Maria's Girls (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  “You revived Sal, didn’t you? No one else could have done it. I left a dead man in New Orleans.”

  “Shouldn’t incriminate yourself, Isaac. There could be a mike under the table.”

  “There is a mike. You bug your own offices, just like you bug mine.”

  “I wouldn’t go near your office, Isaac. It’s illegal.”

  “Should I tell you the model and the position of each mike?”

  “More dessert?”

  “Margaret’s your soldier,” Isaac said. “If I hadn’t gotten there with Jerry DiAngelis, Sal would have killed her.”

  “Everything was under control,” LeComte said. “I couldn’t let my Hamilton Fellow commit murder in the middle of a lecture tour. I would have looked very foolish. And I can’t afford to look foolish. You should have considered that.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. Sal and his two little cousins were going to wag her fucking tail.”

  “She takes her chances, Isaac. That’s part of the thrill. She always had a fondness for gangsters. That’s why she’s in love with you.”

  “I wasn’t a gangster when I met her,” Isaac said. The mocha hadn’t revived him. He was still a hospital child.

  “Are you going to tell me how she walked into your junior high, the Roumanian princess? She was a whore at thirteen. She’d been living with a war criminal. I had to steal her from the KGB.”

  LeComte must have seen that sad color on Isaac’s face. He sent Martha out for another order of macaroons and mocha ice cream.

  “I was one step behind you in New Orleans, I swear. I had Sal’s cousins targeted. They would have been ancient history.”

  “What did you do with my man Burt? Did you whack him out and substitute his body for Sal’s?”

  “We aren’t ghouls, whatever you think. I wouldn’t touch the last of your Ivanhoes. I let him have a free ticket to the country of his choice. But I couldn’t dawdle while Sal was dying.”

  “The man was dead.”

  “Almost. His heart stopped on the table. But we had a team of miracle surgeons at Tulane. They pieced him together with bits of magic thread. He had no face. The walls of his chest were gone.”

  “Who’s lying in Sal’s grave?”

  “We fished a John Doe out of the bayou. No one noticed. No one cared. It took a month to rebuild Sal.”

  “And you spent the month convincing him to become a paid informant for the FBI.”

  “We’re a little more sophisticated than that, Isaac. Sal isn’t registered with the Bureau. It would have been too risky. We just took Sal’s side in his fight with Jerry DiAngelis. And Sal is grateful.”

  “And meanwhile you own the Maf.”

  “Let’s just say we have a controlling interest.”

  The macaroons and ice cream arrived. LeComte smiled all the way through Isaac’s second desert.

  “Months have gone by and you can’t even find that phantom who glocked you.”

  “I have my theories.”

  “So do I. It had to be a member of your Monday Morning Club. One of your own boys betrayed you.”

  “What about my two women?”

  “Yes. Your lesbian officers, Wilson and McSwain. But Sal’s scared to death of dykes. He wouldn’t have invited either of them into his own club.”

  “Then it was Sal who set up the hit.”

  LeComte covered his face with his fine long fingers, which were almost translucent in the light above St. Andrews Plaza. He could have been Dracula dressed in blue. “Don’t patronize me, Isaac. Of course it was Sal. Who else would have paid three hundred thousand dollars to glock you?”

  “Then you know the figure, you know the sum, and you let me wander into that little trap under the bridge.”

  LeComte removed those women’s hands from his face. “No, Isaac. I only found out after the fact. And I’ve been singing your praises to Sal. But I owe you nothing. You walked out on me. You were my Hamilton Fellow. I built that whole enterprise around your unorthodox ethics. I risked my ass at Justice. And you have a shotgun party with Jerry DiAngelis. Schmuck, I got you out of jail. Your attorney was crumbling. I lent him my own legal department. I had dinner with the judge.”

  “You shouldn’t say that to me, LeComte. I’m still a cop.”

  “I had dinner with the judge. When the strings are there, Isaac, I pull …”

  “Where’s Margaret?”

  “Isaac, we’re not playing kiss and tell. Margaret’s all mine.”

  “I didn’t ask who owns her. Is she safe from Sal?”

  “No one’s safe. He likes to ride rough in his wheelchair.”

  “But is she off the street, LeComte? Did you take her off the street?”

  “You can’t keep Margaret in cold storage. She gets an itch to be with a man. You ought to know that.”

  “Ah,” Isaac said. “Then I’ll have to kill Sal a second time.”

  “You don’t have the artillery. You’re a civilian now, a commissioner on the mend. And there won’t be any macaroons where I’ll send you.”

  “Then I’ll learn to live without macaroons.”

  “You’re a stranded dog, Isaac. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole Monday Morning Club works for Sal. You’re too romantic, Isaac. Wake up.”

  “Yeah, I’m romantic,” Isaac said. “Romantic enough not to like it when Sal’s soldiers beat up on Diana Brent.”

  “You shouldn’t have gotten her into your own dirty laundry … it’s not a terrific idea to hound the superintendent of a school district.”

  “LeComte, is Maria Montalbán one of your informants too? He says he’s untouchable.”

  “He belongs to Sal.”

  “I wonder if he’s a Junior G-man.”

  “I wouldn’t go near the Board of Ed. It’s too explosive. You fuck with children and you get a very bad press … why’d you visit Jerry DiAngelis?”

  “I had to say good-bye before you get him killed.”

  “I like the war the way it is … I’ve been keeping Jerry alive, steering him a step ahead of Sal without Jerry ever knowing it. And don’t give me your old song about the Mafia saving New York. If the City can’t run itself, bring in the National Guard.”

  “But the Guard can’t make the necessary bribes.”

  “Then I’d do my bribing with bayonets.”

  There was a knock on the door. Martha peeked in. “Frederic, your two o’clock is here.”

  “Bring him in,” LeComte said.

  Martha Hall popped her eyes out at LeComte like a protective witch.

  “Bring him in.”

  That elegant little loanshark of the Rubino clan came into the office, Fabiano Rice. The loan shark seemed embarrassed.

  “Fabiano, you’ve met our erstwhile police commissioner, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, Mr. LeComte.”

  “Tell him how Sal is.”

  “He has black fits, Mr. LeComte, knowing that Isaac can walk while he can’t.”

  “Fabiano,” Isaac said, “kiss Sal for me, because I’ll be coming after him.”

  The loanshark started to laugh. “He could have notched you a million times in Central Park. He had to tell his soldiers, ‘Leave the loony alone. He wears knickers like a little boy.’ ”

  “They’re baseball pants,” Isaac had to say in his own defense. He put on his fedora. A shadow appeared under his eyes. “Thanks for the lunch, LeComte.” And he walked out of the land of loansharks and federal attorneys.

  20

  He was hungry again. He had a coffee milkshake at some obscure candy counter sandwiched between two government buildings on Elk Street. The owner recognized him.

  “Isaac, how ya been?”

  “Asleep,” Isaac said.

  “Harry on the handle, one two three.”

  He’d have to wear his fedora lower down on his head.

  He went uptown to visit Dee. Neither the mocha nor the macaroons could ease his guilt. He shouldn’t have brought her into the Monday Morning Club. But she wa
s as wild as his own daughter, and eager to serve the maddening sense of justice in his head that told him Maria Montalbán was a thief.

  Diana was in bed. Her eyes couldn’t seem to focus. Her doctors had drugged her. But Isaac didn’t notice any nurse in that phantom apartment of Dee’s, like some battleship with two floors that overlooked the roofs of Park Avenue instead of some sea. The butler brought him a cappuccino, and Isaac sucked on the coffee while he held Dee’s hand.

  “Forget about Maria,” he said. “I’ll find Caroll.”

  Her lips moved. But she had no words for Isaac.

  He wiped the dark milk from his mouth. Dee didn’t stir from her dreamscape. Isaac went down the marble staircase to the lower deck. Papa Cassidy was waiting for him, the great builder with his bushy eyebrows. Isaac knew all about his cement contracts with Sal Rubino, but Papa wasn’t the only builder who danced with the Mob.

  “You hurt my daughter, Sidel. It’s bad enough she married a cop. You didn’t have to enlist her into your secret service.”

  “I needed a librarian,” Isaac said.

  Papa slapped his face. Isaac fell to the floor. He was weaker than a little boy. His body would go on betraying him for the rest of his life. He sat on his tailbone until the butler helped him to his feet. “Thanks, Jeremy,” Isaac said, wishing he had a butler of his own. But Jeremy would have had to live in Isaac’s closet or kitchen tub.

  The butler excused himself, walking around Papa Cassidy.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Sidel … asking her to seduce Maria Montalbán. My daughter isn’t Mata Hari. You took advantage of her. She was caught in the middle, between you and Sal.”

  “I didn’t know Maria was Sal’s little helper.”

  “Everybody gets his supplies from Sal. I have to kiss his ass.”

  “I don’t get it,” Isaac said. “Do you owe him money, Papa? Sal went to a lot of trouble to put his mark on Dee. Maybe he was sending a kite to both of us at the same time. Do you owe him money?”

  “That’s none of your business, Sidel.”

  “You gave him ideas about Caroll, didn’t you. You let him have your own son-in-law.”

  “You’re finished, Sidel. I’ll see to it with Becky Karp.”

  “Papa, I love long vacations.”

  He patted his mouth with a handkerchief and left Dee’s apartment. He was lonely. He decided to go to Jim. He could talk baseball with the cardinal. He didn’t have to announce himself. He was always welcome at the cardinal’s house on Madison Avenue. A monsignor met him at the door. Isaac sat in the study. The cardinal arrived from St. Pat’s. Jim went up to his bedroom and changed his clothes. He entered the study in an old sweater and a pair of brown pants. He had a cigarette and two whiskies.

  “You’re in a mess, aint you, lad?”

  “I didn’t come for confession, Jim. I’m not one of your Irish cops.”

  “I warned you about Maria Montalbán … I told you not to get involved with the public schools. Jesus, your face is all hollow.” And he called to his cook. “Abigail, make the boy a sandwich … and search the freezer for ice cream.”

  But there wasn’t any mocha in the house. And Isaac wasn’t fond of mustard. He had to coat his ham sandwich with vanilla ice cream.

  “Still the savage,” Jim said. “Let it go, Isaac. Someone else can catch Maria. It doesn’t have to be you.”

  “There is no one else.”

  “Aint it the truth,” Jim said. “It’s Isaac and the darkness, Isaac and the wind. But the dark swallows people … you were in a coma, man. You almost disappeared. Let it be a lesson. Ease up”

  “I can’t,” Isaac said, putting on his fedora.

  “Shouldn’t wear a hat in the presence of a cardinal,” Jim said. “Only the tempter would do such a thing … ah, leave it on. You look fatter in the face.”

  The cardinal had a previous engagement with a gang of Irish cops. He was the spiritual clerk of the Shamrock Society. He would hear confession, or hold a cop’s hand. He would go on retreat with the Irishers as often as he could. He was a fighting cardinal who wouldn’t desert his flock. And Isaac met that gang of Irishers in the hall. They hugged him like some lost member of their own little tribe. He was practically an Irishman, having grown up in an Irish Department.

  Another Irisher arrived. Captain White of Sherwood Forest. He edged away from Isaac, like a startled bird. And Isaac didn’t have to probe the captain’s eyes. It was White. White had glocked him under the bridge, and the captain had come here to do a little penance and sit at Jim’s feet.

  Ah, he’d been the fool, Isaac Sidel, avoiding his own phantom, because he couldn’t bear the responsibility of confronting one of his very own cops. He hadn’t really wanted to know who had glocked him. He’d have to face the intimacy of that darkness under the bridge. Could White have despised him so much, like some jilted lover? It was too fucking sad to think about.

  Isaac’s head burst under his fedora. He took a cab to Rivington Street and sat in the dark. He didn’t lock his door. He should have signed up with Old Nick. He wouldn’t even ask the Devil for a whole season. Just a little jump back in time. A week, a thin week with the New York Giants, during one of the war years.

  He could feel a man beside him. “Cap, did you follow me home?”

  “Not exactly. I roosted with Jim for a little while.”

  “Tell him about us?”

  “He’d have socked my face. He loves you, chief.”

  “But he would have heard your confession. He wouldn’t break the seal.”

  “He’d have socked my face without breaking the seal.”

  “Sit down, Cap. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’d rather stand,” the captain said.

  “With your Glock?”

  “It was a borrowed gun. I broke it to pieces and threw it in the river, barrel and all.”

  Isaac searched for the captain’s eyes. He came upon an empty chamber. But the captain’s voice was like the lament in his own black heart.

  “I couldn’t make it, Isaac. I have three sons in college.”

  “It wasn’t about money,” Isaac said.

  “I kept sinking into the sand. I borrowed. I begged. I started to steal.”

  “It wasn’t about money.”

  “I hated you, Isaac. Sentencing me to Sherwood Forest. Captain Midnight. I was always on the outside.”

  “I brought you into the Monday Morning Club.”

  “With Vietnam Joe and old man Weiss. I had no self-respect. I was at the bottom of your list.”

  “I have no list,” Isaac said. “Did Sal get in touch?”

  “It was the shylock. Fabiano Rice. He arranged the meet. I knew they wanted you dead. I played along. I had to prove that I could handle the caper. But then I stopped playing …”

  “What did you do with the three hundred thou?”

  The captain was silent. Isaac could see the trembling lines of his lip.

  “You dummy, LeComte runs the Rubinos. He knows every fucking detail. What did you do with the money? Feed it to the squirrels?”

  “I couldn’t spend it. I couldn’t give it to my sons. I stuffed whatever I could into collection boxes at Jim’s cathedral … most of it is in my attic, a big suitcase with small bills.”

  “Did you start following me, Cap? Did you pencil in all my meets?”

  “I didn’t have to follow you. I followed Caroll. You shouldn’t have fallen in love with that little plot of dead ground under the bridge. It was easy. All I had to do was stand in the dark.”

  “And collect your three hundred thou.”

  “I never felt better in my life … under the bridge. I was in control. The power was all mine.”

  “The power of my life or death. It’s only a little thing.”

  “You’re wrong. I never intended to kill you.”

  “I was in a coma,” Isaac said.

  “You survived … I had to make it look like a kill. I’m your best man, Isaac.”


  “Yeah, the king of the surgical miss.”

  “It was different after I walked away from the bridge. I couldn’t share my secret. I couldn’t tell Jim. I’d hide in the attic … but I’m glad. Glocking you was the closest I ever got to the great Isaac.”

  “Did you expect a kiss?” Isaac asked.

  “I had a right to a little consideration.”

  “I’m not a social worker,” Isaac said.

  “Should I give myself in? Go to Sweets?”

  “No one’s gonna arrest you.”

  “But the FBI knows I glocked you.”

  “Fuck the FBI. You stand in place. At Sherwood Forest.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “Wait. Sal used you once. He’ll use you again.”

  “And there won’t be a trial? Not even Martin Malik?”

  “I’ll take you out of squirrel land after I get back to the fourteenth floor.”

  “Nah, I’d like to stay. I’m getting fond of the Forest.”

  The captain vanished, and Isaac was bluer than he’d ever been. His life belonged to Captain Midnight. He wasn’t even a casualty of war. He was a gift of the captain’s prowess with an Austrian gun.

  21

  He went over to One PP in the morning. The clerks and duty captains didn’t know how to behave. It had been different when Isaac was a jailbird. But what were the privileges of a wounded PC? He wandered into Martin Malik’s office. Malik was shorter and much more burly than Isaac, who looked like a scarecrow. Malik was the Department’s in-house judge. He didn’t investigate any cop, but the investigators would all come to Malik. Isaac had appointed this Oliver Cromwell. The Turk was without fear.

  “I won’t talk about Caroll,” Malik said.

  “The kid’s innocent.”

  “He’s under investigation.”

  “Then investigate me. I’m the guilty one.”

  “I can’t tell Internal Affairs what to do.”

  “You don’t have to tell. You’re Martin Malik. Internal Affairs will look into your eyes and blink.”

  “That’s called obstruction of justice. You ought to brush up on the penal code.”

  “You are the penal code at One PP. Martin, I need a favor. Rescue Caroll. Reinstate him.”