“I’m going out to meet LeComte. Follow the fuck. Intercept him. I don’t want Frederic on my tail.”
“Can we hurt him a little?” McSwain asked, and Isaac was tormented by her smile. He would have married McSwain if he’d had another lifetime, and draw her back to the company of men. But Isaac had never divorced his first and only wife, the Countess Kathleen, who was developing real estate in Florida among the crocodiles. He’d married her when he was nineteen. And she’d supported Isaac, while he struggled to become a cop. She was five years older than the Pink Commish.
McSwain pulled him out of his reverie. “I’d love to tap that Junior G-man.”
“He’s a pussy,” Isaac said, and the girls frowned at him. He couldn’t seem to find the right vocabulary with Wilson and McSwain. “Just lead him in the opposite direction. Nothing rough.”
He hugged them like he’d hug a fellow cop. And then he stood outside Sherwood Forest, but there was no Frederic LeComte. He started to walk, and LeComte came up behind Isaac in dark glasses, like a mafioso.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Ramble,” Isaac said.
“That’s strictly gay territory.”
“No. There are a couple of bird watchers. It’s a sanctuary, LeComte.”
“Someone might see us,” LeComte said.
“It’s too dense. That’s why I picked the Ramble … hold my hand.”
“Why?”
“Hold my hand. I don’t want people to think we’re gay bashers … or cops.”
LeComte gripped Isaac’s hand, and they walked through the Ramble like two little girls. Isaac would get lost in the Ramble when he was a rook at Sherwood Forest. The paths seemed to circle around themselves into an infinity of rocks and sky and trees.
“Where are all the gays?” LeComte asked, his eyes searching the grass.
“They’re hiding from us, Frederic. Keep quiet.”
They stumbled upon a gazebo and LeComte immediately sat down. He took his own paw away from Isaac.
“I need Rubino. You’ll have to give him back.”
“Send a registered letter to the melamed and see what happens.”
“That’s not funny,” LeComte said. “You don’t want to be on my bad side, Isaac. It could be dangerous for you.”
“Will you indict me, Frederic? You already tried to have me killed.”
“I told you. I wasn’t involved with that. It was Sal’s idea.”
“You gave him the green light.”
“Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t execute my own Hamilton Fellow.”
“Yes you would. You gave him the green light. He’s your rat, LeComte. You take responsibility for whatever he does. And you don’t walk out of the Ramble until you admit it.”
LeComte started to laugh. “My own Minotaur. I have a compass, schmuck. I can leave your little labyrinth whenever I want.”
“I put a tail on you, Frederic. My best girls.”
“Ah, Wilson and McSwain.”
“They’ll walk you into oblivion.”
“And you’ll face a fucking FBI alert … I want Rubino. I can’t afford to have him kidnapped, Isaac. He’s part of my prosecution team.”
“Yeah, like little Maria. You and Sal sold him a bill of goods. You let him think he was with the Bureau. And then Sal used your own hitman to get him killed.”
“I don’t have any hitmen.”
“Sure,” Isaac said. “The Nose isn’t your people.”
“He’s in the witness protection program.”
“That’s some protection. He’s been keeping the coroner busy … making corpses left and right.”
“You couldn’t stand Maria,” LeComte said. “You should rejoice.”
“I was wrong about the little guy … Frederic, you shouldn’t have gone into my house.”
“Your house, Isaac?”
“I don’t mind the bugs. You can monitor my office every day of the week. But it was pretty dumb to reach into my Department and start recruiting cops.”
“I didn’t reach,” LeComte said. “I wouldn’t touch a New York City cop.”
“What about Joe Barbarossa?”
“That’s different,” LeComte said. “That’s a unique case. The man happens to be a homicidal maniac. He took out one of the Bureau’s best undercover cops.”
“You mean one of your G-men was dealing drugs on the side. Barbarossa wasted him. And you were in a dilemma. Your troops would have looked bad if Barbarossa went to trial. You grabbed Barbarossa for yourself.”
“It’s your fault … letting a cop go around killing people.”
“If he whacks a couple of bad guys, why should I care? He delivers his own rat poison … should I speak a little louder, LeComte? Should I talk into your wire?”
“I’m not wearing a wire,” LeComte said.
“I’ll bet you aren’t,” Isaac said. “Make sure you edit the tapes. Because as soon as you produce them, I’ll have my own lads mark off the missing loops. And some judge will ask what the great LeComte was hoping to hide.”
“Schmuck, I had my own men watch the hospital. I kept you alive. I discouraged Fabiano Rice from finding another hitter.”
“I’d love to talk to Fabiano about that. But Fabiano’s dead … gotta go, Frederic. It’s time for me to sit with Sal.”
“Wait,” LeComte said. “I’ll trade you Margaret for Sal Rubino. I’ll give her to you, Isaac.”
Isaac peered out from under his hat, his whole face like a piece of spitting fire. “You bloody dog. She’s my fiancée. I don’t want her in this discussion.”
“Wait. I’ll sign her over, Isaac.”
The Pink Commish took out his gun. “I’ll waste you, LeComte, right here, in the middle of the woods. The birds will shit on your skull.”
He got up and walked out of the Ramble.
27
He moved among the Maf like the war counselor he’d become. All the little soldiers knew he’d engineered the seizing of Sal. The melamed could no longer make battle plans. And Jerry was no strategist. It was Isaac who had one of Jerry’s soldiers planted on Park Avenue. Sal was a fickle son of a bitch and might want to atone for having his men slap Dee. It was Isaac who’d telephoned Dee, got her out of her slumber, told her to let Rubino into the house. It was Isaac who had the elevator man drugged and stationed the melamed in the cellar to greet Sal. Corner punks began pulling on his clothes. “Don Isacco, get me into the Family, will ya?”
He had to swat at them like flies. He was the PC. He went from the Park to a little brownstone near the Eighty-ninth Street stables. The brownstone looked deserted. The windows had been covered with boards. Mattresses were piled on the front steps. The mailboxes had been ripped out of the wall. The inside stairs were strewn with bits of colored glass that looked like the scattered beads of a kaleidoscope.
The brownstone had been one of Jerry DiAngelis’ most valuable “beds” while he was running from Sal. Isaac climbed over the mattresses, knocked on the door, and let himself in with a silver key. A couple of Jerry’s captains saluted him. They had cause to celebrate. Sal Rubino was upstairs in their own prison. And the police commissioner of New York was part of the Family. They were unstoppable now, the new Rubinos, without that crazy Sal.
He sat in his wheelchair, the sick snake. He wouldn’t allow Jerry’s soldiers to undress him. He hadn’t washed in days. He wouldn’t eat. He dreamt of Margaret, not his lost estate. And then he looked up and there was Isaac.
“Satisfied, you prick?”
But Isaac was trembling under his clothes. He hadn’t made a personal appearance at the kidnapping. He couldn’t afford to reveal himself to Dee’s doorman. He was too recognizable in the kingdom of Manhattan. And this was the first time he’d seen Sal since New Orleans. Sal had paid a terrible price. His skin was taut around his temples, as if he’d been scalped. He had tiny wisps of hair. The point of his nose was gone, and his nostrils were like two macabre holes. The Phantom of the Opera without a mask. Sa
l slumped in his chair like some creature who’d withdrawn into his private eternity.
“I asked you, are you satisfied?”
“Yeah, Sal, it’s always a pleasure to chat with you.”
“Finish me, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want one of Jerry’s people to sock me in the head.”
“No one’s socking you, Sal, You’re valuable to us the way you are.”
“Us?” Sal said. “Jesus, I forgot. You’re in the Family.”
“So are you.”
“Me with my lion’s heart and a body that you butchered … do I get to sit in my wheelchair in front of all my old chiefs? You don’t have the right to abuse me just because I’m a cripple.”
“You’re our trophy, Sal, our spoils of war.”
“Kill me, Isaac. I’m a vegetable.”
Isaac fed him some soup. Then he undressed Sal, carried him over to the tub, and bathed him with a big sponge. Sal was a patchwork of sewn-together skin.
“Some trophy,” Sal said.
“You would have killed Margaret. I had to come to New Orleans.”
“Don’t mention Margaret. I’m in love with the lady.”
“Sal,” Isaac said. “She’s my fiancée.”
He rubbed Sal’s brittle bones with a towel, dried him, and returned him to the chair.
“Watch out for the Nose,” Sal said.
“Nose is shitting in his pants since we copped you.”
“He’s still a cannon.”
Isaac walked out of the debris, bits of glass crackling under his feet. He went down to the melamed’s fortress, which was being refurbished after Sal’s firebombs. The house on Cleveland Place was cluttered with captains who ran through the halls with bags of money. There were millions lying about. And all that cash made Isaac uneasy. He hadn’t helped the melamed and Jerry to increase their fortune. He loved them and didn’t want them to die.
Eileen was morose. She couldn’t have her own children and she wanted to adopt Jerry’s little bastard, Raoul. She didn’t concern herself with the South American beauty who called herself Alice. But Jerry had to pay a price for his comare.
“You’ll bring me Raoul,” she said.
“Have a heart,” Jerry said, standing in his white coat. “You can’t ask a mother to give up her own child.”
“I do ask.”
“Eileen, we’re in the middle of a war.”
“The war is over.”
And she walked out of the room, leaving Jerry to sulk among his captains and his father-in-law.
“She’s been worried about you for months,” the melamed said. “That’s how the worry shows. She makes unreasonable demands, that daughter of mine. But she’ll bite my head off if I say a word.”
Jerry handed Isaac a money bag. “That’s your cut. Count it.”
“I can’t take your dollars,” Isaac said.
“You have to take it, or I’ll look bad … one of my people working without a reward.”
“I’m the police commissioner,” Isaac said.
“It’s just a title.”
“I can’t take the gelt.”
“The Family’s more important than Police Plaza. Tell him, Iz.”
“The man likes to be a pauper,” the melamed said. “Respect his wishes.”
“No,” Jerry said. “I’ll mark it down in my book. Isaac’s cut goes to the Delancey Street Giants.”
“The Giants aren’t supposed to be rich kids,” Isaac said. “Give it to the Polo Grounds.”
“What Polo Grounds?”
“The housing projects.”
“That’s nigger country. I’ll look bad.”
“You have some black soldiers,” Isaac said.
“But I can’t give them such a big piece of the pie.”
The melamed looked at Jerry. “It’s not for the soldiers themselves. It’s for the children at the Polo Grounds.”
“Yeah,” Isaac said. “Maria’s girls.”
“I’ll still have to clear it with my nigger platoons. And what about Italian children in the Bronx? I’ll look bad if I leave them out.”
“Jesus,” the melamed said. “Give Isaac’s share to Marias girls and forget about it. I’m going to bed. I’ll have another stroke if I keep listening to you, Jerry.”
“I’m not finished,” Jerry said. “Isaac’s getting too close with Sal.”
“Ah,” Isaac said, “one of your babysitters dropped a dime on me. Sal is undernourished. I have to feed him.”
“I hope he dies,” Jerry said. “You undressed the man. I say that’s getting too close.”
“Well, he can’t scrub himself. And your babysitters are helpless fucking morons.”
“They offered to bathe him,” Jerry said.
“He doesn’t want to be undressed by strangers.”
“I’m dying,” the melamed said. “Do we have to keep going back and forth? Isaac bathed Sal. It’s no sin.”
“What about the Nose?” Isaac said.
“Nose is nothing without Sal.”
“He’ll surface again,” Isaac said. “Hit him, Jerry. That’s my advice.”
Isaac brooded under his fedora. He’d rather have coffee with the melamed than police an entire town. But he did police Manhattan while he was with the melamed. It was Jerry’s soldiers who caught child molesters and bandits who preyed upon the old. “It’s for Don Isacco,” they’d mumble, offering cat burglers to the nearest precinct. And Isaac got used to having mafiosi kiss his hand.
He avoided Sweets, who didn’t approve of Isaac’s dance with the Maf. But the black giant trapped Isaac while he was watering his begonia.
“I’ll have to resign,” Sweets said.
“I didn’t steal a penny. I haven’t done a thing.”
“Sure, boss, tell me you never kidnapped Sal.”
“You wouldn’t even care if LeComte wasn’t so pissed off.”
“That’s correct. But we have to work with the FBIs. And I’m sick of hearing you on tape with Jerry and the melamed … how can I dig into the Rubinos if you’re a member of the clan?”
“Dig,” Isaac said. “Dig all you want.”
“Isaac, you’ll have to choose between Jerry’s people and ours. And please don’t threaten Martin Malik.”
“I didn’t threaten Malik …”
“You did. You want to take Caroll Brent out of hock, then do it without involving Malik.”
“Ah, shit,” Isaac said. “I forgot about Caroll.”
“He’s a bad cop.”
Isaac put on his coat and slid the fedora over his head. “Excuse me, Sweets. I gotta go.”
And Isaac was out the door.
Sweets stood in the PC’s office that he’d vacated a week ago, with the plants, the twin flags of the United States and New York City, the oak desk that had once belonged to Teddy Roosevelt. He’d rather have Isaac in this office than some glom the mayor brought in as a public-relations man. Sweets didn’t want the job. The Pink Commish moved across the seas of Manhattan with his own unfathomable music.
Part Seven
28
Isaac arrived on Central Park North with his own little SWAT team, Wilson and McSwain. He didn’t want to be alone with Caroll. Isaac had let him drift in that broken hotel while he went to war.
“Hiya, kid.”
Caroll opened his eyes. He didn’t like to be woken out of a whiskey sleep. He recognized Isaac and his two Monday Morning girls, Wilson and McSwain.
“Come on, kid. You’re going to Sherwood Forest.”
“What about Malik?”
“I cut out his heart.”
“And who the fuck are you, Isaac?”
“The Pink Commish.”
“God, I dreamt about it last night. You’re back on the fourteenth floor.” He lunged at Isaac, knocked off his hat, and pulled him by the ears until McSwain seized Caroll and handcuffed him to the bed.
“I’m not working for you, Isaac, never again.”
“And what will you do? Guard Delia and live
in this rat’s hotel?”
“It’s none of your business, Isaac. I like the view.”
“Free the kid.”
McSwain removed the handcuffs and dragged Caroll into the shower. She held him under the water until he lost his whiskey eyes. He started to shiver and curse and scream. And then it was Isaac and Wilson and McSwain who had to hold him. Caroll slipped, and they all fell into the shower, rocking against the walls like angry children, Isaac with pools of water in his pockets. But holding Caroll like that, Isaac felt he was struggling for his life. He had to climb out of his own ruin.
The girls pulled Caroll from the shower, limb by limb. Isaac looked into Caroll’s brown eyes. “You’re going back to the Forest, you hear?”
He handed Caroll his shield and his service revolver. And then he whispered to McSwain. “You’ll chaperone the kid … I’ve got things to do.”
He returned to Police Plaza. He watered his plants. He dreamt of the Polo Grounds, and that blazing green grass of center field was more vivid to Isaac than the shoes or shirt or wristwatch of a policeman. One of his sergeants walked in and wrenched Isaac from all that grass.
“There’s a babe downstairs. Calls herself Delia. She’s making a ruckus, says she has to see you. But I can’t find her name in your calendar book.”
There were no names in Isaac’s calendar. “Let her in. She’s my guest.”
Delia marched into Isaac’s office with her hair curled in pockets around her head. “You closed all my clubs.”
“I did.”
“You’re a cocksucker.”
“That’s what Becky Karp says all the time.”
“Who’s Becky Karp?”
“Jesus,” Isaac said, “don’t you ever stop dancing? Becky Karp’s the mayor of New York.”
“Oh, that Becky Karp,” Delia said.
“I might open one or two of your cellars … if you behave. I don’t want you going near Caroll Brent.”
“He’s my bodyguard,” Delia said.
“He’s a policeman. He can’t take gratuities from little girls like you.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“Then why do you dress like one?”
“My customers won’t allow me to grow up, Uncle Isaac.”
Maria's Girls (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 20
