Dangerous Behavior (Revised Edition)

by Walter Marks

  CHAPTER 30

  I walked uptown on Eighth Avenue, trying to figure out a plan. How could I get a sample of Hagopian's genetic material?

  Hair? Identification-specific DNA is found only in the follicle and not in the hair shaft, so I'd have to yank a hair out of Hagopian's head. Get real. Blood? That would mean provoking a physical confrontation with the bouncer, and the only blood shed would probably be mine. Skin? Same problem. Semen? Forget it. Sweat, urine, feces, ditto. That leaves saliva. Buy him a drink and steal the glass with his spit on it? Possible, but how the hell do you buy a drink for a bouncer in a strip joint? Still, that seems like the best option.

  I decided to call Laura Hecht. I needed to be sure that if I surreptitiously got Hagopian's saliva, it would constitute legal DNA evidence.

  I rang her on my cell.

  "Perfectly legal," she said. "In fact, in a recent case, a cop was trailin' a murder suspect and the guy hocked a loogie on the street. The cop grabbed a napkin from a hotdog stand and sopped up the evidence. Judge allowed it in court, and the DA got a conviction."

  "That's good to know," I said.

  "How you plannin' to get this guy's spit?"

  "Well, I was thinking..."

  "One sec," she said. I could hear a voice in the background. Then the lawyer was back on with me. "I gotta go. Are you free for dinner?"

  "I have no plans."

  "Why don't we grab a bite and talk about it then? You like Jewish food?"

  "What’s not to like?"

  "You know Fine & Schapiro’s?"

  "On Seventy-second Street?"

  "Yes. Between Columbus and Broadway. Let’s make it seven-thirty."

  "Okay."

  "What do you look like?" she asked.

  "Well. I have red hair..."

  "Cool. I’ll have no trouble findin’ you. See you at seven-thirty." She hung up.

  It was a now 6:30. I figured whatever plan I came up with, I'd act on it tonight. Best thing would be to go back uptown and get my car. Then after dinner I could drive down to the strip club.

  I decided to walk up to 81st Street. It would take about forty-five minutes — but I had the time and needed the exercise. I could burn off a few ounces of the pound cake.

  On the corner of 50th Street was a bank, so I stopped at the ATM to get more cash. A few blocks further north I saw "Jake's Jiffy Copy Center." A sign advertised "Picture IDs and business cards printed While U Wait." I went in and ordered business cards.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked out with a hundred, which was the minimum order.

  I looked at one; it was impressive. In an elegant font it read:

  David Rosemont

  Executive Producer — Paramax Pictures

  A Spade-Archer Entertainment Company

  I put ten cards in my wallet and threw the rest away. Then I turned my attention back to the issue of Hagopian's DNA. There was only one task left. I had to buy some Baggies.

  I bought a small box of Ziploc bags in a bodega, shoved a few in my jacket pocket and threw away the rest.

  Then I took a cab up to my car. I've had enough exercise for the day.

  I parked at a meter right in front of Fine & Schapiro’s Kosher Gourmet. The restaurant's window was festooned with six hanging salamis. They were each about three feet long, and shriveled from exposure to the sun. The best word to describe them was elephantine.

  When I entered I looked around for Laura Hecht, but there were no single diners at the tables, except for one corpulent, bearded man schlurping a bowl of matzoh ball soup.

  I sat down in a booth and looked around. I hadn't been to Fine & Schapiro’s since I was a kid; my folks used to take me there for Sunday dinner. It looked fairly much the same. The walls were still covered with what appeared to be broadloom carpeting, the color of smoked salmon. The ceiling was that cottage-cheesy soundproofing material, now discolored in patches by water leaks. There were several haphazardly hung Berenice Abbott photographs of New York in the forties. Those were new.

  I picked up the large, laminated menu. Across the top was the familiar red, white, blue, and yellow lettering — Only Hebrew National Glatt Kosher meat products sold here. Below was the Hebrew National slogan — "We answer to a Higher Authority."

  A woman’s voice said, "Y’all must be David." I looked up as she slid into the seat opposite me. She held out her hand. "Laura Hecht."

  I was surprised by her age. Maybe because of her southern accent, she'd sounded fairly young on the phone. But she appeared to be in her mid-sixties, although her style was more DKNY than AARP. She wore a beige silk business suit, and her pearly gray hair was swept up in a French knot. Although her face had its share of wrinkles and lines, it was impeccably made up, with vermilion lipstick and a subtle blusher blended into her cheeks. In her ears were small diamonds with Tiffany settings.

  She heaved a bulging Louis Vuitton briefcase up onto the seat beside to her. "I'm so sorry I’m late," she drawled. "I stopped at the gym to do mah half hour on the Stairmaster. I’m gonna have herring in cream sauce and stuffed derma tonight, and if I don’t work out, well, lemme put it this way — did you know that schmaltz has the exact same molecular structure as cellulite?"

  I liked her immediately; she was a dietary soul mate. "I love the way you talk," I said smiling. "Where are you from?"

  "Well, I come from Alabama," she said, "But please don’t say ‘with a banjo on my knee’." She went on to say she'd spent most of her life in Normal, Alabama, and again warned me against any humorous comments.

  "Did you practice law down there?" I asked.

  "No," she said. "I only got my law degree six years ago."

  She explained that her late husband, Sheldon, (he’s the Jew, by the way. I’m not.) was a civil rights lawyer for SNCC and CORE in the early days of the struggle, and later with Morris Dees at the Southern Poverty Law Center. She’d spent most of her time raising three daughters. Then, just when the last one went away to college and she thought she might start doing something for herself, her husband was afflicted with Alzheimer’s. So she continued her role as caregiver for ten more years, until her husband passed. At that point she decided to go to law school, (U of Alabama Tuscaloosa) partly because she wanted to be "the keeper of the flame", and also because she’d learned to love the law from helping Sheldon.

  "My husband’s life insurance left me pretty well fixed," she said, "But as far as gettin’ gainful employment, no firm wanted to hire a gal who was an M&M. By M&M I’m referrin’ to a woman like myself, stuck between Menopause and Mandatory Retirement. Finally, I got this job offer from AFTI, and ‘though it doesn’t pay a whole heckuva lot, it’s the kinda work I like. So I packed myself up, came to New York, passed the bar up here, and...well, nous voilá."

  The waiter came over and I recognized him from the old days. He hadn’t aged a bit in the last twenty-or-so years. He’d looked eighty then and he looked eighty now.

  "Vell," the waiter said, holding his order pad in one hand and his pencil poised in the other, "Vot’ll it gonna be?"

  While Laura ordered her blintzes and derma, I scanned the menu, looking for the frankfurters I always ordered as a kid. "Don’t you have the two big hot dogs any more?"

  "Specials," the waiter replied.

  "I don’t see any specials on the menu."

  The waiter leaned over and pointed to an item marked "specials". Of course — I’d forgotten; "specials" was Jewish delicatessen-ese for those large franks, knockwursts actually, served with baked beans and potato salad.

  "I’ll have that," I said. "And a side of chopped liver to start."

  "To drink?" the waiter asked.

  "Cream soda," Laura answered.

  "A fine choice, Madame," I said to her. Then I turned to the waiter. "Celery tonic."

  After the waiter left, Laura looked at me. "So," she said, "What's your plan with this guy Hagopian?"

  I told her my idea about getting the bouncer to have a drink with me and somehow stealing the
glass with his saliva on it.

  "That's a big somehow," she said. “How’re you gonna get him to have a drink with you?"

  I showed her my Paramax Pictures business card. "Most people are suckers for anything to do with movies," I said. "I'll tell Hagopian I'm producing a film about a New York strip club, and I'm in from Hollywood, doing research. I'll say I'd like to interview him and get his expertise, and hint that I might even put him on the picture as a technical advisor. I doubt he'll say no when I offer to buy him a drink."

  "Not bad," Laura said.

  The waiter arrived with our first courses. We continued our discussion over herring and chopped liver.

  "Okay," she said. "Let's say you get him to have drinks with you. I assume you'll order the same thing he does, then at some point you'll switch his glass with yours."

  "Exactly."

  "How you gonna do that?"

  "I'll just wait till he gets up and leaves."

  "That's no good. What if he takes the drink with him? What if the waiter or bartender takes the glasses away?"

  "That could be a problem," I responded. We both gave it a few moments thought. Then Laura spoke up.

  "I think I've got the answer," she said. "But it involves me comin' down to the club with you."

  "I'd never... "

  "Hear me out," she cut in. "Once you get Hagopian drinkin’ with you, you chat for a while and then tell him you've gotta use the john. In the john you call me on your cell — I’ll be waitin’ outside.”

  “Why am I calling you?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “All right, but what if there’s no signal?”

  “You’ll have to nip out the front door and give me the high sign.”

  “Why would I go outside?”

  “You just need some air.”

  I gave her a dubious look.

  “Anyway,” she said. ”Then you go back to Hagopian. A few minutes later I come in and start kickin' up a fuss. The bouncer'll have to come over and deal with me. That's when you can make the switch."

  "No offense," I said, "But I can't see them letting a woman like you — I mean, a woman who's well dressed and alone — into a strip joint."

  "I know," she answered. "That's what I'm gonna make the fuss about. I'll accuse them of sex discrimination."

  "But why the hell would you want to get into a strip club?"

  "To ogle the chicks. I'm a lesbian."

  She threw me with that one. I wasn't sure whether she was describing the role she’d play, or telling me her sexual preference. I responded with the shrink nod.

  "So whatd’ya think?" she asked.

  "Look, Laura," I said, "I really don't want to get you involved."

  "I am involved. This is what Advocates For The Innocent is all about." Her grandma's face showed the courage and determination of a gunslinger.

  "All right," I said. "I've got my car, so you won't have to wait outside the club on the street."

  "Good," she replied. "Oh, we better stop and buy some sort of plastic bag — to store the glass with the spit in it."

  From my jacket pocket I pulled out the Baggies. Laura gave me a big smile. "David," she said, "We're in bid-ness."

  The waiter served our main courses. I spooned out the mustard from a jar on the table, and put it on my plate next to the two giant knockwursts. I cut into one of them and the juice spurted out onto the potato salad. I dipped the frank into the mustard and took a bite. The tangy, garlicky flavor made me groan with pleasure.

  "Good hot dogs, huh?" Laura said.

  "Of course. They're Hebrew National," I said. Then I raised my eyes heavenward. "They answer to...A Higher Authority."

  Laura laughed. "Yeah," she said, digging her fork into her stuffed derma, "Don’t we all."

  CHAPTER 31

  We parked in front of the Sixty-Forty Club. From behind the wheel, I looked down the narrow street, paved with cobblestones that must’ve been laid down in the early 1800’s. I could see the automobiles zooming by on the West Side Highway. Across the river in New Jersey, a delicate hint of pink faded in the night sky above Hoboken, as if God had cast a beatific glow over the birthplace of Frank Sinatra.

  In front of the strip joint, a flood-lit sign showed two naked women. Underneath the words "Girls! Girls! Girls!" flashed in neon. Next to the door was another sign proclaiming a 3 1/2 Cock rating out of 4 from the long defunct Screw Magazine. I wondered why they lost half a cock.

  The area was desolate. One side of the street was mostly auto repair stores, tool and die metal stamping shops (whatever that is) and nondescript building entrances closed by graffiti-sprayed roll down security doors.

  The other side of the street was a block-long wall of concrete, plastered with yellow signs reading HYRD — Hudson Yards Redevelopment Project.

  The sidewalk was obstructed by clusters of rusting dumpsters, overflowing with stuffed plastic garbage bags. The glaring peach-colored light from the overhead street lamps lit the scene in harsh chiaroscuro.

  I pictured Leo Hagopian; huge, a speed freak, a brutal killer. The prospect of coming face to face with him scared the shit out of me. What if I screwed up? What if he found me out?

  "Look," Laura said, noticing my anxiety, "You don’t have to do this. It’s dangerous. Obtainin' DNA evidence is really police work. If you want we can call it a night? Ain’t no shame in it."

  "No," I said firmly. "This is something I have to do."

  "Then we'll do it," she said. "Actually, in case the situation gets really hairy, I brought along a friend..." She opened her briefcase and took out a pistol. "Desert Eagle."

  This grandma really is a gunslinger. “That looks...formidable.”

  “It was designed by Israelis — gas operated semi-automatic.”

  "What caliber?" I asked, trying to sound knowledgeable.

  "It comes in 45. And 50.," she said. "I chose 50.— it makes bigger holes. I got it for self-protection. I’ve had some death threats since I put a Mafia hit-man in the slammer."

  "You, uh, actually know how to use that thing?"

  "Yeah. I took a course at the Woodhaven Rifle and Pistol Range. Turns out it’s pretty much like an autofocus camera. Y'know — Point 'n' Shoot."

  I suggested we go over our plan once more, to make sure we were on the same page. After we reviewed it, Laura gave me a business card with her cell phone number. I stuck it in my shirt pocket.

  The door of the Sixty-Forty club opened and four Japanese men came out, cameras slung over their shoulders. They looked in our direction and started shouting.

  “Takushi. Takushi.”

  One came over to my side and called through the window.

  “Takushi.”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed to the rates painted on my car door.

  “No.” I waved him off. “No taxi.”

  Meanwhile another guy was tapping on Laura’s window.

  “Takushi — Hai?”

  “Hi,” she replied, being friendly.

  Suddenly three Japanese tourists were climbing into the back of my Checker. One pulled down the jump seat.

  “No. No. No. No takushi,” I said.

  A yellow cab pulled up in front of us and three business-suited men got out.

  I pointed to the real taxi. “Takushi,” I shouted. “Over there.”

  Finally they got out, grinning and bowing apologetically.

  The three businessmen hooted at the tourists.

  “Check it out,” one yelled. ”Chinkie lookie for nookie.”

  “They ain’t Chinks. They’re Japs.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Cameras.”

  Guffaws.

  “Hey, Jappos. Wanna get laid? Go down the corner — ask fer Pearl. Pearl Harbor.”

  The three caballeros entered the club, laughing and making the raucous sounds of male bonding. The Japanese tourists finally got in the real cab and were on their way.

  "Well, Laura, I guess it's show tim
e," I said.

  "You sure you’re up for this?"

  "No guts, no glory," I said, getting out of the car.

  "David," Laura said. "Good luck. Be careful."

  "Hasta la vista, baby."

  Inside, the club was dim and cheerless. A female bartender was serving drinks to the guys who'd just come in. In one corner, lit by a spotlight, a woman in bra and panties was moving in forlorn gyrations. The music sounded tinny coming from a small Radio Shack speaker. But I still recognized Whitney Houston's melismatic "I, I, I, will always love youuuuuu," — in a dance re-mix version, with a kick drum driving the music in double-time.

  As I approached the bar, the businessmen picked up their drinks and headed for the back of the room. There, they parted a curtain and entered the tits ‘n’ ass section.

  "What’ll it be?" the bartender asked. She was a Latino woman with pink hair.

  "Can I order a drink inside?"

  "Yeah," she said. "But you gotta order one out here first. You can take it in with ya."

  "I’ll have a scotch and soda."

  "That’s ten dollars."

  "Okay."

  "J&B? Johnny Walker?"

  "You call it."

  The woman chatted amiably as she fixed my drink. "First time here?"

  I nodded.

  "Let me run the rules by ya then," she continued. “Main thing is there’s no touchin’. I mean, the girls can touch you, but you can’t touch them. Other than that, you can have a good time. If you want somethin’ special you can go in the Party Room. In there it’s...negotiable...anything you want, if you get my drift.”

  I got her drift.

  "Oh, and we got a ATM machine over there by the men’s room,” she said. “It takes like Cirrus, NYCE, whatever — everything here’s on a cash basis."

  I took a slug of the scotch. Then I picked up my glass and headed for the area behind the curtain.

  The 40% portion of the club was nothing like the 60%. Bright multi-colored lights bounced off a revolving mirror globe hung from the ceiling. The music, now blasting, reverberated from surround-sound speakers. There was a bare-breasted dancer writhing on a mirrored stage, wearing only a g-string. The crotch was stuffed with paper money, which a few avid oglers were handing her from ringside.