by Ray Celestin
‘They knew we’d be there,’ she said, turning to him. ‘They didn’t come looking for Cleveland. They came looking for us.’
‘I know,’ said Gabriel.
‘So who set us up?’
‘I only told two people,’ Gabriel said. ‘My cop friend who passed on the info. And Costello.’
‘Which of them d’you trust the most?’
‘The cop.’
‘So now we’ve got Genovese and Costello after us?’
He nodded.
‘You need to get back to New York,’ Ida said. ‘Get Sarah and make sure she’s safe. Hide somewhere or run away.’
He nodded again. Too easily, Ida thought. Like he already knew a life on the run was a possibility, something he’d reconciled himself to long ago.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But what about the body?’
‘I’ll go back. You get the train,’ said Ida.
He paused, thought, made an anguished calculation.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You get on the train. You go back to the apartment, grab Sarah and take her somewhere safe. You can get her to safety better than me; you don’t have a contract out on you. I’ll go back and look for the body. I know the roads around here. I can get rid of a body more easily.’
She stared at him. She didn’t buy his logic. She could see there was some other reason he wanted to go back to the field alone, but she nodded. She wanted to get back to New York, to see Michael.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘How about we meet back at Michael’s?’
‘Sure. I’ll boost a car. I can be back in New York an hour after sun-up.’
She nodded. They trudged on up the hill through the snow. She didn’t voice the question that was on her mind, the ominous question that had been bugging her since she’d realized Faron wasn’t one of the men who’d attacked them – if Faron wasn’t at the airport, where was he?
49
Wednesday 12th, 11.31 p.m.
Michael sat on the sofa in Gabriel’s lounge and took in the luxury around him. It looked like the nightclub business paid. The apartment was overloaded with expensive furniture, the Scotch collection was country-club sized, there was artwork all over the place, including a bizarre, abstract painting propped up against the wall. He wondered if it was something the girl had painted. The more he looked at it, the more the paint seemed to be dancing across the canvas, left to right, up and down, conga lines of blots. He lost himself in it and realized how groggy he felt.
He went to the drinks stand and poured himself a single malt. Saw the radio scanner next to it, kneeled down and switched it on. Wasn’t surprised to hear it was tuned to a police frequency.
Body found on bus. West 40th Street Bus Depot. Request attendance of Homicide Bureau Detectives—
He turned the volume down low so as not to wake Gabriel’s niece, who was asleep in her bedroom. He listened to the police reports, the grotesque tapestry of night-time New York that they weaved. Despite the weather, there seemed to be no letup in crime.
He heard a noise and turned to see Sarah padding into the lounge from the hallway, wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown so large its hem trailed along the floor behind her.
‘Did I wake you?’ Michael asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
She slumped onto the sofa and the dressing gown settled around her into a giant pink ball of fluff. She picked up a comic book, leafed through it listlessly. Michael wondered if he should switch off the scanner, spare her the gore, but she didn’t seem to mind.
When he and Ida had arrived at the apartment earlier that evening, Gabriel had explained to Sarah that they were going out to work, and Michael would be staying to keep her company, the housekeeper having been given the night off. Sarah had nodded, had stifled her anxiety well, had taken it all in her stride. Her response made Michael realize she knew exactly what her uncle’s work entailed.
‘How long are they gonna be?’ she asked without looking up.
He wondered how Ida and Gabriel were getting along at the airport. Even though he knew staying behind and looking after the girl was the best help he could offer it still rankled, the fact it was happening out there, and he couldn’t influence the course of events in any way whatsoever.
‘I’m not sure, kid,’ he said. ‘They could be a while still.’
Reports of a domestic disturbance. 2082 Lexington between 125th and 126th. Officers in the vicinity, make yourselves known—
He moved to the window, stared down onto 64th Street and 4th Avenue. The snow was starting to settle, a white sheen of it lying across the sidewalks and cars. He saw a black Ford parked up on the opposite side of the road, could tell from the make and model and the antenna on its rear that it was an unmarked cop car. He couldn’t see if there was anyone inside it.
He turned away from the window, glanced at the bizarre painting, perched himself on the window ledge.
Sarah looked up at him from the comic book, a quizzical look on her face, mischievous almost.
‘You don’t look like the normal people my uncle works with,’ she said.
‘No?’ Michael said, although he knew full well what she meant – Michael looked like a cop, not like a gangster.
She shook her head. ‘How comes you’re working together?’ she asked.
Good question.
‘We’re both looking for the same man,’ he said. ‘So we thought we’d team up.’
‘Who?’
He wasn’t sure how to reply. She looked concerned, and he wanted to alleviate that, but he couldn’t tell her the truth, that they were chasing the man who killed her mother.
‘A murderer,’ he said. ‘He killed some people up in Harlem, and my son was accused of the crime. We’re trying to free him.’
‘By catching the real killer?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So your son’s in prison?’
‘Jail.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ll get him out.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Why’s my uncle looking for him?’
Michael paused. ‘I’d like to tell you, kid,’ he said. ‘But that’s for your uncle to explain. He might not appreciate me revealing his business.’
She nodded, accepting the situation, but a darkness passed over her features, a shadow of sadness.
‘He does this a lot,’ she said.
‘He’s doing it to protect you. Because he loves you.’
She didn’t look convinced.
‘I know he loves me,’ she said. ‘It’s just a funny way to show it, is all. Keeping everything secret.’
‘Sometimes you have to keep things secret,’ said Michael. ‘So the people you love don’t get hurt.’
She mulled this over, her fingers picking at the corner of the comic book. She looked at Michael and he got a sense that she was appraising him, then her expression softened, as if she sensed some pain behind his scars.
‘Is that what it’s like with you and your son?’ she asked.
Michael paused. He thought of Tom in Rikers, refusing to let Michael visit. Tom hiding out in New York ever since he’d been blue-slipped, refusing to tell Michael the truth, even when he was facing the electric chair, keeping secrets so people didn’t get hurt. He suddenly felt foolish. Stupid and old for not seeing it before, not putting himself in Tom’s position.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s like with me and my son.’
And he turned to look out of the window so she wouldn’t see his face.
Probable break-in on East 67th and 3rd. 201 East 67th. Ongoing. All cars in the area, please respond.
He wiped the tears from his eyes, peered down into the street, waited for the Ford to start up, speed away in response to the call, just a few blocks away. It didn’t. It stayed where it was. Engine off, lights off. He took another sip of whisky, watched, waited.
Repeat. Probable break-in on 201 East 67th. Ongoing. All cars in the vicinity, please respond.
Nothing moved except the snow. Then a telegram messenger appeared around the corner, approached the building. He looked in the direction of the car. Did he nod at it? Did a shadow in the car move in response? Michael cursed the snow that was obscuring the view, the shadows, but most of all his age, his deteriorating eyesight.
And then the phone rang, making him jump. He turned, saw the girl was leaning over the arm of the sofa to grab the receiver.
‘No,’ he said.
He must have said it louder than he wanted to because she turned to look at him with a worried expression.
‘I got it,’ he said.
He crossed the room, picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘It’s David, Mr Leveson,’ said a nasal voice.
‘Mr Leveson’s out,’ said Michael. ‘I’m a friend of his.’
‘Oh. This is David, I’m the concierge downstairs. There’s a telegram messenger here for Mr Leveson. Shall I send him up?’
Michael froze. He hadn’t imagined the nod. Scenarios, game plans, permutations, escape routes paraded through his mind.
‘Shall I send him up, sir?’ said the concierge.
Michael thought. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll come down. Tell him I’ll be two minutes.’
‘I can take it on your behalf, sir,’ the concierge said.
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll come down. I need some fresh air.’
‘Sure thing, sir.’
Michael hung up.
‘We have to go,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Sarah looked at him. ‘What?’ she said.
‘There are men here. We have to go. Is there a service elevator in the building?’
She shook her head. ‘I need to get changed,’ she said.
‘Throw some pants on over your pajamas. Where’re your coat and shoes?’
‘In the closet by the front door.’
‘I’ll get them. You change.’
Michael ran to the window. The car was still there. He went and got Sarah’s shoes and coat, brought them into the bedroom. Saw she’d pulled some slacks on. He tossed her the shoes and coat. She put them on. He led her to the kitchen, where he’d seen the fire escape. He opened up the window, looked around.
The phone started ringing again. Scaring them both.
He peered into the street below, 4th Avenue, around the corner from where the car was parked up. Surely they’d have a man guarding the rear. He couldn’t see anyone in the street, but again he didn’t trust his eyesight.
He turned to Sarah. ‘Can you see anyone in the street?’ he asked her.
She looked, shook her head.
They stepped onto the fire escape, crept down it as quickly as they could, making as little noise as possible. When they got to the second floor, Michael took his gun from his pocket, checked it.
‘I’m going to let the end down. If anyone comes around that corner,’ he said, pointing to the intersection with 64th, ‘you run the other way, no matter what. Got it?’
The girl looked at him fearfully, then nodded.
He pulled the latch on the fire escape’s ladder, let it drop to the ground slowly, as noiselessly as he could, then they made their way down it. Then they ran.
And just like when he’d run at the docks, each step rattled his joints and bones. The shockwaves pulsed through him with so much pain, he wondered if they would break him, cause him to topple and crash to the ground. By the time they turned the corner onto 63rd, Sarah was already yards ahead of him, and he was out of breath, lungs burning.
She turned and slowed, waiting for him.
‘Don’t stop,’ he shouted at her.
She nodded, turned and ran. And Michael followed as best he could. They made it onto 3rd Avenue, ran underneath the El tracks. As they reached the intersection with 62nd, Michael saw there were maintenance works up ahead, a wire-frame fence in the middle of the road, behind it scaffolding leading all the way up to the crumbling underside of the El. Further down there were lights, a station three blocks away on 59th, where there was a cab stand, people milling about. That was where Sarah was headed. Smart.
Then a car roared. He turned to see the Ford swerving onto the Avenue behind them. He turned back around. Carried on running. They made it to the maintenance works. They ran past the wire-frame fence which surrounded the scaffolding. Michael turned to check on the Ford again, lost his footing, slipped, went sprawling, landed with a thud on the road between the fence and the cars parked up on the curb.
Sarah turned, saw him. Doubled back.
‘Keep going,’ he shouted at her.
She paused, not wanting to leave him, but the fear was writ large all over her face.
‘Keep going,’ he shouted.
She nodded, turned and ran.
Michael pulled himself up, felt a pain in his knee, knew he couldn’t run anymore. But the Ford would be there soon enough. All he could do now was buy time for the girl. Sacrifice himself. He prayed he had it in him.
He rose, stumbled over to the parked cars, took up a position behind one. Got his gun out, aimed it. Waited.
The Ford screeched to a stop just yards away, its path blocked by the fence. The front passenger door opened. A giant got out. Faron. It had to be. Tall and upright and strong-looking, but not the stocky, wide-framed figure Michael was expecting; he looked like an athlete. Faron pulled his gun from his pocket, swung it into the air, aimed it through the wire fence to Sarah, running towards the station.
Michael aimed at Faron, fired off three rounds. Faron dropped behind the Ford and Michael wasn’t sure if he’d hit him or not.
He looked up the street in the opposite direction. Sarah was past the next intersection, gaining on the light and people below the station. He turned back to the Ford, to see Faron, unharmed, with his gun trained on him. The muzzle on Faron’s gun flashed, emitted a black smudge.
It hit Michael in the chest, knocked him onto the sidewalk behind the car he was using as cover. He landed on his back. The breath was knocked out of him, his head spun. He tried to sit up, couldn’t. He was finding it hard to inhale. A drowning sensation took hold of him. He looked up and through the row of cars, saw Faron run past the scaffolding, heading off after Sarah. Michael tried to focus. As long as he delayed Faron she was safe. He put all his being into sitting up.
He managed it. He grabbed his gun with both hands, raised it, arms shaking, aimed at Faron’s back, the spot between his shoulder blades. Fired. Missed. Caught him in the thigh. Faron stumbled, fell to the ground. For a second. Then he got back up and hobbled down the street. Then he collapsed once more.
Michael exhaled, lowered himself back onto his elbows, then onto the asphalt. He felt the coldness of the snow on the back of his head. He lifted his fingers to the wound in his chest.
This was how it would end.
Not in a hospital, not at home, but in the streets, under the night sky. It wasn’t so bad. He’d died saving a girl’s life, saving his son’s life, too. What better way to die, doing what he’d always done – helping others, out on the street.
He stared at the darkness above, watched the snowflakes whirling to earth, catching the light as they turned, the flicker, saw in that moment how the gleam of eternity shone through fleeting things.
PART NINETEEN
DAILY NEWS
NEW YORK’S PICTURE NEWSPAPER
City Edition Final Wednesday, November 12th 1947
NATIONAL NEWS
MOTION PICTURE INDUSTRY ISSUES ANTI-COMMUNIST STATEMENT
* * *
FATE OF ‘THE HOLLYWOOD TEN’ DECIDED
* * *
Charles Judson
Manhattan, Nov 11th. – After a multi-day meeting at the Waldorf-Astoria, the head of the Association of Motion Picture Producers announced the effective blacklisting of those movie-men who were cited for contempt by the House of Representatives earlier this month. AMPP president Eric Johnston declared that no studios would employ ‘the Hollywood Ten’ until they had bee
n acquitted or declared under oath that they were not communists. The ten studio employees brought about the contempt charges by failing to testify at the House Committee on Un-American Activities, or by testifying and not renouncing any previous or current support for communism.
The statement (printed in full below) comes after the heads of all the studios met at the Manhattan hotel in an emergency meeting to decide what to do about this latest twist in the ongoing saga of the anti-communism investigation that has shaken Hollywood to its core. Forty-eight studio representatives were present at the meeting, and although there seems to have been much discord among them, the statement released was approved by all the studio heads.
The AMPP statement:
‘Members of the Association of Motion Picture Producers deplore the action of the ten Hollywood men who have been cited for contempt by the House of Representatives. We do not desire to prejudge their legal rights, but their actions have been a disservice to their employers and have impaired their usefulness to the industry.
We will forthwith discharge or suspend without compensation those …’
50
Thursday 13th, 6.00 a.m.
It was still dark when Ida’s train roared into the station. They said their goodbyes and Gabriel trudged back into the tiny commuter town, through the snow and the icy, freezing wind. Outside the town’s general store he found a car. The store was still closed. The sun still hadn’t risen. He walked around, found a rock, smashed one of the car’s windows, slid in, pulled the cover off the bottom of the steering column and sparked the wires there to bypass the ignition. After a few attempts, the engine started, and Gabriel was surprised he’d managed to do it after all these years. He drove. He turned the heating on full whack to counteract the draft coming in from the smashed window, felt warm for the first time in what felt like years.
He was back near the airport in less than a quarter of an hour. He parked up on a side road by the tree-line where the car had picked up the two men the previous night. He waited, watched the sky fill with light, watched the darkness dissolve from the land.
