Authors: Ira Berkowitz
It got Nick's attention.
He dropped the chair, strolled to the door, and unlocked it.
“What in hell are you doing?” I said.
“Doc said I needed some exercise,” Nick said.
“Who is this guy?”
“Used to be one of my workers until he figured he could short me and get away with it.”
“How about just firing him?”
“Object lesson. Guinea works the Brooklyn docks. Longshoreman. A liquor shipment came in a few days ago. Scotch. Brandy. High-priced shit.”
“Not the stuff you sell here.”
“Not even close. Headed for that la-di-dah liquor store on Fifth. I was supposed to get five cases. Wound up with four.”
“Your workout ends here.”
Nick's voice was low and his eyes had a psycho sparkle. “I don't tell you how to handle your business, and you don't tell me how to handle mine.”
“This time I do,” I said.
Nick walked up to me so close I could count the bits of gray stubble on his cheeks.
“Don't fuck with me, Steeg. Not in the mood.”
I didn't move.
“Makes two of us,” I said.
After a few seconds of mulling things over and weighing the odds, Nick backed away.
I helped the guy to his feet and told him to make tracks. He mumbled his thanks and wobbled out the door.
The sound of quiet applause came from a booth in the back.
My brother was in the house.
“Nicely done, Jake,” he said. “The Righter of Wrongs has struck again.”
“Good to see you finally came out of the attic and rejoined the world.”
He slid out of the booth and walked up to me.
“It was
my
booze,” he said.
“Since when did beating someone to death become your spectator sport of choice, Dave? I remember when you did your own dirty work.”
His eyes went flat.
“What's bothering you, Jake?”
“You and your kid.”
His eyes, still flat, squinted slightly at the corners.
“What's that supposed to mean?” he said.
“I just had an interesting little chat with Benny Kim.”
“The slant fruit guy?”
“The Korean businessman.”
“Whatever.”
“Seems that there's been a rash of car heists in the neighborhood lately.”
“So? What's that got to do with me ⦠or Anthony?”
“Anthony and the chimpanzee who works for him drive up to Bennie's store in Bennie's car. Anthony sits in the car while the monkey goes in and lays it out for Benny. He wants his car back, it's gonna cost him. Benny tells him to fuck himself. The monkey takes umbrage and kicks the shit out of him.”
Dave stroked the pebbled patch on his cheek.
“Boys'll be boys.”
“You set the rules a long time ago, Dave: Lay off the locals; you take care of them, they take care of you. Well, these guys are local. Live in the neighborhood.”
He smiled and patted me on the cheek.
“Your problem is you take things too seriously,” he said.
“Or maybe the direction your life has taken has screwed up your brain.”
“Don't go there.”
“If not me, who?”
“He's my son.”
“But he's not you,” I said.
“That remains to be seen.”
T
he more I thought about it, the less I liked about Martine Toussaint's story.
A twenty-buck-a-pop streetwalker climbs the greasy pole out of prostitution. Then, like Saint Paul on the Road to Damascus, she has an epiphany. And devotes her life to helping working girls go straight. Then she convinces a bunch of rich guys to come along for the ride. With nothing but good works on their minds, they front the money. Enough to pay for a brownstone and a lifestyle Martine could only dream of when she was selling her body at the tunnels.
What it had to do with Dave, I didn't know. But it didn't add up.
The clerk at the lower Broadway office of the Attorney General's Charities Bureau was deep into a conversation on her cell phone. Something about a rat bastard named
Tony who wasn't going to get away with whatever the hell he had done ⦠a second time.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She threw me a disgusted look and showed me her back.
About a minute later she swiveled her head around and, discovering I was still there, said into the phone, “I gotta go now.”
Then she turned to me.
“What?”
“I need some information about a charity,” I said.
“Which one?”
“Another Chance.”
“Secular or religious?”
“Does it make a difference?”
She sighed as if it were her lot in life to suffer fools and their equally stupid questions.
“Only secular charities are required to register with the attorney general,” she said.
I doubted whether Another Chance was an arm of the Church of the Holy Tarot.
“Let's go with secular.”
“Another Chance,” she said, typing it into her computer.
She stared at the screen.
“Nothing,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Try Martine Toussaint.” I spelled her name.
“Zip,” she said. “Are we done?”
“Yep. And you can tell Tony for me he really blew it. You're a catch!”
T
he lobby of the apartment house directly across the street offered a perfect view of the comings and goings at Martine's brownstone.
The snow was pounding, the wind was swirling, and the temperature was in the teens.
The doorman stood in the vestibule. He was a big man with a thatch of neatly combed white hair, wearing a Gilbert and Sullivan costume. The epaulets of his red greatcoat were trimmed in gold. He held the matching cap loosely in his fingers and away from his body, as if wearing it would be the ultimate insult. I made him for a retired cop picking up a few bucks working the door.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Looking for some information,” I said.
He jerked his chin at the door. “Take a walk.”
I handed him my card.
His gaze moved from the card and back to me. “I used to know a Steeg. Detective. Midtown North.”
“Dominic. My father.”
“That's the one,” he said. “How's he doing?”
“Passed away. Two years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. Good cop.”
Actually he wasn't, but there was no point to opening that can of worms.
“That's what they say.”
“Yeah. I heard one of his kids was on the force, and the other was a bad apple.”
“The cop would be me.”
He waggled the card in my face. “Not what it says here.”
“Things change.”
He nodded. “Know how that goes. Figured I would retire and live good on the pension. And now I'm dressed up like a fucking Russian general and opening doors for people who lost the ability to do it on their own.”
“Not the way you thought it would be.”
“Not the way it ought to be,” he said. “So, what can I do for Dominic's kid?”
“That brownstone across the street. Another Chance. Know anything about it?”
“What's your interest?”
“Working a case.”
He smiled. “You got my juices flowing.”
“So what can you tell me?”
“Popular place.”
“How so?”
“Double-parked limos. Guys in suits that cost more than my rent.”
“Anyone you recognize?”
He gave me some names. A congressman. A couple of state senators. A judge. And my very own councilman, Terry Sloan. The asshole!
“Very public-spirited gentlemen,” I said.
“That's one way of looking at it.”
“Very cynical. What's your take on what's going on?”
“There was a time when I would have been interested. Now all I want is to hang on to this job.”
A cab pulled up.
He ambled to the door. “I gotta get back to work.”
As I followed him out, my gaze drifted to Martine's brownstone across the street. Frank Ennis stood on the top of the stairs with his arms folded across his chest.
Seems I was the object of his attention.
T
erry Sloan looked up from his BlackBerry, saw me standing at his office door, and the blood drained from his face.
He jammed the BlackBerry into his jacket pocket.
“What in hell are you doing here?”
I took that as an invitation to walk in.
Councilman Terry Sloan and I had a spotty relationship. Actually, that was an understatement. We loathed each other.
I had a problem with slimebags who rode political office to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And he had a problem with me playing his Greek chorus. But Terry was a plugged-in guy, and there was little that went on in the city that escaped his attention. Especially if there was big money involved.
Martine Toussaint nagged at me like a bad tooth.
Maybe she really was doing the Lord's work. Or maybe she was running a scam and didn't want me gumming up the works. Or maybe the truthâan interesting word full of tricky shades and meaningsâwas far different, and had something to do with what I was after.
So far, Terry was my best shot at narrowing the possibilities.
“Trying to save Dave's hash,” I said, “and figured you might be able to help.”
“After what he did to me?”
He had a point. Terry and my brother were once real close. But in a completely psychotic moment, Dave drove a fork into Sloan's thigh for not showing me the proper respect.
“Yeah, but think about what he's done
for
you,” I said.
“That doesn't give him the rightâ”
“Yeah, it does. Comes with the Faustian bargain of doing business with Dave.”
“Bullshit! I still walk with a limp.”
If he was looking for sympathy, I was fresh out.
“Small price to pay, Terry. Let's be honest. God gave you the brains of your average macaw. But thanks to Dave you're living the lush life.”
Terry jumped up from behind the desk, positively vibrating.
“You don't know shit about what I went through to get where I am. Now, get the fuck out of here, or I'll have you thrown out.”
“Why not start with the piece of the carting business
Dave gave you? Or the kickbacks from the developers. Or the ridiculous interest on the hundred large you have on the street. Oh, and let's not forget your sweetheart arrangement with the longshoreman's union. Can't have any of that getting out, can we?”
Terry went white.
“How do you â¦?”
“I'm Dave's brother, you moron.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Sure.”
The air went out of him.
“Whattya want?”
“Martine Toussaint.”
A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“What do you want with her?”
“I hear you know her.”
“From who?”
“One of your many admirers.”
“Fuck you, Steeg!”
“Let's get back to Martine.”
“Runs a charity for hookers,” he said.
“She legit?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“Now, Terry, we both know better than that.”
“Why're you interested in her?”
“Dave's legal problems.”
“You think she set the fire?”
“No. But for now she's a person of interest for the murders of the men in the basement.”
“That's not her business, Steeg.”
“Then what is?”
“Walk away. Best advice I can give.”
He came around his desk, took my arm, and nudged me to the door.
I held my ground.
“Why?”
“There's a set of words that old mapmakers used for really dangerous spots on the ocean.”
“And they would be?”
“Here be dragons.”
“You're being very elliptical, Terry.”
“Stay away from her,” he said. “I'm serious, Steeg, it's the best advice I can give you.”
“Can't do that.”
He shrugged. “Then it's on you.”
“What's she running out of that brownstone?”
He flashed me a cold smile.
“You never learn, do you?” he said.
“Actually, I did learn something. You're more frightened of the lady than the tiger.”
“Or maybe I'm just a piece of plankton at the end of the food chain.”
“First time I've heard you admit that you're smalltime,” I said.
“When the elephants dance, you gotta be nimble.”
Could be Terry was smarter than I'd thought.
T
he Hampstead was a no-star hotel near One Police Plaza. The price was right, the appointments minimal, and that made it the go-to place to stash witnesses and other people of interest to the NYPD.
I was there because the girl who'd died in the fire had been identified. A runaway named Angela Klemper. Her parents had come to New York to identify her body and take her home.
Luce was going to interview them and invited me along.
She was wearing a dark pantsuit, low heels, and in a shocking departure, a few selected pieces of artful jewelry.
“I see you're in confidence-building mode,” I said.
“More like I'm draped in widow's weeds,” she said. “But nothing says trust better than your basic black.”
“How'd you manage to arrange my presence?”
“You're a special consultant working with the police department to help find the people who murdered their daughter.”
“Never been a consultant before. How much does it pay?”
That drew a loud snort.
“And here I was hoping to make a killing,” I said.
“Bad choice of words. These people have been through the mill today, Jackson, they're kind of skittish. So go easy.”
“What're they like?”
“Jonas and Adele. Mother's mousy and doesn't say much. Jonas seems to run the show. Major piece of work.”