All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  He smiled at her then, stood up to his fullest height and looked down at her.

  “Where is your son?”

  She spoke a few words, but they were muttered and incoherent. She started repeating something over and over again. Bishop listened as carefully as he could, but the words were too faint. She might have lashed out at him, raked his eyes with her long, manicured nails if he was careless, but he had no choice but to kneel beside her and speak into her ear.

  “Do you commit yourself to God, Mrs. Trask?” Bishop spoke clearly. “Will you commit to His judgment?”

  She stopped her mumbling for a moment, twisting her hands together and looking downward. Rap-rap.

  “I will,” she said. “I will. I must because I am tired. Will he accept me? Will he?” she implored to Bishop. “My son has done terrible things. Will I be blamed for his sins? Will God not see that I tried my best? Will I be damned to Hell, Saint Michael?” Rap-rap-rap.

  “For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, my sister,” Bishop quoted Peter, “and his ears are attentive to their prayer, but the face of the Lord is against those who do evil.”

  She looked up at him suddenly, eyes narrowing. Bishop smiled slightly at her, inclining his head toward her to make sure she noticed his peacefulness.

  “Who is going to harm you,” he continued, “if you are eager to do good? But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear what they fear, sister,” he said a little louder. “Do not be frightened. Let your son come unto me, that I may guide him to his righteous judgment.”

  Finally, Mrs. Trask smiled, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

  “May I rest a bit?” she asked. “I have been so worried about my son. I do not feel well at all.”

  Bishop thought the woman was suddenly having a lucid moment in the midst of her dementia. He also looked toward the room corners again, expecting something—someone—to leap out at him. He turned full circle, getting at good look at the doorway as well. Mrs. Trask startled him as he turned back to her, sitting up quickly and staring at him again with her eyes darting back and forth.

  “You will help him?” she demanded, then more softly. “You will guide him? He is… he is all I have.” She released her grip on the cane as she leaned it against the side table.

  “I will,” he said, imitating her exact words from a minute earlier. “I will because I must.”

  “He awaits his judgment then,” she replied simply, composing her hands in her lap, “only where the Devil spins.”

  She said nothing more. Bishop addressed her several more times, but she only watched him, eyes half closed, and finally glanced at the doorway then back at him. He took his leave realizing he’d gotten as much out of her as possible.

  ***

  “That was it?” Rector said, as Bishop took the lobby stairs two at a time down to the street. “Nothing more? Where the devil spins?”

  “That’s it. And it’s a good thing too, because I don’t know how long I could have kept up a one-man good cop/bad cop routine using scripture. Sunday school and parents who insisted that I read everything in sight all happened a long, long time ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’ll need help soon,” Bishop said, absently. “I couldn’t say positively that she’s schizophrenic or in early Alzheimer’s, but something’s going on.”

  “We think Trask has been caring for her since at least five years before he was decommissioned from the Agency. That much is in his service file. His mother was diagnosed years ago with schizophrenia that was difficult to stabilize. Complications from suspected dementia or Alzheimer’s too. Trask comes by his own psychopathy honestly.”

  “You might have told me that before I walked into the pit.”

  “You asked for an address,” Rector almost laughed. “Didn’t get that deep into the personnel file until you were all twisted up with the woman. She’s schizoid, certified years ago, but Trask pulled some strings when he still had some influence. He persuaded an agency psych to examine her and write up a diagnosis that allowed him to provide home care. He’s been doing that for almost twenty years.”

  “That would wear anyone down.”

  “Trask may be worn to the bone,” Rector agreed. “It will make him more difficult.”

  “Where the devil spins,” Bishop repeated the odd phrase.

  “Where the devil spins,” Rector echoed. “Find a place to roost while I sort this out.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Bishop found a coffee shop on East 86th Street between Park and Lexington. It was a pleasant place, blended into the neighborhood. There was a worn corkboard just inside the entrance where locals posted buy & sell items. Free entertainment and What’s On papers and magazines stood in two small racks near the front cash register. Mostly faded show posters decorated much of the wall space in between a couple of chalkboards listing the day’s specials. A few recently dated posters showed that someone was paying attention. All the tables were full when Bishop arrived, so he’d found a stool at the front counter. He was sitting next to a Hassidic Jewish man who was dressed in the usual black hat and overcoat.

  “You looking for something over here?” the man said, smiling, as he noticed Bishop looking over at him.

  “I was just wondering,” Bishop replied affably, “what an orthodox Jewish man, obviously Hassidic, was doing drinking coffee from a restaurant cup that could have been used to serve all sorts of not very kosher things.”

  “Ha! Hey, Sophie,” the man called out to the waitress standing near the till, “this guy is worried about kosher dishes.”

  “Be nice to the customers, Uncle Morty,” she said back in a loud voice. She looked at Bishop. “There’s a serious schul right around the corner. So we keep a set of kosher dishes here for all the kibitzers, including my uncle.”

  Morty was beaming from ear to ear. “My niece,” he intoned. “My sister’s oldest. Married to a very nice boy. An analyst. She insists on working for her own money, though.” Morty shrugged.

  “Independence,” Bishop said, “is important.”

  “Wait until she has kids of her own,” the man said. “It changes everything.”

  Bishop smiled.

  “So you,” the man said. “What do you do?”

  “I work for a living. The same as you, I think. The ‘what’ doesn’t really matter. In this day and age, the devil is in the fine details, not the big picture.”

  “The last time I got an answer like that to such a simple question, I learned a very important lesson.”

  “What was the lesson?” Bishop said, knowing what was coming.

  “That sometimes it’s best not to ask questions,” the man said.

  “Nice day we’re having,” Bishop said, smiling.

  “Ha!” the man laughed loudly again. “It is a great day for sure. I’ve said my prayers and I’m enjoying a few precious moments with my favorite niece. My name is Morton Silverberg. Call me Morty.”

  “Bishop. Michael Bishop.” He shook Morty’s proffered hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “Michael, you have the look of a man who is waiting for news.”

  “That I am, Morty.”

  “The news will determine how the evening proceeds?”

  “That it will, Morty.”

  Sophie walked over and refilled both their cups.

  “Fame and fortune,” Morty asked, “or the drudgery of a job that has to be done no matter what.”

  Bishop looked carefully at Morty before answering. “It’s all of a piece, Morty. Hillel did not seek anything more than another day of wood chopping. Abba Shaul was content to do a good job digging graves. Abba Chilkiyah was a field laborer. Success, even wisdom occasionally, can come from drudgery as surely as from anything else well done.”

  “You know Talmud?” Morty asked, taken aback. “How do you know of Hillel, and, and—?”

  “I know only what my parents made me read, Morty. That pursuit of goals and ideals must always i
nclude time for the pursuit of spirituality.”

  “You are not Jewish, then?” Morty asked, trying to find his way through an unexpected turn of conversation.

  “I am not anything, Morty. I am not even here right now. You are not even talking to me right now. I have never met Sophie.”

  “But,” Morty said, with a very slight tinge of early alarm in his voice, because New York City was far from immune to fears of religious violence, “you do wish us all well, nonetheless?” He was looking at Bishop for a sign of something that of course was not there.

  “That I do. The news I hope to receive soon will help ensure the very best for all of us, I think. And by the way, when did you serve?” Bishop had felt the strength in Morty’s handshake and had also noticed the distinct scar of a shrapnel wound on the man’s upper neck. He’d also glimpsed the edge of a military tattoo on Morty’s wrist.

  “You’re observant,” Morty said, briefly fingering the part of the scar above his shirt collar. “Israeli Defense Forces. Five years. I was born here, but I went to back to protect the homeland. Came back here to raise a family and protect this homeland in my own way.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll bet you do, Michael. And you are currently on active duty?”

  “Not military any more. Less than that and more than that all at the same time.”

  “Nice weather we’re having,” was all Morty said in reply. He knew when to stop asking questions that could only cause an abrupt end to the conversation.

  “That’s all right, Morty. We’re good. I’m just looking for the answer to a riddle. Or waiting for the answer, I should say.”

  “I think I’m quite good at riddles, Michael. I am. I used to help Sophie solve riddles when she was a little girl. Didn’t I, Sophie?” he called to her.

  “Didn’t you what, Uncle Morty?”

  “Do riddles. All of our riddles, Sophie.”

  “Of course, Uncle Morty.”

  “Do you remember this one, Sophie?” he said as he turned to Bishop. “At night I appear without being fetched, and by day I am lost without being stolen. What am I?”

  Bishop was still thinking about it as Sophie said, “Dreams, of course.”

  “Yes! Perfect! How about you, Michael?” Morty said. “You game to try one? Sophie knows some good ones.”

  Bishop nodded, smiling and looking over at Sophie. “Go easy on me, though. I’m out of practice.”

  “There were three elephants,” Sophie said clearly, “who were about to leave edge of the forest to look for a new home. They only had one small umbrella. They all tried to fit under that one umbrella. When the elephants reached their destination, none of them were the least bit wet. How could that be?”

  “You know,” Bishop said, laughing, “I’ve just come from a place where elephants still roam freely. I think about them from time to time. They’re very smart, Sophie. In fact, the answer to your riddle, as every elephant knows, is that it never rained.”

  “Hah!” Morty and Sophie exclaimed at the same time, and all three of them laughed together.

  Sophie went off, still smiling, to take care of a threesome who’d just come into the coffee shop.

  “We used to have a lot of fun,” Morty said still laughing, turning back to Bishop. “We sometimes used to puzzle out riddles before bedtime. She used to fall asleep thinking of answers. So what’s your riddle, Michael?”

  Bishop looked at Morty and thought about it for a moment. He stirred his coffee absently as he formed the right words.

  “This is the best I can do, Morty,” Bishop said. He paused. “Someone is dangerous but hurt, he has a big home but only visits there to protect someone who can no longer protect herself. The rest of the time he hides where the devil spins. Where is he?”

  Sophie was grinding some fresh coffee beans, but she caught last part of the riddle. Morty saw her shaking her head slightly, smiling as she turned away to cut two slices of apple pie.

  “I saw that, Sophie,” Morty said ruefully. “You’re too good and too smart now. I’m not sure I could ever trip you up. Then again,” he said turning on his stool to look at Bishop, “we could be wrong, couldn’t we?”

  “Mr. Bishop,” Sophie said as she watched the microwave warming up the pie. “Can we assume the hiding place is somewhere in the five boroughs?”

  Bishop nodded.

  “And can we assume that the big home is his sister’s or his mother’s place and that she’s the one who can no longer protect herself?

  Bishop nodded again.

  “The first part is misdirection then. See, Uncle Morty?” Sophie said, smiling again. “This one’s easy.” Bishop was still no closer to understanding, so he turned back to Morty.

  “So Michael,” Morty said, “have you lived in New York City very long?”

  “I don’t actually live here,” Bishop said, as a flash of all the different places he’d lived for brief periods of time began winking in and out of view, the most recent being his apartment in Boston. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because the history of New York’s settlements is very interesting. In the early sixteenth century, the site of the first European settlement was located at the southern tip of Manhattan. It was named New Angoulême by the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano. Signori Verrazzano was paying an honor to his patron, King Francis I of France, formerly the Count of Angoulême. Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, named after the explorer, connects Brooklyn and Staten Island. Anyway, the guy didn’t do much with the place. It remained a trading post, and not much more. So when the Dutch settled the same area properly in the early seventeenth century, they eventually renamed the fort and the town. Called it New Amsterdam. The whole place took off from there. There’s a huge Dutch influence in street names, neighborhood names. All sorts of names actually, including rivers and streams.”

  “The Dutch influence I knew about, Morty. But I’m still lost.”

  “You’re definitely not a New Yorker!” Morty laughed. “The connection is your clue, ‘where the devil spins’.” He looked expectantly at Bishop. “Still nothing, Michael?” Bishop shook his head. He didn’t know where Morty was going.

  “It’s Spuyten Duyvil, Michael.” Bishop looked over at Sophie who’d delivered apple pie a la mode to the table of three and come back behind the counter.

  “The Bronx?” Bishop said.

  “That’s it, Mr. Bishop,” she said. “Spuyten Duyvil. From the old Dutch. It means ‘the spinning devil’. It’s the neighborhood in the Bronx. The neighborhood is named after Spuyten Duyvil Creek. The Harlem River turns into Spuyten Duyvil Creek. There are terrible, swirling and very strong currents where the creek flows into the Hudson. It’s not a creek, really. More like a very fast flowing, small river.”

  “The mob used to throw the bodies in there sometimes,” Morty said, “or those were the stories when I was growing up. The currents would sweep the bodies out to sea eventually. Or so I heard. Who knows what horrible nonsense people get up to?”

  Bishop looked up as Morty stood up to go on his way.

  “It’s good to meet you, Michael. A very interesting chat. I hope Sophie and I helped you a little bit.”

  Bishop shook his hand again, bid the man farewell, and watched as he gave his niece a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out into the darkening evening.

  “Your uncle is a fine man, Sophie,” Bishop said as she walked over to refill his cup.

  “I know,” she said, sighing, “I know. I love him very much. But he never pays for his coffee.”

  ***

  Bishop’s keyed his phone a few minutes later. He’d moved to a booth and was eyeing the wall clock as Sophie started getting ready to close.

  “Where the devil spins,” Rector said as he answered the call.

  “Uh-huh,” Bishop said.

  “Took a while. Turned out to be not much of a riddle.”

  “It was good enough to stump you and me, at least.”

  “True. But I work with smar
ter people than us.”

  “The Bronx,” Bishop said. “Spuyten Duyvil. Where the devil spins, refers to Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Named by the original Dutch settlers.”

  Rector was silent.

  “A simple yes or no, Alexei,” Bishop said. “Is that it? Spuyten Duyvil?”

  “You’re a New York trivia expert now?” Rector said.

  “Naw. My friend Morty told me.”

  “Who?”

  “Morty. Morty Silverberg. Good man. Dotes on his niece. Never pays for his coffee. You know. Morty.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “So where am I going, exactly?”

  “Mr. Trask senior, it turns out, had a variety of sexual proclivities that eventually demanded a private residence well away from his usual haunts and business associations. He invested in some properties up in the Bronx, in Spuyten Duyvil and Marble Hill. That’s where you’re going. If his mother isn’t part of this, and I don’t see how she could be, our best guess is that Trask is holed up in the sole remaining property aside from the mother’s apartment that is still owned by the family.”

  “Sole remaining property?”

  “At one point over forty years ago, there were a couple of dozen. All gone. All lost to bad investments, defaulted equity loans and bad decisions. One left now, plus the apartment, which is worth a small fortune.”

  “Okay,” Bishop said, “Send me the details.”

  “On their way now. Check your messages. I’ve arranged transport. Meet your ride southeast corner of Park and Eighty-sixth. Ten minutes.”

  “On my way.”

  “And Bish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s be careful out there.”

  ***

  The amnesty, relocation and protection deal had arrived quickly as promised. Jorge Tudor had spent about as much time reading it as Diane could tolerate. She’d been willing to let Tudor stew on it for as long as he reasonably needed and for as long as events would allow her to be patient. Time had run out. Bishop’s visit to Trask’s mother had been a long shot, but it had paid off. Nobody knew it yet, but the details of Bishop’s biblical fire and brimstone chat with Mrs. Trask would become an agency legend in very short order. In the meantime, Bishop was about to put a stick into a very angry hornet’s nest and Diane was determined to provide him with as much intel as she could.