Authors: Ira Berkowitz
“What do you mean,
for the most part?”
“Other than hitting on every woman in the place, Nick was the model of decorum. He was a really big hit with one of my clients. Apparently, she found him charming.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “As soon as this thing with you blows over, I could see the possibilities of a relationship. Nice gal. Great body.”
I turned to Nick.
“I asked you to do one simple thing, and you screw it up.”
“What's screwed up? Allie's safe, isn't she? And I may have stumbled across the next Mrs. D'Amico. The way I see it, it's a win-win all around.”
“Lovely,” I said.
I took a fork from the counter, speared a piece of chicken from the pot, and popped it into my mouth.
“I were you, I'd fire your cook and take over Feeney's kitchen. You'd make a fortune.”
“Their taste buds are so far gone, the rummies who frequent my joint would never know the difference.”
Fair point.
“So,” Nick continued, “why don't we all sit down to eat?”
We ladled the food onto our plates and brought them into the dining alcove. Allie contented herself with a slice of tomato and a few onion shards.
“Nick told me Kenny was in the hospital,” Allie said.
I threw Nick a look. Allie knew the work I did sometimes involved an element of risk, but the details were never up for discussion.
Nick gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and poured himself a glass of Chianti.
“He'll be fine,” I said. “Should be home in a few days.”
“Good,” Allie said. “I like him, but I don't understand him. I mean how does an observant Jew work for someone like your brother?”
“Everybody's gotta do something,” Nick said, ripping off a hunk of garlic bread and plunging it into the sauce.” Besides, I work for Dave too.”
“But you're ⦔
Nick put down the bread, and his voice went hard. “A thug, and Kenny's not?” Nick said.
Nick was never very big on nuance.
“That's not what I meant,” Allie said. “Kenny wears his faith on his sleeve, while you're at least consistent.”
Nick smiled, and reached over and patted her hand.
“Was there a compliment in there?”
“Most assuredly so. And the fact you gave up your time to protect me from being collateral damage at the hands of whoever is trying to kill Steeg only makes me like you more.”
“What makes you think someone is trying to kill me?” I said.
“Let's see. When I left my apartment this morning, Nick is lurking around up the block. I walked to the subway and he's right behind me, as inconspicuous as a rhino. And then he shows up at the agency with some cockamamie story about how he's thinking of doing some
advertising for Feeney's and wants to learn how the business works.
Please!”
“I guess tailing isn't one of my long suits.”
This time Nick at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself.
Allie impaled a slice of tomato and diced it into half-inch pieces.
“So,” she said, “pray tell, who's trying to kill you, Steeg, and why?”
I wasn't about to go there.
“What's going on in your world, Nick?”
“Your brother's stepping up the pressure on Anthony.”
“It sounds very Oedipal,” Allie said.
“More like immigrant shanty Irish,” I chimed in. “The kids do better than the parents, and so on. In a couple or three generations you have the Kennedys. Bootlegger to President. In a way, that's what Dave wants for Anthony.”
“And look what it got old Joe,” Nick said.
“But the dream remains.”
“Not for your brother. Anthony took a swing at him.”
“Not surprised.”
“Fucker deserved it. Dave was all over him for some bullshit thing Anthony did or didn't do. Who knows? Anyway, the kid lost it and threw a punch.”
“How did Dave handle it?”
“He grabbed his hand in midair and held it for a bit. I thought he was going to kick the shit out of him, but he just walked away.”
“Dave could never hit Anthony,” I said. “Never lifted a hand to any of his kids. Franny was the disciplinarian.”
“It's Oedipal,” Allie repeated. “For some reason he wants to hurt his father.”
“Hurt
is putting a really fine point on things, don't you think? As I recall, Oedipus killed his father.”
T
iffany and Wanda shared an apartment on 130th Street and Riverside Drive in one of those prewar buildings that sported high ceilings, ornate wall moldings, and long-faded grandeur.
Tiffany, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, wore a loose-fitting neon blue warm-up suit. She met me at the door with a cup of black coffee in her hand.
“We had a rough night, so go easy on her,” she said. “The shitheads made sure they got their money's worth.”
“No problem. Couple of questions, and I'm gone.”
“Got the rest of the money?”
Thanks to Nick, I did. And he even let the interest slide.
I pressed the bills into her hand.
She slipped them into her jacket pocket and motioned me in.
I followed her into the tiny kitchen, where Wanda, wearing an off-white terry-cloth robe, sat at the table nursing a glass of orange juice. Her lusterless light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail secured by a rubber band. The dull, glazed look in her eyes told me that she had spent an evening in the company of The Beast, and wasn't ready for another go-around anytime soon.
Tiffany moved behind Wanda and gently stroked the nape of her neck.
“Wanda, honey,” she said. “This is Steeg. Remember? I told you about him?”
In an attitude that almost resembled prayer, Wanda's hands were splayed palms up on the table. She kept her eyes fixed on them as if the answers to all the mysteries of the world could be read in their lines and creases.
I took a seat at the table. Tiffany sat between us.
“Wanda, do you know why I'm here?”
She shook her head.
“Last Christmas Eve there was a terrible fire at a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. Three bodies were found on the main floor. One of them was your sister, Angela.”
Wanda nodded again. “I was there,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it had snaked up from the bottom of a gravel pit.
It was one of those electric moments when the burden suddenly lightens and the world is righted on its axis.
“At the warehouse?”
Wanda nodded again.
“It was snowing like hell,” she said. “Business was
lousy. Didn't want to go back to my apartment with nothing to show for it and get my ass kicked again. So I found a bar and settled in.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And then Angela called.”
“Where was she?”
“Said she was in a warehouse with two guys. They were having a party. Said she missed me.”
“How long had it been since you'd seen her?”
Tiffany reached over and patted Wanda's cheeks dry with a napkin. Wanda took it from her and crumpled it in her fist.
“Couple of months,” she said. “And it's my fault she's dead. Now it's my turn. Guess we all have to pay, don't we? Only right.”
“Why do you think it's your fault?”
“Angela ran from those bastards because of me. And wound up dead because of me.”
“Which bastards are we talking about?”
“The mother who squeezed me out of her body twenty-three years ago, and her rat bastard husband who belted me and Angie around whenever he had a yen.”
“Jonas wasn't your father?”
“My real father skipped when Angie came along. Hardly remember him.”
She took her eyes off her hands and fixed them on me.
“How did you know his name was Jonas?” she said.
“I met him. Met them both. They came here to have Angela's body shipped back home.”
She went back to studying her hands, her voice a monotone. “They're the ones who deserve to be dead. Fucking monsters. She knew what he was doing, and let it happen. And him? I'll never forget the look on his face when he hit us. I swear the bastard got off on it.”
Tiffany took Wanda's hand in hers and held it tight.
“It's over, baby,” she cooed. “They can't hurt you no more.”
“But I'm going to hurt them. If it's the last thing I do.”
I could only wish her well.
“Let's get back to Angela,” I said. “A few minutes ago you said you were responsible for her death.”
“I was. I had some money saved that they didn't know about. I could have sent it to her, and she could have gone somewhere safe. But they made me bring her here. Told me what would happen to me if I didn't get her to come to New York.”
“Who made you?”
“Martine and Ennis. Said they would send me to Asia or some other place, and I'd never come back. I believed them. It happened to other girls. And no one ever heard from them again. So I did what I was told.”
Tiffany nodded. “Show Steeg what she did to you, honey.”
Wanda undid the belt of her robe and shrugged it off. A tattoo of a tarot card adorned her left breast.
The snakes in my head whirled like dervishes.
“All of Martine's girls had them,” Tiffany said. “Part of the deal when you worked for her.”
Wanda snorted a bitter rattle that was meant to be a laugh.
“I didn't know that at first. I was working for this pimp who enjoyed tearing me up in ways I didn't think possible. I heard about Martine from some other girls. Said she would help me get out of the life. See, that's how she recruited.”
She took a sip of orange juice and continued.
“So I went to see Martine. Told her my story. And she took me in. Set me up in a fancy apartment. Bought me new clothes. Plenty of food in the refrigerator. Told me not to worry about a thing. Everything's gonna to be just fine.”
“And then she lowered the boom.”
“Oh yeah. Ennis shows up. Worse than my first pimp. Smacks me around, rapes me, and then reads me the new Gospel according to Saint Martine.”
“Church of the Holy Buck,” Tiffany muttered.
“All the johns were these rich, important guys,” Wanda said. “But they were just creepy, fucking johns. Don't even know how they came up with the things they wanted me to do. Didn't even ask for us by our own names. Just by whatever our tarot card name was.”
“What was the name of your card?”
Wanda turned away.
“The Fool,” she said. “Kinda fits, don't it?”
Wanda stared at a spot on the far wall. Her eyes were dull and empty.
“Did you see Angela at the warehouse?”
“I never made it inside. Flames were shooting out all over.”
She paused.
“There's something else,” she said. “About the fire. Something I saw.”
I waited for her to continue.
“A man standing across the street. Just watching the fire eat up that building.” She looked down at her hands again. “And everything in it.”
It was time to take things slow and easy.
“What did he look like, Wanda?”
“The Devil.”
“Can you describe him?”
“White guy. Big. Heavyset. Wearing a parka with one of those hoods.”
“How about his hair? Blond? Dark? Long? Short?”
“Didn't see. Had the hood up. Just his face. Got a good look at that.”
“Anything special about it? Any marks? Scars?”
“No.”
“About how old was he?”
“Hard to tell,” she said. “Twenties. Maybe thirty. Maybe less. Just saw him for a second or two. He saw me. Stared at me. I was so scared, I ran.”
“What frightened you?”
“The look on his face. Like Death.”
“Get your money's worth, Steeg?” Tiffany asked.
“Much more. Do you have any idea where Martine and Ennis are now, Wanda?”
“They have a hidey-hole up in Harlem, I think. New building. I heard Ennis bragging about it to Riley. Liked the idea that they were living high on the hog and could look out the window and as far as the eye could see, everyone else was living in shit.”
“Got an address?”
“No.”
“Doesn't matter. I'll find them.”
“And when you do?”
“Gonna send them your regards.”
T
his assignment was right up Kenny's alley. Unfortunately, he was temporarily out of commission. That left one other possibility.
I called my brother and told him to meet me at Feeney's.
When I arrived, he was already there, sitting in his customary back booth with a bottle of Johnny Black for company.
He lifted his half-empty glass and drained it. “Your meeting,” he said.
I slid in opposite him.
“So much for fraternal warmth,” I said. “Where's your alter ego?”
“Anthony? Beats me.”
“I hear the two of you were at it again.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“When's it gonna end, Dave? You can't keep hammering him.”
He shrugged.
“That's the thing he's got to understand.”
“What thing?”
“Hammering a square peg in a round hole just doesn't work.”
“Why not sit him down and quietly tell him that he's not cut out for your business?”
“How do you fire your own kid?”
“Be a problem if you ran a normal business. But you don't.”
“Enough of this bullshit. Why're you here?”
“I need your help,” I said.
He flashed me a cold smile.
“Now the tone changes and the bitching about what a shitty father I am goes away. Nice.”
I made a move out of the booth.
“Go fuck yourself, Dave.”
His hand shot across the table and latched onto my jacket.
“Don't go,” he said.
“Why not? You're crazier than a March hare. And being in your company is a trial.”