Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  I left the bar, slightly tipsy. I didn’t drink to forget, I drank to have a good time. I heeded Gael’s warning about the booze. At home, I flipped on the Travel channel and watched a documentary about the Dominican Republic while drinking a cup of decaf. When it was over, I slipped into bed and slept like the dead.

  Chapter 34

  After a few cigarettes and three cups of coffee, I called Gael just after 1 pm Sunday afternoon. I tried her apartment and got no answer, so I tried the station house. She was at her desk, catching up on paperwork, she said. After some colorful language she agreed to meet me in an hour.

  I flipped through my address book looking for Carmine Lagusa’s home number. I didn’t have it. I made a couple of calls to people who might and was warned not to call him on a Sunday, that was his family day. While I could respect this, I did need to see him and thought he might understand. After ringing for a long time the phone was answered by a woman with a thick Latin accent, I guessed she was the domestic help. After a pause of five minutes, Carmine came onto the line.

  “Why are you calling me on a Sunday?” he asked.

  “I have to see you, Carmine,” I explained.

  “And it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  It probably could have, but I already had him on the phone, so I figured what the hell. “No, it can’t wait,” I told him.

  He sighed. In the background, I could hear a television playing loudly and the high voices of children.

  “Come by around five,” he said.

  I agreed and hung up. I drank more coffee and offered Gael a cup when she arrived. She accepted, and I poured enough cream into it to make it almost white.

  “You seem in better spirits today, Poet,” she remarked, “How’s the neck.”

  I told her the wound was fine. It itched and burned, but I had put it out of my mind. I hoped it wouldn’t scar.

  “What do you have?” she asked.

  I played her the tape of Lenny Apple and his confession. She sat quietly and listened intently, not stopping to ask questions, only pausing to sip her coffee. When it finished, she turned to me.

  “Very interesting, but I believe it was obtained under duress. Did you use a gun?” she asked,

  “A big fucking gun,” I replied.

  “As I thought. The confession is useless, we can’t use it in court. Like he said on the tape, he’ll never testify.”

  “But that should be enough to get Bill Jenkins sprung. He obviously didn’t kill Cindy McMillen.”

  “That’s true,” she said, “But you need something other than that confession. The DA would laugh if I played that for him. Bring me a smoking gun, Poet, and I can help you.”

  “Christ,” I said, “This thing gets worse and worse.”

  “Welcome to my world,” said Gael.

  “How can you stand it,” I asked, “All the rules and regulations?”

  “It wasn’t that long ago you were on my side of the street,” she responded, “Surely you remember what it’s like to battle crime and how the constitution gets in the way.”

  I did remember. I was never a detective like Gael, only a beat cop in a radio car responding to break and enters, rapes, robberies, burglaries, domestic disputes and whatever else the world could churn up. The rules hog-tied you; there was so much you couldn’t do. Guilty people walked free because of the rules. People were hurt and killed because you couldn’t act. It was a futile job where there was no real justice.

  “I remember,” I told her. “How the hell do you go into work every day? It’s pointless.”

  “Sometimes, just sometimes, there’s a little justice,” she said, “That’s why I work, for those little moments. You have to have faith.”

  “God is dead,” I said.

  “Probably.”

  We both drank our coffee.

  “You’ve built a pretty good case,” Gael said, “You know all the hows, now you need to know the whys.”

  “You have a point,” I said.

  “It’s fine and dandy to say Simon the hammer killed Cindy McMillen, even if you don’t have proof other than a coerced confession, but you have to ask, why?”

  “I know,” I said, “That’s what’s been bothering me.”

  “You know one half, now you need the other.”

  “The hard half,” I said.

  “Why was she killed, Poet? That’s what you need to know. Find that out, and everything else will drop into place.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Gael had a way of putting things. She cut through all the bullshit and told it like it was. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe my tape of Lenny Apple would be enough to solve this thing. That was a pipe dream. I did appreciate Gael’s input though.

  She finished her coffee and stood up, putting on her coat.

  “I have a mountain of paperwork to finish,” she told me, “What a way to spend my day off.”

  “A crimefighter to the end,” I said.

  “A stenographer is more like it,” she replied.

  “You need a vacation,” I told her.

  “You’re right.”

  “When I get set up down south I’ll send you a ticket,” I told her, “You can come and visit. Bring your bikini.”

  Gael snorted and said, “This body? In a bikini? I’d be arrested.”

  “No chance, Gael.”

  She shook her head and left. She let herself out. I showered and shaved and dressed in casual clothing. I had to go to Jersey to see Carmine; he didn’t live in the city. The thought of navigating out of Manhattan always filled me with dread. I grabbed some stuff from my vault and was ready to go.

  I walked to my garage. The mercury sat at 30 degrees. I turned up my collar against the chill. The sky was a slate grey, and snow flurries were expected. That was all I needed, to get trapped in Jersey in a snowstorm. The Saab was freshly washed and shone in the dim garage. I climbed in and pointed the car I the right direction.

  By the time I made to Carmine’s house, it was nearly 5:30 pm. It was a modest two-story affair, brown with yellow trim. A Cadillac and a new Ford Explorer sat in the driveway. I parked on the street and approached the front door. After I rang the bell a five-year-old boy with large brown eyes and kinky black hair answered it. He didn’t say a word or motion to let me in. He stared at me through the screen door. After a minute Carmine appeared behind him, dressed in navy pleated pants and a pink golf shirt. If you didn’t know any better, you would think him just another suburban father.

  The boy ran away from the door, back to cartoons or building blocks or whatever he had been doing before I arrived. Carmine let me in and led me to the basement where he kept an office beside the kid’s playroom. It had all the equipment any home office would, phones, a fax machine, a small photocopier, and a desk. On one wall hung framed photographs of Carmine and his family. The photo of Carmine and his wife Genease standing in front of the pyramids caught my eye. I guess even mobsters took vacations. The other wall was lined with bookshelves. Each held deluxe leather-bound editions of all the classics. I was willing to bet Carmine hadn’t read any of them. He motioned toward a chair, and I sat down. He sat in the large leather chair behind the desk.

  “I don’t do business on Sundays, Poet,” he said, “This better be important.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was or wasn’t. All I could do was plow ahead.

  “I have a problem,” I began.

  “You had two problems, and I made them disappear,” he said.

  “A different problem,” I told him.

  “What would that be?”

  I told him about the murders of Cindy and Amber, about Bill Jenkins and how it all linked back to Rainbow. I told him about the drugs they were shipping and how it was all about to explode.

  “I thought you might like to know before this all hits the fan,” I said to him.

  “Thank you for making me aware.” He laughed, short and loud, like a dog’s single bark. “Poet, a PI? I can’t believe it. You’re certainly
stuck in the shit this time, aren’t you?”

  I agreed.

  “Other than the money that John Smith owes me there’s nothing much in this for me,” he said.

  “The money he owed you,” I corrected. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out ten $10,000 bearer bonds, the ones I had taken from Rainbow’s safety deposit box. I handed them over the desk. Easy come easy go.

  “What’s this?” asked Carmine.

  “I paying off Rainbow’s marker,” I told him.

  “There’s a 100 grand here, they only owe me 80.”

  “Call it a bonus for you keeping well away from me after this goes down.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “Whatever I have to.”

  We were quiet for a moment. Carmine wasn’t much of a host. He hadn’t even offered me a drink.

  “I’ll stay out of your way, Poet. Like I said, this doesn’t affect me directly, but I appreciate the heads up.”

  “What about your boy Lenny?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “That mutt? I keep him around because sometimes he makes me laugh. He means nothing to me.”

  “What about Simon?”

  “He’s an independent contractor,” said Carmine, “He takes his own chances just like everyone else. Sure, he’s useful to have around; he can always get the job done, no matter how hard or who it is. He’s connected, sure, but all of this is outside of family business. Do what you have to do, Poet. We won’t interfere.”

  When he stood, I knew the meeting was over. In the next room, I could hear kids playing with cap guns. I stuck out my hand for Carmine to shake. He did, and I knew everything was fine. He left the bearer bonds sitting on his desk like they were nothing instead of a $100 grand. At the front door, we said goodbye, and I left.

  I pointed the Saab in the right direction and drove on autopilot back to the city. So that was it, I had the sanction of a Mafia capo. I wouldn’t be interfered with he said. He had his money, plus a little bonus, and his business with Rainbow was settled. I needed to see John Smith, but that would wait until to tomorrow. We needed to have a long discussion, a very full agenda. I didn’t have a clue what to do about Simon the hammer. To bring down this house of cards it would be necessary to involve him and, everything being the same, I was happy breathing. I didn’t want to get him or his sense of vengeance involved.

  I made it back to my garage unmolested. I had survived another trip to Jersey and lived to tell the tale. After a 10-minute walk to the Liar’s Breath, I was in good spirits. I ordered a pint of Harp and sat on my stool. The dinner special was prime rib with all the sides. I ordered the special, extra rare if they had any, and waited. Sunday was Biscuit’s day off. A bartender named Joseph took his place. Every Sunday Biscuit went to a small church in Harlem and worshipped with the assembled. It must have seemed strange, him being the only white face in the crowd. Being such a large man, he couldn’t hope to hide at the back of the room.

  Biscuit never said anything to me about his religion. In fact, he said little to me or anyone else at all. When he wasn’t here, I missed him. He was a fixture, just like the lights or the bar itself. Joseph was competent, but he wasn’t a psychic bartender the way Biscuit was. With Biscuit I never needed to order, he knew just what to bring me, even if I didn’t know myself.

  I finished the beer and ordered a glass of the house red, an excellent Australian Shiraz. My dinner arrived, and I ate it. It wasn’t as rare as I would have liked, but beggars can’t be choosers. The Yorkshire pudding was light and fluffy, the gravy divine. I was sure the Liar’s Breath had one of the best meat-and-potatoes kitchens in the city.

  By 9 p.m. the evening traffic started to filter in. By 10 the place was packed. The juke was playing The Doors, and I tapped my foot on the brass rail under the bar. There were no job offers that night. It was just as well, I couldn’t feign interest any longer. My heart was already in the tropics. I scanned a brochure for Paradise Island in the Bahamas while I sipped Scotch. So many islands, so little time. I had no real idea where to set up shop for the winter. I had visited the Caribbean before, but no one island stood out as the place I had to be. I figure I’d stay at Paradise Island until I found a condo somewhere. I couple of weeks at an all-inclusive resort would soothe my shattered nerves.

  Marty entered not long before closing in a lime green suit with a brown fedora. He sat beside me. My cut from the other night’s job was just under $150 grand he informed me. I didn’t do a little dance like I wanted to, I merely smiled. He’d unloaded all that ice fast, he must have had a buyer ready. God knew where those diamonds were now and who was using them.

  “You certainly have a good eye,” he told me.

  I agreed. If I could pull a couple of jobs like the Demter’s job every year I’d be a happy man. Unfortunately, life was never that easy. I’d never find a job that easy again. It was circumstance and a great deal of luck. When would I ever get to sit beside a vault and pick and choose stones like a kid in a candy store?

  Marty had a young girl with him dressed in a tight black dress, a short leather jacket, and too-high heels. I wondered if he’d found her on a corner somewhere and picked her up. She looked uncomfortable and didn’t say a word, but she did seem happy to be out of the cold. Marty ordered a bottle of Dom to celebrate our little enterprise. Being a $150,000 richer, I didn’t mind as much as I usually would have. He and I shared a glass. The girl sipped at hers and made a face. She probably would have been happier with some kind of sweet wine cooler.

  Marty took a seat at the opposite end of the bar when our business was concluded. He seemed to ignore the girl and talk to everyone else that approached. Like me, he was well sought after in our little community. There was nothing stolen that Marty couldn’t move, for the right price.

  The bar emptied as 2 a.m. approached. I counted the night’s take, I didn’t trust Joseph that much. He cleaned and polished glasses while I readied the bank deposit. He left everything behind the bar just so. A good thing too, if anything is out of place when Biscuit comes back on Monday morning, there’s a silent hell to pay. I walked to the bank’s night depository and dropped the thick envelope inside. Then I headed home.

  I watched some horror movies on satellite and did my best to finish the three inches of brandy left in the decanter. After I succeeded, I was sleepy enough to get a good night’s rest. I had a lot to do tomorrow.

  Chapter 35

  I dressed in my best Armani and knotted my tie with perfection. It was going to be a big day. I ate an English muffin and drank coffee while watching the mid-morning news on CNN. Nothing was happening on Wall Street that affected me directly, so I didn’t care much. I checked some stock prices on the computer. My baby, a little company, called Compudata, hadn’t spiked yet. Someone had whispered in my ear that this was a company to watch. I’d bought in at $0.50. It was now trading at $0.75. When it hit $1.50, I would sell my 250,000 shares and make a tidy little sum.

  In my Saab, I headed back to the offices of Rainbow Productions. When I entered the reception area, I noticed the alarm pad had been replaced with a Formosa. Once bitten, twice shy. The receptionist didn’t look happy to see me.

  “You again,” she spat.

  “As ever was. Is Mr. Smith available?”

  “Not to you.”

  “As a partner in this firm I think you should treat me with a little respect,” I told her.

  “A partner? You? You look like a thug in an expensive suit.”

  “That’s just what I am,” I told her, “Now tell Mr. Smith I’m here before I forget my manners and fire your ass.”

  She paled at that and stood. She walked down the hall and knocked on Smith’s door before sticking her head inside. In a moment she was back behind her desk. “He’ll see you now,” she said.

  I didn’t thank her. I walked down the hall and into his office. He wore a telephone headset and was talking too loudly.

  “Molly,” he said, “I don’t care, just make
it happen.”

  I cleared my throat. He looked up and held a finger in the air to tell me he’d be just a minute. He was quiet and then said, “Then make him wear two condoms. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”

  He pressed a button on the phone and took off the headset. “You again,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want now?”

  “Your full attention.”

  “I don’t have time to play games,” he said, “Mr. Poet? Is it?”

  “You should be nicer to your partners,” I told him.

  “Partners?”

  “Yes, I bought your paper from Carmine Lagusa. Now I’m a partner in this firm.”

  His hand shook as he reached for a pen in the mug on his desk. He made a quick note on a Post-it note. When he spoke, he didn’t meet my eyes.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I’ve already told you that,” I said.

  “About Cindy.”

  “And Amber,” I prompted.

  “A real shame, that was,” he said, “The new makeup girl isn’t working out at all.”

  “You shouldn’t have had Amber killed,” I said.

  He dropped the Bic pen he was holding. Silence filled the expensive office.

  “I didn’t do that,” he said quietly.

  “Yes you did,” I said, “And Cindy too. The orders came right from you, John. Can I call you John? I think we should be on a first name basis, don’t you? Partners often are.”

  He looked over my shoulder at the door. He wanted to bolt, but my bulk was in the way. He’d never get out, and he knew it. His eyes darted around the room, probably looking for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing available except for the pen he’d dropped, and I knew he didn’t have the stones to stick it my eye.

  His whole body went limp in his chair. He was resigned to his fate, I guessed. His chin dropped to his chest. “I didn’t have any choice,” he told me, “They were bleeding me dry.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “How much do you know?”

  “All of it,” I lied.

  He cursed under his breath and reached for the glass of water on his desk. His hand was shaking so bad I wondered if the glass would make it to his mouth. After a gulp, he sat the glass back down. He wiped his lips with a handkerchief, refolded it and placed it back in his pocket.