Maria's Girls (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  And Isaac returned to the party, with his knickers and his shirt from the Delancey Street Giants.

  7

  He couldn’t get that image out of his mind. The big bear making love to his wife. It was absurd, the idea of Dee and the Pink Commish. But then Caroll had to wonder. Isaac had stolen him from Sherwood Forest and sent him on some phantom patrol. And now Caroll was reduced to this mean fucking business of following his wife. He didn’t care about Carlos Maria Montalbán. School Board One B could take and take. The children would have to fend for themselves. Caroll wasn’t their keeper. He was a husband with a marriage that was about to sink.

  He could have borrowed Dee’s calendar, marked down whatever appointments her social secretary had made, but he wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t a thief. He was only a submariner and a spy. He tracked her for two days, slinking into bed at night, his body beside her. He would listen to her breathe. He despised himself. But he didn’t stop tracking. And on the third day, when Dee was in SoHo, touring art galleries, he got a little careless. She caught him outside Leo Castelli.

  “You’ve been following me. How many days has it been?”

  “Three.”

  “What’s it about, Caroll?”

  “We haven’t been getting along, and …”

  “How can I get along with a stranger?”

  “But we were always tight in bed.”

  “Should I close my eyes and fake it? Who should I pretend I’m fucking? Cardinal Jim? My dad? One of my sous chefs? Or my social secretary? Tell me.”

  “Sidel,” he said.

  “So that’s it. You think I’m fucking Isaac. Just ask.”

  She slapped him while they were on the sidewalk, outside Leo Castelli.

  “Ask.”

  “Are you sleeping with Sidel?”

  “Talk like a detective, darling. ‘Are you fucking the PC?’ God, you’re lost outside Sherwood Forest. That’s why Isaac put you there. He wanted a detective with handsome teeth, some guy who could parade for the media or stroke a rich bitch. Imbecile, he was our marriage broker. If he hadn’t put you in the park, how would we have met?”

  “I can’t tell. You were an heiress and I was a cop.”

  “Don’t play that trick. I’m not up to it, Caroll. You’re the patrician. My family is black Irish.”

  She started to cry. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

  She ran down the street, away from Caroll. He couldn’t follow her. He was one more tracker gone awry. He’d been no more successful dogging Maria Montalbán. Perhaps he did belong in Sherwood Forest, with the squirrel patrol. All a cop needed was a bag of nuts. That was the old saying about Central Park Precinct, CPP.

  He drove out to Long Beach in the silver Porsche the Cassidys had given him for his birthday. A fifth of his salary went into that car. It was eating up mechanics every six months. And Caroll was a beggar who had to borrow from Fabiano Rice. Dinners at Caravelle had put him into debt. Diana would have paid. But she was unconscious about anything to do with cash. And Caroll didn’t want some kind of meal allowance. He wasn’t Papa Cassidy’s pet. He was a detective on loan from squirrel land.

  He arrived at the Oceancrest Manor. He looked at the sagging porches, the chipped paint, the television wires on the roof that reminded him of a witch’s hairdo, and he thought of Sal Rubino in his wheelchair. Sal was only one more disabled don, but why did Caroll pity him? It wasn’t the wheelchair or the marks on his face. Caroll had seen worse casualties of war. Was it because Sal’s life, like Caroll’s, was bound to Isaac Sidel?

  He had to meet with Rubino one more time, make it clear that no vigorish was going to put a gun in Caroll’s hand. But he also wanted to chat with the invalid, wheel him around the hotel’s front room, not as a cop, but as a fellow prisoner of Isaac’s. Because no force was big enough to defeat the Pink Commish. Neither a school district nor a Mafia clan.

  Caroll entered the hotel. It was as dark as the last time. “Mr. Rubino,” he said, “it’s me, Caroll Brent.” But there were no simple soldiers to greet him. Just two men with shotguns. Caroll recognized their faces in the dark. They were commandos from the NYPD who’d strayed into Nassau County.

  They laughed at Caroll. “Look, it’s the little sister.”

  These two were called Jimson and Jakes. The PC’s commandos were all alike. They wore leather jackets and dark brown boots. They modeled themselves after Isaac, who was also fond of leather, and loved to consider themselves as some “Good Gestapo.” Caroll hated their guts.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Waiting for Sal,” Jakes said. “But we’ll ask the questions, little sister.”

  They dug their shotguns into Caroll’s belly. But they wouldn’t have been so talkative if they’d meant to kill. The whole fucking scenario surrounding Isaac had begun to piss him off. They shouldn’t have pointed shotguns at him on the afternoon his wife had slapped him in the face.

  “Now tell us, sister, how come you’re visiting Sal.”

  “Fuck you, Jimson. Fuck you, Jakes.”

  Jimson whacked Caroll’s forehead with the butt of his gun. Caroll fell to the floor. He was already floating into a warmer world. His eye was wet. It was like a toke of Thai stick. Caroll was in Buddha heaven. He’d had his best tours at Sherwood Forest smoking grass with Barbarossa.

  “You have a lovely car out there.” That was Jakes. Caroll heard him like a horn.

  “Did your wife give it to you?”

  “Ah, leave the little sister alone. He likes to play with the squirrels.”

  “But he has to tell us why he’s visiting Sal.”

  “Because,” Caroll said, “I’m Sal’s little sister,” and he tackled Jakes, knocking his kneecaps out from under him. Jakes banged into Jimson. And Caroll rose out of Buddha heaven to bite Jimson’s ear and dig a finger into his throat. He’d captured their shotguns. He handcuffed them back to back, with their own cuffs. They sat on their asses like silly Buddhas in black leather coats. He left the Oceancrest without wiping the blood from his eye.

  His beeper sang to him as soon as he hit the Rockaways. He stopped on Channel Drive and called One PP from a phone booth.

  “Nice,” Isaac said. “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “I thought you didn’t like me to call Headquarters.”

  “This is an emergency. You handcuffed two of my men.”

  “That’s because they tried to knock my brains out.”

  “They were interrogating you, that’s all. I told them to interrogate whoever walked in.”

  “Isaac, since when are you a Nassau County sheriff? You can’t interrogate shit.”

  “Watch your language. Why were you out there?”

  “I was getting lonely for Sal.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you,” Isaac said, and he hung up on his protégé, whom he’d plucked out of Central Park and sent on a crusade against the school boards. It was one more mission without an end.

  He visited little Rosen at Beekman Downtown. The assistant principal was out of danger. He was all alone in a semiprivate room. Caroll had brought him some strudel from the kosher bakery on East Broadway. He supplied Rosen with a napkin, and the two of them ate like pigs, while nurses who passed the doorway stared at the blood in Caroll’s eye.

  “I have blackouts, Mr. Brent.”

  “Rosen, that’s what happens when you try to hang yourself … has Montalbán visited you yet?”

  “Every day.”

  And Caroll saw the bounty of those visits: a basket of fruit, a radio, a VCR.

  “He’s loyal,” little Rosen said.

  “I’m sure he is. But do me a favor, Rosen. Ask him to find a new bookkeeper, so I won’t have to follow you around.”

  “I belong with him,” little Rosen said. “I’m part of his team.”

  “You sound like a fucking baseball player. And I hate baseball, Rosen. People dress up in long stockings. Some of them wear fucking masks. They fight. They argue. They be
at the shit out of a little ball.”

  “I don’t play baseball, Mr. Brent. I steal.”

  “You shouldn’t say that. You’re convalescing.”

  “I steal from A to give to B. It’s simple arithmetic. Supply and demand. We sell drugs so that some of the children can eat.”

  “This is a social call. I’m not hassling you.”

  Rosen bit into the strudel. “Detective, I appreciate your concern. But don’t come again. I wouldn’t want Carlos to think I was your personal stooge.”

  “You’re not a stooge. But Carlos Montalbán is feeding himself, not any fucking kids. I’ve been to your school, Rosen. I’ve seen the kids. They look awful hungry to me.”

  “But did you see them before Carlos was appointed to the district? Some of them didn’t have a shirt. They suffered from pellagra. They had black teeth and red skin … what happened to your head?”

  “A squirrel bit me.”

  Caroll went home to the “mansion.” He dreaded meeting Diana. But she was at some important tea. So he hid out in his study until he was summoned to dinner like a little boy. Caroll sat alone with his wife at a table that could seat sixteen. Diana was remorseful. “I’m sorry I slapped you. I was upset. You shouldn’t follow me … Caroll, you have a bump, a great big bump.”

  “It’s nothing,” Caroll said.

  “Are you sure? I could ring Dr. Patterson.”

  “I’m fine,” Caroll said.

  “I have been seeing Isaac. I’m worried about you. So we talk.”

  “About what?” Caroll asked, playing with his salad.

  “About your career. I can feel your absence, Caroll …”

  “I’m not absent,” Caroll said. “What did Isaac say?”

  “That you were on special assignment. It’s all hush-hush. But it would be over soon.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “That you were having some kind of money problems.”

  I’ll kill that fuck, Caroll said to himself. Isaac must have mentioned the vig.

  “Have you been gambling, Caroll? Isaac wouldn’t tell me much. He’s like you—so secretive.”

  “I’m not secretive.”

  “I don’t care if you gamble. I’ll write you a check.”

  “I don’t want a check. And I’m not a gambler. I never was.”

  “We’ll economize, dear. I’ll fire one of the maids. And I’ll contribute to your kitty.”

  “I don’t need a kitty. I’m all right.”

  Should he tell Dee not to order an appetizer at Caravelle? Or else line his pockets with hundred-dollar bills? She raised money for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She sponsored obscure Czech orchestras. She cooked for an army. She loved Caroll. But she was careless about her own money, and part of that carelessness spilled into his lap.

  They didn’t make love that night. Caroll was still brooding over the Pink Commish. Isaac shouldn’t have seen Dee behind his back. All Caroll could do was float further and further away. He was in his own fucking latitude, where baseball or a detective’s shield didn’t count. He was a fisherman’s boy who loved to sit on a rock with his dad and watch the whales blow. But there were no whales in Central Park.

  He floated into East Harlem. He followed Montalbán’s mules. School District Eleven A was Montalbán’s favorite “cousin.” It bordered on Central Park, overlooked the Harlem Meer and its burnt-out boathouse. The Meer had become a desolate pool, filled with junk and black water. Montalbán’s men would often meet in the boathouse. One or two were teachers Montalbán had brought into his own district. They would have their breakfast in the boathouse and wander from school to school. They were bartering crayons and brooms. It bothered Caroll. All this monkey business. Montalbán had his own duchy in Manhattan. He was lord of school supplies.

  Caroll took notes. He always did. And then he’d have his meets with Isaac under the Williamsburg Bridge. He was getting out. He’d give Isaac back the gold shield. He’d go to work for Papa Cassidy. Or sell Thai stick in the street. Or he’d sign on with Sal Rubino, become the guardian of Sal’s wheelchair. He fashioned a conversation in his head. Isaac, fuck you.

  He arrived in that dark, damp corner under the bridge. Isaac was late. Caroll continued to rehearse his spiel. Are you Dee’s confessor now, you son of a bitch? Leave that to Cardinal Jim. He heard a rustling in one of the territories where the winos lived. Isaac often fed them cigarettes, got them meals at Katz’s delicatessen or Ratner’s on Delancey Street. When Caroll couldn’t find the Pink Commish, he’d go to Ratner’s and discover him at a corner table with a clutch of broken men, discussing the fate of New York City. Isaac always blended in. He looked like a bum, and the proprietor wouldn’t dare throw him out. It was Caroll who ended up paying the bill, because Isaac didn’t believe in cash.

  But this rustling bothered him. There were no winos tonight. Caroll would have heard the crash of bottles by now, would have sniffed them, seen their outline under the bridge. He’d make a run to Ratner’s, but first he stepped deeper into the dark.

  He looked down at the figure of Isaac Sidel. There was a beard of blood under his mouth, and his whole chest was like a big black well. Caroll couldn’t say how many times Isaac had been shot. He looked almost as dead as the Harlem Meer.

  Part Two

  8

  The newspapers already had editions mourning Isaac Sidel. The flags at City Hall were flying low. The chief inspector was preparing the funeral. There would be a parade. Isaac would have cannons and magnificent black horses. No other Commish had been gunned down like that. Her Honor, Rebecca Karp, bawled into her handkerchief on the six o’clock news. Isaac had been on the table ten hours. Three surgeons attended to him. There was talk of a massive blood clot, damage to the brain. He was supposed to die but he didn’t.

  He lingered on some crazy thread. He lay in a coma at Beekman Downtown, wrapped in bandages like a mummy. He sang nonsense, like Dutch Schultz had done before he died. “Harry on the handle … one two three. Harry on the handle.”

  It took a retired sports writer from the Daily News, ninety years old, to find the key. “That’s not gibberish, my friends. Isaac’s appealing to the Bomber, old Harry Lieberman of the New York Giants. That’s how Harry’s fans would serenade him at the Polo Grounds in ’forty-three. Whenever he’d pick up a bat, the crowd would cry, ‘Harry on the handle, Harry on the handle.’ We’d beg him to hit one out of the park.”

  The whole town grew excited. Journalists sought out this forgotten Bomber as Isaac lay dying. They recalled his batting averages, his jump to the Mexican League in ’forty-six. Suddenly he was another Joe DiMaggio. Photographs appeared of Harry swinging his bat. There were remembrances from other retired reporters and old fans of Harry’s. The City had a new star, a ballplayer whose life was mostly a blank. The Bomber had come out of obscurity, because a mortally wounded Commish had recited the magic formula: “Harry on the handle, one two three.”

  He lived in Washington Heights. He had no wife or children that anyone could see. He was all grizzled. He had huge hands. It was hard to imagine him as anyone’s hero. But he’d haunted Isaac’s head.

  He wouldn’t talk to the press. He was a member of the Christy Mathewsons, a club devoted to antiquarian baseball. The Christys wouldn’t give any interviews about their silent star. And the town mourned the Polo Grounds and the New York Giants, who’d run to San Francisco in the fall of ’fifty-seven. Only a dead man like Isaac could evoke a kinder past when the Bomber patrolled center field in a ballpark that had become a Harlem housing project. But the dead man still wouldn’t die.

  Isaac didn’t call out to Harry anymore. He had metal pins in one shoulder. He slept like a great big wounded bear.

  And then Isaac opened his eyes. He couldn’t talk. There was a tube in his mouth, like a curled-up cuspidor. He started to cry. He remembered who he was. He didn’t want to be Sidel. He wanted to be a center fielder.

  “Harry on the handle.”

  It took weeks
for the doctors to go away. They examined all his fluids. He was in some isolation ward where he could have no guests.

  “I have to see my people,” Isaac said.

  “Do you realize how close you were to dying?” the chief cardiologist said.

  “I’ve been there,” Isaac told him. “It’s no big deal. Now can I talk to my people?”

  They wheeled him into another room. Nurses shaved him and sponged his chest and back. He had bluish marks where the bullets had entered his body. They looked like the marks an arrow might make. He was like some illustrated man, with signs and symbols all over him, signs no one but Isaac could read. He saw his face in the mirror. He’d bloomed on the operating table. He was all pink.

  “Sir,” the chief cardiologist whispered in Isaac’s ear. “I don’t give a fuck about your people. You can have one guest.”

  “I’m not your prisoner,” Isaac muttered.

  “Yes you are, Mr. Sidel.”

  The mayor wanted to see him. She’d had roses delivered to his room every day of his long sleep. She’d offered a hundred thousand dollars of the City’s cash to anyone who could identify Isaac’s phantom hitter. “I’ll kill the cocksucker, whoever he is.” She presented herself as some sort of grieving widow. But Isaac wasn’t buying the package of Becky Karp. He wanted Sweets. Not his daughter, Marilyn the Wild. Not his estranged wife Kathleen, the Florida real-estate goddess. Not his dad Joel, the portrait painter who was hiding in Paris. Not his baby brother Leo, who was in and out of alimony court. Not his sweetheart, Margaret Tolstoy, who broke up gangs for the FBI. Not Cardinal Jim, who was one of the few friends Isaac had. Not the Bomber himself. But Sweets.

  Isaac’s First Deputy arrived in his shirtsleeves. He had a whole Department to run without this crazy Commish. Isaac was on extended sick leave. And for the second time in two years, Carlton Montgomery III was acting police commissioner. He was much more patrician than Isaac Sidel. He’d finished college. He’d gone to law school. He could talk about Malcolm and Martin Luther King and Oliver Wendell Holmes. He could have resigned from the Department and run the Ford Foundation. He could have been the first black professor at Harvard Law. But he wouldn’t desert One PP. He was devoted to the Commish. He’d heard Isaac lecture years ago and that had galvanized him, made him fall in love with the cops. He liked the outlaw in Isaac, the curious chivalry that left him a pauper with a paycheck. But he couldn’t always cover for the Commish.