going to help me get back the girl.”

Gottlieb shoved his head out at Holden.
“Bobo,
finish me here. Because I can’t help you.”

“You belong to me, kid. I didn’t trade you to the Cubans. Where’s the girl?”

Gottlieb was silent. Holden twisted the collar of his shirt. “Where is she?”

“With Jeremías. In a house ...”

“That’s kind of you. What house?”

Holden had to twist until Gottlieb got blue in the face. The kid started to cough. “Holden, can’t you see why I had to turn? It’s dangerous around you. You’re like a bomb. You sleep and then you explode.”

“The house, Gottlieb, where’s the house?”

“In Riverdale. It’s a fortress, Holden. You’ll never get in.”

“Not without you. You’re the lucky charm I found in the street.”

“And if we produce the miracle, what happens? La Familia is after me for life.”

“Then you’d better stick close. I’m all the papa you’ll ever have.”