by David Grand
Freddy died at eight-thirty in the morning, not at eleven as he had planned. For several hours, he sat at his table, looking at his hands, looking at the contours of his thumbs, at the hair on his knuckles, the bulges in his palms. He knew nothing of palmistry, but he wondered if anyone were to read his palm it could be seen that what he had planned for himself was inevitable. He wasn’t much of a believer in God, but as he sat at his kitchen table he wanted to be comforted by some sort of faith. All he could find in his mind was Evelyn, she and her boy walking hand in hand through the park.
Freddy began teetering on the edge of himself. The violence that he knew would soon be done to him started to inhabit his mind, and all he could think of was the faceless German soldier he had killed so many years ago and the exultation he had felt when he unloaded his gun into his face. He felt joy when he released the rounds from his pistol into the man’s face, an ecstasy so complete that it had shadowed his entire sense of himself for all his life after that moment. As he sat there, meditating on his death, Freddy felt that God was present that day in the French countryside, inside the chamber of his gun, his love, God’s love, inside every granule of gunpowder igniting his rage.
Freddy Stillman, this inert object of a man, this vacuum of a human being, this sad mess of emotions, knew more than ever that he wanted to die, so badly he was unwilling to wait until eleven o’clock. So he stood up from the kitchen table. He went into his bedroom and started to fashion a noose out of sheets.
Before Freddy could finish his noose, however, at eight-thirty in the morning, there was a soft knock on his door. Freddy listened to the knock. He listened to the knock, trying to decide if he should answer it. Dragging his sheets across the floor like a child dragging its favorite blanket, he inched his way to the knock, closer and closer, until his cheek was pressed up against the door. “I hear you in there,” a voice said calmly. “I hear you as plain as day.” When Freddy heard the voice, as though it were the voice of God himself, he slowly undid the lock and pulled the door open to find standing before him the disheveled figure of Sidney Lardner pointing a gun at Freddy’s chest. Freddy stood there with a quizzical look on his face and watched with curiosity as Sidney angrily and lovingly unloaded a chamber of the gun into Freddy’s gut. Freddy felt the bullet puncture his body like a hot fist of steel. The pain was unimaginable at first, but then it quietly eased and Freddy realized that the blast had thrown him down to the floor. Without really knowing why, Freddy struggled to lift himself up to his feet. Sidney’s face had been thrown into a spasm from the first shot, and he shot at Freddy again. In his herky-jerky rage, he only grazed Freddy’s shoulder this time. Freddy opened his arms and leaned forward in Sid’s direction as the third shot sounded. This bullet entered Freddy’s chest; it ricocheted about his ribs and planted itself directly in his heart. Freddy now found himself lying on his side, staring into one of the muddy pastel watercolors of Celeste Martin’s country property. He could feel his injured heart trying to beat, to pass blood around the wedge of metal. But Freddy could no longer breathe. His body struggled, but his mind was focused on the painting, on the pastel clouds billowing in the sunlight.
Sidney turned cold from the absurd reality of murder as Freddy, who after being jolted by the shot in the chest fell forward and, for a brief moment, took hold of Sidney’s body in a bear hug. The two men awkwardly danced a few steps into the living room. When Freddy fell to the floor, when Sidney realized that his clothes were wet and sticky from Freddy’s black sludge, Sidney, feeling a surge of panic, anxiously fired two more shots into Freddy, one in his leg, the other in his neck. The shock of what he had done started to become real to Sid. For an instant, in this drunk rage of his, he could see through the eyes of Victor Ribe standing over his brother’s body, and with that image in his mind, Sidney, drenched in blood, grabbed Freddy’s coat, and with a hysterical gait ran out of Freddy’s apartment, down Eighty-third Street toward the water, where he ripped off his blood-drenched clothes and threw them into the river.
When Stu Zawolsky arrived at eleven o’clock, he was a little confused. He didn’t know exactly what to do. But then something came over Stu Zawolsky: a feeling that he owed something to Freddy. So, according to Freddy’s wishes, Stu stood over Freddy’s dead face and emptied six rounds into it. Stu Zawolsky then casually walked out onto the street and headed in the direction of the park.
Moments before Chief Investigator Tines went down to the Civic Center’s press gallery to deliver his statement, Freddy’s body was discovered by the two grizzled men, who, after murdering Benny Rudolph, arrived at Freddy’s apartment to kill him. They phoned the chief from Freddy’s kitchen, and Lawrence Tines, upon hearing the news, sent two officers to arrest Freddy. The two officers, of course, found Freddy dead and called the Medical Examiner’s Office. When the medical examiner’s men arrived, they laid Freddy out on a stretcher and drove him to the morgue downtown and set him inside the drawer next to Benny Rudolph’s body, which had been discovered in the pigeon coop by a twelve-year-old boy. The boy, whose family was destitute, and whose poverty was so severe he had no fear of Benny’s corpse, looted Benny clean. He took from his wrist his watch, from his pants a small roll of bills and his sterling-silver money clip, and from his jacket the notes Benny had intended for Faith Rapaport. He then called the police.
Chapter 41
Faith Rapaport woke from a deep sleep as she felt someone gently patting her face and calling her name. When she opened her eyes, she found Marty Volman standing over her. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in what was now his former office after she had stayed up all night taking down Brilovsky’s, Sendak’s, and Rudolph’s stories.
“Tired?” Marty asked.
“I had some late-night visitors. Found them huddled around my bed like lost children.”
“Jonesy gave me a call and told me all about it.”
“They spent the night. Spilled their guts with Rudolph’s gun to their heads.”
“You didn’t mention that in your story.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I believed Rudolph had the truth behind him is why not, and I don’t like being manipulated. Especially by the likes of Tines. . . . Has the paper gone out yet?”
“It’s on its way.”
“Good. What time is it?”
“Just after noon.”
“Why didn’t Jonesy wake me?” she said, getting to her feet.
Marty took her by the shoulders and sat her back down. “He tried. He couldn’t get you up.”
“I missed Tines’s press conference.”
“Don’t worry, I covered it for you.”
“No kidding—you went in there all on your own?”
“I got a few cold shoulders, a few evil eyes . . .” Marty twisted his face and looked away from Faith for a second.
“What you find out?”
“The munitions got away.”
“For certain?”
“According to Tines.”
“And who’s getting the blame?”
“Waters and Capp, and some other union men. About a dozen of them were arrested this morning, all of whom were apparently in the company of Paulie Sendak last night on the docks when the armory was cleaned out. Waters and Capp between them supposedly had a small fortune on them when they were taken in.”
“And where’s Sendak?”
“In protective custody.”
“I’m surprised Rudolph let him go before he could turn him in.”
“A regular hero Sendak is for coming forward and agreeing to snitch out the fellow travelers, Tines said. . . . Who would Rudolph have turned Sendak and Brilovsky in to if he’d had the chance? Why do you think he went to you?”
Faith nodded her head a little.
Marty took a pad out from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Freddy Stillman, a Fief dispatcher who acquisitioned the order,” he went on, “was assassinated in his apartment by, I quote, ‘communist operatives�
�; when Tines’s men showed up to arrest him his body was riddled with bullets. A Professor Mikhail Tarkhov, who apparently came under the cover of art historian to help sell a collection of valuable Soviet paintings for Tersi, was arrested on charges of espionage, and was made out to be the primary Soviet operative who masterminded the plot.”
“What else?”
“According to Tines, Noel Tersi, having arranged for Tarkhov’s visa into the country, felt responsible for what had happened, and so, in turn, offered Fief his newly acquired Southside Docks to work from.”
“Just as Brilovsky said it would be.” Faith groped for a pack of cigarettes she had left on the arm of the sofa, knocked one out, and lit it. “Tines is going to regret bringing this out into the open,” she said, jabbing the lit cigarette at Marty’s pad.
“I’m not so sure, Faith,” Marty said.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that Tines, on top of briefing everyone on Long Meadow, also briefed everyone on the progress he was making with the syndicate investigation he took over from Shortz.”
“Yeah, and . . .”
“Not that I can say how this will affect what’s about to hit the streets, cupcake, but . . .”
“What is it, Marty?”
“Benny Rudolph is lying dead down in the morgue.”
“When did that happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“He left my apartment early this morning.”
“According to Tines, it was a gangland revenge killing for Rudolph’s arranging Mann and Roth’s murder.”
“Where was he found?”
“Down by the docks in a pigeon coop with his throat cut. Some kid found him.”
“At least he managed to wound Fief before he got it.” Faith was quiet for a moment. “What about Brilovsky?”
“No mention of him.”
“Did you ask?”
“He didn’t take any questions.”
“So he’s got everything covered then.”
“Not everything. There’s still you, your story. A lot of people are going to believe it, Faith.”
“Yeah, but without the sources around it just doesn’t come off, does it?”
Marty shrugged his shoulders. “It may make it blow over for now, but as you and I both know, you can’t cover your tracks forever.”
Faith looked deeply into Marty’s sagging eyes. “I just hope it happens before we kick over.”
“Have a little faith,” Marty said with a grin.
Faith grinned back superficially, then made her exit.
Faith grabbed a copy of the afternoon edition at the newsstand in the lobby of the Globe Building, then headed down into the subway. She rode an uptown train into East End and headed over to Harry Shortz’s home. She stood outside for a long while, wondering what she was doing there. She removed a pen from her pocketbook and wrote above the masthead of the paper, Don’t give up on the race. I’ll write your side of things. Front page. Let’s talk. —Faith Rapaport. She walked up to the Shortzes’ stoop, slipped the paper through the mail slot of the front door, and walked into the shadows in the direction of the park.
Chapter 42
When Victor Ribe woke up that Saturday morning inside Fuller House, the dark mood that had consumed him the night before had waned. The early-morning sun broke through the dirty narrow window of his room and dappled his body in a warm yellow light. The bruises on his face had started to fade and the swelling around his nose was hardly perceptible anymore. He lay in bed, watching haze and dust envelop his arms and legs, and he could see through the window a gray seagull perched on an ivy-entwined cross above the stone chapel of the old mariners’ cemetery. He watched as the bird opened its wings into the wind. Without the slightest effort, it was lifted from its perch, where it hovered motionless in midair, looking as though it were staring down upon Victor. With a short twist of its neck it was raised into the sky and spiraled above the rooftop. Victor sat up on the edge of the bed and watched the gull gracefully fly in his direction with the sun to its back; its white belly flew upward at a steep angle and drifted out of sight.
The city was waking up as Victor left Fuller House for the last time. The streets were whitewashed in snow. The wind was frigid, but the air was warming to the point that by noon the snow would start melting. Merchants shoveled storefronts and streets, making way for customers and pushcarts. Trucks silently motored by, their heavy tires cutting ruts in the serene white blanket. Small children, who had been out with the first light, were building snow forts in alleyways, stockpiling snowballs. Victor walked in the street in the shin-deep snow, able to smell the furnace fires burning out the chimneys. The tinctured smell of burning coal singed the inside of his nose in the crisp air. He carried with him the deed to his father’s home in Long Meadow, a set of house keys, and a bank book marked for one thousand dollars. He walked to the river with his hands in his pockets and followed the line of freighters and tugs northward, uptown. He watched the large ships offset the snow-heavy ice and for a long while he watched the spectacle of a boat being launched out of the naval yard on Conscript Island. He was just in time to see the immense battleship roll off its planks and its bow splash into the river. He could hear the roar of a crowd assembled and could sense the pride and glory that it held for them.
When he reached midtown, he worked his way back into the shade of the streets and boulevards, and as he had done every day since he was set free, he sat in the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel, where he kept to himself, watching the people come and go. Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, Joshua and someone who Victor could only assume was Arthur Brilovsky exited the elevator with a bellhop. Joshua, his eyes misting with tears, walked alongside Arthur to the hotel’s entrance, where Joshua embraced his father and appeared to have a difficult time letting go. Victor watched as the bellhop loaded Arthur’s bags into a limousine carrying a blond woman wearing an expensive-looking blue hat. Arthur kissed his son on the cheek, looked into his eyes for some time, and then stepped into the car, giving the woman a long kiss on the mouth. Joshua, his head bent low, his eyes now wet, returned to the lobby and went back upstairs.
Victor wanted to follow Joshua into the elevator; instead he went to the concierge’s desk and phoned Elaine. When Elaine answered the call, Victor could sense that she too had been crying.
“Should I come at another time?” Victor asked.
“No,” Elaine said. “I think Joshua and I could use some company this morning. We’ll be down in a little while,” she said. “Please, wait for us.”
Victor wanted to say that he had been waiting nearly half his life for this. “I’ll be right here,” Victor said.
An hour later, Elaine, holding Joshua by the arm, walked out of the elevator. Holding on to his mother as he did, Joshua no longer looked as fragile as he had just moments ago. He now appeared self-possessed, with a look of self-assurance Victor had never known within himself. Aside from Elaine’s dark eyes, he was undoubtedly the physical likeness of Victor in his youth; but Joshua’s confidence, his obvious intelligence, gave Victor pause as to how he should try to relate to his son. In that brief walk from the elevator to Victor, Victor wanted more than anything to prove to Joshua that he was worthy of his mother’s company and deserving of Joshua’s respect.
“This is Victor Ribe,” Elaine said to Joshua.
Victor stood up as straight as he could and extended his hand as he searched Joshua’s face for some sign of recognition.
Joshua took Victor’s hand and keenly studied his bruised face. “Mother’s told me a great deal about you,” he said.
“We read about you in the paper last night,” Elaine added as she greeted Victor with a warm kiss on the cheek.
Victor didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine what Elaine could have said to him.
“I was thinking,” Elaine said, taking hold of Victor’s arm now, “that we could ride the ferry to Long Meadow this morning. To show Joshua where we gr
ew up.”
“I’m afraid the town has changed since you were last there.”
“I was thinking we could take a picnic to the Palisades, take a walk in the snow. I understand the Palisades have gone untouched.”
“They’re as beautiful as ever,” Victor said.
“Good. It’s decided then.”
“We have a car in a garage down the block,” Joshua said.
“I haven’t driven a car in a long time,” Victor said. “I’m not sure if I should try on a day like today.”
“We’ll leave that to Joshua,” Elaine said. “He’s an excellent driver.”
“I’ve driven through much rougher country in the snow,” Joshua said. “I’m sure I’ll get us where we need to go.”
Victor could feel himself beaming. He could feel his son’s kindness and generosity warming his chest. He could feel all the injured parts of himself healing to the sound of Joshua’s voice. “Where would you like to get the food?”
“I’ve already arranged for that,” Elaine said, turning to Joshua. “Joshua, why don’t you run into the restaurant and pick it up.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When Joshua had left Victor with Elaine, Victor said to Elaine, “He’s a fine young man. He’s everything . . .”
“He’s very strong,” Elaine said, watching her son standing at the bar in the restaurant, waiting for the bartender to gather their food. Victor with a perceptible look of concern on his face watched along with her.
Elaine patted Victor’s hand and smiled. “You’re a dear man, Victor. Joshua will see that. He’ll be much better off for knowing that part of himself.”
Victor wasn’t sure what to say.
“He will,” Elaine said. “You’ll see.”
