The Letter Writer (18 page)

“Oh, I trust you. This version of you, anyway.”

“Seeing as how that is the only one which currently exists, shouldn't that be enough?”

“Except that your connections from those earlier times—you said it yourself—they're still dangerous. For both of us. And you've already trespassed back into that part of your life, whether you intended to or not. You crossed back the moment you took on Werner Hansch as a client. Or that's what I'm guessing.”

Danziger looked at him closely, as if reassessing.

“You guess well, Mr. Cain. Although even I was not aware of how seriously I had trespassed until I witnessed that formidable lineup of personalities at the breakfast table at Longchamps.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“You're the detective. You tell me. What more have you learned?”

“For one thing, I stopped by the Hotel Astor on the way over.”

“Was that wise?”

“It seemed like an obvious starting point.”

“But if certain people hear that they have captured the interest of the police, well…”

“I was discreet. I also shelled out a little cash, to keep my source quiet.”

“So, then. Even Mr. By-the-Book is not above the employment of certain unsavory methods. I am encouraged.”

“She had a low price tag. It was the switchboard operator at the hotel.”

“A wise choice. She handles virtually every call in and out of the building, does she not?”

“Except that the office for the Executives Association of Greater New York has its own direct line. It was installed back in December. She remembered because it was the week after Pearl Harbor.”

“Then I suppose she knows little or nothing of their operations.”

“Almost nothing. She knows the guy who runs the place, a fellow called Haffenden.”

“Haffenden? Spell it, please.”

Cain obliged him, then told him the rest. “Charles Haffenden, but everyone calls him Red.”

“I daresay that anyone calling himself Red instead of Charles is likely to run in the same circles as Mr. Lansky and Mr. Polakoff.”

“Not exactly.”

“You know more?”

“Agnes, the gal on the switchboard, says he's a real peach. A gentleman, even.”

“Gentlemanly behavior and the rackets are not mutually exclusive.”

“She says he's a man in uniform.”

“Military?”

“The U.S. Navy. An officer, to boot. Lieutenant commander. So I made a few calls. Discreetly, once again. And this is where it gets kind of interesting. Before the war he was in the reserves, just a businessman. Some big-shot glad-hander in advertising and marketing, which probably explains why he's running the Executives Association. When the Navy recalled him for active duty they made him chief officer of the district for Naval Intelligence.”

“Intelligence? As in spies and secrets?”

“And his real office, or at least the one he runs for the Navy, is down near Wall Street, in the federal building on Church Street. As for why he hired his own private line at the Astor, that's anybody's guess. But Agnes says lately he's there two, three times a week, holed up for hours at a time.”

“Where he meets with the likes of Meyer Lansky, Murray Gurfein, and the mouthpiece for Mr. Luciano.”

“Yep. And she knew one other item. She says just the other day Haffenden rang her up and asked for a phone number for some place not too far from here, down on the East River.” Cain took out his notebook and flipped to the page. “Meyer's Hotel, at one seventeen South Street. Not much, I guess, but…” Danziger was smiling broadly. “You've heard of it?”

“A foul and seedy establishment. Little better than a flophouse for seafarers and wharf rats. But it is also a place of business for a celebrated figure of whom you may have heard. Joseph Lanza.”

“As in ‘Socks' Lanza?”

“Of the Fulton Fish Market, which is right next door.”

“Why would Lanza be mixed up in this?”

“Jobs, perhaps. The ones Lorenz brokered for Werner Hansch and his Bundist friends. Lanza could have provided them through the Seafood Workers Union, which he practically runs. No one gets aboard a trawler, or onto the weighing lines at the market, without his say-so.”

“Makes sense.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“Because he's under indictment, you mean?”

“Yes. Conspiracy and extortion, multiple counts, if the newspapers are to be believed. Which makes his involvement with these people all the more puzzling. When you're in his shoes, the last thing you want to do is start acting as if you're cooperating with anyone in authority. People who do can suddenly find it very hard to conduct business. Or to even live a life.”

“Unless the authorities he's working with are crooked.”

“There is also that possibility. Mr. Lanza was indicted by the previous DA, Mr. Dewey. Perhaps the new DA, Mr. Hogan, and his man Gurfein do not think so highly of the case against him. Either way, Mr. Lanza is keeping curious company. We will ask him why, provided he chooses to speak with us.”

“Us?”

“My trespass that you spoke of, the one which led into my past. You are correct, of course. I have crossed a line. But there are other lines still ahead which I had hoped to avoid crossing. Yet now I believe I must do so if I am to be of any further value to you.”

“You're sure?”

“Only if you are prepared to stop asking so many questions of me. You must also be willing to operate beyond your usual codes and strictures, if only out of loyalty to all of those people you see in this room.” He gestured toward the cubbyholes. “So, do we have an agreement?”

Cain had no choice but to say yes, even as he wondered what sort of compromises lay ahead—and with Linwood Archer waiting right around the next corner, for all he knew.

“Okay,” he said. “Count me in.”

“Very well. Let us begin your education, and my next trespass.”

“Where?”

“Meyer's Hotel, at the Fulton Fish Market. We shall go straight to the heart of things.”

Cain sensed the momentous nature of this move, and for a second he wondered if it was worth the cost.

“You sure you're ready for this?”

Danziger nodded.

“But let us wait until morning. Far too soon it will be dark. Not the right time to breach their defenses.”

“You make it sound like an armed assault.”

“Reconnaissance only. But we should go as early as possible. Sunrise, no later.”

“To catch them unawares?”

Danziger frowned.

“It is clear you have never been to the fish market. Sunrise is when the place is at its busiest. We will have safety in numbers. Perhaps their lookouts will even be too preoccupied to notice our approach. But if you wish to question my tactics, then, please, offer an alternative.”

“You know an awful lot about this stuff.”

“For which you should be grateful, not questioning.”

Cain watched him closely, but Danziger remained poker-faced.

“Okay, then. I'll come by for you, bright and early.”

Danziger nodded. Then he looked around the room, with the air of a man accounting for all his worldly possessions just before embarking on a lengthy and perhaps perilous journey. Without a further word, he escorted Cain to the door.

CAIN INHALED A GUST OF BRINE
as he slipped on cobbles slimed with blood and fish guts. His aching leg was just beginning to loosen up. Beneath a tattered awning to his left, a shower of fish scales glittered like silver confetti in a band of low sunlight. In the next doorway down, a large man in heavy gloves slid a pink bundle of entrails from the belly of a huge swordfish.

They were enveloped by noise—the banging of cleavers on cutting boards, the splash and sluice of hosed water, the hungry cries of seagulls and, loudest of all, the call and echo of rough male voices shouting prices and poundage at the weighing stations of every storefront, where teetering metal baskets sagged and creaked. Tails of red snapper overlapped the edges of one like waving hands, stilled in a cold farewell.

Down here on Fulton Street, at ten minutes past dawn, not a single woman was in sight, although here and there Cain saw scrawny boys in shorts and smocks, darting between shadow and sun.

“Watch yourself, Oscar!” someone called loudly from behind, Oscar apparently being the preferred name for anyone who didn't belong. Cain stepped aside just in time for a handcart to rumble past toward the East River. From the opposite direction someone approached with wooden boxes of ice hefted on both shoulders.

For all the activity, Cain sensed an edge of weariness taking hold, which told him that everyone had been at their jobs for hours, having risen long before him.

“Is it like this every day?”

“A little slower on Sundays,” Danziger said. “Slower still during storms, when the boats stay in harbor.”

Cain took stock of his companion and noticed a change. A few blocks ago Danziger had led them into the mouth of Fulton Street almost warily, with careful steps that seemed to betray the frailty of advancing age. Now his stride was longer, bolder, as if with each step he was easing deeper into familiar territory. Cain settled in just off Danziger's right shoulder.

On their left they continued passing what seemed to be endless storefronts. All were open to the elements on the ground floor, and the name of each establishment was painted overhead in big black letters between the windows of the floors of these three-story brick buildings. Most of the brickwork was painted white, perhaps for better visibility during the pre-dawn hours when the market first stirred to life. Cain scanned the names:
MARKET SHELL FOOD CO.—OYSTERS, FILLETS, CLAMS; JOHN DAIS CO. WHOLESALE FISH; FLAG FISH CO.; BEYER FISH CO.,
one after another, all the way to South Street and the water's edge, where the masts and pilot houses of trawlers cast long shadows across the wharves.

On the opposite side of Fulton, trucks were parked side by side in a long row, rear doors open to accept whatever the restaurateurs and grocers bought. Other trucks had arrived full, to unload the day's catch from elsewhere—crabs and oysters from the Chesapeake, cod and lobster from points north. No sooner did one truck leave than another took its place.

Elsewhere in the city, meat and fresh vegetables were in short supply. Sugar was already rationed, and meat and coffee were said to be next in line. But down here the sea was still issuing its bounty without limit. No wonder the mob loved the place and jealously clung to its power. It was a nonstop profit center, unhindered even by war, with every part of the supply chain gathered conveniently in one spot—trawler, trucker, gutter, seller, shipper, grocer, and chef—which no doubt made for easy, multi-level skimming. And, indicted or not, Socks Lanza was still lord over all.

Cain saw now that the last and biggest building on the block, rising five stories in red brick, was Meyer's Hotel. It announced itself with white letters mounted on its two fire escapes. Just below was a sign of equal importance for any thirsty fisherman:
BAR.

“That's our destination?”

“Yes.” Danziger stopped, and held out an arm to stay his progress. “Observe it for a moment. Tell me what you see.”

Cain saw fishermen in overalls and rolled sleeves heading into the bar for breakfast, or perhaps for a morning pick-me-up. A newsboy laden heavily with a fresh edition slumped by an open window, smoking a cigarette although he was no older than twelve. Further to the left, two fellows flanked a narrow, unmarked doorway. Compared to the fishermen and merchants they were almost dandyish, dressed in wide-lapel suits and cocked fedoras, the brims shading their eyes from view. One chewed a toothpick, his jaw rolling slowly. The other smoked a cigar.

“Those two fine young specimens kind of stand out, don't they?”

“They are there to be noticed,” Danziger said. “Move closer and you'll also observe the bulge beneath their jackets. Also intentional. Mr. Lanza posts them as a sign to be heeded by one and all.”

“He's telling people to steer clear?”

“Heavens, no. He is telling the world that he is present and accounted for, and currently receiving petitioners. Not that you'd ever see
him
in a suit. Mr. Lanza favors the uniform of his fellow tradesmen. Even when seated behind a desk he wears overalls begrimed by oil and offal. But his visiting hours will remain open for as long as those two well-dressed goons remain at their stations. Although not open to everyone, of course. That is our challenge.”

“How do we get past them?”

“Your shield would no doubt suffice, but under their rules that would constitute an entry by force, and we would receive such a chilly reception as to make our visit worthless. Your presence would also be remarked upon, no doubt, to someone of high standing at the fourteenth precinct, whereupon your Captain Mulhearn would be duly notified.”

“The last thing I need.”

“Then I suggest you leave matters in my hands. I will speak for us both.”

“They won't make me as a cop?”

Danziger shook his head, as if Cain still didn't get it.

“If they make you as anything, it will be as a bumpkin. Although they
will
detect your sidearm, so please keep your hands at your sides.”

Cain, who'd figured that by now he blended in like any other New Yorker, felt mildly affronted, but this was no time for hurt feelings.

“Lead the way.”

They approached. Danziger walked briskly, with head held high. Cain followed his lead, trying to disguise his slight limp. Moving closer, he saw that both men were freshly shaven, unlike the fishermen and merchants, who were already sporting five o'clock shadows. He detected a whiff of aftershave. When they were almost upon them, the man chewing the toothpick spit it out to a point five feet in front of him, as if to signal they were to come no closer. Danziger spoke to that one.

“We have business with Mr. Lanza. I am Mr. Danziger.” Cain was a little surprised he'd given his real name, but why offer yet another alias when he was already living under one? “My companion is Mr. Pierce. We're here on a delicate matter of some urgency. Union business.”

“We wasn't told to expect anyone of your names, but Lester here will go see if he might squeeze you in.”

Lester disappeared into the doorway and up a flight of stairs. The first guy produced a new toothpick from a lapel pocket and resumed chewing, eyeing them carefully all the while. A few minutes later Lester returned with another man in tow. Cain had checked a few photos the night before, so he knew this wasn't Lanza. But the fellow looked several cuts above the sentries, and he, too, wore office attire, although he had shed his jacket.

The man said nothing as he inspected them, slowly and carefully, as if assessing strengths and weaknesses. Then he nodded and turned back around.

“Okay,” the first guard said. He turned to Cain. “But first you'll have to check your hat here at the door.”

Cain, bare-headed, frowned in puzzlement until Danziger said, with a hint of impatience, “Your sidearm, he means.”

Cain reluctantly handed it over. The guy reacted as if he'd been handed a dead skunk.

“So how come you're carrying a Colt .32, like one of Valentine's flatfoots? We got enough Lizzie Louses cruising through our waters as it is.”

Danziger answered. “His choice of arms is a personal decision. I am the brains, he is the muscle. But I can assure you that he is quite harmless.”

“And mute, too, huh?”

The guy smirked. Cain held his tongue and clenched his fists at his sides, while wondering what the hell a Lizzie Louse was.

“Upstairs, then. Go on up.”

The man who'd come down to inspect them was waiting on the second floor landing, where he led them to a small office dominated by a battleship-gray desk with at least a half-dozen dents. A faded wall calendar advertised a local ship's chandler, but there was little else in the way of décor. The window was open, and the room smelled like fish and boat fuel. Venetian blinds banged and rattled in the breeze. The man settled in behind the desk, lit a cigarette, and then put away his pack without offering one.

“Which of you is Danziger?”

Danziger nodded.

“And you're Pierce?”

“Yes,” Cain said. “And your name is…?”

The man ignored the question and turned back toward Danziger.

“So you're the guy in charge?”

“I am the one who has been appointed to speak for the interests of my clients.”

“You a mouthpiece, then?”

“A personal representative.”

“On a union matter?”

“Yes. Two members of your union, it seems, have come to rather unfortunate ends. We're here on their behalf, seeking to collect any pension or compensation due to their families.”

The guy showed no visible reaction. He studied their faces for a few seconds longer.

“Names?” he asked, picking up a pencil.

“Werner Hansch and Klaus Schaller.”

He wrote them on a pad without batting an eye.

“Never heard of 'em.”

“They were German citizens, hired in the past month or two. They were referred by the German-American All Trades Employment Agency, operated by a Mr. Lutz Lorenz.”

The man raised his eyebrows. Then he tilted his head and took a long, slow drag from his cigarette before rolling his chair backward without once taking his eyes off them. He stood.

“Back in a minute.”

They heard him climbing the stairs to the next floor.

“Think he's gone to see Lanza?” Cain asked.

“Probably. He is the second in command. Or so it is said.”

“You know who he is?”

“Benjamin Espy.”

Danziger didn't volunteer how he knew, and there was no sense in asking. Espy returned within a minute or two and quickly settled in behind the desk.

“My boss ain't never heard of these people. So there you go.”

“It is certainly plausible that the names would not be familiar to him,” Danziger said. “But perhaps if we could peruse your membership records for any recently issued cards for your local? Number three fifty-nine of the Seafood Workers Union, is it not?”

Espy eyed them for a beat or two. He had just started to shake his head when Cain lost his patience. The opportunity to obtain any possible information was about to slip through their fingers, and Danziger seemed ready to acquiesce. Not him.

“Maybe your boss could also tell us what he knows about a fellow named Red Haffenden. And before both of you claim you've never heard of him, we know for a fact that Haffenden has been making calls to Mr. Lanza at this very office.”

Cain looked over at Danziger, expecting a nod of gratitude. Instead, the older man sighed and lowered his head in an elaborate show of embarrassment, as if Cain had just used the wrong fork at a dinner party. Espy, meanwhile, had gone red in the face and had risen halfway out of his chair. He shouted in reply as he leaned across the desk.

“What is it with this one?” he said to Danziger. “He comes in here talking like a hayseed from the sticks and waving some cop's gun under our noses. Then he starts claiming to know our business better than we do?”

“My colleague is impulsive and inexperienced,” Danziger said. “And, as you have surmised, he comes from elsewhere. Despite his regrettable display of impertinence, I personally assure you that he is a one-way guy.”

The words seemed to momentarily appease Espy, while Cain was left to wonder whether he should be offended by the description. Danziger held out his hands in a gesture of forbearance and spoke again.

“Let us speak candidly for a moment, sir. As you and I are both aware, what your boss says is word, from the Brooklyn Bridge to the Battery, and in certain points beyond. If he gives the go-ahead, a man may join a waterfront union, whether it happens to be Mr. Lanza's local or one of the Longshoremen's.”

“Hey,” Espy shouted. “You want to speak candidly, and after that crack by your friend? Then try this on for size. What my boss is, first and foremost, is a patriot. So we ain't running nothing with no Germans, and if you've got some kind of idea that we are, then you're dead wrong. And he's a patriot for no pay, I might add. He's not getting one penny outta this deal. He's a seventy-five-a-week union man living in a three-room apartment, because that's all he and his old lady can afford. And now you're gonna question his patriotism?”

“We are doing nothing of the sort,” Danziger said gently, although he looked thrown by the turn the conversation had taken. So was Cain. What sort of “deal” was Espy talking about? And why was he suddenly making such an issue out of Lanza's patriotism?

“Then you need to stop throwing around certain names and places like my boss has got something to do with it.”

“Of course. We wish only to peruse the local's records. Which we can accomplish with minimal disruption, I assure you.”

Espy eyed them both for a few beats more, then nodded.

“Then you do that. Two doors down. Ask Hal, he'll show you. There's nothing to see about any damn Germans. When you're done I want the both of you out of here. Don't be coming back, and don't be asking any more questions about Mr. Lanza. To nobody. Understand?”